Hail to the Queen (Witch For Hire 2)

“No. Promise me you’ll never change, Miles.”

“Who else could I possibly be?”

“That’s the spirit, old chap,” I say, adopting a British accent as I wink. He pinches his lips together, but the humor in his blue gaze softens his sternness. I finish my tea because to him it’d be blasphemous to do otherwise. “Thank you for looking into this for me.”

“I remain at your disposal. What do you plan to do next?” He brings the cup to his lips.

“Wait. My gut tells me this isn’t the last odd occurrence we’re going to see. Mark my words, this is too weird to be a one-off.” I pat his knee. “Thanks for the cuppa.” I set down my cup and saucer, and ignore the twinge of guilt at not taking the dishware to the sink. I’ve had enough of being berated by my family for doing what they pay good money for servants to take care of. I move toward the stairs intent on a hot bath when intuition tugs me in the opposite direction.

Retracing my footsteps, I head outside to the Moon Garden. The fragrant white blossoms of all shapes and sizes and the running water in the pond soothe me. The silence is energizing. I kick off my flats, and wiggle my toes, admiring the grass and earth beneath me. Grounded, I inhale the fresh air and exhale slowly.

This bricked-in area is a slice of paradise. A calming space to combat the chaos that exists outside the four walls. From its rounded entrance to the water lilies floating in the pond with its mini waterfall effect, and the fresh herbs surrounding the water line, it’s everything I could want in an outside magical space. The knowledge that it was built by Cristobal using the memories of me he’d gathered increases my feelings of sentimentalism. Tilting my head back, I admire the moon. Full and luminous, it calls to me.

There’s power to be gained on a night like this. My core temperature rises and my skin itches. I feel feverish. A low, inaudible hum of power travels up through the soles of my feet. I walk deeper into the garden, opening myself up to what the universe has to tell me. Warded, and spelled, this place is my sanctuary.

I sink onto the grass beside the pond, cross my legs, and inhale. I turn the issues weighing me down into smooth black stones. Mentally, I chuck them into the water and watch the ripples. Not all go so easily. I shed the worries like a snake slips an ill-fitting skin. Clearing my mind is kin to escaping a fog. After a time, I gain true clarity for the first period in days.

With the shroud of uncertainty, stress, and fear lifted, I’m free to connect properly with my surroundings. The moonlight caresses my skin, filling me with strength and calm. I lean back on my elbows, soaking up the rays like a beach bunny settling in to worship the sun. The moon is my goddess of choice, and her cooling tranquility is a blessing. A sudden wind ruffles my newly dyed pink tresses. The brisk breeze is an anomaly in the muggy weather. I sit up.

Nothing that means harm may enter this space. That doesn’t mean a curious spirit can’t. A prickly sensation climbs its way up my spine and down my arms. A lily-white feather floats down in a graceful back and forth motion before landing on my lap. I peer over my shoulder, sensing another presence at play. Hair falls on my face. I tuck the fuchsia strands behind my ears and remain still.

A gentle touch on my cheek brings my head back to the right. The air sparkles. An image flickers in and out of focus. I get the impression of a woman in a cream-colored maxi dress with two tiers of flapper-styled fringe at the bottom and along the bodice. I gain my feet as the being solidifies. Delicate beading and embroidery along the bodice and waistline create a butterfly and floral pattern.

A headband of white daisies around her forehead places her firmly in the 1930s. With her almond-shaped dark eyes, caramel colored-skin, and dark curls framing her slender, oval-shaped face, she’s familiar. I search my memory for her identity as she offers a sweet smile. Gentle waves of affection, peace, and kinship wash over me.

“Alida Esçhete.” This is Mémé’s younger sister. I remember her from old photos in the house.

/> The spectral nods and waves her hand toward her, signaling me over. I approach cautiously. She reaches out her hand. Energy flows through me. The lush gardens fade. My stomach dips as images spin around me like a carousel. I blink rapidly, trying to stop the polarizing effect throwing me off kilter.

I place a hand on my churning stomach as the scene around me settles. A black and white world surrounds me. Like a ghost, I watch the people move, unable to see me. This is the city of Cypress as it was in the twenties. We move at a moderate pace that allows me to see the changes time has wrought. Old-fashioned cars traverse the roads. Storefronts have large windows that house elaborate displays. Men and women are dressed as if they’re headed to a church service. We end up in a wooded area where a man and a woman stand. Despite the years, I know Mémé instantly.

“Are we not friends?” The voice and the face click. Percival?

“If that were all that lay between us, this wouldn’t be so difficult.” Mémé’s voice wavers.

“Cypress is a small town. There’ll be no avoiding each other. We must take care in public.” Percival sighs. “Tell me what you know.” His voice and his eyes are soft as he leans into her. Alida stands a few feet back, watching them. Silent, yet observant.

“Yes, you’re right. I’m here now for my family. Nothing more. We agreed distance was best.” Mémé clears her throat and holds her head high.

“Of course, family always comes first.” Percival sneers.

“Can you say your lord and his court come second?”

Percival growls. The foreign scowl makes me jerk. “No. But my people aren’t so narrow-minded.”

“We all don’t have the benefit of decades under our belt.”

Points to Mémé.

Alida clears he throat. “We’re not here for this.” Mémé and Percival turn toward her. “This is bigger than a failed romance not meant to be. People are disappearing on both sides.”

Mémé seems to deflate. “Alida’s right.”

“How can I help?” Percival asks, suddenly looking ancient as the fight leaves him.

“Do you know anything about the witches who’ve disappeared?” Mémé questions.

“No.”