Witch For Hire (Witch For Hire 1)

“Ain’t my opinion, girl. The spirits talk.”

I shake my head. This is what I hadn’t missed—my life becoming a chess game for my long-dead ancestors and their spirit friends dictating the way things should go.

“And what do they say, Mémé?”

“That your future is more than you ever imagined. You spent a long time denying who you were. You belong back here with us. And what’s between you and that man of yours, huh? That’s not over by a long shot.”

“There’s one major problem with that. He’s not a man.”

“Eh, girl, you picked him. Don’t be upset about it now. We all tried to warn you about his true nature.” There’s no compassion in her steady gaze.

“I was young and stupid. I didn’t think I’d have to suffer over it for the rest of my life.”

“That’s up to you. Either way, you’re going to have to deal with it. Dat boy’s been moving up the food chain while you were away.”

“Stop,” I say, not ready to think about him.

“You’re an Esçhete. We don’t run from anything. You have a duty to yourself and this family. You’ve always been gifted. It never took a genius to see you were the likely candidate to lead the next generation into the future. We gave you time to mature and find your inner strength. A storm’s brewing and you’re going to be in the eye, so I hope you rested well.”

Sighing, I cast my gaze down at the wooden planks of the porch. “What if I’m not able to live up to the expectations?”

“You think just anyone can stop practicing magic and come back like that?” Mémé snaps her long, wrinkled fingers. “Non. You’re special.”

Her words are blows to the walls I’ve barricaded myself behind. They come on like a battering ram. Cracks form. My lower lip trembles. My vision blurs, and my eyes sting.

“It’s okay, honey. Let it out.”

Walking over to the chair, I place my head on her lap. She runs her hands through my hair, and I inhale the scent of lavender and sage that always seem to cling to her clothing. Cradled by the woman I’ve always seen as a second mom, I allow myself to properly grieve—for the purity I lost, the love I gave and had rejected, and my shattered soul. The tears are a purge. A necessary cleansing. Sobs shake my body, and I let them. Thunder booms above our heads, and a flash of lightning flickers in my peripheral vision. Tonight, even the Bayou mourns with me.

When I have no more tears left, I lift my head and meet Mémé’s dark, steady gaze.

She nods her head. “That’s what you needed. Time, and a release. Now you pick up the pieces and come back better dan ever. It’s okay to be knocked down as long as you get back up.”

Her words are a soothing elixir applied to my wounded pride.

“Never be ashamed of your mistakes. As long as you don’t continue to make the same ones, consider them nothing more than a learning experience. Things only have the power we give them.”

She’s right. I’ve turned this into the defining moment of my life. It’s time to create a new turning point.

Chapter Two

The obnoxious jingle of the phone interrupts my packing. I glance over the box-filled room and pinpoint exactly where the sound is coming from. I weave my way around the boxes, donation, and pack piles to the chair covered by clothes. Removing my colorful collection of cardigans, I find my phone.

“Hello?”

“Please tell me its true, cuz. Are you making your way back home?” Felicite’s voice drawls.

I smile. “What if it is?”

She issues a low whistle. “Then we’re going to have some pissed off Esçhetes, non?”

I laugh. “Did you call to stir the pot?”

“Can’t I check in?” she asks innocently.

“We do that weekly. This right here is instigating.” I laugh when she doesn’t deny it.

“I wish I could’ve been there when Avit, Aimee, and Tante Odette got the news.”