White Witch, Black Curse

"You're right," the pixy said as he gently pulled his son's wings apart. Behind him, Rex, Jenks's cat, peeked in from the dark foyer, pulled from the belfry by the sound of her four-inch master's voice. Just last week, Jenks had installed a cat door in the belfry stairway, tired of asking one of us to open the door for his cat. The beast loved the belfry with its high windows. It made easy access for Bis, too. Not that the cat-size gargoyle came in much.

"And Trent," I said, watching Rex since Jenks was preoccupied with a flightless child. "Beloved city son and idiot billionaire goes and gets caught in the ever-after. Who has to bust her butt and make a deal with demons to get him back?"

"The one who got him there?" Jenks said, and my eyes narrowed. "Hey, kitty, kitty. How's my sweetest fluff ball?" he crooned, which I thought risky, but hey, it was his cat.

"It was Trent's idea," I said, foot bobbing. "And now it's my tail in the ever-after paying for his rescue. Do I even get one thank-you? No, I get trash painted on my front door."

"You got your life back," Jenks said, "and an end to Al trying to kill you. Got an understanding in the ever-after that any demon messing with you is messing with Al. You got Trent's silence as to what you are. He could have brought you down right there. It wouldn't be graffiti on your door but a burning stake in the front yard, with you tied to it."

I froze, shocked. What I am? Trent kept silent as to what I am? I should be thankful he didn't tell anyone? If he told anyone what I was, he'd have to explain how I got that way, which would put him on the stake next to me.

But Jenks was smiling at his son, oblivious. "There you go, Jerrimatt," he said fondly as he gave the youngster a boost into the air where he hung, shedding bright sparkles to pool on the table. "And if glue should somehow end up in Jack's mittens, I won't have any idea who did it."

The small pixy's wings fanned into motion and a cloud of silver dust enveloped both of them. "Thanks, Papa," Jerrimatt said, and his tear-wet eyes took on a familiar glint of deviltry.

Jenks watched his son fly away with a fond look. Rex watched, too, tail twitching. Turning back to me, Jenks saw my sour mood. Trent kept silent as to what I am, eh?

"I mean," the pixy backpedaled, "what Trent's dad did to you."

Mollified, I took my feet from the table and put them on the floor. "Yeah, whatever," I muttered as I rubbed my wrist and the demon mark there. I had another on the bottom of my foot, since Al hadn't traded it back for his summoning name yet, enjoying my owing him two marks. I lived with the worry that I'd be pulled into someone's demon circle some night, but no one had summoned Al and gotten me instead—yet.

The demon marks were hard to explain, and more people than I liked knew what they were. It was the victors who wrote the history books, and I wasn't winning. But at least I wasn't living in the ever-after, playing blow-up doll to a demon. No, I was just playing his student.

Leaning my head back and looking at the ceiling, I shouted, "Ivy? That coffee done?"

Rex skittered under the pool table at my voice, and at Ivy's positive call, I clicked off the music and lurched to my feet. Jenks went to help Matalina break up a fight about glitter, and I paced down the long hall that bisected the back end of the church. I passed the his-and-her bathrooms that had been converted into Ivy's opulent bathroom and my more Spartan facilities that also boasted the washer and dryer. Our separate bedrooms were next, my best guess putting them originally as clergy offices. Though the dark hallway didn't change, the feeling of the air did as I entered the unsanctified back end of the church, added on later. This was where the kitchen and private living room were, and if it had been sanctified, I would have slept here.

Put simply, I loved my kitchen. Ivy had remodeled it before I had moved in, and it was the best room in the place. A blue-curtained window over the sink looked out on the small witch's garden. Beyond that was the graveyard. That had bothered me at first, but after mowing the site for a year, I had a fondness for the weathered stones and forgotten names.

Inside, it was all gleaming stainless steel and bright fluorescent light. There were two stoves—one gas, one electric—so I didn't have to do my spells and cook on the same surface. The counter space was expansive, and I used it all when I spelled, which was often, since the charms I used were expensive unless I made them myself. Then they were dirt cheap. Literally.

In the center was an island counter with a circle etched into the linoleum around it. I used to keep my spell books in the open rack under it until Al had burned one in a fit of pique. Now they were in the belfry. The counter made for a secure place to spell, unsanctified or not.