Convicted Witch: Jagged Grove Book 1 (16 page)

“OK. We need to get you home,” I say to Bilda, but she’s still leaning toward the window, talking to the hem of the curtain - or Rachel. I can’t be sure at this point. “Bilda!”

She stands up straight and looks at me, and there is a glint of excitement in her eyes.

“Rachel wants to come home with us,” she announces, too loudly, in between thunder rolls.

“Uh, OK?” I don’t know why she’s asking me. “As long as you stay out of trouble.”

It feels dumb to say it - she’s a grown woman. I’m trying to figure it out when a memory of Angelo’s voice flits through my thoughts and reminds me that, oh, yeah, I’m Bilda’s guardian here.

Well, that’s just weird.

When I open the entrance door, I see that it’s pouring outside. Thick sheets of rain are washing the cobblestone street and sidewalk in front of my office and the day has gone so dark that the streetlights are on. I close the door again. “Maybe we should stay put for a few minutes.”

“Don’t be silly,” Bilda says, making me jump because she’s much closer than I think. Then she reaches down, takes my hand, and squeezes it.

Then we blink. It’s like a gasp, but quicker. I’m looking at her in my office, then I’m looking at her in our new kitchen. There isn’t a drop of water on us, but the storm is still raging outside.

The lights are off here, but when I walk over to flick the switch, they come on as they should. I look around.

“Is she - Is Rachel here?”

“Of course,” Bilda says, right as one of our small dining chairs slides out enough for a slim person. I stare at it. This day is just getting stranger and stranger. She pulls out another and sits down. “She’ll be such great company while you’re off at work.”

I nod, then just for something to do I ask, “Do you want some tea? I need some tea.”

Then I practically run to the other end of the room, where the big gourmet cook stove sits, mocking me because I’m not even sure how to turn it on.

“Dear, let me do that. Why don’t you go take a shower - you smell kind of musty.”

A shower sounds great, and I latch onto it like a lifeline. “Wonderful. Thanks, Bilda.”

I go upstairs, shower and then crawl into my soft bed even though it’s only about three in the afternoon. I listen to the storm, thinking that this day has been too strange and I’m done.

R
ight as I open my eyes, I see Rachel’s big key winking at me from the floor where I dropped my jeans, even though I don’t remember putting it in my pocket. I groan, take a moment to pay homage to the headache behind my eyes, and roll out of bed.

Then, because it feels like I’ve been run over repeatedly by a tank, I just stand at the window in my shorties and tank top.

The storm is still in the sky, but rolling away across the apex of Mt. Savage. Weak evening sunlight filters through the few remaining clouds into my backyard, making shadows on the surface of the pond.

I’m about to turn away and go downstairs when movement catches my eye. It’s two kids on bicycles, rolling along the path that separates our row of houses from the houses behind, and they’re laughing about something so hard that their bikes are weaving precariously. They’re right in front of Jones’s cottage when one of the bikes hits something - a crack, a rock - and just flips over. I gasp as the boy, who’s maybe ten, flies across the path of the other bike and lands...all wrong.

I cringe, because I can almost hear the sickening crunch of bone breaking. Then he’s screaming loudly and rolling around in the grass, holding onto his elbow for dear life.

I’m frozen as I watch all of this unfold. The next thing I see is Jones, running from his front door to the kids and yelling for the other one to get help. Then, by some weird coincidence, he looks directly at my window and spots me.

He waves, right as I gasp again and take a step back.

What am I doing? This is my new job. I could help. I
should
help. I force myself to pull on jeans and a pair of sneakers and head down the stairs, but I’m shaking so badly that I have to hang onto the railing.

Bilda is still at the table where I left her with, uh, Rachel, I guess. She looks up at me with questions and a half-smile on her face.

“Someone is hurt,” I say, then walk past her to the back door. If I stop, I don’t know if I’ll be able to start moving again.

“Oh,” she says, and I hear the chair scrape on the floor.

“It’s OK. I’m going to fix it.”

I don’t know that I’ll fix anything, actually, and I’m terrified of trying, but I have to. I feel a flutter of wings against my face and then the soft pressure of Bumper’s claws on my shoulder. “Thanks, Bumper,” I say absently. His presence steadies me in a way that it never has before, but I’ll have to think about that later because Jones is waving for me to hurry.

