A Lost Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 7) (16 page)

That’s cheery,
sent Jamie wryly. 
Okay, Mom’s releasing the clamp just a bit.  When you’re ready, open your eyes and look at me.

She wouldn’t be the only person swallowed by this.  Hannah’s fear expanded to include him too. 
I’ll see things.  About you.

Yup.  Figured.
 He sent a quick mental shrug. 
My mother has precog.  My life’s an open book.

She was pretty sure his nonchalance was a lie—but if she waited any longer, her guts were going to flee to a non-extraditable asteroid.  Hannah opened her eyes. 

For a long, wildly hopeful moment, she saw only Jamie.

And then his face began to shimmer.

Easy.  Focus on your breathing.
  He sounded like they were mixing cookies, but the heat from his hands laid down a shining path for her breathing to follow.
 Ignore the shimmer.  Let it slide around you.

Air slid over her paper-dry throat.  In.  Out.

Awesome.  Just like that.
 

Pictures shuddered into being, imposed over his face.  She shut her eyes—there was no stopping the freight train now.

Not trying to stop it.  Breathe.  Sit in your center. 
His words came at the speed of her breath. 
Precog lives in your head, not your gut.  Walk away.

A child, small and laughing.  And a big misshapen snowball.  His laughter pulled on her.

He’s a cutie.  We hope to meet him one day.
  Utter calm still flowing from her new trainer. 
Keep backing away.  Let’s see if we can dim the way it pulls on you a little.

Hannah focused on her breathing.  And then she saw the fire.  Panic hit, and anguish.  A little girl, terrified.  The child from Jamie’s pictures. 

It’s okay.  Breathe.
 His voice wasn’t quite so steady now, but he was still there. 
Kenna’s a fire witch.  Precog often sees only a bit of the truth.

Or even no truth at all. 
Retha poured mental cool water over both of them. 
You’re doing beautifully, Hannah.  Let me know when you want to stop.

Hannah breathed and stared at the small, terror-stricken girl behind the flames.  Everything in her ached to help.

She’s not real,
said Jamie flatly. 
Precog’s full of bullshit and lies.

Not always.  Sometimes it was true.  Hannah’s inner gaze switched back to the toddler and the snowman.  And sometimes she wanted it to be real.

The child behind the fire screamed.  Hannah lunged forward—and realized Jamie was already ahead of her.

No.
  Retha was everywhere, circling both of them. 
Breathe, both of you.  Going to her now doesn’t help—she can’t see you.  Observe.  Record.  Learn so that we can keep Kenna safe.

The hammering wall of instructions beat through Hannah’s skull.  Breathe.  Find her center.

Watch.

Learn.

The child screamed one more time.  And then it all went dark. 

-o0o-

Retha felt herself swaying and clutched the edges of her chair.  Still light-headed, she opened her eyes and surveyed the damage.

Jamie’s eyes met hers, a veteran of tough training sessions. 
Cookies.  Begging.

He’d live.  Retha reached out a mental channel to Hannah, who was curled up tight and still in a ball on the floor. 
Sweetheart?

A tear-streaked face lifted off the floor.  “I’m okay.  I’m so sorry.”  She looked over at Jamie, guilt billowing from her mind.

He reached forward and wiped the tears away.  “Don’t be.  I hadn’t seen the cute little dude with the snowman for a while.  We were wondering where he’d gotten to.”

It wasn’t that child haunting the room.  Retha stood up and tottered toward the middle of the studio, bag of cookies dangling from too-weak arms.  Time for a food intervention—none of them were strong enough to hear Kenna screaming again just yet. 

And they had victory to celebrate.  “Here.  Double chocolate chip.  Compliments of Lizard.”

Jamie’s eyes lit as he rescued the bag.  “What’d you have to trade her for these?”

A hug.  “Dibs on my red leather skirt.”

Her son snickered, well aware she didn’t own any such thing.

Hannah’s face, wan and distressed, was light years away from understanding their banter.  Retha sat down facing the poor girl.  Time to teach a witch a hard and very necessary lesson.  “You won, Hannah Kendrick.  Precog came and it left, and you are still with us and able to sit up and eat cookies.”

