Black Arts, White Craft by Hailey Edwards

5

Chattanooga was a reasonable distance away, so it made sense for us to drive. That, and it spared Colby from spending hours pretending to be my hair bow on a plane. She sat hip to hip with Clay, both decked out in noise cancelling headphones. Asa drove, as usual, and I rode shotgun.

The platinum-blond wig Clay wore was a perfect match for Colby’s soft fuzz. That he wanted to give her a safe perch for when we stopped for gas and food was another example of his thoughtfulness.

Plus, it gave him an excuse to buy a new wig. For him, it was a win/win. For us too, really.

The wig promised she could hang with her new BFF in public instead of always being stuck with me.

Once confident little ears wouldn’t overhear, I opened the case file, ready to quiz Asa on a few points.

Before crawling into bed, I had read everything Clay sent me, but I preferred the hard copy for skimming.

“The wendigo killed seven people before you arrived. Three after.” I flipped through the stack of missing persons reports filed by victims’ families at four local police departments. “That qualifies as a massacre.”

The director must be working around the clock to suppress the details, given the high-collateral damage. No wonder he called Clay and Asa away so soon after the copycat case. This case had all the earmarks of breaking human news in the making. Wendigo attacks were often blamed on mountain lions, but no one would buy a single cat had eaten ten people without being hunted down with its head mounted by now.

“We have reason to believe there are more victims. We found several caches in various states of decay.” He switched lanes as storm clouds rolled in overhead. “There will be hikers from out of state who haven’t been reported missing yet. There always are in cases like these.”

Chattanooga wasn’t our destination, sadly, but we would pass through it to find our remote rental.

Flipping to the photo of the decapitated wendigo, I mused, “There wasn’t much blood, was there?”

Lightning illuminated Asa’s features as it forked across the sky. “I noticed that too.”

“Do you think it was already dead?” I thumbed through more photos. “You just…killed it some more?”

“I’m not sure.” Asa switched on the windshield wipers as light drizzle hit us. “It’s possible.”

A reanimated wendigo would be easier to control, subject to its master’s whims, not dissimilar to Clay.

Necromancers were the only supernatural faction able to fashion new life from an existing creature who rose with their own free will. Even then, their vampires were clannish and could be subdued by their own masters. But those masters were vampires, leaders of their clans, not the necromancer who resuscitated them. That autonomy might explain why humans were resuscitated but everything else was reanimated.

Still mulling that over, I asked him, “Any signs of other wendigos in the area?”

“The scat smelled the same, but that could be credited to a shared food source. The territorial markings, what few we located, were left at identical heights on trees. Only an alpha claiming land for their clan or a loner protecting their cache would scent-mark an area, so it’s not unusual for them to be uniform.”

Closing the file on my lap, I watched the swish and flick of the wipers. “What did you do with the body?”

“Another team was staying in Chattanooga. We buried the remains, since it’s a high-traffic area this time of year, then called in the coordinates to them. They were to cremate it and clean up the noted caches.”

Fire was the go-to method for destroying paranormal bodies, evidence, and dangerous objects of power.

Ideally, each team was assigned a witch to reduce documented evidence to ash, eliminating the need for clean up later. Except in cases, like the copycat, where large-scale exposure to humans or para lives were at risk. Then the preservation of evidence became a top priority. This case, thanks to its high body count, was fast becoming the latter.

“If it was alive to start,” I mused, “the witch could have followed you, dug it up, and reanimated it.”

The idea of them following him unnoticed caused his eyes to flash from green to burnt crimson.

“For her to exert control over such a primal creature, she must have spelled it into compliance. If, as you say, it was alive when Clay and I arrived. She could have tracked a vestige of her magic to locate it either way.” His eyes returned to their natural color. “The traceries would be stronger if it were already dead?”

“The more magic you sink into a person, place, or thing, the stronger your bond to it grows.”

The use of mind control magic on sentient creatures was big magic, and a huge no-no.

I skirted the edge with the teas I brewed for the girls. I had learned from my own experience with having memories erased where the line was drawn and how to avoid crossing it. Thanks, Gramps! But true mind control magic, where a person’s thoughts and actions were wrested away from them, was taboo.

So, of course, black witches had elevated the practice to an artform.

“Let me know if you catch a whiff of black magic.” I fiddled with my seat belt where it cut into my throat, uncomfortable with any comparison made between the director and me. “I still have trouble noticing it.”

