Page 9 of Bitten By the Basilisk

But what made her hesitate the most was her ability to see the red thread of fate. Out among the normies in Chicago, she might see it a handful of times a year, but here in Indigo Cove, it was seemingly everywhere, its prevalence likely a side effect of the kraken’s inherent magical gravity. Just as gravity could warp space and time, Kennie’s presence seemed to affect fate itself.

In fact, she had spotted a red thread during the short car ride here from the transit terminal, its appearance deflating her good mood with an unwelcome stab of resentment.

“I’ll think about it,” she demurred despite knowing she would rather go back to Chicago at the end of her visit.

“Come up front with me,” her mom coaxed, leading her from the spa’s back office to the reception area, where Alice sensed a few minor spells at work. One cleared away dirt and dead leaves brought in by clients. Another captured dust before it could settle, similar to what kept her family’s memorial clean.

Must be nice having witches around, she thought. The nooks and crannies of her apartment in Chicago hadn’t been dusted since last year.

What her mom wanted to show her hung on the wall next to the reception counter—an orange-and-white koi rendered in watercolor and gouache, which she’d painted shortly after her dad had passed. He had loved koi and used to talk about building a pond in their backyard. It was the first piece of art she’d ever been truly proud of.

“Ta-da,” her mom sang, gesturing at Alice’s art like a showcase model.

The thin wood frame was enchanted to protect the painting from dust and humidity. A spotlight mounted above it dispersed the shadow cast by part of the ceiling that was lower than the rest, subtly drawing the eye of anyone arriving for an appointment.

Seeing it up close more than a decade after completing it, she couldn’t help focusing on all the details she would do differently, until her mom said, “We’ve been getting so many compliments.”

“Almost daily,” Cynthia chimed in.

Heat suffused her cheeks. “That’s…nice.”

“Oh, stop,” her mom laughingly chided, slapping the air as if swatting away her discomfort. “This isn’t the surprise, by the way.”

She figured as much but pretended otherwise. “It’s not?”

“You are about to be pampered,” Mom revealed with glee. “First, a massage, then our best facial treatment. Then, hair and nails. When we’re done with you, you’ll feel like a whole new person.”

“The kind that turns heads,” Cynthia clarified, striking a demure pose, the comment reminding Alice of the golden-eyed biker. She certainly wouldn’t mind turning his head.

“She already does that. After all, she’s my daughter,” Mom defended her, chin raised with pride.

True, no one with functioning eyes could honestly say her mom wasn’t gorgeous—and much younger-looking than a human would be at her age. Their special heritage extended not only their lives but also their youth, such that Mom could easily be mistaken for Alice’s sister.

In addition to fangs and horns, the town’s magic also typically masked subtler supernatural features, such as enduring youth, but Mom had gotten permission from the witches council to opt out—not out of vanity, but because it helped sell the spa’s beauty services when normies learned she was in her late fifties.

Alice couldn’t help laughing at their banter. “That all sounds wonderful.”

Renart Salon and Spa took up three of the building’s four floors, one of them below ground, where clients could access the former bathhouse’s original steam bath, soaking pools, and saunas. There was even a volcanic sand bath, which anyone could enjoy, but especially the town’s scaled residents.

The ground level consisted of several massage rooms and a locker room with showers, where Alice was sent to change out of her street clothes. There, more magic ensured the floor remained clean and puddle-free. As she undressed, she recalled the praise her art had just received and couldn’t help smiling, warmth filling her chest.

She was tying the belt of her spa robe when a soft orange light, no bigger than a large chicken egg, appeared before her and hovered in midair. She stepped back with a sharp gasp, not scared but surprised.

Okay, maybe a tiny bit scared.

To her, the small flame looked to be a hitodama—the manifestation of a departed soul—but not all ghost lights were the same, and she was no expert at differentiating them. Some were fae or elemental spirits. Others were summoned by another creature to act as a magical torch.

In Indigo Cove, this gently bobbing ball of light could be any of these things.

“Hello,” she said, in case it was sentient. “You’re beautiful.”

The flame appeared to return her greeting, flaring and rising a few inches—but perhaps she was being delusional.

Then she felt the urge to touch it and knew she was being delusional.

“All set, sweetie?” came her mom’s voice, drawing her attention to the locker room door, which opened far enough for Mom to poke her head in.

“Uh, there’s a—” She looked back at the hitodama, or whatever it was, only to find it had disappeared. “Where’d it go?”