Her eyes blazed mute distress.  Victory not yet seen.

Jamie swallowed an enormous mouthful of cookie and tried to help.  “Right now, Kenna is running around on a sandy beach, trying to pick up pretty shells without getting her toes wet.” 

“It feels so real.”  The words rasped over a throat screaming for water.

The bag had that, too.  Retha laid a bottle and a cookie in Hannah’s hands.  Witch therapy.  “It’s not real.  I know it feels like the most real thing in the world, but it hasn’t happened yet, and it might never come to pass.”  She waited for the words and the water to land. 

Hannah drank and stared at the label, seeing something entirely different.  “So you just put it away?”

Never quite far enough.  Retha contemplated how much of the truth to tell.  And settled on some.  “You can’t live through all the futures you see.  One is more than enough.”

Hannah’s eyes were deep blue tunnels.  “I don’t know how to do that.”

More of the truth, then.  “Some days, neither do I.”  Retha cuddled the poor girl into her shoulder.  “But every moment you can live vibrantly in the present is a victory.”

She heard the words settle.  And felt courage rise up to meet them.

Hannah sat up straighter and chomped on her cookie.

And Retha marveled, yet again, at the amazing resilience of a human soul given a little water.

Chapter 12

Hannah stepped into the small, cheerful kitchen in the side of Caro’s duplex that had suddenly become hers, giving herself a serious lecture.  It was not okay to wake up in a beautiful and cozy bedroom and panic because it was four minutes past the breakfast bell.

There were no breakfast bells in the outside world.  And having to sit on your bed and talk down an impending meltdown was just silly.

“Morning.” 

The friendly voice to her left shredded what few nerves the lack of a breakfast bell hadn’t.

“Shit, shit, shit.”  Two small, firm hands shoveled her into a chair.  “Fracking hell.  I’m Lizard.  I’m the screw-up who’s supposed to be doing your brain-clamp thing this morning, and I totally jumped you before you had your morning coffee.  Sorry.  Really, really sorry.”

A cup of coffee slammed onto the table, sloshing wildly, its bearer carefully keeping out of Hannah’s line of sight.  “Okay, clamp in place.  I was going to make biscuits, if that’s okay with you.  Cooking helps me not be such an idiot.”

Hannah’s nerves were sizzling enough to electrocute a small planet.  This was so far away from the orderly routine of a Chrysalis House morning.  “Um, sure.  I’ve never had a biscuit.”  The hard rocks they occasionally served with Thanksgiving turkey totally didn’t qualify as food.

“’Kay.”  Banging commenced in the low cupboards.  “I know there’s a frying pan in here somewhere.  You like bacon?”

Hannah tried a smile—it seemed like the friendly, self-deprecating personality who had invaded her kitchen deserved one.  “I’ve had oatmeal for breakfast for the last twelve years.”  It had been the safest of the choices.

“Eww.”  Blonde hair peeked over the top of the cupboard and then disappeared again.  “Frack, sorry.  I forgot.  I’m supposed to warn you before I let you see my ugly face.  You ready for that?  I’m a better witch than I appear to be.  Got this brain clamp screwed down solid, honest.”

It wasn’t
Lizard’s
competence she was worried about.   Hannah willed her fists to unclench.  The brain clamp had a perfect record so far.

The stranger stood up slowly behind the counter.  She was tiny, blonde, and covered in tattoos that sent sharp stabs of Dr. Max memories into Hannah’s heart.  “Hey.  I’m Lizard.”

Hannah tried to breathe.  She’d learned how to do this part in kindergarten.  “I’m Hannah.”

“I was the last person to live here.”  Her guest’s hands were already moving, putting strips of bacon on a frying pan.  “It was this or jail.”

Kindergarten hadn’t covered that, but anyone who lived in Chrysalis House knew better than to ask how people landed in places no one else wanted to be.  “Looks like you did okay.”

Lizard glanced up.  “Yeah.  Caro’s pretty awesome.  The rest, too.”

That much Hannah already knew.  It was an awfully hard act to live up to when getting up in the morning caused panic attacks.

