A Witch's Curse

Lydia Ashworth did not look like a witch.

That was the very first thought that passed through the mind of Hale Braxton as he sat in the café across from the bookstore. The girl arranging the window display looked the complete opposite of a typical witch with her small size, her modest yellow dress paired with a denim jacket, and her cowboy boots. While witches normally grew their hair long and had tattoos or henna of runes and other symbols marking what coven they were part of adorning their arms, Lydia’s hair was cut short—barely brushing her shoulders—and her forearms clean of markings. Though, Hale supposed that she could have her coven marks somewhere other than her arms. The only thing Lydia seemed to have in common with typical witches was the several crystal necklaces and leather bracelets she wore.

Hale wondered why someone like Gregory Thorsen—an old and powerful supernatural—was interested in this little witch. He shook his head, and reminded himself that all he was required to do was find out information about her and set up a meeting. It was a simple case, but something nagged at him. When Hale had started taking a more active role in the detective agency owned by his family, his father had encouraged Hale to reach out to the supernatural community. It had been a smart business move, and the agency’s cases nearly doubted within the year. However, as Hale had come to learn through the years, cases involving supernaturals were never simple.

He thought back to the first time he had met with Gregory Thorsen.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Thorsen had apologized after Hale had been shown and seated in Thorsen office. An hour prior to their meeting, Hale had received a call from a woman named Allison who worked as Thorsen’s secretary to set up the meeting to take place. It wasn’t unusual for clients to want to meet with him outside the agency, but it usually hinted at a more difficult case. The office was located at the local hospital and wasn’t overly large, but it was neat and smelled of disinfectant. Two chairs were placed in front of the dark wood desk; there were several medical case files on the desk, a laptop, and pictures of what Hale assumed to be his family while the wall to the left was covered in his degrees and awards. The name on his desk read Dr. Gregory Thorsen, and the plaque on his office door stated that he was the Dean of Medicine. It wasn’t unheard of for a man like Thorsen to require the aid of a P.I. but it was rare. Hale had learned that with some creatures it wasn’t hard to fake being an outstanding member of the community—hell even humans faked it just as easily.

“It’s fine, Dr. Thorsen, I don’t mind.” Hale assured him, and waited for Thorsen to continue while he studied him. The man across from him looked no older than thirty-five with black hair and amazingly golden eyes that barely passed as human framed by glasses. Hale could sense a certain presence about him, but not overpowering like other supernaturals’ tended to be when his skills were called for. Many of them hated turning to a mutt—as they liked to call creatures of mixed blood like him—for any type of help, but lucky for Hale there weren’t many supernaturals in the detective business.

“I need you to find someone for me.” Hale’s interest was piqued. Need, was what Thorsen had said—not want.

“Who is it that you want me to find?”

“A girl.” Thorsen closed his eyes as if trying to recall a memory, “She would be in her mid-twenties now with blonde hair and golden eyes—eyes like mine.” His eyes snapped open, revealing the stunning color.

Hale pulled a small note book from his pocket and wrote: girl; 24-28; gold eyes/blonde hair. “Does this girl have a name?”

“I don’t know.”

Hale stared at Thorsen for a moment, and then said slowly, “You don’t know?”

“No, I have never met her,” Thorsen admitted, taking off his glasses and rubbing a hand down his face before replacing his glasses.

“How exactly do you expect me to find a girl among thousands without so much as a name?” Hale demanded. He wasn’t a miracle worker and what Thorsen wanted damn near impossible.

“Would the name of a relative help?”

“Sure, it’s a place as good as any to start. What’s the name and how is he-slash-she related to the girl?”

“His name is Brandon Thorsen, and he is her great-grandfather.”

Hale wrote the name down under the girl’s description, “What do you want me to do when I find her?”

“You mean you’ll take the case?” Thorsen sounded surprised, and Hale couldn’t blame him. While Hale made a point to have his agency doors always open to the supernatural didn’t mean that he always took their cases. He trusted his instincts when it came to possible clients, and while Hale’s told him that Gregory Thorsen had an ancient power crackling under the surface, there was also no sense of danger emanating from him.

“Yes, I’ll take it.” Hale answered, tucking the notebook back in his jacket pocket, and asked again, “What do you want me to do when I find her?”

“I want to meet her.”

It had taken him nearly three months to get her name because the only detail Thorsen could give Hale was the name Brandon Thorsen—a man who wasn’t mentioned in history until the seventeenth century. It was better than the description information on the little witch Thorsen had given Hale, but it had still taken some time to find any other information than where he was living in 1650. He had finally gotten lucky when he looked into marriages for that time, and found that Brandon Thorsen had gotten married in 1662 to a woman named Elizabeth Doyle. Hale had thought that once he had that information he could follow the line of births connected to the Thorsens stemming from Brandon’s line, but he had been wrong because the births were scattered all over history—Lydia’s birthday being the most difficult.

