Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

Everyone gathers for dinner nearly every night of the week. I started the practice to promote togetherness and a family-like mentality with the pack. I'm not sure how much good it's actually done, but it's too late to change the routine now. Jose and Greta take turns cooking while the rest of us split up the cleanup.

As soon as we return home from the police station, Jose gloms onto Az. He drags her into the kitchen to help him prepare for dinner. Fine. She can be his kitchen gopher. I only object when he hands her a sharp knife and a bunch of celery. Seeing her with a potential weapon makes me twitchy.

Dinner is a raucous event, as usual. The rumble of conversation is underscored by the clink of silverware on dishes and the thunk of dishes being passed around. Greta shares a story about a drunk patron she'd had to kick out of the biker bar where she works as a bouncer. Ike's tale of architecture woes garners fewer laughs than Greta's story. Mostly it's because Ike's a terrible storyteller, but some of it is because being an architect is not half as interesting as being a bouncer.

After serving slices of tres leches cake, Jose announces that he's found a job. As it's the first job he's had in over two years, silence descends like an iron curtain. Jose is a genius with engines and anything with wheels. I've set him up on interviews with local garages, but he's had a rough couple of years so I don't push. The pack takes care of its own.

"Where are you working?" I ask before the silence can go from heavy to downright uncomfortable.

"I hired him," Az offers quietly. Too quietly. She looks up from her dessert to toss a tight smile in my direction. "You said part of that money is mine, and I need an assistant. I don't drive, remember?"

"I remember." It's not that Az hiring Jose is a bad thing, necessarily, but I don't like being kept out of the loop. Especially when it concerns someone I'm responsible for. I can't object with everyone staring at me. Not that I want to object. Having a job and being needed will be good for Jose's self-confidence.

"We're going shopping tomorrow," Jose says, grinning. "Clothes and magic supplies."

Okay. Now I'm definitely not objecting. If Princess needs a shopping buddy, then she's made the right choice. Besides, Jose will protect her. He's not alpha material, but he's fiercely loyal and startling vicious.

"Good,” I say, putting my stamp of approval on their arrangement.

Az offers to take Hank's dishwashing shift. Since washing mostly involves rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, it's not as grand a gesture as it sounds. She stacks plates like a seasoned waitress and carries them to the sink.

"Where are the pots and pans?" I ask. Jose has a habit of using every available pot and pan whenever he cooks. His meals are delicious, but the cleanup is usually hellacious. It's my turn to dry dishes and put them away.

"Already washed and put up," she responds, turning on the hot tap.

Sweet. My job for the night will only involve wiping down the table and the kitchen countertops. Almost as easy as takeout night.

It isn't until she's dumping the last handful of forks in the silverware basket that something she said earlier hits me. I'm an idiot for not catching it sooner. "If the Rite of Yo-Yo Ma has been banned for centuries, how is it that you know about it?"

"Yulaga," she corrects, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

"Whatever."

Her eyes don't meet mine. "Dad taught me when I was five."

I grab the box of soap packets from under the sink and hand it to her. I'll talk to Jose or Greta about giving her a tour of the house and showing her where all the cleaning supplies are.

She stares at the box. "Jose taught me how to load the dishwasher earlier, but he didn't mention this part."

"You've never used a dishwasher before?" How is that even possible?

"No. Washed by hand, yes, but never with a machine."

Of course. She's been passed around from magical hideaway to magical hideaway like a family heirloom no one wants. She copes so well with most everything that it's easy to forget she had an unusual childhood. I show her, twice, where the soap goes and how to turn the machine on.

"Thank you for not giving me a hard time about Jose."

"Yeah, well, a little warning next time would be nice. I don't like finding things out last minute, especially not publically. It won't happen again, Astraea."

"Sorry. I promise that it won't happen again." Az leans against the counter and crosses her ankles. "He needs this as much as I need him. He needs to feel important, and he is. He knows the area. Knows which places to avoid. Knows the politics. He can go into certain stores for me. I'm not good for magic stores."

"Let me know before you send him on that particular errand. There are things we need to stock up on."

"Will do. I'm going to go check in with him and start my list for tomorrow. He'll work on the memory protection after we pick up supplies. Good night."

