“Like a weapon or something?”
“Uh, you can say that.” More pages flipped. He groaned. “Yeah, really not crazy about this, Celia.”
I tapped my fingers against my dresser. “Danny, they’re my family. I have to do something.”
“I know you do, Celia.” He sighed. “Look, as head of the family, you can challenge their head witch to a duel. It’s called ‘invoking the Ninth Law’. Your sisters will be spared from any retaliation, whether you win or not.”
A trickle of cold sweat found its way down my spine. I didn’t want to have to kill . . . again. Danny must have sensed my fear. “No one has to die, Celia. It’s more like whoever cries misericordia —or ‘mercy’—first, loses. But keep in mind, as head witch, she’ll be a lot stronger than the witch you faced.”
I swore under my breath, thinking back to the rats. But what choice did I have? “I know, but—it’s fine. I’ll do it.”
“I still think it’s wiser to move.”
My mind flashed with images of our house. We’d purchased it at auction. The previous owners had wrecked it—the carpet had been torn up, angry fists had punched through the sheetrock, and yellow paint had been splashed over the beautiful hardwood floors. Still, they hadn’t robbed the 3,500-square-foot colonial of its heart. We had big plans to make it so warm, so endearing. I couldn’t think to abandon something we’d yearned for all our lives. “We’re not going anywhere, Danny.”
I heard Danny shut the book and place it down. “Celia, please think this through. Just because the rules say no one has to die, that doesn’t mean the head witch won’t try to kill you.”
Chapter Four
I didn’t share my “duel until someone cries ‘uncle’ ” conversation with my sisters. They’d go ape, and there was no sense in worrying them until I had to. So we waited for the witches to contact us. I expected something dramatic—a raven perhaps delivering the “I’ll get you, my pretties, and your little dog, too,” papers, or maybe something more technologically advanced like a curse via email. It seemed, though, even that was too much to hope for.
I ran along the snowy beach of Lake Tahoe, dressed in black spandex running pants with a matching long-sleeved top. The bitter morning wind slapped against my hot cheeks. Sweat trickled between my br**sts. And my buttocks and thighs tightened like flesh-covered stone. It all felt so damn good, especially with the caress of Tahoe’s magic encouraging me forward. The ten miles I’d run would have drained most. Instead it enlivened my spirit and made my tigress beg for more. If she couldn’t fight, she needed to run, or else the predator would choose to hunt those who threatened the ones we loved.
My ears and senses remained vigilant, seeking out any unusual scent, sound, and presence. Several days had passed without incident. We’d returned to our nursing jobs, grocery shopping, and laundry duties. And yet while no one mentioned it, we didn’t exactly return to a sense of normalcy. I finished my run and cut through the snow-covered path back to our development. The firs and rhododendrons covered by a thick blanket of snow parted just a few yards away, revealing the house closest to the path. Our neighbors were virtually nonexistent, with the exception of one.
Mrs. Mancuso hadn’t liked four young, single women moving in next door. The first day we’d moved in she banged on our door. Emme mistakenly thought some kind, neighborly soul had arrived to bring us ‘Welcome to Tahoe’ cookies. There were no cookies, just a whole lot of attitude and a great deal of neck skin.
“This is a family neighborhood,” Mrs. Mancuso had huffed. “They’ll be no whorin’ under my watch.”
“Who says we’ll let you watch?” Taran shot back.
I hadn’t realized women in their eighties flipped people off until then.
I ran up the small incline to the walkway, hoping to avoid yet another Mrs. Mancuso tongue-lashing. It seemed the grouchy old hag waited like a leopard behind her hummingbird-patterned curtains to pounce on the would-be Wird gazelles.
Typically I took this time to cool down and stretch. But the commotion before me had me bolting full speed.
“What the hell do you bitches want?”
Oh. No.
Taran stood on our large wooden porch with her hands on her hips, her jaw clenched tight, and her glare fixed on the coven of witches gathered on our front sidewalk. Shayna lingered next to her with her hands close to her daggers, her sharp blue eyes sweeping along the crowd of thirteen. Emme kept her hands clasped in front of her, anxious, but ready to defend her family.
Ambrosial scents of spearmint, sage, rosemary, and basil thickened the air surrounding our development. It might have been comforting had I not feared Taran’s fire would ignite our visitors like marshmallows . . . and that they’d unleash a plague onto our house that would make leprosy seem like diaper rash.
The incident at the club hadn’t been pretty. I didn’t get the impression this would be all rainbows, puppies, and potpourri. Still, I didn’t want the Hermione Granger wannabees to think they could push us around.
My eyes darted along our cul-de-sac and took in their cars. It seemed every witch owned a Jetta. And their collective magic rose like the sun against their auras.