Her parents had never married, and her father had never been named on her birth certificate, so according to the Thorsen family tree there weren’t any children after Jacob Thorsen. Thankfully Thorsen had provided a guess of the little witch’s age, putting her birth year between 1985-1990, so all Hale had to do was get the birth records of baby girls without a father named on them. When all was said and done Hale had narrowed the list of possible thousands to a list of thirty or so girls, ten of them fitting the description completely.

Hale thought back to how excited the old man had been when he had picked out Lydia’s picture for a small pile to confirm that this was the golden-eyed girl he was searching for. There had been a subtle change in Thorsen, and he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. Why? He asked himself again as he gave Lydia another look over. What was it about this little wisp of a witch that was so important? What am I missing? That wasn’t the only thing nagging at Hale; when he asked around there hadn’t been many whispers about her—mostly that she lived alone with her grandfather who had recently been diagnosed with stage three prostate cancer, and she was the one supporting them. There was one certain whisper that added to the mystery surrounding Lydia Ashworth.

From what he had heard, Lydia had been a troublemaker in high school—cutting class, pulling pranks and starting fights—but then at the end of her sophomore year she was transferred to a school two towns over. A year later when Lydia returned to live with her grandparents, her personality did a complete 180, and she cleaned up her act. Lydia attended class every day, stopped pulling pranks completely and enrolled in self-defense classes to help control her anger.

It was obvious that something had happened during her junior year that caused her change. It had taken him another week to discover that Lydia had been involved in two murders. There wasn’t really any helpful information because it had been chalked up to some kids taking Satanism too seriously. Her name hadn’t been mentioned in the online article, but Hale knew as soon as he saw Detective Harry Rollins’ name and a slightly blurry picture of a younger Lydia that Lydia was a witch. Detective Rollins only became involved in a case when magic and witches were involved. Hale would never admit it, but the little witch was really starting to interest him.

Hale mentally shook away that nagging feeling, the case may have been difficult to begin with but now it would be simple to close. It wouldn’t be too hard to convince the little witch to agree to a meeting—especially with the promise of a high payout and sickly grandfather. Hale pushed himself up, paid for his drink and headed across the street. It was time he met this little witch.

§

Lydia sat down at the counter located across from the shop’s entrance, her stomach twisting into almost pain knots of anxiety. Ever since she was a child, Lydia had always felt like this before something terrible happened. Nonny, her grandmother, explained to her that these were important feelings and that Lydia must listen to them. The last time she’d had this feeling was when her grandfather, Pops, had been diagnosed with cancer. Tiredly, she ran her fingers through her hair and tried to pinpoint what had her on edge.

Is it Pops? The feeling remained the same, which thankfully meant that this feeling wasn’t directed at him. Is it someone close to me? A slight tightening of the knots told her she was going in the right direction. A friend? Nothing. Family? Again nothing. Lydia was thankful her Pops, family and friends weren’t the reason she was feeling like this, but she still didn’t know the cause. So far all she knew for sure was that this was because of someone close to her, but it wasn’t family or any friends that were in trouble. Perhaps Lydia needed to be more literal, but before she had a chance to integrate her gut further, the bell above the door chimed and a customer walked into.

“Welcome to Siren Books. What book is calling out to you today?” Lydia greeted automatically as she looked up with a smile. Her stomach clenched itself tighter—if that were possible—as her eyes locked onto his midnight blue ones and her skin prickled. The stranger was tall; his auburn hair was cut short and kept neat, and there was a sense of strength in the way he held himself. Most importantly, the prickles meant this man was not human. Lydia couldn’t tell what type of creature he was since so many were able to take human form.

The stranger returned her smile easily; his eyes moved around the store, and he looked pleased to find there were no other customers. His long legs easily crossed the distant between the front door and the counter in a few short steps, and the prickles under Lydia’s skin intensified. Lydia swallowed roughly, trying to dislodge the lump that had formed in her throat. She had no doubt that this stranger was the cause of her anxious feeling, and that had her guard up.

“No, there isn’t a certain book calling out to me,” the stranger chuckled. The stranger rested his arms on the counter, lowering himself so that he was now at the same level as Lydia. “Do you sell anything other than books here?”

Smile still in place, she answered, “Yes, we have an assortment of handmade lotions, bath oils and soaps. We have plenty of scents for all the women in your life. We carry scents for men as well.”

