An Imperfect Witch (11 page)

Lauren smiled—puzzled, but happy to remember.  That had been a very good day, although it had taken a while for both of them to figure it out. 

You gave me a job I was good at,
sent Lizard quietly. 

Lauren thought back. 
The listings maps.
  Those had been a whopping eye-opener.  It had taken barely two days for her new assistant to revolutionize how Berkeley Realty used the Internet.
You were better at those than I was. 
Way better.

Yeah.  Exactly. 
Lizard leaned into her paint roller, mind coated in quiet satisfaction.
 So I figure if Raven here is some kind of painting savant, I should just go with it.  Seems like it worked out okay for you.

The tone was almost cocky.  And it touched Lauren in the softest, most squishy part of her heart. 
It worked out a lot better than okay. 

Whatever.
  Said with just enough amusement not to sting. 
Now get out of here so my painting skills can be embarrassed in private.

Lauren walked out the front door, shaking her head.  She should know by now.  However shaky things might look on the surface—or even deep down—never underestimate Lizard Monroe.

-o0o-

Lizard slid into a chair at Moira’s table and tried not to wince. 

The old lady at her kitchen counter moved spryly by comparison.  Two cups of tea arrived at the table, followed by a plate of brownies.

Which looked heavenly, but Lizard was fairly certain her arms didn’t work well enough to eat one.

Moira sat, openly curious.  “You look like you’ve had quite the day.”

That didn’t cover the half of it.  “I’ve been painting since 6 a.m.” 

“Oh, well—you must be a wee bit sore, then.  I’ve a little something that could help with that, if you like.”

“No.”  Lizard’s arms found desperate life and reached for a brownie.  “Thanks, but this is all I need.”  No way was she getting dosed with one of the healer brews—the day had been bad enough.

“All right, then.”  Moira looked amused.  “Painting your apartment, are you?”

“Nope.  Painting some house so we can sell it.”  An eternity of hideous, boring taupe.  At least it wasn’t beige.

“I didn’t realize that was part of the job.”

“It isn’t.”  Lizard let her inner delinquent out for just a minute.  “Lauren’s making me do it.”

“Is she, now.”  The old Irish witch sipped her tea, which did nothing to hide her mental chuckles.  “I’m sure there’s an interesting reason for that.”

There was.  And she’d come to beat the rumor mills at their own game, so it was darn well time to talk.  “We found our ghost.  Her name is Raven.”

“Ah.” 

So much empathy and curiosity and support, all in a single word.  The poet in Lizard appreciated.  The scared ex-delinquent suddenly in charge of a clone of her former self needed more.  A lot more.

Moira’s hands reached out in comfort.  “You’ve come to tell me about your Raven, then.”

Not really.  But it suddenly seemed like a reasonable place to start.  Lizard swallowed, hating the shakiness of her ribs.  “She’s tough.  Been living one step away from the streets, I think.”  There hadn’t been a lot of chit-chat over paint cans.  “She started sneaking into empty homes for sale.  That’s how I found her.”

“Looking for a decent place to sleep, no doubt.”  Moira sipped her tea, poker face in place.  “She’s creative and resilient, then.”

“She’s a survivor.”  And that was the single fact that had kept Lizard on the other end of a paint roller for the final five hours.  “She needs help.”

“Of course she does.”  A pause, as an old witch pondered her tea and the knotty problem at hand.  “Does she want it?”

“Hell, no.”  The fury that had built up along with the paint fumes burst out in a single volley. 

Moira’s head tilted to the side.  “You seem quite sure of that.”

Of course she was.  “She’s just like me, a few years ago.”  It was like looking in a damn mirror.  Raven’s nose had still been a foot in the air when Lizard had tossed Chinese takeout on the table and run.

She’d eat the fracking food, though.  It was what survivors did.

And that left Lizard with a big problem.  “She’s been living in empty houses and she tried to live in this one we have to sell and now Lauren is making us paint it and she thinks I should come up with a plan or something.”  Lizard stabbed at the pause button on her babbling mouth.  She sounded like Aervyn telling the story of his latest mud-volcano disaster.

