Witches in Flight (40 page)

Elsie hoped she did—it would be the perfect parting
gift.
 
And she had one for Nat, as
well.
 
Steps tinged with regret,
she walked out to the front reception area, stepping behind the counter one
last time.
 
A basket of clean
towels waited, just like it always did.
 
And just like she always did now, Elsie reached out with magic, warming
the one on the top of the pile.
 
Warm towels had become a quiet Spirit Yoga sensation, and one of Elsie’s
very favorite ways to drip kindness into the universe.

Fingers appreciating the ritual, she started to fold, one towel
and then the next, murmuring the words Aervyn had helped her package.
 
A simple spell for one small boy.
 
Not at all simple for one repurposed
psychologist.
 

She pulled out the cookies he’d helpfully tucked in her
pocket.
 
Her pint-sized helper had
been right—she was running out of magical gas.

“Found it.”
 
Nat
came out from the back, clutching lime-green in her hand—and grinned when
she saw Elsie behind the counter.
 
“I really do know how to fold towels, you know.”

“These ones are special now.”
 
Elsie held out a towel, suddenly at a loss for words.

Nat reached for the towel, a puzzled look on her face—until
her fingers touched the delicious warmth.

“Aervyn helped me figure out a spell I could do that would work
longer.”
 
Elsie swallowed the lumps
trying to block her throat.
 
“It
should last for at least a month or two, and then I’ll come back and refresh it.
 
I want to do it.”
 
The words tumbled out now.
 
“He could make it permanent, but it’s
something I’d like to do.
 
A way
for a bit of me to stay here.”
 

Nat didn’t say a word—she didn’t need to.
 
Her hug, a warm towel wedged between
them, said everything Elsie needed to hear.

~ ~ ~

Buying shoes for a secret event was Lizard’s personal definition
of insanity.

Scratch that.
 
Shoe
stores for any reason were her personal definition of insanity.
 
She looked over at Lauren
doubtfully.
 
“You sure you want to
go in there?
 
Those women are
circling like street-corner druggies right after the really good stuff
arrives.”

Lauren grinned.
 
“I’ll take your word for that.”
 
She pulled open the door.
 
“Trust me—it’s the best shoe sale in the city, and no realtor
worth her name should be able to count all her pairs of shoes on one hand.”

“Two pairs.”
 
Lizard
tried her latest Elizabeth Monroe look, designed to reduce Claire Jamison
clients to cooperative mush.
 
“You
try to make me buy any more than that and I want a raise.”

“Have I taught you nothing?”
 
Lauren shook her head mournfully.
 
“Nobody
makes
us buy shoes.
 
We
covet
them and their precious beauty.”

“Covet” was not nearly strong enough a word for the pandemonium
inside the store.
 
Lizard inched
slowly toward a pair of Doc Martens in the corner.
 
Black.
 
Good for
tromping all over the city.
 
Done.

Unfortunately, the river of humanity seemed destined to keep her
and sane black boots as far apart as possible.
 
Lizard tried not to fall down—she suddenly believed
the news stories about people getting trampled to death in stampedes.
 
Some punk kid yelling “fire” could
probably take out half the female population of Berkeley.

Scratch that—they probably wouldn’t even hear him.
 
“Sale” was apparently the only word
that mattered.

Lauren waved some bits of red leather in her face.
 
“How about these?
 
Your size, I think, and they’d go with
your power skirt.”

Lizard’s eyes narrowed.
 
“I thought we were shopping for shoes for Elsie’s big party.”
 
Power skirts didn’t belong at secret parties.
 
Probably.

“Uh, huh.”
 
Her boss
was totally distracted by something black and sparkly.
 
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t get
shoes for other occasions too.”
 
She waved the red leather again.
 
“Imagine closing your first really big deal in these.
 
Totally perfect, no?”

Only if she wanted to smack her face into the client’s chest as
she tripped over her own two feet.
 
Lizard had learned her strappy sandals lesson—only wear them if
you planned to stand entirely still.
 
On non-skid surfaces.
 
She
needed something more practical.
 
“Do they have any boots in this place?”

“Oh, yeah.”
 
Lauren’s eyes lit up with maniacal glee.
 
“Follow me.”

Three minutes and a good imitation of a New York cab driver, and
Lauren deposited the two of them on the far side of the room, in front of a
rack of boots.
 
Boots on
SALE—the sign said so, in letters bigger than Lizard’s head.
 

“Oooh.”
 
Lauren
reached for something tall, black, and handsome, her brain doing the kinds of
gooey things it did when Bean came to visit.

Lizard rolled her eyes, ready to run for the hills—when
she saw them.
 
Two columns of
butter-soft leather in eye-popping purple.
 
Her fingers reached out, no longer attached to her
brain.
 
Chunky heels, size six, and
probably less than next month’s rent.