To put it mildly, my own stink from practicing black magic for years clogged up my nose.

“The more practice you get in the field, the easier it will be to identify. You need exposure to other…”

“Pungent practitioners?” I chuckled at his discomfort for any perceived slight. “I’m okay with being ripe.” It wasn’t like humans could sniff me out that way. “Actually, I’m developing a charm to keep me funky.”

“You don’t want the other agents to know you’ve switched disciplines,” he realized. “That’s smart.”

“I stepped on a lot of toes, crushed a lot of hands, kicked a lot of people in the face, to climb the ladder.”

And the director patted me on the head like a good girl each time I stabbed a potential ally in the back.

“I debated telling you this earlier.” His lips thinned. “I see now I should have as soon as I noticed it.”

The muscles in my lower stomach clenched in preparation for bad news. “Oh?”

“Your scent is changing. That night, when you tapped into Colby’s magic, you began to smell…”

“You won’t hurt my feelings.” I had already granted him permission to speak the hard truths. “Tell me.”

“You smell like hydrangeas, under the black magic.”

Hydrangeas.

A faint memory whispered through the back of my mind, and I swear floral perfume tickled my nose.

Shaking off the peculiar sensation, I asked, “Is that how Colby smells to you?”

“Colby…” He angled his head. “It’s hard to put into words. I sense her brightness, her purity.”

“You read the goodness in her the way I’m beginning to pick up the stain of darker magics in others.”

“Yes,” he agreed with relief I understood what he struggled to articulate. “This new scent is you. It’s how you would have smelled, had you been a white witch from the start.” He adjusted the wipers. “The more you work with Colby, the more taint will burn out of your soul. I can tell you’ve practiced while Clay and I were away. The impression is stronger now than when I left.” He colored slightly beneath my stare. “As a child, I helped Mother in her flower garden. That’s why I recognize the scent.”

His quick defense of how he came by the knowledge made me wonder who had poked fun at him for being a momma’s boy. Had that taunting forced him into the role? Or did his dutiful nature stem from guilt over his conception? And who burdened a kid with that information?

Probably his father, who would have tried driving a wedge between mother and son at a malleable age.

“I can almost remember my mother smelling like flowers,” I murmured, poking at my sore spots to avoid his. “I thought it was her perfume.”

“Magical scent tones tend to be hereditary. There’s every chance she had a floral power signature.”

Leaning back, I rubbed the tender skin over my heart. “Thank you.”

Eyes on the road, but his focus on me, he spoke softer than the rain. “You’re welcome.”

To go so long with nothing to remind me of my mother, I had given up hope of being more than my father’s daughter. But to learn that beneath the blight on my soul, I had scraps of her down deep? It reaffirmed my dedication to the path I had chosen to walk, not the one I had been led down as a child.

Closing my eyes against the sting, I breathed in deep, smelling hydrangeas.

* * *

I must have fallen asleep,because a ten-pound moth to the gut rocketed me straight out of my dreams.

“What?” I clutched Colby to my chest in a death grip. “Where?”

“Who?” Her muffled response huffed against my shirt. “When?”

The engine snarled as Asa punched it up a steep drive, and it all came back to me. “Smarty fuzz butt.”

“You slept the whole trip.” She shoved against me to get breathing room. “I was worried about you.”

“You couldn’t have—I don’t know—tapped my shoulder or tickled my ear? You had to cannonball me?”

“I didn’t want you to miss the big reveal.” She looked mighty innocent when she lied. “A real cabin.”

“Safer than a hotel.” Clay leaned forward for a better view. “Closer to the action too.”

Arms still linked around Colby, I frowned at him. “How close to the action?”

“About twenty minutes. We can hike to the kill zones from here.”

The term kill zone turned her tiny face solemn. “Where do you want me?”

The fact she asked, instead of demanding to go out with us right off the bat, gave me hope that she was figuring out these cases weren’t all fun and games. They were life and death. For us, and for the victims.

“Let’s go in and check out the place, then we’ll talk strategy.”

A fraction of her earlier excitement returned as we pulled into a circular drive before a two-story cabin. I had to admit, it was beautiful with its aged logs and wall of glass windows overlooking what must be the foyer. The landscaping was minimal but tastefully done, blending into the forest that encircled the home without standing apart from it. The glass made me nervous, but I could spell it tinted until we left, to keep anyone from peering inside while we were in residence. I would ward the area too, just to be safe.