Moira calmly nibbled at a brownie.  “That sounds like a reasonable course of action.”

Lizard blinked.  It was total insanity.  “I just finished my parole.” 

Moira smiled fondly.  “That’s excellent news, my dear.  Congratulations.”

Had bricks fallen on Fisher’s Cove?  “I’m the last person on earth who should be helping Raven.”  She could barely keep herself out of trouble most days.

“Funny.”  The old Irish witch looked down at her cup of tea, voice lost in memory.  “I do believe that’s exactly what Lauren said when you showed up.” 

Lizard stared, dumbfounded.  Lauren McCready Sullivan could do freaking anything.

Moira’s fingers traced the rim of her tea cup, slow and steady.  And then her gaze moved up, focused and fierce.  “And she was wrong, exactly as you are.”

Yeesh—where had that come from?  “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”

“I’d be doing you a disservice if I did.”

Lizard grabbed another brownie.  It tasted like rock dust.  “Witch Central has lots of people who could help Raven.  And they all listen to you.”

“And you were hoping I’d feel sorry for you and appoint one of them to take this mess off your hands, hmm?”  Moira’s kind eyes took all the sting out of the words and none of the truth. 

Lizard avoided kicking the table leg.  Barely.  “Something like that.”

“I’m a much smarter witch than that.”  Moira reached out and patted Lizard’s hand.  “But I’ll be here whenever you need your next brownie.”

That wasn’t all the old witch had delivered.  “Or a good swift kick in the pants, huh?”

Green eyes danced in gentle humor.  “I’ve been known to deliver one or two of those as well.”

Lizard had been kicked plenty—but this one was entirely different.  It had managed to make even her exhausted arms feel better.

-o0o-

Moira sat in her glorious backyard soaking pool and waited.  There had been one visitor this day.  She was quite sure that before the moon rose much further in the sky, there would be two.

She breathed in the crisp night air, soothed by the smooth stones against her back and the signs of her garden tucking in for its winter hibernation.  A time of gathering—the quiet, hard work of readying for the next season of growth.

She smiled into the night air.  Lizard Monroe, tough little flower that she was, was preparing to bloom in the dead of winter.  The universe had some interesting ways of watering ready seeds.  And two years in the heart of Witch Central had one poet readier than she knew.

Not that it would keep an old Irish heart from worrying.  Tender blooms were always beautiful—and always vulnerable.  And in this case, perhaps prone to causing a little damage on her way.  Moira had heard the things not said at her kitchen table this day too—and not once had Lizard mentioned the young man who stood stalwart at her side.

Nell had sent back a reply.  Witch Central was already on the case.

Soft footsteps sounded on the path behind her.  Another soul who understood the moment they witnessed.  “Good evening to you, my dear.”

A deep chuckle answered. 

Two visitors, then.  “Ah, I see you’ve brought that troublemaking husband of yours along.”

“He’s useful for carrying towels and hot cocoa.”  There was a smile in Lauren’s voice.

Devin Sullivan was useful for far more than that.  The lion at Witch Central’s gates.  A guardian for tender young blooms—and old withering ones, too.  Moira stood up to bestow kisses on cheeks as they laid their belongings at the edge of her pool.  “Come into the water.  It’s lovely and warm tonight.”

Devin hopped in, a man deeply at home in water of any kind.

Moira felt the currents in her pool stir in reply to his magic.  Energies, recognizing one of their own.

Lauren slid in with a sigh of pleasure.  “It really does feel best on cold winter nights.”

Moira chuckled.  This was hardly winter yet—barely the teasings of it.  But her young friends from California could be forgiven their misconceptions.  “I do tend to get more company when it grows colder.”

Devin snorted.  “You get a dozen visitors every day of the year.”

He wasn’t wrong—it was the greatest blessing of her old age.  Moira settled into her favorite curved rock again and regarded the pool’s other two inhabitants. 

Lauren picked up a mug of cocoa and sipped.  “You know why we’ve come.”