When I get to them, I drop to my knees and my hands are already reaching for the boy. “It’s OK,” I murmur. “I’ll fix it.”

He makes a sound like an animal in danger, but he rolls toward me and tries to hold still. Jones helps, cradling the boy’s head in his hands. “What’s your name?” I ask, to get his mind off the pulsing green glow of my palms. He looks up at me, eyes awash with tears. “Bartholomew,” he says.

“Ooh, good name.” I wrap my hands - or they wrap themselves - around the boy’s thin arm, above and below the elbow. “Like a super-hero’s alter-image name.”

He looks at me, tears fading.

“You know, like Clark Kent.”

“Oh.”

“Superman?”

His eyes clear. All boys know Superman. By now my hands are doing the work they were created to do, almost without my input.

Are you all right?” Jones is practically whispering to me over the boy’s body. I nod and find the break, and after a moment I feel pure energy flowing from the sunlight above and ground below. It fills my center until I’m shaking with its power, and then snakes down my arms to the boy.

It’s time to try something. I’ve been thinking about it since I helped Feena, and I hope it will work. Quickly I imagine a door, barely ajar, letting through only a little of the energy at a time. I don’t know where the image comes from, but I know it’s teaching me to regulate the force I’m using. That part is perfectly obvious, and I’m so grateful for the lesson that I think I might cry.

Bartholomew groans. It scares me and instinctively I try to pull away, but I can’t. I feel things moving under his skin, hopefully knitting back together as they should. Something scrapes along, making me cringe and the boy moan. I’m afraid I’m hurting him, until I hear Jones’s voice again. “He’s fine. You’re fine. It’s good.”

I risk a glance at the injury and see that he’s right. Bartholomew’s arm is straight again. Discolored with bruised flesh, but straight. I feel the bone inside begin to radiate strength again.

Vaguely, I’m aware of people standing around, watching this. Watching me. No hiding in the woods this time, and no do-overs. The back of my neck tingles.

Jones looks at me. “Close the door,” he says quietly.

In my mind I do, then heave a sigh of exhausted relief when the energy flow stops.

It isn’t gone, though, and as soon as the kid sits up on his own, Jones takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. My head is swimming, and all I have time to do is look back to see that someone - Bartholomew’s mother, probably. She looks like him - is helping him to his feet.

“Come on,” he says, tugging me along. “We need to get you grounded.”

I stumble after him, trying to beat back the hum of too much energy in my blood. He leads me to his own lawn, but instead of going inside we go around the corner to the back of the house.

“Sit,” he commands me, pointing to a chair made of stone. At least it looks like it’s made of stone; I’ve never seen one of these before. I stare at it.

“Sit,” he says again. “I’ll be right back.” Then he lets go of me and disappears.

I miss the warmth of his hand, but I also hope he has some remedy here, because it feels like the top of my head is about to blow off. My heart is pounding too hard and my vision is still blurry. I sit. The cold seeps through my clothes and makes me shiver, but then it begins to warm.

I don’t realize he’s back until he hands me a cold metal cup. “Drink this. Send the energy into the stone beneath you.”

I take the cup and drink the coldest water I’ve even tasted. It’s wonderful, and the chill in my hands makes me think about what Jones is asking me to do. While I’m gulping it, I imagine the surging heat inside of me, melting through the cold stone and filter into the soggy earth below.

Away.

I look up at Jones. He’s crouched in front of me and his eyes meet mine. A soft smile crosses his lips and he takes my hand again. I really like the way this feels. Even though something inside of me still insists that he’s dangerous, I don’t really care.

Electricity crackles between us. I inhale. Bite my lip. I can lean forward three inches and taste his mouth on mine.

Everything but that fact and the pounding of my pulse fades away.

His gaze grows warmer and I watch him lick his lips. This is it - I’m going to be a notch on Jones’s famous bedpost, and I really, really don’t care. My body is humming again, but this magic is so much more familiar to me.

Then his eyes flash regret. He stands up and moves away.

I think I might have just whimpered, but I’m not sure. I hope not.

Bilda chooses that moment to step around the side of the house. She squeals, making us both jump. “There you are!”

