Page 25 of Brimstone and Broomsticks
Chapter 9
Cassandra
Iwent straight home from Marcus’, feeling that sense of belonging the moment I pulled into the driveway. I’d grown up here, in this big old house that was a mishmash of a two hundred and fifty year old log cabin, two almost-as-old clapboard add-ons, and an extension out the back that housed the kitchen and provided the much-needed plumbing for both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms. Three bedrooms and a loft meant we seven sisters never had our own space as kids, but we were close and liked sharing bedrooms. Dad had left before Babylon was even born. I was nine. Bronwyn and I remember him. Ophelia and Sylvie were five when he left and have vague memories of pancakes and pipe tobacco. For the others, it was always Mom sleeping alone in that big bedroom on the first floor.
And then the big bedroom was empty, because after Mom took off, I refused to sleep in there. I still refused to sleep in there, preferring the loft I’d once shared with Bronwyn. The eldest daughter inherited the house, and although I was pretty sure Mom and Dad weren’t dead, we girls acted as though they were. So the house was mine, with its creaky floors, four layers of wallpaper, exposed electrical wires, and insane heating bill each winter.
I’d never hated this house, never blamed it for the actions of our shitty parents. It had been in my family since some ancestor had laid the first log. It had sheltered us and kept us from harm. It had its quirks, but the old place was the one thing from my childhood that I truly loved.
Well, the house and my sisters.
I shut the heavy oak door behind me and tossed my purse and briefcase onto the couch, not bothering to lock anything up. Accident was a small enough town that burglaries were rare. Besides, no one would be foolish enough to steal from a witch, even one who was reluctant to practice her arts—especially one who was famous for setting a certain panther shifter’s pants on fire.
The fridge hadn’t miraculously stocked itself when I’d been at work, so I found myself facing the choice of a wilted salad from two days ago, a block of cheddar, or pretending that protein smoothie was an actual meal.
“Screw it,” I muttered, opening the freezer and taking out a pint of brownie chocolate ice cream. Dinner of champions.
I was halfway through the pint, my shoes off and my feet on the coffee table, when Bronwyn walked through the door. I had six sisters, but outside of Sunday family dinner, we each lived our own lives, crossing paths occasionally in the grocery store or while getting gas. Bronwyn was the second eldest, and the second quirkiest of the seven of us in my opinion—which is saying a lot coming from the witch who set her ex-boyfriend’s pants on fire.
“Got a break in the wards.” Bronwyn smoothed an auburn lock back from her forehead, tucking it into the elastic of her stubby ponytail and leaving a dark smudge on her tanned skin in the process. She was a welder, a part-time farrier, and was the only one of us who’d eagerly embraced her magical abilities. She’d made the enchanted device Lucien was wearing around his leg. She’d made the amulet I wore around my neck. And for some reason, she was the barometer for the wards that surrounded our town.
“How bad?” I shoved another spoonful of ice cream in my mouth, dreading that I’d need to put my shoes on again and go out. I was half a pint away from pajamas and Netflix, damn it.
“Bad enough that you need to slam that ice cream and come with me.”
Crap. I ate faster. “Tree come down again? Kids messing around? Freeman’s dog digging for rabbits?” None of those typical issues warranted an immediate fix though. They usually just weakened the wards in one spot, not caused an actual break. Weakening meant humans leaving town might vaguely remember mermaids frolicking in the lake. A break meant we would need to hunt down anyone passing through town and slap a forgetfulness spell on them.
Ugh, I hated doing forgetfulness spells. I hated doing any spells. Well, thatonehad been fun, but I wasn’t convinced the temporary glee had been worth the last two months of anger management meetings.
“No.” Bronwyn frowned. “I’m not sure what it is. I didn’t want to go look at it without you along.”
I got up and slapped the lid back on the ice cream. There was no sense in asking Bronwyn “why me”. I knew “why me”. I might not want to perform my magic, but lack of use didn’t negate the fact that I was the most powerful of the seven of us. And I was the eldest. And magic grew as a witch matured. And I was the only sister whose magic was of a broad-based type. They all had specialty areas. I was the generalist of the family. So no matter what happened, I was the one best suited to take care of the situation.
There was no escaping my heritage. Well, I guess there was if I left town like Babylon, but I didn’t want to leave town. I liked it here with all the people I knew, all the supernatural beings who called this place home. I liked my house. I liked Sunday family dinners. And to be honest, there was this part of me that felt responsible for the residents here, no matter how much I tried to deny it.
So I crammed the half-eaten ice cream back into the fridge, tossed my spoon in the sink, wedged my poor feet back into my shoes, and followed Bronwyn out the door and to her truck.
We’d barely backed out of the driveway before Bronwyn started in on me.
“Sooo…, who’s the incredibly hot dude stashed at Hollister’s wearing one of my ankle bracelets?”
Gossip spread like wildfire in Accident, but Bronwyn was the introvert of our family and often complained she was the last to know everything.
“Newbie. Maybe a newbie. He got into a fight with Clinton Dickskin and Clinton’s pressing assault charges.” I kicked aside an empty energy drink can and a crumpled fast-food bag. Damn, Bronwyn really needed to clean this truck.
She burst out laughing and the sound drew a smile from me. I loved her laugh. Sadly, I didn’t seem to hear it much lately.
“Oh, poor butthurt Clinton! Someone actually got the best of him in a fight for once. A newb my ass. So this guy is what, a grizzly shifter? An ogre? Half-dragon? No way he’s anewb.” Bronwyn shook her head. “If so, then I’m guessing he took a shotgun to Clinton. Or possibly a rocket launcher.”
I chuckled. “He says he’s the son of Satan, so a demon. I thought he was just a crazy newb. I haven’t seen him do anything particularly demonic. Not that I’ve ever met a demon.”
“Well he’d have to be Chuck Norris to be a newb and get the best of a Dickskin in a fight. Sure he’s not telling the truth? Maybe he’s a half-demon or something.”
“There are no half demons, just full ones,” I reminded her. “If they impregnate a human, the baby is a demon or a human, not a half something.” So Grandma had always said, anyway. There were books on these things, journals written by our ancestor witches and passed down through the family. We’d read them as children, slowly deciphering the swirly cursive writing and faded letters. After Mom left, I’d boxed them all up and stuffed them into the attic, determined never to set eyes on them again.
“Sounds like he didsomethingdemonic if he beat up Clinton Dickskin enough to get charged with assault,” Bronwyn commented.
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I talked to Marcus and he’s going to talk to Clinton and drop the charges come morning. I’ll pull the anklet and have a taxi pick him up by lunch time.”