She could see the words land in her visitor’s head, even though she hadn’t said them out loud.  Lizard turned away from the bacon and started pulling canisters down from the shelves.  Hannah winced.  “Sorry.  I don’t mean to complain.”

“My magic isn’t as strong as Lauren’s.”  Lizard shrugged apologetically.  “It’s hard for me to give you enough privacy and still keep the brain clamp tight.”

Hannah sat silent, watching flour, butter, and several other white things she didn’t recognize tumble into a big silver bowl.  And contemplated the enormity of starting on a life when you didn’t know the very basics of feeding yourself or getting out of bed in the morning.

Lizard’s competent hands were shaping the dough into blobs now.  Slowly, with her hands carefully angled.  A quiet, very kind lesson.  Or the beginnings of one, anyhow.

A message.  She could learn.

Hannah let thanks fill her head.

Lizard opened the oven, stuck in a pie plate loaded with biscuits, and then poked at the bacon.  “Ten minutes, and then we can eat.”

The smell alone was enough to make Hannah’s stomach beg.

Lizard leaned against the counter, carefully looking at the bacon.  “We, um—we have something for you.”  She pulled out her phone and paused, finger hovering.  “They’re gonna beam it in, if that’s okay.”

They were all trying so damn hard.  Hannah nodded, willing herself to roll with whatever pre-breakfast surprise was about to arrive.

And gaped at the wooly mountain that landed on her table.

Lizard walked over and touched the orange blanket covering the mound.  “That’ll be from Caro.  I saw her working on it over the winter.”  She glanced over at Hannah.  “Are you one of those knitter people?”

“No.  I weave.”  Hannah’s fingers stroked the fiery cables.  Links.  Connections.  “What is all this stuff?”

“Housewarming gifts.”  Lizard grinned.  “Witch Central tends to go overboard.  Like way over.”

Yeah, she was beginning to get that.  Carefully, she lifted up a corner of the blanket.  Two pots filled with cheerful flowers peeked out.

“Those are from Ginia.  She’s ten, and a crazy gamer girl, but she sucks at Pictionary.  She was on my team last week.  Girl can’t draw a duck to save her life.”  Lizard didn’t look all that distraught.  “Her sisters probably sent something too.”

The next thing out was a small laptop.  “Nell put the same filters as Dr. Max had on the one you used to use.  She said to tell you it was an antique.”

Budgets.  Drugs and therapy sessions always won over toys or something edible for breakfast.  Hannah traced the apple on the lid of the small computer.  This one was not an antique.  Clearly Witch Central had looser budgets.

“Yeah.  Don’t worry about that stuff.”  Lizard nodded at the laptop.  “No one around here hurts for money.  And they have really big hearts.”

It was like Christmas—with a stocking meant for a giant.  Hannah reached in again and this time came out with a beautifully carved piece of driftwood.  Three small depressions in the wood had been labeled. 
Serenity.  Clarity.  Hope.
 A small crystal sat in each one.

“Sophie sent that.”  Lizard continued with her running gift commentary.  “She’s a healer, and she has this pair of bad-ass leather boots and a hunk for a husband.”

Her visitor had a real way with words.  Hannah could almost see them, these strangers who inhabited her new world. 

The next thing was a small cube.  She stared, mystified.

“Totally cool.”  Lizard leaned in, grinning.  “I hadn’t seen one of these yet.”  She touched a finger to its top and a little boy popped up on the table.  “Magic hologram.”

He was beyond cute.  “He looks like Jamie.”

“His nephew.  That’s Aervyn.  He has screaming magic and he can’t sing to save his life.”

As if he’d been listening, the holographic child on the table waved.  “Hi Hannah-Banana.  I’m gonna sing you a song now because I heard you like songs.  I hope you like your new house and that you like cookies, cuz I think Mama is sending you some.” 

He grinned and then started to sing.  At least Hannah was pretty sure it was meant to be singing.  It was loud, full of enthusiasm, and bore only a passing resemblance to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” 

She grinned down at the six-inch child’s exuberance.  He was adorable.