Dani Harper - Storm Bound

The open shelves on the wall behind the main counter had once held stacks of stoneware dishes. Now the plates and mugs had been replaced with big square jars of herbs and ingredients for potions. Mental note: stock one of those with instructive things to say to potential customers.

A soft undercurrent of honey scented the air thanks to a display of beeswax candles by the old chrome cash register, but it brought no particular wisdom. The shiny black countertop boasted glass inserts, and beneath them Brooke displayed some of the more costly items she sold. She scanned the illuminated array of large crystals but gleaned no help for her current situation. The arrangement of magical tools—athames, bolines, and even an exquisite silver sword—held no ideas either.

She switched hands and used her stiff fingers to try to comb her chin-length black hair away from her face as she scanned the booths that lined the east wall. They had high partitions between them, making them perfect for clients to enjoy herbal teas, examine books, or have reasonably private consultations. The roomy corner booth on the far end was Brooke’s favorite, though—that was where she did her tarot readings for customers. The round table was large enough to accommodate a complete Celtic Cross spread.

Right now, though, that booth held her best friend in the whole world.

“Well, sure, spells like that exist of course.” She tried to explain the appropriate uses of magic to her prospective client as she walked to the back of the room. “But I don’t do that, no. I believe in doing no harm, and forcing someone into love is…well…it’s…it’s…”

“It’s not fair to the other person,” whispered George Santiago-Callahan without even looking up. He was engaged in doing what he did most: sketching on a large pad, as his black and blue spiked mohawk bobbed along to whatever tune was being pumped through his earbuds. Brooke was forever losing her own buds, but G’s wires were securely threaded through the silver tunnel plugs that pierced his earlobes. He listened to music more or less continuously, yet he always seemed able to hear her. Like now, thank the goddess.

“It’s not fair to the other person,” she repeated into the phone. “You can’t build a lasting relationship on that; you have to respect their choices and their feelings.” She paced as she tried to direct her caller to a different solution. “It works better to be open to a love that’s right for you rather than having a specific person in mind. I strongly recommend a general spell of attraction, and leave the rest up to the Universe. I—”

The phone’s screen abruptly went blank. “Damn. Guess that’s not what he wanted to hear.”

George glanced up and shook his head. “ Obstinado is what my mother would say.”

She sure would. How many times had Brooke heard his mom say that about George? “That always sounds so much more descriptive than just plain stubborn ,” Brooke said, sliding into the booth across from her friend and resting her chin in one hand with a sigh. “And it’s true. No matter what I tell them, some people just want what they want.”

“Most of them aren’t even happy for long after they get it.”

“That’s true too, sadly.” You just can’t help everybody. Knowing that didn’t keep her from wanting to, though. Brooke put an elastic band around the phone to hold the cover on and tried to put it away with some measure of care into her pocket. Instead, it shot from her hands like a wet bar of soap and crashed onto the black-and-white tiled floor. “Oh, for crap’s sake!”

“I got it.” George was already in motion, scooping up the debris with one of his long-fingered hands. She could only shake her head in wonder as her cell phone was reassembled before her eyes—and in record time. The elastic had broken, but he conscripted another from his spiked leather pencil case and handed the finished product back to her.

“Thanks, G. What would I do without you?” Rather than take chances, she stood up and held open the right front pocket of her jeans and let him drop the phone in it.

He snorted. “Well, you’d have to buy a lot more phones. And you’d definitely never be able to set your own DVR.”

True enough. Heck, she’d be lucky to figure out how to use the TV remote. Brooke privately thought that despite her friend’s lack of interest in magic, his ease with technology was downright wizardlike. Of course, George would make an outstanding purveyor of spells, too—he was so graceful, so grounded, in all that he did, everything he touched. I’ll never be that coordinated, that at ease in my own skin. But then, her friend practiced daily to be just that coordinated, that agile and balanced. George wasn’t only an artist; he had also practiced for years to be a welterweight fighter in mixed martial arts, and he had made a local name for himself. He’d tried to teach her a few moves, and she showed a great deal of aptitude—but she was repelled by the idea of actually hurting somebody. She supposed it wasn’t all that surprising considering that the Gift was devoted to healing and helping, not to beating the daylights out of an opponent, even if that opponent was willing.

“So I guess I have a topic for tomorrow’s blog, huh? ‘Why You Shouldn’t Mess With Free Will’.”

Now in its fifth year, Handcastings: Magic for a Modern World boasted a following of well over a thousand regular subscribers, and the statistics showed there were even more casual readers visiting the site. Through her blog, Brooke was able to exchange tips and spells with other witches, be a source of ingredients and tools, and connect with potential clients. Overall, she emphasized the ethics of the craft and its overarching purpose to help and to heal.

“Free will? You could post that one every week. Too bad Mr. I-Want-What-I-Want won’t recognize the hint. Hey, were you still looking for a guest post for Monster Monday?” He stood the sketch pad on the counter to show her his work. “I was thinking about doing a write-up on hellhounds. Been drawing up some big toothy ones for the latest Devina of Hades series. See?”

For additional interest, Brooke had added two regular features to her blog: Supernatural Saturday and Monster Monday, where she could write about paranormal phenomena, plus myth and legend. Both had proved popular, helping her to attract a whole new audience. She slid into the booth beside George and studied the heavily muscled beasts snarling on the page. Being rendered in simple pencil didn’t detract from their fearsomeness in the least—especially since one of them had a human arm dangling from its jaws. Nice. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cooling currents of air from the vintage overhead fan. “So what are hellhounds supposed to do—are they watchdogs for the underworld or what?”

“Some are. There’re all kinds of myths about them. Vampires are said to employ hellhounds as daytime guardians. A hellhound can be a demon or even the devil in disguise. In Devina , her hellhounds are a special breed of dog that help her hunt down killer demons and other nasty creatures.” George had found success with the comic series he’d created six years ago, and was now making a comfortable living with its many spin-offs. Brooke was convinced, however, that he’d do it all for free—he loved drawing even more than his martial arts.

“And countries all over the world have old legends of big black dogs that haunt lonely roads,” he continued. “They hunt down the guilty, foretell deaths, show up just before terrible storms, or drag lost souls to hell.”

“Geez. Why does it have to be a dog? I know I’m more of a cat person, but I like dogs, and all the dogs I know are happy and friendly. I have trouble accepting that man’s best friend can be evil.”