An Imperfect Witch (5 page)

Currently they were discussing compromise on an ugly sixties ranch with no basement and a great back yard.  Lizard surreptitiously Googled the address.  If she was really lucky, some hapless previous owner had died in a break-and-enter or love triangle gone wrong.

Sadly, Google offered up no such candidates for ghosthood. 

Voices quieted as her clients made their way into the back yard.  Lizard took a few moments to walk around the house on her own.  It was an older listing, but under the ugly shag carpet and sixties linoleum, it had decent bones.  Add some nice hardwood floors, ditch the popcorn ceiling, throw some money at the kitchen and lemon-yellow toilet, and you’d have a nice mid-century modern six blocks from everything good.

And frack, she was writing real-estate copy in her free time.  The house would eventually sell, but probably not to the Cohens.  No way would she be that lucky.  It was always the clients she liked who bought the first home they saw and disappeared out of her life in less than three hours.  Ones like Melissa and Dave stuck around for weeks.

She should have run the second she saw their matching business cards.

The debate had begun anew in the back yard—she could hear the rising voices.  Sighing, she threw professionalism under a bus and headed toward the bedrooms instead.  The Cohens barely noticed her existence after she’d opened the doors anyhow, and no one sane signed up to debate two lawyers.

She stuck her head in the en suite bath.  Yup, more yellow.  Even in the sixties, there had to have been special drugs involved to make that seem like a good idea.

The Cohens were right outside the master bedroom window, arguing about pergolas.  Lizard scooted backward, evading conflict—and felt another presence do the same.

Holy frack.

Every hair on her body sticking straight up, she turned around slowly, mind scanning as far as she could reach.  She’d felt that mindtouch before.  Ghosts were supposed to haunt the same freaking house, and the Menendezes were about to buy that one.  This was insane.

And totally creepy.

Four faded green walls stared back at her, mutely agreeing.

Lizard wrapped her arms around her ribs.  Whatever it had been, she couldn’t feel it anymore. 

Maybe the eyeball cupcakes hadn’t been such a good idea for breakfast.  She took a deep breath and prepared to track down her clients.  And took perverse pleasure in the thought that any ghost trying to stalk Lizard Monroe was going to have to listen to the Cohens.

All.  Day.  Long.

-o0o-

Lauren walked in the door of Berkeley Realty just as two of their clients walked out.  And tried not to laugh.  Behind the Cohens’ backs, Lizard was sending mental hex signs. 
That good, huh?

They want a pergola.  Or not.  Or a basement man cave.  Or not.  Or a flower bed for raising petunias like Great-aunt Mildred.  Or not. 
Lizard sighed and flopped onto the nearest chair.  “We toured sixteen houses today.  And now they want me to help them ‘focus.’  Know any good brain surgeons?”

“Ouch.”  Lauren had dealt with her fair share of Cohens over the years.  “Are they serious about buying?”

“I think so.  I could sell either one of them a house pretty fast, but together, they’re like those dumb salad dressings that won’t stay mixed.”

Lauren hid a grin—Lizard was a fan of ranch dressing.  In large quantities.  “Well, two basic ways to go at this.”

“Which one makes me less crazy?”

The one that worked fastest.  “You could try asking them to rank the houses you saw today from favorite to worst.”

Her associate raised an eyebrow.  “They’ll kill each other.”

“Exactly.”  It was good to still have something to offer on occasion.  “So ask them to each make their own list, and then compare them.  If they can’t come up with at least three houses they both liked, then suggest they need to refine their criteria before you can help them.”

Lizard blinked.  “They’ll probably leave if I do that.”

“Maybe.”  Lauren shrugged.  “We’re not exactly hurting for clients right now.  And in the end, you’ll have done them a favor, even if you’re not the one who ends up closing the deal.”

Lizard smiled wryly.  “Free marriage therapy instead of a nice, juicy commission, huh?”

“Yup.”  It was one of the things that made Berkeley Realty different.  “And you won’t have to go crazy touring them through every house in town.”

Her associate stared out the window, her mind issuing distracted blips.

Lauren frowned.  “Something else going on?” 

Lizard’s brain shifted weirdly again.  “Do you ever hear the houses?”

Not computing.  “What do you mean, ‘hear’ them?”

