Earth Witches Aren't Easy Page 2

  Closing my eyes, I reached into the Earth and met her embrace full-throttle. Together, we settled into place. The house became an image burned into my mind, much like the way the sun flashes on the back of your retinas after you are caught unawares by the glare of light off a chrome surface.

  I needed to be as aware of the building, its structure, its frame even as I was aware of the Earth it stood upon which it rested. I traced the lines of the wood, the faint memories, still captured in their sanded and refinished lines. I could almost smell the trees they’d been, hear the saws as they cut through the trunks.

  The local land seemed particularly fond of the old structure and the people who resided within it. The imps arrived only a few years before, gradually encroaching on the house as the last of those who loved the home passed on. Mrs. Adams inherited the property, but she passed away last year. Mr. Adams settled here following their marriage, but he was often on assignment, traveling extensively and never settling in to make the house his home. None of the couple’s four children remained at home.

  The land’s profound sadness touched me. Unshed tears blurred the room. No words could comfort this level of grief.

  Of course.

  Mr. Adams was distant, emotionally, from this house, the housekeeper too perfunctory and the gardener, an interloper. No one who worked or lived here connected with the house.

  The imps found their niche within the Earth’s grief and neglect. I’d speak to Mr. Adams about the neglect. I poured emotion and nurturing energy into the dried crevices left by this drought of caring. It seemed so little in the face of devastation, but healing needed to start.

  The Earth kept her own time and my awareness of it ceased as we communed. Energy prickled my skin. The imps arrived.

  I began to lay traps of energy enhancing the natural stones I wore to encourage the imps to find me. Gleaming in the afternoon light, the beautiful crystal around my neck would get their attention.

  The first tug at the chain was light and tentative. Shifting my attention by degrees, I focused on the ethereal being hovering just in front of me.

  Imps look like a squirrel mated to a chipmunk with rather floppy ears. It’s funny that imps look more like misshapen stuffed animals than they do the miniature demons many folks depict them to be.

  Furred face wrinkling in concentration, the imp studied the crystal dangling at the end of the silvery chain. Impetuous collectors, imps were notoriously easy to deceive. Gran used to admonish me for trapping them, much like other children caught fireflies. Still, I couldn’t help the thrill of anticipation thrumming under my skin.

  I let it tug once more, and when it decided to use a firmer grasp and pull, I seized it with a handful of power. Every living thing possesses a certain amount of personal power, energy if you will. My personal power was not greater or less than another’s, but like any weapon, I knew how to use it to greater effect. Squeaking a shrill protest, the imp fought back. Wind blew through the room, banged the mini-blinds and guttered the candles before blowing them out completely.

  None of that, I advised the imp firmly without speaking aloud. I’m not going to hurt you, but you have crossed the boundaries and tried to remove an object from my person. This puts you under my sway.

  It squealed furiously before settling into an almost sulky silence. This was an excellent sign. The imp at least understood the rules well enough. I wouldn’t have to use power to compel it. The rules would be obeyed, however upset the imp might be.

  Is the First One in residence? I inquired politely, adding just a touch of power to the mental suggestion. The imp regarded me with wary appreciation. I dropped the shielding my Earth bond provided. Probing the flare of power, the imp’s nostrils flared as if scenting the air. I glittered like a gem to the ethereal world, and imps do love shiny rocks. The pressure of several small bodies pressed in closer, the imps gathering in, but I maintained my control over the imp I’d already captured.

  The First One is here. Shiny first?

  Summon him, I instructed the little creature.

  Shiny first.

  Uh-uh. Summon first.

  Squealing loudly, the imp protested.

  Summon the First One. You broke with custom to take what was mine, now you owe me forfeit.

  The pressure of the bodies against mine abated somewhat as a deeper sense of power approached. Transferring my attention from my captive to the imp pushing its way through the throng toward me, I readied my shields. Time for the trickiest part, baiting them into acting, not reacting. Just because the imps weren’t realized didn’t mean they couldn’t act in concert.