It wasn’t until she was halfway into the second one, writing
mental odes to the perfect pair of purple boots, that she caught the smirk on
her boss’s face.
 
“What?
 
They’re totally practical.
 
I could walk ten miles in these.”
 
Maybe.

Lauren laughed.
 
“Those are what you’re going to wear to Elsie’s big reveal?”

Yes.
 
She was.
 
They were never leaving her feet
again.
 
“They’re perfect.”
 
She grinned at Lauren, entirely smitten
by her sexy purple feet.
 
“I’m
pretty sure they match Gertrude Geronimo’s pom-poms.”

~ ~ ~

--------------------------------------

To:
[email protected]

From: Jennie Adams <
[email protected]
>

Subject: Two in flight.

--------------------------------------

Dear Vero,

I can’t escape
the feeling that this might be my last official email about these two.
 

Lizard has made a
decision that has left the steady, adaptable Lauren in tears.
 
Berkeley Realty will have a realtor
team of two now—and apparently Lizard already has her eyes on a new
assistant.
 
I can only
imagine.
 
Lauren is a brave woman.

I have to say,
I’m rather delighted with Lizard’s decision.
 
Josh offered her the moon and sky, and I can’t imagine she’d
have been unhappy taking them.
 
But
our poet fairy has a rare talent for understanding what makes a home—and
Berkeley will be much richer for having her share that talent.

I’ve been
assigned the job of taking Lizard’s headshot for her new business cards.
 
Capturing our funky witch in one square
inch is an oddly daunting task.
 
I
must be getting old.

Which leaves
Josh.
 
And perhaps I’m a
sentimental old woman, but I just don’t believe that story’s done yet.

Elsie’s last
steps at WitchLight are shrouded in secrecy—but the kind of secrecy that
makes her dance down the street in broad daylight.
 
Nothing that generates so much joy could possibly be bad.

We know only that
it requires a sizable house on a hill with a soundproof garage and landlord
permission to redecorate.
 
Once
again, I can only imagine.
 
I hope
she’s ready for all the help lining up to inflate her dream, as soon as she
points us at the right balloons.

There is nothing
Witch Central loves more than joy.
 
Especially if there’s noise, decorating, or food involved.

I’m sure I’ll see
you shortly.
 
I don’t imagine our
pendants will let us miss the final acts.

All my love,

Jennie

~ ~ ~

Vero stopped in the doorway, watching her husband’s quiet,
methodical packing.
 
It wasn’t his
shirt folding that had her attention, however—it was his sad, slightly
lost face.

Once upon a time, she’d put that look on his face far too
often—and in her own way, she was the cause of it this day as well.
 
She’d put her foot down.
 
It was time.

He looked up, a smile chasing some of the lost away.
 
“Standing there watching me, are
you?
 
You never did like to pack.”

Her version of packing involved tossing things in the general
direction of a portable vessel.
 
His involved folding and labels and a neat orderliness that she admired,
but couldn’t begin to replicate.
 
“They’re all more ready for this than you think.”

“It’s not them.”
 
He
smiled softly and folded another shirt.
 
One of hers this time.
 
“It’s my heart that’s not quite convinced it’s ready.”

He wasn’t alone.
 
She walked over and sat beside him on the bed.
 
When the orchestra hit your cue, it was time to go, ready or
not.
 

She slid her fingers into his, as always feeling the echoes of
the first time she’d done that and finally understood she was meant to be his.

There were echoes this time too—she just wasn’t entirely
sure what they meant yet.

Lizard pulled two pretty green plates out of the
cupboard—and tried to forget the first breakfast she’d eaten off
them.
 
Just one of the many slow,
hesitant steps she and Elsie had taken toward friendship.

She looked over at her roommate pulling soufflés out of the
oven.
 
“This feels so weird.”

Elsie smiled.
 
“We
can’t live here forever.
 
When do I
get to come see your new place?”

Lizard reached into her pocket and slid a key down the counter.
 
“Whenever you feel like.”
 
No big deal.
 
None of this was any big deal.

Or it wasn’t until Elsie’s eyes got all leaky.
 
“Don’t do that.”
 
Lizard grabbed blindly for
biscuits.
 
“It’s your big day and
everything.”
 
No waterworks, no
gooey stuff.

“’Kay.”
 
Elsie
sniffled.
 
“Those are the
rockingest purple boots ever—did you sleep in them?”

She’d considered it—which was a sure sign Lizard Monroe
was going crazy.
 
Or had gone
through one of those shape-shifter machines and gotten stuck in some skin that wasn’t
hers.
 
And okay, that was
officially enough imaginative thinking before breakfast.
 
“Need any help packing?”

“Nope.”
 
Elsie
grinned.
 
“Thanks to the bonfire,
I’m leaving with a lot less stuff than I came with.
 
It all fit into a couple of bags.”