No snow on the ground, but that was a lucky break for us. It would have been fun, yes, but it would have also made hunting the zombigo extra brutal. Maybe we could do a boys-versus-girls water balloon fight when we got home. It was chilly here, but there it had been plenty warm enough.

“This is amazing,” Colby trilled after we punched in the code the owners texted us. “Look at this ceiling.”

We stood in the entryway, watching her soar. There was a small loft set in the peak of the home, and I had no doubt Colby would claim it the second she calmed down enough to spot it. Light and airy was a theme for sure. Skylights peppered the roof, allowing moonlight to filter in through the trees overhead.

“This is a nice place.” I patted Clay’s shoulder. “Good job.”

“There’s a hot tub out back.” He rubbed his hands together. “I call dibs.” He eyeballed Asa and me. “And no shenanigans in the water we’re all going to be using.”

“This place is a rental,” I said slowly, “on a website where anyone can book it. Like honeymooners. Like couples. Like, I don’t know, groups of swingers who want to leave their dirty little secrets in the mountains.” I hid my smile while he paled. “I wouldn’t dip a toe into that DNA pool.”

The edge of Asa’s lips twitched in the beginning of a smile. “Who knows when it was cleaned last?”

“I hate you both.” Clay stormed outside to get his bags then yelled back, “For that, I get the master.”

“I can spell it clean,” I confided to Asa, tapping a finger on my bottom lip, “but do I want to?”

“You’ll cave.” He turned to follow Clay out to the SUV. “Eventually.”

“Stay put,” I called to Colby. “I’ll grab our bags and be right back.”

She had, as predicted, located the loft, and was busy exploring it. “Mmm-hmm.”

Outside, I noticed Asa had claimed our bags while Clay struggled with his hatboxes.

Who needed six—no, seven—wigs to hunt a zombigo in the mountains where no one would see him?

The fact I had that many paperbacks and a new cookbook hidden in my luggage was beside the point.

“Gimme.” I bumped my hip against his, already regretting the bruise it would leave. “Let me help.”

“How can I trust you?” He clutched his babies to his chest. “You’re a monster.”

“Yes, well, I’m a monster who can magically sanitize the water. I do it all the time for Colby.”

Any time I mixed her sugar water, I started with a sterile base to ensure she only drank the good stuff.

“Oh, really?” His earlier good mood returned in full force, and he grinned wide. “You’re forgiven.”

Forgiven, but not forgotten, as evidenced by the fact he continued to juggle his boxes solo.

Empty-handed, I turned to fiddling with my bracelet out of habit, drawing Asa’s attention like a magnet.

“We paid the owners to stock the fridge and pantry.” Asa stilled my hand with his. “You can bake to your heart’s content.” He bit his bottom lip, revealing a hint of fang I was certain hadn’t been there until now. Except in his daemon form. “I should have explained myself before I gave this to you.” He lifted his gaze. “I didn’t want to risk losing you. To someone like Nolan Laurens, who fits more easily into your new life.”

Those fangs were distracting. Sure, the daemon had them, but this was Asa. He made them look good.

“I could have said no.” I studied his earnest expression, a dangerous man with questionable morals who, for some reason, wanted me enough to get crafty. In more ways than one. The guy had impressive skills, and the credit belonged to his mother, which didn’t fit with how she policed his appearance. Unless that had been the point. Making him fae inside and out. Teaching him a lost art in order to hold him up as the ideal fae son, with respect for their heritage. Had she done it to combat his father’s daemon influence? No wonder Asa felt torn. His parents’ expectations were tearing him down the middle. “I had an inkling of what it meant, and I chose to accept it.”

To accept youwent unsaid, because I would have choked on those words.

Rolling his thumb over my wrist bone, he soothed the skin beneath the bracelet. “I can remove it.”

A twinge in my chest that he would suggest it left me uncertain. “Can we still do…this…without it?”

“Yes.” Heat simmered in his gaze when it clashed with mine. “We can do…this…however you like.”

“I’ll keep it.” I had to work to swallow when he looked at me like that. “For now.”

Oh, how the bracelet must have laughed as I stood there with the perfect opening to get it removed and turned down the one man capable of taking it off me intact.

Goddess bless, I was a mess.

