Seventh Seal - Jacquelyn Faye Page 0,3

I pulled myself into the shadow realm and stepped out into the alley between the Daystrum Cleaners and Tir Na Nog, the biggest Irish pub in Ashville. I had puked so many times in that alley in my youth, I knew it by heart. And smell. It brought back so many happy memories, I found myself smiling from nostalgia as I walked around the corner and pulled open the heavy oak door with the brass handle.

The smell of corned beef was the first thing that assaulted your nose as you walked in, then the smell of beer and polished wood warmed your heart. Waving at the hostess, I pointed at the bar. You needed to wait to be seated for booths and tables, but not the glorious, majestic oak bar with the hammered copper top.

"Dorothea?" The burly bartender stared in shock as I ambled up to his domain.

"Heyla, Mr. Connors." I smiled at his mustache, still wondering after all the years I had been going to the pub, how he managed to eat or drink anything without swallowing a half a pound of hair. He had just started growing it the first night he had taken over as bartender from his father. That had been twenty years ago. Now, it dangled long enough to brush his shirt. It was no wonder he was so fond of it. It was the only hair gracing his head.

"Still as beautiful as ever."

I grinned at him.

"Usual?"

"Yes, please. And make it a double."

"Rough day?"

"Rough couple of months. Rough, but good."

"Good. How's your mother?" He whispered the question.

"Fine? Why?"

He set my whiskey sour in front of me and frowned. "Well, it's not every day the High Priestess steps down without someone in mind to take over. Everyone thought it was going to be you, but you hightailed it out of town first."

"Excuse me?" I gripped my glass and stared at him in shock. Mr. Connors wasn't a witch, but his wife was. He was as human as they came, but between his wife and the number of drunk witches that got blabby-mouthed after a few dozen beers, he was almost as bad as Marge in the gossip department.

He stood up straight, realizing I didn't have a clue. "She didn't tell you." He wasn't asking, he knew.

"Tell me, what?"

"That your mother is an asshole." A drink slopped down on the shiny metal bar beside me, and a very drunk Nestor Flume slopped down in the seat next to me. Mr. Connors started wiping down the bar, quickly polishing his way away from the conversation.

"Nestor? What the hell is going on?"

"You tell me. The coven would fucking looove to know." He clinked his glass of straight whiskey against mine and poured the rest of it down his throat before leaning against the bar and holding his head up with his hand.

Several more witches got up from the surrounding booths in the bar and circled around us. I guessed old Nestor wasn't the only one who wanted answers.

Sighing, I sucked down some of my drink to steel my nerves. "Mother came for a visit. As far as I know, she should be leaving any day and coming back here."

"That's not what her letter said." Nestor pulled out a folded piece of stationary and slapped it down beside me.

Gingerly, fearing the worst, I picked it up off the bar and scanned the contents. The letter was addressed to Nestor. I'd known they'd been lovers, but seeing the graphic and detailed address to Nestor, I felt my drink rising in my gullet as it threatened to make its escape. I did not need to know Nestor was endowed like a bull elephant. He was creepy as fuck enough already. How Mother found him attractive was beyond me. But, then again, she found most of the male members of her coven attractive. Probably why she bedded half of them.

After the disturbing greeting, she basically said she quit and that her troublesome daughter needed her. She was resigning the coven to the witches of Ashville to decide on leadership going henceforth.

Nestor was right.

My mother was an asshole.

"Fuck me." I handed Nestor back his letter. "Don't look at me. She showed up and kept going on and on about how she was leaving any day. Then she agreed to stay through Yule. This is the first I'm hearing about it."

The other witches grumbled an understanding, but Nestor was scrutinizing me, gauging if I was telling the truth. "Why? Did you really need her that