Page 4 of Grimoires & Glamoury

With her free hand Kathleen held up her almost empty wineglass. “Top me up,” she said. “I’m going to have hot flashes all night long from the wine, but damned if it doesn’t hit the spot.”

“I thought those were getting better,” I said, dutifully pouring her more wine.

“The hormone blockers give you intense hot flashes. I’m learning to roll with it. I have fans everywhere at home.”

Lifting my hand, I called to the element of air. A gentle cooling breeze washed over us and sent the wind chimes singing. “How’s that?’ I asked.

“My hero.” Kathleen chuckled. “You know, I was reading something interesting the other day. How there was a powerful Witch named Elizabeth Southern—from Scotland—who was implicated in the plot to kill King James I…Something about conjuring up storms to mess with his fleet.”

I shifted in my chair to fully face her. “You’ve been reading up on Witches in history?”

“Among other things.” She nodded. “The Burning Times. That’s what they called it, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’ve got money on the table that she was an ancestor of yours,” Kathleen said. “You mentioned once that you had Scottish ancestry.”

“She was an ancestor,” I confirmed.

“Knew it,” Kathleen said smugly. “You should let folks in the community know that. It’d add some flair to your not inconsiderable reputation.”

Chuckling over that, I helped myself to another slice of cheese. “I’m glad you dropped by tonight, Kathleen.”

***

I woke to the sound of thunder the next morning and squinted at the window in my bedroom. The light was gray and gloomy, so I patted my nightstand for my glass case and slipped my glasses on. Climbing from my bed, I stretched, yawned and made my way to the window. Droplets of water were beginning to fall, and I loved a good rainstorm.

“Less watering of the gardens for me to do tonight,” I said around another yawn. Scratching at my hair, I headed for the bathroom and the shower.

A half-hour later, I was sitting at my kitchen table, comfy in a chenille robe and eating my breakfast. My hair was pulled up into a loose bun, and I allowed tendrils to frame my face. I’d already done my makeup; all that was left was a bit of powder and lipstick.

I preferred to relax during breakfast, so all I had to do was brush my teeth and get dressed before leaving for the day. As was my habit, I made a large breakfast, since I wouldn’t be breaking for lunch until later in the afternoon. The sound of the rain was comforting and cozy that morning. Despite the gloomy weather, the view out of my kitchen window was gloriously green.

Working my way through bacon, eggs, grits, and fresh fruit, I sipped at my coffee and relished the solitude and the quiet. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my bookstore and interacting with customers. Dex was like the brother I’d never had, and he knew as much about the store and stock as I did. Also, having Kate and Circe as my witchy retail neighbors was phenomenal.

But the mornings were just for me. I needed the solitude to reset and refocus for the busy day ahead. The silent mornings often got me through the crazy world of retail...not to mention Witch politics.

In the three years since I’d arrived in Birmingham, it had become home, and my friends were now my chosen family.

Once I’d finished, I rose to place my breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. I was glad that I’d let Dex talk me into adding a panel over it. Now the appliance blended in seamlessly with the other painted cabinets. The silvery green of the cabinets was warmed by the original pine floors, and the flipper I’d bought the house from had added white subway tile as a backsplash. I wiped any crumbs from the butcher block counters and was wringing out the dishrag when my phone chimed signaling a text.

Walking over to the table where I’d left my phone, I snagged it on my way back to my bedroom. I glanced down at the notification, saw the sender’s name, and stopped mid-step.

Charles Montgomery. He was the one person in the community ballsy enough to contact me through my personal cell phone that early in the morning.

Everyone else knew better.

“Damn it,” I muttered.

The outside world had intruded and my contentment bubble had been pricked. Taking its cues from my changing mood, thunder rumbled ominously. I drew in a deep breath and braced myself before clicking on the text to read it.

Need to speak to you about a potentially serious issue within the community.

Swearing at the cryptic and vague message, I didn’t answer. Charles Montgomery was the leader of a lodge of ceremonialists. He and his group were from the north of the Viaduct in the Financial District in downtown Birmingham. The Witches of Southside tended to avoid Montgomery and his elite cronies like the plague. It wasn’t so much a social class thing as a territorial divide. And the members of his lodge were rather biased against the earthier Witches.

My lip curled thinking about their magickal snobbery. Putting my phone on silent, I walked into my room and tossed it onto the bed in aggravation.

Going straight to my closet, I pulled on a pair of denim jeggings and paired them with a short-sleeved top. It was flowing tunic style with a layer of sheer black floral lace over the plum fabric. It was an attractive yet comfortable and stretchy top. Today was a book delivery day, and I would be lifting, carrying and opening boxes, and putting up new books.