“I say we fry their asses.” She furrows her brow and wriggles her fingers, as if smiting her enemies is as simple as making a wish. “It won’t take me long to level up with a motivation like that, right?”
“While I appreciate your commitment,” Helena says, “it’s nearly impossible to track the Wielders these days. They no longer advertise. They discovered it’s a lot easier to accomplish dastardly deeds while passing as respectable.”
“In my experience,” she says, “it’s always the so-called respectable ones you have to watch out for.”
“Agreed,” I say. “Unfortunately, not all respectable people are secret witch hunters, so we can’t just go round picking off the ones we don’t like.”
“What else are we supposed to do? Wait around until they attack, then hope we’ve got a chance at fighting them off?”
Helena sighs. “That strategy did not help Evelyn. We need to be proactive.”
“We need to retrieve the grimoire,” I remind them. “That’s the most proactive solution to the myriad problems stacking up. The hunters, the portal irregularities, the demonic upset. Helena, do you have any information at all on the identities of the men who attacked Evelyn? Physical traits? Other details?”
Helena rises, assembling the remnants of tea service back onto the tray. “If I knew their identities, Dr. Sutherland, they’d already be dead.”
We leave the store with more questions than answers, and several more books to boot. The rare editions for me. Miss Bonnivarde selected two books on the Tarot, more determined than ever to follow her calling, despite the many challenges ahead.
I want to tell her that I’m proud of her. Not just for embracing books—a thing that doesn’t come naturally to her—but for being so eager to accept her destiny.
I want to tell her that she shouldn’t worry. That we will absolutely figure this out together, track down and stop the hunters, and solidify the portal.
I want to tell her that yes, she will one day return to California, sparkly and magical, every one of her dreams laid out before her like a thousand treasures waiting to be unearthed.
As it should be.
But I’ve hidden enough truths, and in the end, I say nothing.
I walk her home, not keen on leaving her unprotected but knowing I must. She invites me inside for a drink, but as much as I’d love to take her up on that, I can not delay my trip another moment.
“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” I say, leaving her on the front porch. “Work on your basement project, get acquainted with your new books, spend some time with your sisters. Whatever you do, donotleave the house until I return.”
“Return? Return from where?”
“There’s… something I need to attend to.”
“Where are you going?”
The word tastes bitter on my tongue, but I force it out anyway. “Home.”
thirteen
LIZZY
Not to toot my own horn, but…toot toot, motherfuckers! I made breakfast. A real feat after yesterday’s shit-kicker of a day, believe me. Between Helena’s doom-and-gloom tea party and Dr. Sutherland putting me on house arrest while he skipped on down to Hell without me, I was pretty much feeling like a used tampon.
Anyway. Bacon cures all woes, so I’ve got a little more pep in my step today.
Okay, when I say Imadebreakfast, what I mean is that I wished for it out loud, in a really nice way, and suddenly the dining room was set up like a B&B straight out of a magazine. Frittata, scones, cheesy potatoes, the cure-all magic bacon—seriously! I squealed and clapped and quickly rushed back to the kitchen to put on an apron and dust some flour on my face, totally rocking the grinding-over-the-hot-stove aesthetic.
It did the trick, because then Kate was all, “Wait… is that bacon I smell?” And I was all, “Mayyyybeeee?”
Kate presses a hand to her heart, the proud mama bear. “Lizzy? You did all this?”
I shrug, spatula in hand, dishtowel casually tossed over the shoulder. “Oh, you know. It was nothing.”
“When did you even go shopping?”
“I… um…”Dodge and smile girl, dodge and smile.“Just figured it might be good to have a hot breakfast together once in a while! Do you guys have time? Please say yes!”Please don’t look in the kitchen, where no dirty pots and pans or breakfast-cooking evidence exists, because TBH I don’t even know how to make toast, but hey, who wants a mimosa? I know I do!
