“Centuries?” Miss Bonnivarde gapes at the woman. “Are you, like, immortal or something?”
“Ah, sooneof you is paying attention, at least.” Helena smiles and sips her tea, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
The pieces finally click into place, and I sigh. “Bloody Hell. You’re a familiar.”
Her smile turns smug. “I’ve been close with the Bonnivarde family from the very start. First, as a neighbor, a companion toCalista’s parents. I became even more involved after her death, the poor girl.”
“But… how did you become immortal?” Miss Bonnivarde asks. “And get the bat-shifting upgrade?”
“How much do you know of your ancestry?” she asks.
Miss Bonnivarde fills her in on our trip to the cemetery, the all-too-brief family history lesson.
“Good, that’s a decent start.” Helena sets down her teacup and turns her full attention to the witch. “When Davina came into her powers, she entrusted me with the knowledge of what she was, who she was becoming. I vowed to help her in any way I could. As she grew, and I inevitably aged, she began working on a spell that would allow me to remain with the Bonnivarde witches eternally, should I so choose. By then I’d become indispensable to her, to the craft she so intently studied and wanted to pass on to her heirs. It was my greatest honor, my greatest wish. So, she performed the ritual, and a few years later, when death finally came for me, I was transformed. First into a bat, allowing me to make my soul’s journey to the underworld, and back out again. It was a short trip for me, weeks only. But when I returned, some years had passed in the mortal realm. Davina was herself an old woman, with a daughter and granddaughter, both already well-heeled in witchcraft. Davina knew me at once, welcomed me straight back into the household. From then on, I was able to inhabit my human form again, and switch between the two as needed. I have remained a steadfast companion to your family ever since, and I vow to do the same for you and your sisters, should you desire it.”
“That sounds kind of intense,” Miss Bonnivarde says. “I appreciate it, obviously. Any help we can get. But… do you get paid? How does it even work?”
A soft chuckle, the older woman’s face crinkling around the eyes. Eyes that reflect a far greater wisdom than she lets on.
“For a familiar,” she explains, “our highest honor is being able to hold and carry sacred knowledge and wisdom from one generation to the next. It’s our calling, our soul’s purpose. One that was meant for me long before I incarnated as Helena Whitestone the first time around. Those chosen as familiars are not just immortal shapeshifters, though that is a fun perk. We’re shepherds of magical tradition, and in many ways, guardians of witches’ souls, just as you and your sisters are guardians of the portal.”
“Okay but, like, how do you pay your bills? Not critiquing, but… it doesn’t look like the bookstore is the most hoppin’ side hustle.”
The woman chuckles again. “Honey, if you’ve been alive for hundreds of years and haven’t figured out how to make a buck, you should probably just…” She makes a slicing motion across her throat, tongue lolling to the side. “Anyway, the bookstore is a labor of love. I’ve always cherished it. But being a familiar to your family… that is my purpose.”
“Why didn’t you mention this the other night?”
“It was on the shortlist of very critical information to convey, but if you recall, your sister gave me the ol’ boot-to-the-ass before I could get there.”
Miss Bonnivarde stares into her teacup, her cheeks darkening. “Yeah. Rachel can be a little… rigid. She’s still not convinced this is real.”
“Sounds like your sisters still have a bit of… what’s that word Kate used? Processing, to do?”
“Oh, Kate’s definitely processing. Rachel? She’s head-burying. That’s her go-to. Honestly, Helena, I wouldn’t count on their involvement. Not for a while, at least.” Miss Bonnivarde reaches for a biscuit and shrugs. “It’s all good, though. I’m handling the demon stuff. We’ll figure it out.”
Helena darts a quick glance my way, concern tightening her brow. Then, to Miss Bonnivarde, “And you feel up to the task?”
The witch tilts her face toward me, as if seeking confirmation. Then, with a barely-there smile I’m certain was meant for my eyes only, she says, “I’ve got a good teacher, at least.”
Something warms me inside. The tea. Yes, that’s it. Very good. I reach over the sleeping feline and help myself to another pour.
“So it would seem,” says the familiar, and I don’t know her well enough to say whether her tone is a confirmation or a warning. “Regardless, I’m here to help in any capacity I’m needed. Training, research, historical context, spellcraft… Consider me your own personal archive.”
“Thank you, Helena. But… Confession?” Miss Bonnivarde crinkles her nose in a way that manages to look both adorable and disgusted. “I sort of… went along with Rachel’s unflattering assessment of you. Not because I believe it! Just… I needed to makethembelieve we’re all on the same page. Namely, that this witch business isn’t real. It’s the only way I could buy myself time to learn the magical ropes. I’m supposed to be organizing the basement—that’s my cover story.”
“What about the portal?” she asks.
“I’m telling you, they don’t believe it exists. They’re not even curious enough to go down there. They think you got… confused or whatever. It’s messed up, I know. I’m sorry.”
Helena dismisses the concern with a wave of her hand, bracelets tinkling. “I’ve been alive far too long to worry overmuch about people’s opinions of me, dear. I’m more worried you feel you need to lie in order to pursue something that’s clearly important to you. Unless I’m misreading your enthusiasm?”
“Are you kidding me? I haven’t been this enthusiastic about anything since I learned how to operate two sex toys at the same time!”
I choke on my biscuit. Only the cat seems to notice, startling and then nudging her head against my palm until I give in to her demands for a petting.
“It’s just… my sisters… it’s complicated. There’s this unspoken rule about digging up the past, especially when it comes to our parents. If I push too hard, they’ll ice me out again.” A deep sadness overtakes her face, drawing her mouth down at the corners.
I’m well aware of her personal history. No parents, not even memories to keep her company. Estrangement from her sisters. I don’t need a picture painted to envision what her life has been like. Still, to hear her say it like that—the lilting sadness in her voice, belied by the too-bright smile she so often wears… Well. If I were capable of it, I might actually ache for her. But I’ve had enough plumbing the depths for one day, so I merely stroke the cat and eat another biscuit and wait for the ridiculous notion to pass. She’s a grown woman now. And she’ll hate me soon enough.
