I burst into Kettle Black, locking the door behind me and flipping our OPEN sign to BE BACK SOON. Thankfully there aren’t any customers, because holy shit, I need a minute. Or maybe a month.
What the fuck just happened?
“Have a seat wherever you’d like!” Jessa calls from the kitchen behind the counter. “I’ll be right with you!”
“It’s just me,” I call back.
“Stevie?” Her tone ices over in an instant. “You know I’m gonna beat your ass as soon as I’ve got a free hand, right?”
“I’m aware.” I roll my eyes, but I totally deserve the ire. She doesn’t climb much anymore and hates when I go alone—too dangerous, she says. On top of that, I’m late as hell, leaving her to manage the opening shift on her own.
Still, my best friend’s temporary anger is nothing compared to the morning I’ve had.
I drop onto a stool at the café counter and rest my head in my hands, taking a deep breath for the first time since I sailed off that rock.
Sailed is the only word for it, too. Through the storm, down the sheer drop, my magick protector glided along the air currents, deftly spiraling until we reached the misty desert sands below.
The moment my feet touched the ground, the owl energy vanished, taking that strange desert mist with it. Seconds later, a bolt of lightning struck one of the smaller owl rocks behind me. I leaped out of the way just before a huge slab smashed into the ground where I was standing, pulverizing instantly.
I couldn’t help but think of the Tower card again.
Not knowing what the hell else to do, I sprinted up to the road and ran the two miles into town in my climbing shoes, my pack and gear slapping my thighs, not daring to slow down until I reached Guadalupe Street and the Kettle Black sign came into view.
Now, as I sit here in my parents’ old café surrounded by the sweet, familiar scents of Jessa’s baking and the pretty display of teacups behind the counter, the whole morning feels like a dream.
I press a hand to my chest, my heart still jackhammering. A faint glow pulses around my fingers—all that’s left of the magick.
Magick.
How the hell did I manage something so epic? I must’ve channeled it somehow, or conjured it… But how?
Hauling my pack onto the counter, I pull out the grimoire. The book is damp, but thankfully it survived the worst of the weather.
I flip open the cover just as Jessa emerges from the kitchen, balancing a tray of fresh maple-glazed scones on one shoulder and a chip the size of Arizona on the other. Her apron is covered in flour.
“You’re two hours late,” she snaps, fiery gaze raking me head to toe. “And you’re bleeding, which is definitely a health code violation.”
“I’m fine, though, thanks for asking.”
To be fair, it’s not the first time I’ve rolled into work late, muddy, and bloody. Spend enough time defying gravity in the Santa Clarita, and injuries are bound to happen. Fortunately, mine heal quickly.
“Is it yours?” she asks, and I know she means the blood staining my shirt.
“Half and half. Well, sixty-forty, at least.”
She sets her tray on top of the pastry case, a bit harder than necessary. “Who’s the forty in this equation? Do I even want to know?”
Ignoring the question, I page through the grimoire, locating the section I was working on before the storm hit. This morning, I thought it was just a simple scrying spell—something Mom probably used to amplify her divining ability. But her spells are never straightforward, full of symbols and metaphors and Tarot references far beyond my limited understanding of the arcana, so there’s a good chance I got it wrong.
Why are you still hiding from me?
From the moment I found the book, stashed in a box of romance novels and old DVDs in the attic of our old house, I’ve been trying to decipher it. Not to recreate her magick—never. It’s just… I want to understand it. To understandher.
“Are you seriously stonewalling me right now?” Jessa presses. “Stevie, your freaking hands are glowing!”
“I know. I’ll tell you everything. Just… just give me a minute. Please.”
“You’ve gottwominutes. I’m counting.” Turning back to her task, she slides open the pastry case, putting the still-warm scones on a platter, arranging them just so. Like her sleek black bob and artfully applied eyeliner, her pastry game is always pure perfection, even in the midst of a crisis.