“I’m glad.” He pressed his thumb against my racing pulse. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“You’re sure rejecting the gift isn’t the same as rejecting you?”

“I’m sure.” He continued his slow caress up the inside of my arm. “How about I remove it while we’re on this case? I can put it back on you, or not, when it’s over. Your choice. No pressure. Take the next several days to decide how you feel about wearing it.” He hesitated. “And if you want to continue to do so.”

Without letting me overthink my decision, he unfastened the bracelet and dropped it into his pocket.

Immediately, my wrist felt naked.

After spending his absence griping about it, picking at it, itching under it, there was no sudden relief.

There was…an emptiness that spread like crackling ice through my chest until my heart stuttered once.

“Are you sure removing the bracelet isn’t the same as you rejecting me?”

“This is not a rejection.” He brought my bare wrist to his mouth, kissed the raw spot, and chills skated up my arm. “This is how I should have done it on Halloween, but I let the idea of spending weeks or months apart excuse me for a selfish act.”

As much as I wanted to blame the sudden flare of separation anxiety setting my pulse hammering on the bracelet, I wasn’t wearing it.

A cold sweat broke down my spine. “Does removing the bracelet cause any side effects?”

Magic could spark allergic reactions, withdrawal, nausea, itchiness, and tons of other fun symptoms.

A troubled line marred his forehead. “Your heart is racing.”

“Yeah.” I pressed a palm to my chest. “It’s going for Olympic gold in there.”

“This shouldn’t be possible,” he murmured, examining me with a deepening frown.

Afraid I might start blubbering at any moment, I pushed out the words. “What?”

“Are you sure your father was a witch?” He leaned closer, breathing me in. “He couldn’t have been…?”

“…a half daemon?” I wanted to laugh. “There’s no way.” I tried to picture it. “I know my grandfather.”

Though my grandmother had never been so much as a whisper in our family. No big surprise there, since my grandfather hadn’t claimed me publicly and never spoke of my father. His son. I wasn’t family to him. I was…a well of potential he was content to dip his hands into when his throat went dry, but that was all.

“I know my mother,” he countered, “and yet, I’m not fae.”

“That’s not…” I got tongue-tied realizing I had mentioned Grandfather. “He would have called my dad an abomination and aborted him for the crime of polluting the purity of the bloodline.” The words tumbled out before I considered my audience. “I didn’t mean… I don’t see you as…” I rubbed a hand over my face like it would help with the verbal diarrhea. “Bloodlines are everything to witches. Most of them are bred for greater power, not made with acts of love. They don’t tolerate difference. Grandfather in particular.”

One of the reasons he kept our relationship secret was my mixed heritage, and that was two pure witch bloodlines.

“A black witch father and a daemon mother would have given your father incredible power.”

The idea I might be even more of an outcast overrode my earlier panic and left me numb to the notion.

“Hold on.” I folded my arms across my stomach. “Why did we jump to that being the problem?”

“Only those with daemon blood suffer malaise after a potential mate removes their token.”

Meaning he hadn’t lied to me. I couldn’t hold it against him. He just hadn’t known…

No.

A daemon grandparent?

There was no way under the sun or the moon Grandfather would have ever…

No, no, no.

Just no.

It must be my mixed blood reacting to his mixed blood and mixing magical signals.

“Maybe I’m just a wimp,” I argued, grasping at straws, “and my feelings get hurt easily?”

“We can test my theory.” He stuck his hand in his pocket. “Are you up for an experiment?”

“Depends.” I cinched my arms tighter around my middle. “What do you have in mind?”

Withdrawing the bracelet, he held it out to me. “Do you accept my fascination with you?”

“Yes,” I breathed, fidgety with the nerves I lacked the first time now that I fully understood him.

Just as before, Asa secured the bracelet, and the knot vanished until there was no break in the design.

The weight on my chest, the heaviness in my bones, the sting of my nerves, eased within seconds.

“How do you feel?” He withdrew to give me a moment to settle into wearing it again. “Better?”

“Much.” I drew in a deep breath, let it fill my lungs, and exhaled my tension. “The anxiety is gone.”

Asa stepped into me, tucked me against his chest, and I breathed in his comforting scents.

Sweet-burning smoke from rich tobacco and the bite of ripe green apples.

“I wouldn’t have removed it had I known…” He slid a hand into my hair, his warm palm cupping my skull, and held me tighter than I would have allowed another. “But then, I wouldn’t have put it on you either.”

