Witches in Flight (31 page)

Lizard watched in fascination as Jennie poured from several
jugs.
 
“How do you know how much to
use?”

“It’s kind of like baking—eventually you just know.”
 
Jennie rambled off her standard answer,
mixing on autopilot.
 

A snicker from the sidelines reminded her who she was talking
to.
 
“Well, some of us just
know.
 
Developing is an art, just
like baking.
 
Most people can
follow a recipe, get a decently competent result.
 
The best have a feel for it.”

“Charlie has a feel?”

“One of the best.”
 
Jennie popped the cap off the canister, removing the film like the
treasure it was.
 
“He’s better
behind the camera, though.
 
One of
the best ever.”

“He says that about you.”

It warmed her cockles to know it.
 
“He’d better.
 
We’ve been competing to be the best in our generation for over twenty-five
years now.”

“Why?”
 
Lizard, her
hands happily free of chemicals, munched on a sticky bun that had Jennie nearly
whimpering.

There was a glib answer for that one, too—but Jennie was
starting to feel out the subtext in the room.
 
“Because sometimes talent demands that you use it as well as
you possibly can.
 
And that isn’t
always easy.”
 
She poked gently at
the developing negatives, her trained eye already seeing hints of Charlie’s
genius.
 
“You have a talent or two
yourself—is that what the four million dollars was about?”

“Yeah.
 
Some suit
wanted to own a piece of my brain.”

Cripes.
 
Her spy
network had really dropped the ball.
 
“And you said no?”

“Yeah.
 
Maybe that
was stupid.
 
Now I’ll just have to
tromp up Josh’s stairs a million times instead.”

Jennie grinned into her milk as delinquent Lizard made a brief
appearance.
 
“You going to go work
with him?”

Lizard’s mind was suddenly strangely blank.
 
“No.
 
I work for Lauren.
 
I owe another whole month on my WitchLight gig.”

Sometimes when you stumbled around in the dark, you ended up
with your feet in sticky muck.
 
Jennie tried to feel her way out of the ooze.
 
“WitchLight doesn’t have a hold on you.
 
You cleared your parole requirements
weeks ago.”
 
Which wasn’t
news—she’d delivered the paperwork herself.

“But you said three months.”
 
One blonde fairy wasn’t at all thrilled to discover she was
free.

“It’s a guideline, not a requirement.”
 
Jennie grinned into the dark.
 
“It’s there for the really hard-ass cases.
 
As far as I know, I’m the only one who
has ever needed more than two months.”

She could feel shock leaking off Lizard.
 
“You were in WitchLight?”
 

“Yes.”
 
Jennie
smiled at the poet eyes emerging under her fingertips.
 
And one day, WitchLight will come
and ask you to serve, but you’ve time yet.
 
She kept that between herself and the developing
tray.
 
Lizard would figure it out
for herself soon enough.

~ ~ ~

It had seemed like such a good idea when they’d planned it.
 
Elsie had no idea why her stomach was
jumping around now.
 
It was an easy
facilitation—get everyone talking, keep group behavior civil.
 
Therapy 101, and something she’d done
more times than she could count.

None of which explained the butterflies in her belly.

Kenny was the first one into the studio, which was
shocking.
 
Mr. Disorganized usually
showed up halfway through the class.
 
Kathy came in next—and casually threw her mat down beside
Kenny’s.
 
As the room filled up,
Elsie’s butterflies started a crazy game of hot potato.

And the smarty-pants little voice inside her head that knew why
she was nervous finally got loud enough it couldn’t be ignored.

Today was the day they checked in, asked what people were
learning, how their lives were changing.
 
And Elsie cared about the answers way more than she was supposed to.

Therapists were supposed to be dispassionate observers.
 
Objectivity came with
distance—you couldn’t guide if you couldn’t step back and see the path
ahead.
 
Emotion and too much
personal connection with the client got in the way.
 
Elsie had lived and breathed the therapist code of conduct
for ten years.

She was well aware she’d broken all the rules with
Kathy—made it personal, dispensed advice, and been about as objective as
your average soccer mom.

Or your average witch.

Witch Central had obviously never been to therapist training.
 
She’d never met a group with a poorer
comprehension of personal space.
 
And yet they guided with finesse, with empathy, and with spectacular
results.

Elsie felt like she and Nat had been walking some kind of
precarious middle road with the people in their workshop.
 
And today they’d hear how they were
doing.

She peeled herself away from the wall.
 
Procrastinating wasn’t going to do anything but feed the
belly jitters.
 
“Good morning,
everyone.”
 
Heads turned her
direction.
 
“Today’s the halfway
point of our workshop, and Nat and I wanted to check in with you and find out
how it’s going.”

“Aww, Mom…”
 
Kenny
hammed it up from his mat.
 
“Do we
hafta talk?”

Talking was something Kenny could do in his sleep.
 
Elsie grinned.
 
“Nope.
 
The talking part’s optional.
 
What we’re hoping you’ll do is take a moment to think about
how the work we’ve done here has impacted you.
 
It could be something pretty small.”
 
She smiled at the class clown.
 
“Yesterday I found myself humming one
of Kenny’s songs as I walked down the street, and it made me happy.”

