Page 74 of The Witching Hours

Getting myself under control, I swiped at my face, smiled and said, “The relief. I guess the tears are… I don’t know. Maybe closure? When those things came back after all those good years, I was afraid of losing the good things in my life. Especially…”

His features softened as he helped me wipe away tears. “Me?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Not going anywhere. Even supes can’t chase me away.”

I laughed. “I’m a lucky girl.”

“Yes. You are. So. Back to cheeseburgers.”

“In paradise.” I chuckled. “In a bra and yoga pants.”

“That’s how we fly,” he said with a wink. On the walk to the car, he said, “I can’t stop enjoying the memory of those things trapped. Going. Going. Gone.”

“Thank you for holding on to me.” I shivered. “I could’ve ended up spending eternity in Wonderhell.”

He stopped walking and snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot. I promised to call Aunt Ceija.”

“I’ll drive. You call.”

I listened as Nick recounted every detail. It wasn’t surprising that he had remarkable recall, given his line of work.

“She’s very pleased all went well.”

“Don’t tell me. There’s a success charge of another thousand dollars.”

Nick chuckled. “She didn’t mention it, but we might get an invoice by email.”

Cheeseburgers had never tasted so good. I felt good on every level possible. Even the vindictive side of me was puffed up with happiness knowing the characters were living a life they didn’t want.

Our waiter dropped off the check with a tip-winning smile and eyes that flicked down to my sports bra. Exactly why I don’t like being out in public half dressed.

“So now that it’s over...” I said to Nick.

“Yeah?”

“How do you feel about dogs?” I fumbled around in my purse, but couldn’t find my wallet. “Oh no. I…”

I looked up to see Nick holding my wallet with a Cheshire Cat smile. “How do you feel about gypsies?”

TOLL STOP

Any other day the coffee cup would’ve been comfortingly warm in my hand. But that morning I’d made coffee and opened the blinds that revealed my townhouse terrace. When I’d closed the blinds the night before, I’d lingered for a few minutes enjoying my view of city lights through the trees from my third story Savannah condo. I’d picked one out as soon as they began construction on River Street. It was the best of both worlds, modern building, old part of town, and being on the river often meant a little breeze from the east which helped relieve the oppression of extreme humidity.

Those were the facts I’d tell the uninitiated about why I lived where I lived. There were other considerations in my case. For instance, I’d learned a long time ago that, if I wanted to get any sleep, I have to live in a new building constructed on land with no tragic history. My rigid requirements have often been an inconvenience, but not this time. I loved my condo. It checked all the boxes.

So, I opened the blinds that morning expecting to see the daytime version of the view I’d seen before retiring the night before. But the centerpiece of my view, the two-mile Talmadge bridge connecting Georgia to South Carolina was, well, gone. Simply not there.

Because of my somewhat unique occupation, my first thought was that I’d accidentally wandered into a version of an alternate life my soul is sharing with another body simultaneously. Though that could’ve been the explanation, it wasn’t. This time.

I turned on the TV to see if anybody else noticed there was nothing but blue sky and water where the bridge had stood so majestically. I didn’t have to search long. There was a very mundane explanation and all channels were focused on that very news. Apparently, a container ship had lost control of navigation and crashed into one of the main supports. They played video footage of the bridge going down over and over. Every time I watched it, I hated seeing it more.

I pulled the front panels of my oversized cardigan together. If I hadn’t been lazy, I would’ve buttoned it so that it would stay in place on its own. Knowing this didn’t motivate me to put down my coffee cup and button my sweater. Did I do this to spite myself? Does it mean I’m a masochist? Does it mean I overthink everything, even to button or not to button? Is it any wonder I’ve been married and divorced twice? Not counting three cohabitations that ended with a slamming door and something shouted. Something like, “YOU NEED TO TAKE A NORMAL PILL!”

I sighed deeply. I guess I would if I could, but normal pills are hard to come by.

These were the mental ramblings I was using as distractions as I stood looking out my terrace window, observing the change in morning shadows. People have seemingly infinite ways of marking time. I, myself, have several. One of them is the arrival of October. Perhaps more than any other month, it’s a profound harbinger of transition.

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