A Dangerous Witch (Witch Central Series: Book 3) (14 page)

The forces honored him.  Forged him.  And required sacrifice beyond measure from the man in simple sandals and a wrap of linen.  In every tool lived a bit of its maker.  This man of great power had given part of who he was so that Moe might enter the fabric of time.

The memory shifted, abrupt and strong and laced with the smell of burning sand.

Fire, flaming high into a midnight sky.  Sand, melting and reforming, imbued with the soul of the one who had honed himself to an impossible purity.

A tool, born from the hands of a man who walked the path the forces had chosen for him.

A tool—destined to do the same.

The message was very clear, even in dreams and memory. 

Mohana Nitya Ratna Mandeep was not a thread in time, dancing to the music of a young girl’s flute.  It was a tool.

Chapter 11

Jamie looked over at his niece, playing quietly in his back yard with her sisters and a hovering little brother.

Whatever Moira had said in the privacy of the hobbit hollow, it had put life back into Mia’s eyes again.

He looked over at Caro, calmly knitting in the chair beside him.  For the next two hours, it was their job to keep things that way.  And then he would be back working with the team trying to build an antidote to magefire.

“She’s heating up again,” said Caro quietly.

That wasn’t good.  And it got a lot less good when Mia held up her palms, abject terror in her eyes.  He launched out of his chair, hands yanking on every magic trick he possessed.

Wait. 
Caro’s urgency nearly sent Jamie’s mind to stuttering. 
She hasn’t called power yet.  Her palms tingle, but there are no flows.  Let’s find out if she can ignore it. 

That was crazy.  Totally against everything they ever taught a fire witch.

But his old trainer was already on the move.  “Just let the tingle sit there, sweetie.  Don’t let it trouble you—don’t do anything with it.”  The cool-as-a-cucumber knitter moved closer and took a seat, holding out her hands.  “We’ll play a clapping game.”

Jamie sent wild texts on his phone.  Bat signals.  Red alert.

Mia looked wildly dubious.  “I’m getting hot again.”

“We’ll get some lemonade in a minute.”  Caro’s hands started to move in the complex rhythms of an interactive clapping sequence that Jamie knew could turn his brain to mush in under thirty seconds.  One he was sure Mia knew cold—the girls had been challenging Lizard and Sierra for weeks.

Slowly, Mia started responding.  Hands a little clumsy, a little out of place.  Distracted by the buzz in her palms that loomed larger now that she was trying to tune it out.

Jamie felt the hordes landing behind him. 
Stay put. 
His niece wasn’t winning the concentration battle—but she wasn’t losing it yet, either.

“Heh.”  Caro grinned.  “I’m going to beat you today.  About damn time.”

Mia’s hands instantly got a whole lot neater.  “Are not.  Can you do the triple-double in the middle?”  Abruptly her hands added about six extra beats.

Caro snorted.  And almost managed it.

And Jamie, glued to Mia’s brain, felt the tingle die.

Okay. 
Nell breathed out galaxy-sized relief from just behind his shoulder. 
She can ignore it. 
She knelt in front of her daughter as Mia stopped clapping, eyes doing a twinkle dance of victory.  “For now, sweetheart, I want you to do that again every single time you feel your hands buzz, okay?”  Nell’s voice was as gentle as summer rain—and got instant attention. 

Their fire mage nodded solemnly. 

Caro winked at the other two girls.  “I think we need to teach some more people the clapping games.”

Jamie winced.  If those worked, everyone with two hands in Witch Central was about to get recruited.  Even the really slow learners.

-o0o-

Moe released a breath it hadn’t known itself capable of holding.

These humans were entirely crazy, throwing children’s games at the fire of a thousand suns.

Only by the tiniest fraction of space and time had they avoided another inferno.

This time and place in history didn’t know war.  Didn’t know the lives it claimed and the terrible price to be paid by those who were left alive.

They dared to believe the child could do good in the world.