  The First One was the first imp to take residence and the one most likely to realize first. No other imps may make themselves at home without swearing allegiance to the First One. He got the best shinies and the ability to call the shots. It’s quite the thing in imp politics to become the First One in residence. It also makes them cocky and incredibly hard bargainers.

  Pushing up imaginary shirtsleeves, I prepared myself for intense negotiations. My stomach cramped as a chill of nervousness raced over the surface of my skin. This was the part that can go wrong.

  He ticked off each item with his stubby, little fingers. Shoes. Medals. Jewelry. Uniforms. Hubcaps. Jewelry. Uniforms. Hubcaps. Your boots.

  One shoe, uniform pips and the glass broach. I countered.

  Shoes. Medals. Jewelry. Hubcaps. Your boots.

  And so it went, back and forth. Day became night and then morning arrived. The negotiations continued, compromises offered and rejected. Despite the Earth’s energies sustaining me, my ability to push forward with the complicated procedures waned.

  Just when I began to think we would have to take a break in the negotiations, we settled on a gift of power, relocation and my boots. I was a bit prickly about the boots. They were a six hundred dollar pair I’d splurged on spontaneously in a brief fit of self-indulgence. But the First One was unbending. He wanted the boots. Being honorable sucked.

  Resigning myself to the inevitable, I stripped the boots off and offered them in good faith. The imps agreed to return all other property to the homeowner and remove themselves from the domicile. Bound by barter law, the First One agreed and the rest followed, though his troops grumbled.

  The imps dispersed when I released my captive. I rushed inward closing down my attunement with the Earth, ears popping at the swiftly changing pressure. I sat in a cramped position, feet both soundly asleep, despite my removal of the boots. Even at my age, my back protested from sitting in the same position for too long. With pained and gradual slowness, I regained my feet. The scars on my abdomen tightened uncomfortably, but I ignored them and began the chore of straightening what little mess I made. The uniforms folded snappily before whisking out of the room—and hopefully back to the closet they came from. The imps upheld their end of bargain. I allowed myself a brief, if satisfied smile, until I thought about my boots. The smile became a grimace. Better to focus on the job well done.

  Hoisting the duffel onto my shoulder, I shuffled my way through the kitchen and out to the porch. Mr. Adams looked up sharply, a great deal more stiff of posture than he demonstrated to me the afternoon before.

  “Are you quite all right, Ms. Monroe? I checked on you last evening, but you didn't respond and I could not seem to step further into the room.” He sounded genuinely concerned. What a sweetie!

  “I’m fine, Mr. Adams. I have negotiated with your imps and they are diligently returning your belongings. I’m going to need a day or so to relocate them, but they are amenable to the suggestions I have made.”

  “Quite good.” He nodded, accepting the explanation with a modicum of grace. “I expect you will need to make a return visit before the invoice will be complete?”

  “Yes, sir.” Drooping with exhaustion, I preferred the idea of stumbling my way to the car to small talk about my services. But he deserved the information.

  “I expect at least one more visit, two at most. I’ll need about
twenty-four to forty-eight hours to prep a place for them and do the actual relocation.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Ms. Monroe. I’ll await your return.”

  Padding down the wooden steps, I gritted my teeth as sharp points of rock dug at my small, socked feet all the way to the car.

  I already missed my boots.

  ~ * ~

  The radio warned of the possibility of rain. A glance at the thickening grey clouds on the horizon promised precipitation as well. All nighters definitely screwed with my sense of time and weather. Rain or no rain, I did the next job in sandals. I rubbed my eyes and fumbled for the yellow sticky note on the dash with the next client’s address.

  The needs of the client overwrote my need for sleep—and the nightmares of late encouraged any excuse. Thankfully, I could pull from the earth—it wasn't quite a black cup of coffee, but it definitely took the edge off.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I arrived at the address Mrs. Humphrey gave over the phone. I thought the bit about a hedgehog next to the driveway was a joke, but nope, sure enough, there a wooden statue of the woodland critter sat next to her mailbox.