“I don’t.”  Moira stared down the raised eyebrows.  “I know the topic at hand well enough, but not whether you’ve been honest with yourselves yet about why you’re here.”

“Told you.”  Devin slid an arm around his wife’s shoulders, amused.  “She’s scary at this time of year.”

“Pffft.”  Moira hid a smile, well pleased by the compliment.  “I’m just an old Irish granny who’s been around the meadow a time or two.”

“Yup.  And I just sell houses and occasionally read a mind or two.”  Lauren’s gaze over her mug was decidedly casual.

Moira also knew a challenge when she heard it.  And as much fun as it would be to dance swords with the woman who would one day replace her, they had more important work to do this October night.  “You’ve an assistant who also believes that she just sells houses.”

“She’s not my assistant anymore.”  Lauren leaned back against Devin’s chest, grinning.  “I made her an associate over the summer.  I don’t think she’s told anyone yet.”

A good gardener had plenty of experience with those kinds of seeds—the ones that wanted to stay comfortably tucked in their husks.  The hardest to grow, and often those most worthy of the effort.  “She doesn’t yet trust the roots she’s grown.”  And there would be more steps forward and backward before that journey was done.

“She’ll need to trust them now,” said Lauren quietly, worry finally rising to the surface.  “Raven’s pushing hard on her.”

“Aye.  Lizard came to see me earlier today.”

Surprise hit Lauren’s face.

Devin grinned.  “Don’t underestimate the poet, huh?”

He would know—he’d been one of the most regular at her kitchen table over the years.  “She’s wise enough to seek out the help she needs.”  Even if it still cost her dearly to do it.  “And far less broken than she still believes.”

He nodded, as she’d known he would.  Trusting the flow came easily to him.

His wife was another matter entirely.

Lauren grimaced, clearly picking up Moira’s thoughts.  “I don’t know where to stand.  To help, to lead, or to butt the hell out.”

The young always wanted singular answers.  “A little bit of all three, I’d imagine.”

“That’s clarifying.”  Lauren’s voice was as dry as dust.

“I’m Irish, my dear.”  It was so easy to be amused these days.  “If you expected a straight answer, you came to the wrong soaking pool.”

Devin raised an eyebrow.  “I don’t know—I’ve gotten plenty of pretty forthright answers in these here parts.”

Tornadoes rather required them.  “Someone had to keep you out of trouble, my dear.  Your wife is a bit more careful with where she points her feet.”  Moira smiled at the woman in question.  “And a bit more able to make use of an honest and complicated answer.”

Lauren leaned back her head and sighed.  “I’d happily take an easy one.”

Indeed.  But as good gardeners knew, seeds just didn’t work that way.  “Add water, love.  And if you ask that wise heart of yours, it will know what shape the water needs to take.”

Her companions shrugged in bemused unison—but they had begun to think.

Moira sipped her cocoa.  Entirely lovely, with hidden depths, just like the two in front of her.  A proper garden always had more than one seed.

Chapter 10

It hurt, not being in sync with him.

Lizard watched Josh walk in the door of the diner.  Sacred territory for the two of them—land of many of their best dates.  Greasy eggs, crispy bacon, and comfort.

He walked over, wearing a smile and tentative eyes.  “Morning.  You already order?”

“Yeah.”  She leaned in and kissed his cheek.  “For you, too.”  Some tiny part of her life, trying valiantly to be normal.

Two plates landed on the table, right on cue. 

Josh guzzled his orange juice in one gulp, just like he always did.  Said it woke up his stomach before the grease landed.  She picked the crispiest strip of bacon and crunched, wrapping herself in the comfort of the small, familiar quirks.  “What are you doing today?”

He poked at his eggs.  Scrambled, like a heathen.  “Dunno.  Hadn’t figured out much past breakfast yet.”

That was usually her line.  She could maybe make some time.  For him, apologies were actions, not words.  “I have a new listing to look at in the Arts District later.  Want to come with me and check out all the dorky pumpkins on the street?”  No one loved holiday kitsch more than Josh Hennessey.