Page 41 of Reckless Witch

“You’re dangerous,” the cat hisses.

I blink in surprise. I’d never had an affinity for cats, but more than that, witches can only understand their own familiars, although I can understand the odd pig on occasion.

“I see you for what you are,” the tabby growls, reminding me of a bitter, old woman harping about the younger generation. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You must know Grams,” I reply acidly.

“Go,” the cat hisses.

I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not inclined to take orders from a cat. Who do you belong to?”

He exposes more teeth, but he only appears more awkward. “You’re dangerous,” he repeats.

“Right.” I lurch forward and flap my hands.

The cat jumps back, trips, and rolls in the street before regaining his feet—or, at least, I assume he has feet under all that chub—and bounds off into the night. I grin, even as his words haunt me a little. A forgotten memory of Grams hovering over me whispering ‘You’re dangerous’ surges from the depths of my mind. Unexpected shame washes over me. Wasn’t that what Thomas had said, as well? Of course, he was right. I was dangerous—to him. But to Grams? Was that why she betrayed me?

A chuckle comes from the direction of the cigarette.

Again, the depths of my soul stir. I whirl. The cigarette is gone. So is the man—I think. “Who are you?” I wait expectantly through silence. My temper flares. “Enough already.”

Even though I know I won’t find the house, I start walking. I don’t have any potions, and the damn sigil will limit the types of magic I can use in my search for the house.

I’d grown up in this neighborhood. It’s crazy that I can’t find my childhood home using landmarks. I experience the same sense of the neighborhood being frozen in time I did the previous two times I’ve been here. Mrs. Campbell’s corner grocer is still there. So is Sam’s Barber Shop and the Tip-Top Tresses hair salon. I recognize the ancient oak up ahead. I always see the tree. It’s as if Grams left that memory just to taunt me. I could climb onto one of the limbs from my bedroom window. Until Grams pruned the tree, that is, which didn’t stop me for long. By age thirteen, I’d studied martial arts for six years. It was a simple matter to leap from my window onto the limb.

I cross the street, my spirits flagging, and half wonder if I shouldn’t just head to my apartment to look for Stony. Maybe Stony can root out the house. I’m surprised I hadn’t thought of that before.

A flicker teases the corner of my eye. I stop and look. My heart stands still. Amidst a tiny shimmer I glimpse…is that gabled window part of Gram’s house? A car horn blares. I jump back onto the sidewalk.

“Get out of the road,” a sedan’s driver shouts as he speeds past.

I stare after the car. I hadn’t realized I’d stepped from the curb.

I return my attention to the shimmer and start running toward the house. I draw closer and my heart pounds. The house isn’t a mirage. Two stories, an attic, and a sharply pointed roof come into focus. Wooden shingles. A house straight from a storybook. A painted sign reading Crowe’s Potionary and looking as fresh as ever hangs from a post in the yard. Potionary wasn’t a word until the original Crowe potion master coined the term centuries ago. Since then, the rest of the Crowes kept the tradition alive.

I run up the walk, clear the four steps onto the porch, and stop in front of the door. The repel of the ward stings an instant before the damn sigil on my hand heats. Anger bubbles over. Shadows swirl in a vortex around me. My head spins in rhythm with the shadows and power surges. The wards splinter. Tiny lights flash as my fingers close around the doorknob, the door opens, and I step across the threshold. I start at the pain on my hand and glance down. The sigil glows like a glow stick in the dark. That’s going to hurt like a bitch when the adrenaline fades from my system.

I reach for the light switch to the left of the door before I realize the action. Even after seven years, old habits die hard. The overhead light flares to life. I fix my gaze on the left hand table, which stands in the exact place it occupied the day I left. I hold my breath. Everything is exactly as it had been when I last saw the inside of the house.

Above the table hangs a picture of Grams’ grandparents. Portraits of even more distant ancestors follow the stairs to the second floor landing. My gaze shifts to the right-hand wall and my heart cracks a little when I recognize photos of me hanging among more valuable portraits. Why did she leave my pictures hanging?

Her essence lingers like a physical presence. I laugh bitterly. If any part of her is present, it will be furious that I’ve returned. So, why can I now see the place?

I head across the foyer toward the living room, visible through the arched doorway to my right. As I pass through the archway, the motion-sensor floor lamp in the near-left corner turns on. I blink, surprised the thing still works.

I stop short at sight of a man dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket sitting in the wing backed chair on the far side of the room. Raven hair grazes his shoulders and long legs attached to a six foot-three-inch frame are crossed at the ankles. He’s gorgeous. Lately, the world seems overrun by gorgeous men.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand.

“Forgive the intrusion,” his velvety voice is colored by a slight accent I can’t quite place. “I didn’t have your phone number and the neighbors were looking through their curtains after I’d waited at your door for half an hour.” The accent could be Eastern European, though it really is faint.

“Most people leave after they realize no one is home,” I say.

A corner of his mouth turns up. “I am not most people.”

Chances are, the guy isn’t evil. Unless, of course, he figured out a way to get past Grams’ warding spell. Damn, maybe Grams’ concealment spell faded, along with her wards. No. The ache where the sigil marks me reminds me how acutely I felt her wards. I eye him. He doesn’t seem to know that Grams died and the potionary is no longer open for business.

“I don’t do business after five,” I say.