Mohana Nitya Ratna Mandeep knew better.

If the forces had believed that, they wouldn’t have given this age a fire mage.

-o0o-

There hadn’t been nearly enough quiet evenings in her garden lately.  Moira tipped her face up to the sun, traveling down to the horizon, and gave thanks for this one.

She’d needed the soothing.

Her flowers were a comfort.  And a reminder.  Small, beautiful things could be a lot sturdier than they looked. 

And then the quiet ping of an incoming porting spell sounded, and she knew she was no longer alone.

Lauren landed a few steps down the path, looking tentative.  “Would you rather I left?  I needed a breather from hanging out on the beach listening to everyone’s heads leak, but I can go find a quiet rock somewhere.”

Moira could only imagine the clanging of Witch Central’s collective heads.  “You’re always welcome in my gardens.”  The magic of the flowers had always been hers on the condition that she shared it.

Fortunately, an old witch’s heart had never desired anything else.

Her guest was pacing now, energy wildly out of sync with the mellow setting sun.  “The fire witches are gathering at Jamie’s.  They’re trying to figure out what we do next.”

“That seems like a reasonable plan.”  And not the reason for the nerves pacing a rut in her pathway.

Lauren’s head swiveled up.  “Oh, no.  I’m not second-guessing her training.  Jamie’s got a plan.  And monster shields.  And it’s really good news that Mia can ignore her hands tingling.”

Which could still go awry, but something else was going on here.  Moira stepped into the path of her visitor’s pacing.  “Sit down, my dear, and tell me what has you all in a stew.”

Lauren plunked down on a nearby stump, nestled in flowers for the comfort of elves, faeries, and the occasional human guest.  “Something’s niggling at me, and I don’t know what.”

Oh, well now.  There were few things that could chase away a dollop of good Irish self-pity faster than a job to do.  Moira frowned, finding a seat of her own.  “What’s got you dithering?”
 

I don’t know.
 Lauren scowled at a clump of dirt in the pansies, remnants of some young mischief-maker’s recent dash through Moira’s flowers. 
I’m not the gardener.

Not all gardeners wielded a watering can.  And this one knew something, even if she wasn’t trusting it yet. 
You’ve got good instincts, my dear.  Tug on them.

“It’s not
my
instincts I’m reading.”
 
Insight bloomed in the voice of their best mind witch.  “It’s yours.  You know something’s missing
.”
 She frowned.  “And so does Shay.”

Ah.  That was an excellent clue.  Shay was a child of the interior landscapes.  Moira closed her eyes a moment, checking in with the depths of her own heart.  Felt the edge of what Lauren sensed.

And knew that this evening, she wasn’t the one who needed to find it.  This visitor knew how to trust her instincts in some situations.  It was time she learned to rely on them in harder ones.  Carefully, Moira began running a recipe for a chest expectorant through her head—no point in painting the answer across her own mindwaves.  But she could drop a clue or two.  “It isn’t only my worries that brought you here.  You’ve something of your own niggling at that lovely strong brain of yours.”

Lauren squirmed a little on her stump.  “Maybe.  Something Moe said.” 

Moira let her eyebrows rise—her visitor would sense the emotion anyhow.  “Had a chat with our wee crystal ball, did you?”

“Yeah.”  Lauren’s breath let out in a gusty sigh.

Moira smiled.  Whatever suspicions a certain realtor had once harbored about the ancient magic she’d inherited, it seemed they were working out their differences.  In a way that would have had generations of Irish witches blinking in shock, but lovely to see, nonetheless.  “And what has your orb got you thinking on?”

Her guest closed her eyes for a moment, looking altogether like one of the garden faeries that might use the stump when nobody was looking.  “Power changes us.”

Ah.  Moira touched a small pink flower, well used to conversations that meandered.  “It does.”

“I’ve been thinking about our fire witches.”  Lauren shrugged, fingers tracing a pattern on the geometries of her skirt.  “About their personalities.  Caro, Govin, Jamie, Nell.  They’re really different people, but they all have—”  She paused, seeking the right words.

