Jane Davey’s Locket by Eve Langlais

1

Jane: But officer, it was justified…

“Have you seen my locket?” I asked as I scrounged through the many layers of crap on my dresser. And by crap, I mean my hoarding of every knickknack I’d ever collected in my life.

The chipped black and white porcelain kitten my mom had given me when she announced I could not have a real one because she was allergic. The broken jewelry box—gifted by my dad—that no longer played music no matter how hard you cranked the brass knob, the ballerina atop the lid, her tutu ragged. The outside of it appeared no better, with peeling stickers from my youth including some truly ancient scratch and sniff. The inside wasn’t any more impressive, holding a plastic ring that had come out of a vending machine, a necklace with my birthstone, and a few sets of discreet studs for my ears.

A modest collection for me. Unlike Grandma, who had a dresser taller than she was—which wasn’t saying much, given that she didn’t quite make five feet—to store her goodies. She had a penchant for dangly earrings to match the holidays. A good number of them blinked with lights, and I could always hear her coming when she wore the ones that played Carol of the Bells.

Good thing I loved the crazy old witch. And I loved the damned locket I couldn’t find. It should have been on top of the pile. I’d only removed it that morning to take a shower, but then I’d forgotten to put it back on because I was running late. Finding a way to bun my hair without looking as if I’d slept with my finger in a socket proved challenging, and I blamed Petra. The damned house fairy probably stole my brush again. I really hoped that it wasn’t for the hair on another voodoo doll. Last time, the backlash of Petra’s spell almost got me kicked out of school.

And what did Petra do when I came home ranting about the essay I had to write about dancing in class? She giggled.

The house fairy always tittered. Which was probably why I didn’t kill her.

“Where are you?” I muttered aloud. Not the strangest thing, considering many objects replied back. It was a matter of asking them properly. Oh, and being a witch.

The locket wasn’t in my room, and Petra knew better than to touch it. I’d spelled it, and she’d not liked the result the last time it zinged her—she’d hidden in her birdhouse until her breasts re-inflated.

“Grandma!” The word held a dose of warning. Because there was only one person who would dare invade my personal space.

“Calm yourself, child. I borrowed it,” Grandma replied with no need to holler. She used a spell to project her voice into the room.

It should be noted that her reply filled me with anxiety. Because when Grandma appropriated things, they didn’t always come back. Just ask Great-Aunt Maisy. Grandma had borrowed her fiancé to move some furniture, then eloped with Gerald rather than return him.

Centuries later, the sisters still weren’t speaking, which meant I’d never met Maisy.

Just like I’d never met Grandpa Gerald. I’d just heard all the stories, especially the one about where he died. He’d gotten crushed by a mountain when a certain dragon woke up and smashed its way out. Never wake a dragon, was inscribed on Grandpa’s tomb.

I’m sure mundanes—humans without magic—would claim that my family wasn’t entirely normal. Yet I was determined to be different than the witches in my family line. I would be the one who wore clothes that matched. Who had a job and paid into a retirement plan. Who took regular vacations to normal places like Mexico and Spain rather than the fifth circle in Hell, or the Elven realm, where the disdain on their faces reminded you why you never visited.

Exiting my room, I didn’t have to go far in our cozy house to find my grandmother. There was limited space to hide in the tiny home. Enough for Grandma and me. When I was young, we’d often come for extended visits. Well, I did, at any rate. My parents didn’t usually spend the night. Daddy couldn’t stand to sleep on land.

He also couldn’t stand the cutesy gingerbread-trimmed cottage. He said it emasculated him to be seen anywhere near it. I understood his point. With its pastel green shutters, pale yellow siding, pink window frames, and baby blue front door, it did resemble that of the witch who liked to lure children. I’d given