“Like sense some kind of presence.”  A booted foot kicked a table leg.  “Never mind.  I think I’ve been drinking too much Halloween Kool-Aid, and then the Cohens made me crazy, and now I’m hearing ghosts.”

The last word caught Lauren square in the midsection.  “Back up.  Tell me exactly what’s been going on.”

“Nothing.”  Lizard’s eyes darted, embarrassed and defensive.  “Just, in a couple of houses lately, there’s been this—”  She shrugged, helplessly.  “This presence.  Or something.  I figured the first house just had a ghost or something, but then it showed up again today.”

Every nerve pulled taut by the crystal ball was humming.  “Does it feel dangerous at all?”

“Nah.”  Lizard looked perplexed.  “More like shy—it vanished pretty fast both times.  I thought maybe my mind magic was playing tricks or something.”

Not any kind of tricks Lauren knew. 

“Probably just imagining things.”  Lizard jumped up from the chair, full of nervous energy, and slung her bag over her shoulder.  “I have lawyers to go counsel.  Outta here.”

Lauren reached for her own bag.  She had no idea what was going on, just yet, but one thing was certain.  It was time to go talk to an old Irish witch.

-o0o-

Uninvited guests were common these days—but most of them came for a cup of tea, a hug, or a wee magic lesson.

Moira looked at her latest arrival, Great-gran’s crystal ball cradled in her arms.  And surmised this was a visit of quite a different purpose.  She got up from her tray of newly sprouted herbs and went to put on the kettle.  And then, knowing her guest, reached into a tin by the side of the stove.  Coffee in cake form.

She loaded up two small plates with the crumbly goodness and moved back to the table.  Lauren still stood, scowling at the quiescent orb in her hands.

“Come sit a while.” Moira reached for an empty bread basket and set down a hand-woven napkin in the bottom.  “There—you can rest the ball here while you tell me what mischief it’s been up to.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow.  “It’s telling me Lizard’s got trouble coming.”

Ah.  Moira sat, her eyes traveling over the face in front of her.  Her guest looked worried, but not yet panicked.  “And you’ve come to chat about what you’ve seen.”

“Why won’t the darn thing just talk?  It’s speaking in riddles now.”  Frustration billowed off Lauren in escalating waves.  “I’m a realtor.”

Sometimes, toughness had to come before comfort.  Moira reached forward, aware this was one of those times.  “You’re a witch.  And you’ve a gift and the responsibility to use it.  Objects of magic speak to very few—in the country of my birth, you would have been greatly honored.”

She let the words hang in the air, and waited for a very fine witch to let them land.

When they did, Lauren huffed out.  And then a stitch of amusement hit her eyes.  “Respect the damn orb, huh?”

That would do. 

Dark eyes contemplated the words—and the object sitting quietly in a humble bread basket.  “I’m trying.  It’s just so far from anything I know.  Or want to know, really.”

And now, the comfort could come.  Moira’s hands gripped those younger and stronger, offering solace.  Her heart offered more, knowing her mind-witch visitor would hear that as easily as anything said.  “Sometimes, the hardest thing of all is being tossed on the winds.  We witches much prefer to choose.”

She suspected Great-gran’s crystal ball had chosen this witch precisely because she would not lose sight of her responsibilities, even with the tossing.  Old Irish magics were not always kind—and at this time of year, they carried more power than usual.

Lauren nodded quietly, and then laid a hand on the milky white sphere.  Responsibility shouldered.  “It says a ghost is tracking Lizard.  And a guy who looks like a gravedigger.  Or a spy.”

Moira hid her amusement.  Mostly.  “That’s quite an eclectic mix of professions.”

Lauren shrugged, uncomfortable.  “I’m not sure.  It didn’t give me much.  It only shows images.  No emotions—nothing to help me interpret.”

It leaned on the wisdom of the seer.  And this one might be young, but she had good eyes and a strong heart.  “Look inside your soul, lovely one.  Trust what you see there.”

A slow grin bloomed on Lauren’s face.  “You sound like one of the gypsies at Aervyn’s school carnival.”

There was reason for that.  Moira sat back, very much enjoying her company—she’d always appreciated a witch with a good, strong backbone.  “Hogwash and truth are not as far apart as you think.”

A silence, less amused now.  “I think trouble comes for Lizard.  It felt ominous.”

A beginning—but perhaps not the one Lauren feared.  “You came to me because I’ve experience with these magics.”