She strides toward me, barely casting a glance in Jones’s direction. “Sorry for trespassing, Jones. I need to check on my girl.”

“No problem.” He looks bewildered.

I hold out a hand to her when she gets close enough to take it. “I was worried - you shouldn’t disappear like that when you’re vulnerable.”

“I helped her - she seemed a little disoriented.” Jones steps up and now they are both looking down at me.

“I’m fine,” I reassure her.

She looks at the strange chair-thing I’m sitting on. “That’s interesting.”

“It seems like a good, uh, conduit.”

Bilda is nodding, clearly impressed.

“You’re a shifter - why would you need a conduit?”

“His sister is Feena,” I remind her. “Also, girlfriends. I hear our wolf has a thing for witchy girls.”

“Oh.” She blinks, then opens her mouth to say something before thinking better of it and squeezing my hand again.

I push up out of the chair. Now that I’ve reminded myself exactly why Jones is a bad idea, I’m kind of in a crappy mood. I should also be thankful that he stopped that situation a moment ago, but I’m really not. Part of me still wants it.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Bilda is looking at me suspiciously.

I nod. “Yes. Let’s go home.”

I turn around to thank Jones for helping me. His smile is sexy as hell and I’m forcing myself to think about Clay when Bilda says, “Oh, yeah - you dropped this in the grass back there.”

I look down to see her holding out the key that ghost-Rachel had found for me.

“Did she say what it was for?” I ask hopefully.

Bilda shakes her head. “She hasn’t said another word. In fact, she acts like you should already know.”

The key looks to me like wild thing there in her palm, and glints gold in the last of the sun’s rays, daring me to pick it up. I hesitate, but then I do.

I hold its weight and let myself think the thought I’ve been ignoring since I first picked it up in my office: this key is mine. Whatever it fits, I need to claim. I don’t know if that is a trunk, a door, a cabinet, or what, but Rachel is passing along her claim on it to me.

I remember my first night at the Salty Hog, when Portia said something about Rachel showing new people around and then Angelo sidestepping my question about who Rachel actually was. Now I know, of course, that she was my predecessor, but what else? Who else? His lover? Maybe.

Gads, I hope this key isn’t to his house. Some challenges I’ll take on, others I refuse to touch with a ten foot pole.

“I can show you.” Jones’s voice is close to my ear and it startles me so badly that I almost drop the key in the dirt at our feet.

I look up at him. There is tenderness in his eyes, but none of the fire that was there before.

Well, not much of it, anyway. I, on the other hand, feel like I swallowed the sun. “Can’t you just tell me? Do I have to see it?”

“It would be best, simply because you’re stubborn.

“Hey! I’m not stubborn. I’m cautious.”

But he’s right and even though I don’t know what house the key is for, and even with my brain insisting that this is a very bad idea, I nod. “Show me. Please.”

Bilda clears her throat behind me.

“I’ll be home in just a little while, Mom. Thanks for checking on me.”

She looks from me to Jones and then back toward home. I can tell she’s a little reluctant to leave me, so I smile to reassure her. “I’m fine. Jones helped, and I feel much, much better. I’ll be back in time for supper. I think.”

I look at Jones, and he nods.

“I
really did mean that, you know. Thank you.” I look over at him, but he’s acting strangely shy - not like the Jones I’m coming to know. “You talked me through the whole thing - helped me help that boy.”

We are walking toward the end of Jagged Grove’s main street, and the sidewalk is getting steeper as we get closer to Mt. Savage. Even though it’s still pretty far in the distance, I can almost begin to make out individual trees and rocky outcroppings in the shadow of its bulk.

The night is falling, too, making me chilly in the damper air.

“Why don’t you trust your own magic?” he asks me after a silence.

I shake my head. “I just don’t have the best track record for successful magic.”

“Was there no one to teach you?” he asks.

“Yes, but...Why do you want to know?”

His smile is sweet, another new facet of this intriguing man. “I can see by the flush on your face and the sparkle in your eyes that you got a rush from healing that boy. You obviously enjoyed it. I’m just curious about why you never learned.”

“Bilda tried to teach me, but I wasn’t the best student. I kind of treated magic like a toy, more than a calling. When that backfired, I ignored it altogether. Pretended it didn’t exist.”