  I turned left into the driveway and followed the graveled road around a little dip and curve. I definitely understood why the Humphreys chose the location. It was absolutely beautiful, rolling green and lots of trees. The air was warm, pleasant with a hint of the promised rain and a whiff of manure. The land sang an invitational. I slowed my Volkswagen Bug down to about ten miles an hour, as a rather large, furry dog that appeared to be a cross between a golden retriever and a bear, bounded toward the car, barking like a madman. Thankfully, this call involved fairies. So much easier than imps.

  Two

  The plantation style house waited, a queen in white and ivy shining in the spotlight. The second floor was a collection of small rooms that my landlady Betty converted into a flowing apartment. The upstairs rooms fed into each other and possessed a pair of entrances, both of which bolted to keep the world out. Betty Sullivan was a very good and old friend of my grandmother’s. When Gran passed away, Betty insisted I take an apartment in her large house. I didn't have to accept her offer, in fact, I resisted it initially. But moving in served two purposes—providing Betty with a supplement to her income and me an escape from an empty home.

  A steady rain blew in with the sunset. The drizzle escalated to serious drops.

  The rain pinging on the roof of the car carried its own soothing rhythm. It reminded me of a good book, a warm bed and a long night with nothing but sleep in front of me. Sleep I desperately needed after the last thirty-six hours. First a shower, and then I could make time for all three. Movement flickered on the porch. Sliding out of the car, I squinted through the rain soaked darkness and hit the key fob to lock the car. The rain plastered my hair to my head.

  “Chance.” My heart jerked at Jack Harker’s familiar voice calling from the porch. Jack, Regret, joy, confusion, and hope twisted like a Gordian knot in my gut. I loved to see him.

  I hated when he visited.

  Ex-lover, best friend, and the one guy who still made my skin tingle even when he shouldn't—it didn't make sense. One word—my name on his lips—and my heart hurt and expanded in the same breath.

  So much for my plans to spend the rest of the night in a warm, comfortable bed...

  “Jack, what are you doing here?” A grin tugged at my mouth, because damn it's good to see him. I always forgot how great he looked, smelled—hell just how great he was—until he stood in front of me. I sloshed across the short yard and bounded up the steps onto the covered porch.

  The lovely old wraparound came complete with a swing, ideal in the spring and summer for lounging outside with a cool drink and just watching the world go by. The porch was my happy place, where I could relax no matter what the time of year. I would have made a great southern belle ala Gone with the Wind. Sadly, it seemed to be all I aspired to these days.

  Shoving the wet hair out of my eyes, I studied Jack. Black circles of fatigue ringed his eyes and a growth of whiskers decorated his chin. The pinging in my heart transferred to a tug in my belly. He really did look good.

  “That scruffy look is so five minutes ago, or didn’t you get the memo?”

  “Fashion maven is hardly my title.” Jack grinned and reached for my duffel. “Here, let me get that.” His features crinkled as he leaned in close to take the bag. “You smell like a cow pasture. You out mucking it up again?”

  I chuckled. “Not exactly. Aren’t you supposed to be out west somewhere busting corporate heads for fraud?”

  Goosebumps pebbled my damp skin when I opened the door. Air conditioning is a blessing! My arm shifted forward, bicep over breast. A deliberate choice as the clinging shirt left little to Jack’s imagination. Before stepping inside, we both stamped our feet thoroughly, though nothing could save my sandals.

  Two jobs, two pairs of shoes—my batting average was up. My stomach growled as the smell of Betty’s pot roast wafted through the air. Hunger cramped my belly.

  “I was. But I finished early and came back because of some mess that’s started here.” Closing the door, he checked the deadbolt. Some habits die hard. Overprotective Jack, my immovable, impenetrable shield stood between me and the rest of the world. Our familiar roles fit like comfortable old slippers.

  “Here, here? As in Virginia?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cool!” Did I just bounce on my feet? Happiness, like an eight year-old meeting Mickey Mouse for the first time, surged. How awesome it would be to have him home full time. No more long-distance calls. No more thousand mile texts. No more wishing for the impossible. Hugging was out of the question, unless I wanted to cover him in the soil and manure left over from the Humphrey's job. I settled for clapping my hands and grinning broadly. “Want to give me a sec to go clean up?”