“And because you’re old and wise and tough and I love you.”

Well.  Moira kept the sniffles at bay, even as the lovely compliment did a pretty dance in her heart.  “I do indeed love you.  As you love Lizard—and that might well be clouding what you see.”  She reached out to touch restless fingers.  “Clearly something comes for her.  But not all change is bad, even if it brings shadows.” 

Something very sad slid into Lauren’s eyes.  “She’s just now figuring out how to enjoy the sunshine.”

Indeed.  “And those who help her do that will have a job to do if the shadows come.”  Moira stilled her mind, helping the woman across the table read all of what she meant.  It wasn’t Lauren’s job to fight the ghosts or the gravedigger spies.

Fingers reached out to touch Great-gran’s crystal ball. 
I’m supposed to help Lizard rise up to meet them.

Aye.  Witch Central had fighters, if those became necessary, and her visitor could wield a sword well enough if life demanded it.  But perhaps the talented Lauren’s greatest gift was breathing life into possibilities—creating openings where there had once been only walls.

Lizard Monroe had a fearsome helper if she needed one.

Lauren lifted an eyebrow, clearly following at least some of Moira’s thoughts.  “Delegation’s a pretty good skill of mine too.  I’m her boss—I can’t be an entirely safe place to land.  I’m thinking Lizard could use an old Irish witch in her corner too.”

Surprise landed with a large thunk, and a bit of spark along with it.  “You don’t need to ask—I’m hardly dead yet.”  And until she was, she’d be ready to come to the aid of any witch breathing. 

Lauren just waited, amusement in her eyes.

Ah.  Moira smiled ruefully—sometimes an old witch’s words still got ahead of her brain.  “It’s our wee poet you’ll be wanting to remind.”  The helping of Lizard had already begun.  “I’ll await her visit, then.  Send her when you think it’s time.” 

The kettle whistled, and Lauren got up to tend to it.

And an old witch stared at a milky white orb, remembering another time, another place, and another young woman it had upended.

If memory served, that had been a Samhain journey too.

-o0o-

Lizard stood in Josh’s doorway, staring at the bow-clad box that screamed “jewelry.” 

Oh, God.  She’d missed one of those anniversary things or something.

He pulled her head in close for a kiss.  “Relax.  No special reason.  I just wanted to give you something.”

He did that every damn day he woke up breathing.

With well-developed skill, he herded her into his living room.  “And like a little kid, I couldn’t even wait for you to sit down first.”  He dropped onto the couch and tugged her onto his lap.  “There.  Fixed that part.”

Two years, three months, and she still had zero idea why someone as entirely adorable as Joshua Hennessey had fallen into her life.  She curled into his chest, a place she’d found herself more and more often recently.  She was turning into a damn snuggler.

He dropped the box gently in her lap.  “Doesn’t bite, I promise.”

Maybe not, but he was holding his breath.  The man showered her with gifts—anything from fancy kitchen doodads to pretty flowers begged from little-old-lady gardeners—but this one mattered more than most.

Nervous now, she tugged the lid off the box.  And gaped at the contents.

The box was filled with purple fluff, a touch that both embarrassed and enticed her.  And nestled in the fluff, a shining circle, shaped from curving silver lines that branched and danced around the shape they formed.  

It was beauty and whimsy and very reminiscent of her tats.  Lizard lifted the bracelet out, plain happiness fighting with less noble feelings.  She willed the happiness to win.  In this new land, gifts didn’t mean strings.  She took a firmer grip on the circlet—it was heavier than she’d expected.  “Not as fragile as it looks.”

He smiled.  “Like someone I know.”

The curse of being tiny and blonde.  She ran her fingers over the silver lines, feeling kinship growing.  And tried to shake the small voice, trained by years in a far less happy world, that insisted on looking for the silver’s price.

Dammit.  That voice didn’t get to win—not today.  Lizard took a breath and found her inner grown-up.  The one who knew how to say thank you nicely.  “It’s really beautiful.”  She touched his cheek.  “You don’t usually try to decorate me.”

He shrugged, looking sheepish.  “I thought about getting you a frying pan instead.”

That would have been cool.  And predictable.  This was anything but.  She stared at the sinuous lines of the bracelet.  “Who did the design?”  It had custom artwork written all over it.

Now Josh looked way more than sheepish.  “I did, mostly.  Drove the poor woman who made it crazy.”