Page 2 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“Forgot your visitor’s badge again?”

Wedging my phone back in my pocket, I nod. There’s a lanyard I’m supposed to wear whenever I visit to show that I’ve been assessed by security, but I can never remember it. Although, how a lanyard proves that I’m not an axe-murderer or something I don’t know, because what if I just haven’t been caught yet?

Lucy already has the visitor’s log and a pen out of the drawer, and is sliding it my way across the desk. “What will you do the day I quit?”

Pen in hand, I pause. “You’re quitting?”

“Not any time soon, but I don’t want to work here all my life, only then to live here when I retire too, you know? There’s a whole world out there, and I’d like to see some of it before my time’s up.”

I chew the inside of my cheek while I finish filling in the last box on the log.

“Ah, sorry, Milo. I didn’t mean to bring the mood down. It’s working here, surrounded by old people… it makes you realise how little time we all get. Anyway…” She hands me a temporary visitor pass. “I smelled pastries from the ovens in the kitchen when I got to work earlier. You should get them while they’re fresh and warm.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Thanks, Lucy.” I smile when I loop the lanyard around my neck, but it’s as fake as the succulent arrangement on the desk beside her. “Catch you later. With shampoo.”

Turning, I push through the heavy fire door that leads to the communal area beyond. Just as Lucy said, the smell of baked goods is strong in here, probably because the kitchen is at the far end of the large room that works as some sort of combined lounge and cafeteria.

When the heavy door swings back into place behind me, the piano music from the reception abruptly cuts off, and I’m surrounded by the low hum of steady conversation, and the clatter and clang of cutlery. Yet despite the busy layout, Grandma Ethel is easy to spot amid the fray.

Natural light from a long wall of windows reflects from Ethel’s royal-blue hair. She’s sitting facing out, looking across the rim of her coffee cup to the maintained gardens beyond. Maybe it’s the strange and sad cloud that Lucy’s words conjured, or maybe it’s the oversized lime-green upholstered chair Ethel occupies, but I can’t help but notice how small she is.

Lucy’s earlier words plague me. She’s right, we don’t get much time, and everyone here—Ethel especially—has less of that than most… and she’s all I have left.

I shake my head as if I can physically push the thoughts out. Not today, Satan.

When I draw near, I force a skip into my step and sing out, “What do witches learn at school?”

Ethel doesn’t turn her head as I approach, but the corner of her lip tugs upward into a smile. With her clear-blue eyes fixed firmly out of the window, she waits until I get closer before dryly stating, “Spelling.”

“Damn, heard that one already, huh?” I stoop to wrap my arms around her.

Her soft chuckle settles my exposed edges. She’s okay.

“What do you get,” she begins, as I take up the seat opposite her. “When you cross a witch with a watermelon?”

“A fruit fly.” We both finish in unison.

And while she sets her cup back on the saucer, I scan every wrinkle, pore, and age spot on her paper-thin skin.

“They need to invent more witch jokes.” Ethel hands me the menu because it’s what she always does, but we both know I never order from it.

Brightview Court is great in so many ways that count, but they’re fleecing the residents’ relatives out of their hard-earned cash. Ten dollars for toast and a little pot of strawberry preserve? Ridiculous.

“Have you eaten?” I ask, knowing that this lady is up at the ass crack of dawn every day, and has a supply of contraband food hidden in her apartment.

“No,” she lies smoothly. “Have you?”

I pause for a moment, thinking back over the morning. Have I eaten? She frowns when she notices but instantly schools her features. “Well, good, because I’m starving. I might order the eggs, but you know how I get… Big eyes, little stomach. Would you eat what I can’t finish?”

Leaning back in my contrasting purple-upholstered chair, I read the con written on her face. She does this every time. As a resident, she gets a hefty discount on all meals purchased on site, but she doesn’t do more than nibble the edges—eats like a church mouse—which means most of the portion goes to waste.

And it’s perfectly good food that I hate to see thrown away, so of course I say, “Yes.”

Satisfied, Ethel sidles out of her chair and carefully gains her balance before making her way between the tables to order. I watch her walk, sure-footed and without any of the aids many other residents have, but still… older than she’s ever been before. Her purse threatens to slip from the silken shoulder of her blouse, and she clamps it against her hip with her hand.

When she reaches the counter, she rests its heavy weight on the rim of a wicker basket filled with fresh pastries in paper bags. Opening it wide to make a show of finding her money, she points to the canisters of tea bags behind the server, and when they turn around to retrieve her order, she secrets two of the bags into her purse. Cool as a cucumber.

Biting my bottom lip to keep from laughing, I tear my gaze away, slip off my jacket, and pull my phone out of my pocket to stop it digging into my butt. Ethel isn’t a witch, not like me and Great Aunt Anabelle, but I’m convinced she must have some kind of magic. No one ever suspects her of a thing, yet she’s practically running a business in stolen wares out of that purse.