  “Sure. Shall I make us some coffee?”

  “That’d be great.” I gestured toward the kitchen. “Everything is still where it used to be.” Reclaiming the duffel, I took the stairs two at a time. The combination of dirt and sweat made me itch.

  Jack’s abrupt arrival sans phone call ahead teased my inner Poirot, but he’d explain it in good time. He missed me while he worked all the way out in California and couldn’t wait to trade in sea breezes for muggy mornings and rain. Sure. That sounded good. If it were bad news, he’d have spit it out the moment he arrived. Ewww, what if he met a girl?

  I shook off that thought. Maybe I lived in denial, but the longer it took him to explain it, the less I needed to worry about it.

  Yet.

  At the top of the stairs, Romeo darted across the landing to rub against the door. I grinned at the sleek, black cat and unlocked the door to let us both into the apartment.

  My apartment home, my personal refuge, filled with a blend of antiques, modern throws, and fantasy art to give it an eclectic air.

  Depositing the wet duffel by the door, I stripped out of my clothes on the way toward the bathroom. Romeo bounded along, meowing his litany of the day, and I only half listened. No, I couldn’t really understand him. Romeo, however, was a non-stop talker and perfectly content to meow at length. I dropped the filthy sandals in the trashcan and dumped the smelly clothes in the hamper.

  I crossed the threshold into my bedroom. The long picture window remained blockaded by a set of heavy blue curtains. A pair of oil lamps—good for sudden electrical outages—rested on either side of the bed, and a thick, hand-thatched rug covered the wooden floors. My favorite indulgence—an oversized four-posted bed took up the majority of the space. It beckoned, but Jack waiting downstairs with coffee and pot roast proved far more tempting.

  Romeo hopped onto the center of the bed and sat, like a king on his throne. He continued his litany of explanations while I rummaged through drawers for clean underwear and dry clothes.

  “Give me a minute, Romeo. Momma’s going to hop in the shower and smell like a human again.”

  He yowled his approval when I dum
ped my change of clothes on the bed and padded into the bathroom. A modern shower stall, complete with a sliding glass door, occupied one corner and an enormous claw-footed porcelain tub filled the other. The pipes shrieked in protest when I turned them. Air whooshed out of faucet first, followed by a sputter of water. I waited the required two and a half minutes for the hot water to displace the freezing chill pouring down and brushed my teeth. It required a dire circumstance indeed to send me into a freezing cold shower. Allow me to state quite categorically, I have never been so sexually aroused, or in that much of a hurry that I risked cold water on my warm flesh.

  Cold showers are evil.

  While I waited, I peered at my reflection in the mirror and studied the faint webbing of scars that danced across my abdomen. Painful images of that night nearly eight years ago flashed through my mind. Four vicious knife slashes, quick and agile, left their marks on me. White now, the scars still tinged faintly pink at the edges looked like a diagram inscribed there.

  The steam rising from the shower stall yanked me from my reverie, and I turned and stepped in. The hot water sluiced over me. Tiredness made me maudlin and thoughts of my parents trailed somberly behind the memories of the attack. Sometimes I wondered what might have happened if my parents hadn’t died, but there’s nothing served by wondering what if. It just made you crazy. The scent of citrus filled the steamy air as I poured shampoo into my hand and massaged the lather into my scalp. Three full lathers and rinses later, the fragrance of bovine poop drained away, replaced by the vibrant scent of oranges. I’d rather smell like the top of an orchard than the bottom. The methodical showering rejuvenated my tired senses and warmed my spirit.

  Human again, I toweled off quickly. Romeo resumed his litany as I dressed, and I grinned at him. If nothing else on this planet kept me humble, Romeo would. Giving him a nice set of scratches, I padded back out of the bedroom, paused only long enough to restock the duffel with candles, salt, and rose oil, before heading down the stairs.