Kenny was a wildly talented musician—with zero focus.
 
And his little-boy smile said he was
touched, even if he teased her unmercifully in class.
 
When he got to class.

Elayna, a tiny woman on the other side of the room, raised her
hand and smiled timidly at Nat.
 
“I
work in a cubicle all day long.
 
I’ve been doing some of those stretches you showed us, and I don’t feel
like a draggy old woman at the end of the day anymore.”
 
She blushed fifteen shades of
pink.
 
“My husband took me out
dancing last night.”

Nat grinned.
 
“I can
show you a few more stretches that will help with sore dancing muscles.”
 
Elayna nodded, buoyed on the gentle
laughter of the group.

Nat rubbed her belly.
 
“I tried that app Kathy told me about.
 
Now I get a beautiful picture sent to my phone every
morning, which has improved Nat-iPhone relations a lot.”

Elsie blinked.
 
She
never would have guessed that Nat was on unfriendly terms with her cell phone.

“Me too.”
 
Kenny
grinned from a totally unyogalike slouch.
 
“Tried one of Kathy’s apps, I mean.
 
It buzzes and tells me when I have to be somewhere.
 
Got me here on time this morning.”
 
He glanced across the room at their
tiny dancer.
 
“And if you ever want
to go into business selling those pyrogies, I know about a hundred starving
musicians who would line up around the block.”

Elayna blossomed into fifteen shades of pink again.

Susie, a round woman with big blue eyes, smiled softly at
Elsie.
 
“I tried that idea you had
about talking nicely to myself, even when people yell at me.”
 
She paused, eyes gleaming with a new
light.
 
“And guess what?
 
Less people yell if you don’t think
it’s your job to fix everything.”

Susie worked in customer service.
 
And lived with her in-laws.
 
And had a husband Elsie wanted to drop-kick into the nearest
garbage bin.
 
The sort of life not
easily fixed.
 
But her eyes were
happier today—and that was every kind of awesome.

Elsie kept listening as person after person in the room talked
about the small turns their lives had taken—and watched the patterns in
the fabric they wove.
 
A few spoke
of the actual content of the workshop, but oh-so-many more spoke of
pyrogies.
 
And apps.
 
And random other bits that had come
from the connection with thirteen other human beings.

Connection.
 
The
glue of Witch Central—and now, the bond that held thirteen more people in
its grip.
 
The seed lying deep in
Elsie’s soul quivered.

And one tiny green leaf reached for the light.

~ ~ ~

Lizard glared at the box of donuts.
 
Josh was figuring out how to navigate Witch Central far too
quickly.
 
Lauren’s eyes were
already glazing over—just one more gatekeeper willing to leave her post
for some tasty sugar.
 
“What do you
want?
 
And why are you here?”
 
She wasn’t ready for him yet.

Her boss walked over, mirth dancing in her mind.
 
“Hi, welcome to Berkeley Realty.
 
Watch out for your fingers—my
assistant is a bit grumpy this morning.”

Josh shoved the box of donuts in her hands.
 
“Brought you fritters.”
 
His eyes never left Lizard’s face.

Lauren’s mind laughter was gone, replaced by curiosity and just
a little concern.
 
You okay?

Lizard had no idea.
 
You can go.
 
Whatever
was coming probably worked better without witnesses.

Lauren headed for the door, muttering something about pregnant
women and donuts.
 
Nobody watched
her leave.

Josh sat down in a chair, eyes watchful.
 
“Jenkins wanted me to tell you there’s
probably some wiggle room in the offer.”

“Always is.”
 
Lizard
sat down at the desk, wanting something big and solid between her and those
eyes.
 
“What do you figure they’d
go up to?”

He shrugged, looking way too unperturbed.
 
“If their buyer is who I think it is,
probably another three or four million.”

Monopoly money.
 
Pretend it was Monopoly money.
 
“That’s insane.
 
Who pays
that much money for an idea?”

“Rich guys in pinstripes.”
 
Josh grinned.
 
“And you’d
probably hate what they’d do with it.
 
Lots of marketing shlick and gutting the backend development.
 
Pretty, but no power.”

It echoed a conversation they’d had in The Pit more than
once.
 
Josh liked his software with
serious kick and plenty of features.
 
And yet he hadn’t breathed a word as she’d sat there looking at three
inches and a signature line.
 
“How
come you didn’t say anything about that yesterday?”
 
How come he hadn’t fought to keep her?

He shrugged.
 
“I
don’t skirmish with pinstripes.
 
You know us, know what we can do.
 
I figured if you wanted an opinion, you’d ask.”

Great, now she’d insulted his ego.
 
Forgot to kiss up to him while she was dealing with the
surprise landing of Mr. Big Suit.
 
Lizard fired up—and then realized she’d missed the most important
question of all.
 
Her brain shook
as pieces slammed into place.
 
“Wait, back up.
 
How did
Pinstripe Guy know to make an offer in the first place?
 
How’d he find out about my maps way
over there in New York?”

Uncertainty clouded Josh’s mind, for just a moment—and
then it was gone.
 
“I put out a
prospectus to solicit offers.
 
His
was the best.
 
You can look through
the rest if you want.”