Page 14 of Reckless Witch

Stony’s grunt announces her bad mood, and not only because she’s awake before noon. She watched me cook and knows I’ve used the last of our eggs, so her breakfast is at least a dozen eggs short.

“Suck it up, Buttercup,” I say. There’s apology amidst my sarcasm.

She stares at me through her beady black eyes and heaves a sigh. Apology accepted. She likes her eggs runny, so, after a minute of stirring, I switch off the stove, grab the pan’s handle and squat beside her dish. I scrape the eggs into her bowl. As I slide the spatula under the last egg, she knocks my hand. I can’t miss the caring concern in her eyes. She’s indicating that the last egg is mine. My eyes mist. Her ears flick back as she attacks her breakfast with gusto.

I sit at the table to eat my share. “We make a pair,” I comment sourly. Stony snorts between bites and I scowl. “Oh yeah, we should be thrilled the prestigious Illumina Academy wants us. Let’s hop up and down for joy. Remember why we’re doing this,” I say. “You’re going to love Grams’ house. The kitchen is huge.”

At that, she looks up, her eyes alight with interest. I hide a grin. I knew that would capture her interest.

After I eat, I scrawl a quick note to the landlord and fold the paper around most of the cash I received from the shifter last night. It’ll cover next month’s rent. By then, I’ll be done with The Academy.

I reach for the small metal lockbox under the table and flip open the lid. I have only one fake identity potion left. I pick up the last bottle and grab my wand from the counter, then cross to where Stony is circling like a dog atop her bedding.

The wand is one of the few things I managed to stuff into my backpack the day Grams threw me out. I seldom use it; wands are more the purview of wizards. But Grams taught me that a good witch needs a basic understanding of different types of magic. I heft the wand and hope it allows me to bypass Ethan’s damn sigil so I can change Stony into a mouse.

I stop beside Stony and pull the stopper from the vial. “Sorry to disappoint, but I was serious. You’re coming with me.”

I tip the bottle, the liquid touches her hide, and she squeals. The potion is as safe as Baby Shampoo, but Stony prefers drama. Technically, I don’t need additional magic for the potion to work, but this is my last vial. Besides, Stony’s obstinate. She’ll try to outwit me by choosing a new identity of ‘micro-pig,’ thus leaving me exactly where we started. Right now, I can’t take that chance.

A poof announces the potion is ready to take form, so I point the wand at Stony and murmur, “Mouse.”

She squeals and flattens her ears. I don’t miss the defiant gleam in her beady little eyes.

“Mus,” I say louder. I rarely use old Latin, but once in a while, old trumps new.

Magic shimmers over Stony as the sigil on my arm flares. I grit my teeth against the increasing heat. I want to shout at Stony to quit fighting me but if my concentration breaks, she wins. I push my will into the wand. The sigil grows more painful. My shoulder muscles burn with the effort of pushing back at Stony—which distracts a little from the burn of the damn sigil. She resists for a full three minutes and I try not to think about how much hotter the sigil might get. At last, sparks engulf her. My muscles relax. I toss the wand onto the futon and rub my right shoulder as I hold my breath, as much in anticipation of the outcome as out of relief that damn sigil is cooling.

I chose a mouse as something I could easily hide in my pocket. There’s an audible poof and I see I only get half my wish. I groan. Stony has definitely gone for ‘pig.’ On her bed sits a pissed, grumpy guinea pig. She’s chunky and definitely won’t fit in any pocket.

“What the hell, Stony?” I growl.

She lifts her lip and bares her two elongated teeth.

So, neither of us is happy.

I scowl as I grab my backpack, packed with a few clothes and my cell phone. I stuff my wand in an inside pocket, then grab Stony by the scruff of her neck. She squeaks when I dump her inside the biggest pouch.

“Be quiet,” I hiss over the grate of the closing zipper.

She gives a final peeved grunt, then settles down as I slip the strap over my shoulder. I scoop up a hair tie from the kitchen counter and pull my hair back into a ponytail as I give the place one last look. The sigil on my hand begins to warm, this time in warning that it’s time to go.

“Damn you, Ethan,” I say. I grab my cell phone charger, head for the door, and add for good measure, “Damn you, too, Raith.”

Ninety minutes later, I’m waiting on the train platform. I’ve discovered that as long as I’m on track for the school, the sigil on my hand doesn’t heat up. Stray more than a foot and it zaps me back on track like a cattle prod. By the time I arrive at The Academy, I suspect my hair will be standing on end like a frazzled dandelion seed puff.

The train arrives and I cradle my backpack in an effort to keep Stony safe as I shove my way through the crowd toward the train’s open doors. The third time I’m elbowed in the gut, I succumb to temptation and send Ethan a double dose of ill intent.

“Next time, Ethan, you and your sigil can kiss my ass,” I curse under my breath.

I board. We’re packed in like sardines, and the man sitting to my right is watching the news on his phone. The volume is low, but I hear the voice of a local newscaster say, “What’s the weather today, John? Are we headed for our first snow of the winter?”

The weatherman forecasts a clear day and dry weather for the coming week.

“Thank you, John,” the newswoman says when he’s finished. “In other local news—”

The phone’s owner switches to a game as the train descends into a tunnel. The interior dims and I glance out the grimy window into darkness and shadows. Both should make a Light witch uneasy, yet I’ve always found darkness and shadows strangely comforting. I stare at the darkness, looking for shapes and patterns, as if I’m taking one of those ink blot personality tests. When a hand suddenly forms and beckons, I blink and my concentration breaks. Uneasy, I glance around to see if anyone else noticed.

The train curves to the right and the sigil on my hand warms. My ire returns. Damn you, Ethan. I can’t control the direction the train takes.