“I can’t be a quarter daemon.” I fisted my hands in the back of his shirt. “I would know, wouldn’t I?”

The possibility cast our connection in a new light, a glaring one, and illuminated my peculiar behavior.

Fascinatedwas a good word for my boundless curiosity when it came to him, but was it real? Had I been as intrigued by him as he appeared to be by me? Or were two sets of rogue daemon hormones at fault?

“There’s sympathetic magic between black witches and daemons. It’s how they can summon us.”

On our first case, he told me the pungent scent of my dark magic reminded him of home.

I just hadn’t realized at the time he meant it literally. Neither had he, if he hadn’t mentioned it sooner.

“You’re responding to me on a wholly different level than I anticipated.” Asa worried one of his earrings, a ruby teardrop. “I thought ours was simple compatibility, but it’s more.”

About to ask for a definition of more, I experienced an epiphany. “Clay knew.”

Asa opened his mouth, probably to defend his partner, but closed it just as fast. “It’s possible.”

Eager to get answers, I dialed Clay and asked him to step outside with us to avoid Colby overhearing.

“We need to eat.” Clay took the path at a clip. “Then we need to rest. The wendigo hunts at midnight. The witching hour, as they say.” His easy pace faltered when he noticed our expressions. “What did I miss?”

Not since the early days had I questioned Clay’s loyalty. It hurt to do so now. Much more than it did back then. He was my friend, but this was too much. “Why are you so against my fascination with Asa?”

“Really?” He thinned his lips. “You called me away from a Thanksgiving dessert competition for this?”

“Answer the question,” Asa said quietly, his burnt-crimson eyes dark and intense.

“I don’t take orders from you, Ace.” Clay rumbled, voice like gravel. “I’m the senior agent here.”

“I thought you were my friend.” I aimed straight for the heart. “I thought you cared about me.”

“I am, and I do.” His jaw flexed as he took in our united front. “What’s really going on here?”

“Asa removed the bracelet.” I watched Clay for his reaction. “It was…an unpleasant experience.”

The temptation to lie was written clear across his face. I knew him well enough to spot it. But right on its heels came a weary resignation that left my gut hollow.

“Rumors, Rue.” He dragged a hand down his face. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ll take them.” I nudged him when he didn’t spit it out. “Tell me.”

“Your dad was too powerful, too clever, too cruel. His magic didn’t smell right. It was blacker than black. There was no spell he couldn’t cast, no taboo he wouldn’t break, no heart he couldn’t claim. There were whispers that the—” he bit off the title that would have told Asa exactly who my grandfather was when I wasn’t ready, “—that his father had struck a deal with the proverbial devil to make his son that potent.”

A deal with the devil could be construed as a daemon bargain. “Why did I never hear about this?”

“Your grandfather quashed the rumors and made the repercussions clear for repeating them.”

“You must have suspected,” Asa said quietly, “for you to warn us off each other.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past her grandfather.” Clay exhaled. “I wanted to protect her, and that meant it was in her best interest not to find out the hard way if the gossip was founded via a fucking mating bond to a half daemon in line for a fucking throne.”

“A mating what now?” I whipped my head between them. “I thought that wasn’t a thing.”

“Fated mates aren’t a thing,” Asa corrected me. “Daemon and fae can both form mate bonds.”

“Is that what’s wrong with me?” I eyed the bracelet with fresh suspicion. “Are we…mating?”

No amount of emotional laxative could get me over that hump. I wasn’t ready for that. At all.

“The bond is a choice.” Asa rubbed my back. “One we both get to make.”

“Okay.” The twist in my chest relaxed. “That’s good news then.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Clay dipped his chin. “I honestly thought it was just talk until you met Asa.”

But he believed it enough to warn us off each other when it became obvious we couldn’t stop ourselves.

I had no doubt he thought he was protecting me. It was what he did best. But the earlier conversation with Asa came flooding back, reminding me of Clay’s original purpose. Did he still report to the director? I was sure he did. Did he tell him the truth or what he wanted to hear? I wasn’t as certain about that.

Damn his hide for making me question his motives again after all these years.

“I have a lot to process.” I stepped away from them both. “I’m going to cook dinner.”

Food steadied me, calmed me, and I could use all the Zen I could pan-fry to think this through.

Their eyes bored into my spine as I walked into the cabin, but I didn’t look back.