Page 56 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
We were each cuddling a kid and pretending not to be emotional—mostly me, I was the emotional one—while they chattered away at us.
“You missed Thanksgiving,” Zavier explained gravely with a long sigh. “I made you a plate and saved it! It’s in Grandma’s fridge.”
“That’s lovely,” I said, my stomach rumbling at even the mention of three-day old Thanksgiving leftovers. I was starving. Being nurtured and cared for with magic was not the same as eating; I needed something solid in my belly. “Pumpkin pie?”
“Grandpa ate it,” he whispered, eyes wide with fear.
Fey huffed and pretended not to care that we were back, but she was glued to Caine’s chest with her tiny hands picking at the green braids that hung over her shoulders, her skin glowing with emotion.
“You’re late,” she murmured, looking up at her father accusatorily. She reached up and yanked on some of his shaggy blond hair, and he growled at her. It didn’t affect her whatsoever. “Tree day is gone; it’s time to go to the store.” She tried to get up from his lap, and he wrapped his arms around her, rubbing his stubbled cheek on her hair as she got annoyed with him.
The twins—Ophelia and Legend—stayed in wolf pup form which was typical. Nine-month-old puppies are a hell of a lot more mobile and capable than nine-month-old babies. According to Caine, they’d favor their wolf sides for a few years, until their witch sides caught up.
I wondered if we’d missed any firsts? Eight to nine months was a big shift at this age, and I was already feeling irrationally annoyed that we’d missed not only that but also the human harvest festival known to Americans as Thanksgiving. It wasn’t particularly important to me, but the kids enjoyed it, and I wasn’t there.
But it was necessary.
For the good of the coven.
For my father, for Calla, for my kids.
Mostly, I loved my mom, even if she was an ornery a-hole at times, and so I knew it was worth it. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made. Relatively speaking, for the deep hole we’d just crawled out of, we hadn’t paid much.
At least, I didn’t think so.
Only time would tell what Coven Wyrmwood and Cabal Ungeist thought of the whole thing, of what the spell signature might’ve said, of what havoc Monster would wreak during his time on earth.
“It’s time to get a tree, huh?” I clarified, reaching out to brush some of Fey’s hair back from her forehead. “We’ll do that next week, okay?”
I wasn’t sure any one of us had enough strength or stamina to deal with a tree stand. Even with magic on our side, getting the fucking thing to stand up straight was damn near impossible.
We stayed outside with the kids for the better part of an hour before I felt my lids drooping.
“Go inside,” Bastet warned, pausing beside me with her tail twitching. She glanced up at me with round, green eyes, just two shimmering jewels in a spotted face. How I’d ended up with a serval instead of a housecat or an owl or worse—like a skunk or a goldfish for example—was beyond my witchy wisdom.
Yeah, I knew a few witches who had skunks as familiars. Somehow, even when they didn’t bring the animals along with them, the smell was always just sort of there …
Most unfortunate familiar I’d ever encountered however was the damn goldfish. I mean, what use is that? The witch who was bonded to it had taken up feeding it gargantuan portions of food, and it’d grown to be about two pounds (which is huge for a goldfish), but still, what use was it? The witch in question was very sensitive about the matter, so I’d never asked, but I still felt sorry for her.
Mother Nature was in charge of familiar bonding; we still didn’t understand much of it. But I guess even she had a sense of humor, am I right? Or maybe it was karmic payback for a past life. I could only imagine what sort of sin one must commit in order to be born with a goldfish as a familiar.
I stood up, leaving Bast—and my mother’s familiar, Hayan—to watch over the kids while the four of us headed back inside.
“Next time, I say we leave your mama with the curse,” Caine grumbled, and I elbowed him in the side, heading into my cozy little witch’s kitchen. One wall was made entirely of red brick with a massive fireplace in the center of it. We kept a large cauldron there for spells or soup. Herbs hung from the heavy wood mantle, waiting to be added to the pot.
The counters were old butcherblock, freshly oiled but marred with the imperfections of time. The floors the same. A pot rack hung above the island, dripping with charms and yet more dried herbs.
