That night I ended our call to see if Gemma was okay—she was, and it was nothing more than a booty call––I immediately called Lindsay back. She asked about my connection to Gemma, and while I didn’t lay my heart on the table and reveal my plan to build a future with her, I made it clear to Lindsay there was nothing for her to worry about. “I have no lingering feelings for Gemma. Not attracted to her at all,” I told her. “We’re friends. That’s it.”
Gemma doesn’t seem to be getting the hint, unfortunately, with the way she keeps propping her heavy breasts onto the bar when I approach.
“Need a refill?” I ask, keeping my gaze on the wet pint glass I’m drying.
“Not a refill, but I would like a minute of your time,” she purrs. Her red tipped nails trace the edge of her V-neck shirt in an attempt to draw my attention to her considerable cleavage. “Or wait, what was our record? Three minutes?”
“Can’t recall,” I reply. “You can have a minute, but you should probably refrain from the sexual innuendos. As I said the other night on the phone, I’m not playing this game anymore.”
She rolls her eyes and props her elbows on the bar. “All for some boring human? You can’t be serious.”
The muscles in my jaw tighten at the slight to Lindsay. “She’s not boring, and she’s not a full human, either. She’s part witch.”
Gemma throws her head back with laughter. “Please. That’s like saying she’s the assistant regional manager, not assistanttothe regional manager. Just because they have a few cute party tricks doesn’t mean they’re anything like us. They don’t understand what it’s like to be us, and they never will.”
What a backward opinion about the majority of residents in all of our nation’s monster towns. “Cute party tricks? The only reason we get to live in a town that’s safe for monsters and protected from those who would persecute us isbecauseof witches.” I gesture at her tall black horns and shimmering purple skin. “Without the enchantments lining the borders, you’d never be able to walk down the street.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Witches aren’t the only ones who cast spells, Dom. You know that. Anyone could do it.”
“Huh. Are you saying you’re a better wielder of magic than our current mayor?” Vyla pipes in with a menacing smile. “I bet she’d beveryinterested in hearing how unimpressive you find her and her entire ancestral line.” She tosses her towel over her shoulder and puts her large hands on her hips. “Or would you like to tell her yourself? She usually comes in around this time.”
Gemma drops two twenty-dollar bills next to her empty glass and gets to her feet. “I have better ways of passing the time.” She keeps her gaze on me, never acknowledging Vyla’s presence. Then she says over her shoulder, “Call me when you’re ready to accept that a human couldn’t handle you, Dom. Especially during your ruts.”
Vyla growls. “If there’s ever an appropriate person to call the c-word, it’s her.”
“Easy,” I reply reflexively. Vyla continues her rant about Gemma, but I don’t hear much of it. I’m too busy thinking about what Gemma said.
My ruts occur once a month and last for about forty-eight hours. During that time, there’s no higher priority than sexual release. I have to leave notes for myself to remember to eat––that’s how laser-focused I am on coming. Gemma hasn’t been with me during my last two ruts, during which I relied on my hand, porn, and lots of lube. It’s not the same, but it’s manageable.
With Lindsay, though, it could be downright dangerous. I didn’t have to hold back with Gemma, meaning I could be as rough as I wanted. Not only that, but Gemma preferred my roughness. There was even a time when I sunk my teeth into her thigh until she bled. The wound scarred over, and she got a tattoo of my teeth marks as a memento.
That’s not something I could ever do with Lindsay. A zombie can’t turn a demon, but a bite that breaks the skin even a little could easily turn Lindsay, no matter how much magic she has in her blood. Her biology is that of a human, which makes her susceptible to the virus that’s currently dormant, but one I still carry.
Why haven’t I considered this before? Am I putting a single mother in danger simply because I enjoy her company? If I’m this willing to put my own happiness over her safety, then I haven’t changed at all. I’m still just as evil as I was back then.
Chapter 11
LINDSAY
My next trip to Mapletown takes place over Thanksgiving break. Jules has the week off from school, and as soon as the big family dinner ends on Thursday afternoon, we hop in the car and drive north. Jules spends the drive in a post-turkey snooze, while I listen to a podcast about modern witchcraft.
I’m hoping that listening to it informs my next steps on this journey because so far, my attempts at practicing magic have been…disappointing. It doesn’t matter how many spells I recite while cooking, or when in the process I recite them, or if I have the correct supplies––the food always tastes the same and I feel nothing.
Camilla suggested trying green witchery, which is more focused on plants and the nurturing of surrounding nature. That, too, yielded very little in terms of results. The natural soaps I made smelled like feet. I tried crystal work, but it just felt like I was playing with pretty rocks, and when I attempted to honor the local land spirits with a ritual Camilla recommended, I felt like an absolute fraud, as if I’d used a baby witch kit purchased from Urban Outfitters.
I’m trying to ignore the discouragement I feel and follow Camilla’s advice: “Check out astrology, dabble with the elements. Keep trying other disciplines until one fits like a crown, and that crown might be a grab bag of aspects from different disciplines. That would make you an eclectic witch. Very common.”
But I’m starting to wonder if the magic in my blood has simply lost its power due to neglect. As far as I know, my dad never practiced, nor did Nonna Penny. What made me think I could open a grimoire, recite the spells, and I’d transform into one of the Sanderson sisters?
This might not be something I’m meant to do. That realization has led me to another––if not this, then whatamI meant to do? And why am I having this crash out now? Until I inherited that house in Mapletown, I thought my life was fulfilling. I have a job that pays well, that I’m good at. I birthed the most fascinating and wonderful human being to ever exist. Most of my weekends are spent with family, whom I love and who loves me right back. My closet is full of beautiful clothes I enjoy wearing. These are most of the boxes teenage me dreamed of checking off by the time I reached my forties.
And yet.
I steal a glance at Jules, asleep in the passenger seat. She’s wearing blue lip gloss today and has her hair in French braid pigtails. Ultimately, she’s the most important box on the page. If she’s healthy and thriving, I could take or leave the rest.
This weekend should be fun, though. After Camilla’s son’s birthday, I received emails from four other moms who wanted me to cater upcoming events. The one this Saturday will feature the same pizza rolls and cupcakes I made for Camilla, but with fewer people. Jules is eager to help out, and I’m eager for her to meet Nic when we make use of his giant kitchen.
Jules lets out a loud yawn as we pass the town sign, and I take this as an opportunity to offer a few reminders. “We’re not going to gawk or stare at anyone we meet this weekend, right?”