One day, not too far in the future, Lauren was going to make a very fine matriarch.  “Those with fire magic need to be certain, and to act swiftly.” 

Another deep sigh, this one full of the pleasure of being understood.  “Exactly.”  Another long pause, this one a witch heading into her own heart.  When Lauren spoke again, it was very quiet.  “How do we help Mia feel that place?”

“I don’t know, my dear.”  But it was something they needed to figure out.  Fear was a deep enemy of that kind of self-confidence.  And given what Mia wielded, her sureness would need to be far deeper than most.  “My great-gran used to say that magic picked its witch.”  She looked over at Lauren, almost pleading.  “I have to hold on to that.  To trust that Mia knows how to work with this.  Or that she will.”

Lauren blanched, and then her shoulders straightened.  “There are people working on Mia’s magic.  How do we help Mia with what she needs to be able to use it?”

Moira blinked—and realized she hadn’t known all of where this conversation was headed after all.  Lauren had just done what the very best of matriarchs knew how to do.  She’d made an old witch realize what she hadn’t yet done.  “I’ve an idea or two on that.  Come.  I’ll show you how to re-root petunias and we’ll think on things a while.”  Rhythmic, repetitive work.  Exactly the kind to calm frayed nerves—and perhaps give intuition another nudge.  And then she would send Lauren to fetch Shay.

Her visitor looked highly skeptical, but she rose from her stump.  “Ginia’s banned me from my own garden.  Something about overwatering the zinnias.”

This time, Moira let her smile run free.  “My zinnias are a lot tougher than Ginia’s.”  And on this evening, a little overwatering would be a small price to pay for the gift of gut instincts that had finally given an old witch something useful to do.

-o0o-

The comforts of everyday.

Retha snugged up the blankets under Aervyn’s chin and kissed his forehead, taking comfort in the bedtime ritual as old as time.

His eyes drifted sleepily, but behind the droopy lids, thoughts still roamed.  “It will be hard for Mia to ignore her magic.”

He knew his sister well.  But he also knew the hard truths of having big magic.  “She’ll have to, sweetie, at least for now.”  Perhaps forever.  Some magics just didn’t belong in the world.  Retha clamped down hard on that thought, well aware she had company who could hear almost anything.

“I love her very lots.”

She touched his cheek, knowing some of the demons he fought.  “Mia will be fine.  And you did exactly right helping your mama make a shield to protect her.”  Reinforcing his role as one who held the warrior’s cape.

“Mama did more.”  His eyes wavered on the line between little boy and very powerful witch.  “That was a really good spell she made.  She’s really brave.”

A miracle born of love and need.  She stroked his cheek, knowing his DNA well.  “It’s really hard to be the watcher sometimes, isn’t it?”  And one who wasn’t as easily convinced anymore that a small job made him a real helper.

He nodded.  And then in the way of boys who weren’t so far past little, he grinned.  “Ginia says I’m getting pretty good at the clapping games.”

Half of Witch Central had spent the evening roasting weenies at the beach and sitting cross-legged with a partner.  And some odd candidates had emerged as stars.

Retha had managed
Roller Coaster
and
Rockin’ Robin
, and even managed to hang on for most of
Lemonade Crunchy Ice.
  But when they’d brought out cups to add to the clapping, she’d moved to the sidelines.  And watched in amused amazement as grumpy old Edric had kept up, hands flying, with three laughing, bouncing girls.

Marriage to Helga had been very good for that man.

Lizard might have given him a run for his money, though, if she hadn’t been so distracted by Josh tickling her ribs.

It had been a good way to end a couple of days that had shattered a lot of people she loved.

She smiled down at her grandson, who had been sleepily following her thoughts.  “Sleep now, cutie love—we’ll clap some more in the morning.  What dream would you like?”

He was halfway there already.  “One with dinosaurs.”