She makes it two steps before I grab her wrist. She's good at changing the subject, but it takes a lot to distract me. "Your father taught you the Rite of Yulaga."

Az's nose crinkles. It's clear she was hoping I'd forget that little gem. Sorry, Princess. I'm not as easily misled as your previous handlers.

"Yes. When I was five. He tried to cram as much magic in me as he could before it became obvious that I wasn't going to be able to perform a single spell."

"How did he learn it?"

"He was probably taught by his father. Who was taught by his father. That's what happens with the old families," she says, shrugging. "The teaching starts in the cradle. Nothing is off-limits."

"Do you remember the rite? Not generics but the actual words?"

"Don't need to."

Before I can tell her that yes, she damn well does, she shakes her wrist free. Her hands immediately go to the button on her jeans. She pops it open but stalls with her hand on the zipper. Her eyes squeeze shut and a line of concentration creases her forehead.

"Nope. It's a long one. Left shoulder." Nodding once to herself, she quickly pulls off her t-shirt. It lands in the damp sink. She slips her left bra strap down her arm.

I resist the urge to slap my hand across my eyes. I'm no prude, and she's not the first half-naked woman I've seen. Her pink lace bra is modest enough and she's not taking any additional steps toward removing her jeans. If this is another distraction tactic, it's not very original. Possibly effective and certainly enjoyable, but not original.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"Huh?" Her eyes are open and confused. "You said you wanted the words to the rite."

"Yeah. I didn't ask for a floor show."

She waves a hand at her shoulder and turns so that her back is to me. "Give me a sec. It's been ages since I had to do this."

I don't get a chance to ask what this is. She braces both hands on the edge of the counter and flexes her shoulders. I can see her reflection in the kitchen window. Her eyes are closed again, that small line of concentration has returned. Sweat beads along her hairline.

Words, small and neatly written, appear on her shoulder. Rather than a bold black, they are a muted gray. Dark enough to stand out on her pale skin. A few lines of text cross the nape of her neck but disappear after only a second. The paragraph on her shoulder remains.

"Should be ten lines or so," she says through gritted teeth. "Oh! It stings. I'd forgotten that."

"Is this the rite?"

"Yes. You might want to take a picture or something. I'm not sure how long I can hold this. I'm out of practice."

As soon as I snap a picture with my phone, the words fade. Az sags against the counter. I brush my fingers across where the words had been. That portion of her back is hot while the rest of her is cool. Though there are no bumps or visible marks, it feels as if I could trace the words.

"Are you okay?" My feet are itching with the need to run to my office and print off the picture. I have to make sure she's all right though. The health of the pack takes precedence over everything else. Even my curiosity.

"Yeah," she pants. "I'm fine. Just drained." She splashes water on her face and takes a few sips from her cupped hands. I pat her on the shoulder before dashing across the hall to my office.

When I return with two copies of the picture in hand, she's still slumped over the sink. "C'mon, Princess. Let's see what this says."

With a pained grunt, she straightens. The t-shirt she lifts out of the sink is soaked. It lands back in the sink with a wet plop. Rather than go upstairs for a fresh shirt - like a normal person - she sits at the kitchen table in just her bra and jeans.

"Here." I toss my flannel shirt at her, thankful that I'd thought to layer. It's a little too chilly to be sitting in the kitchen in just a thin white t-shirt, but at least I won't be distracted by pink lace and smooth pale skin. Or the glaring evidence that she's cold. At least I know my judgment isn’t wrong – her breasts are definitely a perfect handful.

Az only bothers to fasten four buttons. She has to roll the cuffs six times and even then only the tips of her fingers are visible. She looks ridiculous. I only hope Greta doesn't decide to come down for a cup of tea. She'll draw all the wrong conclusions, which would be a fitting end to a terrible day.

"Any other rites or spells you have hidden away?" I ask, sliding one picture across the table to her.

She laughs but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, I've got scads of spells. Dad's final resort. I wasn't getting the magic the way he thought I should, so he wrote them on me. Words have power."

Anyone with half a brain knows that. It's why you have to be careful when speaking to witches and gnomes and damned leprechauns. It's why the words "I wish" have been banned from the pack house. A person's name can be more deadly than an automatic weapon.

"Written words have more power." I may not know all the ins and outs of magic, but I can connect dots fairly quickly. There has to be a reason spell books are guarded so closely and why Mages never sign their full names.

Az beams at me like I just burped out a rainbow. "Exactly. So Dad wrote the most powerful spells on me hoping that the magic would spark something. He used phoenix blood for an extra boost. In the end, all I did was absorb the magic and the ink."

My void is a walking spell book. Lovely. "And the words there don't have any power at all?"

"They're an echo." She frowns. "That's not accurate, but it'll suffice. Phoenix blood is like an acid - which isn't quite accurate either. It etches into the muscles and bone. All it takes is a little concentration to make the words visible. The more you practice, the easier it gets. And the less it stings."

She stretches her right arm across the table and shoves the cuff of her borrowed shirt over her elbow. It only takes a handful of seconds for three lines of gray text to appear on the underside of her forearm. "Spell to protect against telepathic attack." She flips her arm over. There are more words. "Rite of Olwen. Conjures goblins."

Well hell. What am I supposed to do with her now? She's even more of a liability. "Dangerous thing to do, writing spells on a little girl. What if someone finds out and decides you're better than a boring ol' paper spell book?"

The look she shoots me makes it clear she regards my intellect on par with that of pond scum. "Only I can make the words appear. And I have to do it deliberately. It's not like if I get frightened or hurt they magically turn visible. They aren't affected by electrical or magical shocks, either. There's no spell that brings them out."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. Trust me."

She tucks her hands back in her sleeves and draws her knees to her chest. Ashen, exhausted, and dressed in a shirt three sizes too large, she should look pathetic. The sight of her should bring out all my protective instincts.

It doesn't. There's a defiant light in her eyes and in the tilt of her chin that keeps her from crossing the line into pitiful. Mostly, I just want to lock her in her pink princess palace and drink enough whisky to forget I ever met the Mage of New Orleans' magic-sucking, spell-covered, craziness-spouting, maybe-kinda-cool daughter.

Wait. Scratch that last part. She's the opposite of cool. She's hot. No. Wait. That's not what I meant. Damn. I blame this entirely on her. Too much time spent with Psycho Princess has obviously damaged a few of my brain cells.

"He could be from an old family," she says, oblivious to my mental meltdown. "Someone could have taught him the rite the same way I was taught it. Without the phoenix blood, of course."

Of course. When is anything 'of course' with magic? "Aren't the Mages big on genealogy? Like, obsessive I-can-trace-my-bloodline-back-to-the-Inquisition big?"

"Yes. Great-grandfather Vardan claims he can trace his lineage all the way to Simon Magus. Mom's family goes back to Alice Kyteler."

The names don't mean anything to me, but she's confirmed my point. The old families keep records, and there are records of the old families. Surely it can't be too difficult to find out which members of the old families live in the Houston area.

"I can't hack Council records. I wouldn't know where to start," she says before I can tell her my plan. Either she's smarter than I gave her credit for or she can read my mind. I dearly hope - for her sake - that I'm guilty of misjudging her.

"Is that the only way?"

"No, but you're not going to like the alternative."

There isn't a thing about this I like. A witch with a mysterious vendetta against Shifters tries to kill me, that witch is then killed while she's in prison, I nearly blow up in said witch's apartment, and there's a big shot magic user with the power to kill people from a distance. I'm sure that whatever Az is going to have to say is going to send my blood pressure skyrocketing into the stratosphere. I wave a hand for her to go ahead and say it anyway.

"I can call the Mage of St. Louis. He's my godfather. He's not like Dad. Not at all. He'd help me. I could bounce an idea or two off him regarding Claire's spell, too."

Nothing is ever for free when you involve the Mages' Council. "What'll it cost?"

She has the good sense not to contradict me. Her hands flutter off the table to her knees. "I don't know, but whatever it is, I'll pay it."

Yeah right. She's pack now. Whatever price the Mage of St. Louis demands will come out of the pack's hide one way or another. Hello rock, meet hard place.

"Make the call."