“No, I’m shopping for something in particular.” The stranger said, looking amused, “Something that many people have but few freely give away. Something special.”

Lydia couldn’t help but be surprised at this statement, when she finally understood what he was asking for, since she hadn’t advertised that she sold magic ever. Not even when she’d been reckless in the past had she offered her magic for sell, being too greedy with it to share with anyone other than Aaron. Lydia wasn’t a member of any of the local covens, nor had she hadn’t used magic in seven years. So why was this stranger looking to purchase magic here?

“Just tell me what you want,” Lydia demanded tiredly.

“Sounds like you already know.”

Sighing, Lydia ran a hand through her hair. If this guy kept beating around the bush she wasn’t going to have much time for her lunch break, and she really needed some caffeine. “Look, I am extremely tired and don’t feel like playing games. Just tell me why you’re here and what the hell you want.”

“All right, no need to get so pushy,” The man chuckled and shook his head like he had expected this from her. “I work for a man who is interested in purchasing your magic.”

“You can tell your boss that I’m not interested, but thank you for the offer.” Lydia answered, biting back a yawn that threatened to escape. Hoping to get him to leave faster, she added, “You should try the psychic down the street. She’ll probably sell your boss some magic. Besides she’s better at magic than I am.” It was a lie, but the stranger didn’t need to know that; he just needed to get the hell out so she could go to lunch.

“Firstly, he isn’t my boss. Secondly, the man who hired me asked for you specifically. And thirdly I’m sure he’ll pay you any price you demand,” the stranger informed her, ignoring all her subtle attempts to get him to leave. “When you think about it, that’s not a bad deal. I’d take it if I were you sweetheart.

Lydia was starting to get annoyed. Why was this guy being so pushy? It wasn’t like there was a shortage of magic users. “I don’t care if your boss—” she ignored his annoyed look at the word boss “—has enough money to buy the moon and stars, my magic is not for sell. So unless you plan on buying a book or some lotion you need to leave.”

“Sweetheart, everyone has their price. Name yours.” The stranger actually sounded annoyed with her! Like he had the right when it was him bothering her for her magic.

“Who told you I sell magic?” Lydia demanded, attempting to change the subject.

“It doesn’t matter. What’s your price?”

“It matters to me. Who told you that I sell magic?”

“What’s your price? Two thousand dollars? Three thousand maybe?” The stranger demanded, looking annoyed now.

Lydia scoffed, even if she did sell her magic she would never sell it for such a low price. “It’s time for my lunch. You need to leave,” Lydia snapped, between her lack of sleep, hunger and this stranger she was starting to really become pissed off. Reaching under the counter, Lydia grabbed her purse and the keys to the shop. She wasn’t surprised to find the stranger still there.

“Four thousand? Five thousand? How much does magic go for these days?” The stranger asked again, standing in her way of the door.

“I don’t sell my magic!” Lydia shouted, her patience finally gone. “I don’t know who told you I sold magic but they lied because I don’t sell magic! If you want some freaking magic go down the damn block to the psychic!”

“Name your price, already. This is starting to get old.” The stranger glared down at her, his anger making his eyes closer to black than the pretty blue they’d been earlier.

“There is no amount of money in the world that would make me sell my magic. Now move.” Lydia pushed past the man and out the door, turning the sign on the door as she left. Lydia waited for the stranger to follow her out, locked the door when he finally did and stuffed the keys in her bag.

“Not even for your grandfather?” The man she was beginning to hate queried softly.

Lydia paused, his words striking her heart like she was sure he wanted. Things were hard for them right now with all the medical bills and students loans that needed paying off—not to mention the cost of the prescriptions that eased her grandfather’s pain. As it was Lydia was barely making enough to pay for food and medicine. Their health insurance paid partly for Pops’ chemo treatments, but she still had to pay for whatever rest wasn’t covered as well as payments to the health insurance company. This stranger couldn’t possibly know the fear that squeezed tightly at her heart late at night—the fear that she could lose the man who had raised her because Lydia didn’t have to funds needed to cure him.

Instead of breaking her down like the stranger hoped anger and doing as he asked anger pulsed under Lydia’s skin, making her blood boil and happily welcomed it. How dare this stranger bring Pops into this! How dare he even think that he had any right to use him to sway her! How dare he make her feel pathetic because she was working her hardest and it still wasn’t enough! Lydia whipped around to face the stranger, her hand forming into a fist before her brain had time to think her action through. Using every ounce of strength she possessed, Lydia slammed her fist into his stomach.

“My magic is not for sale!” She hissed as the stranger doubled over with a grunt of pain, then Lydia turned tail and ran as fast as she could. As she ran, she couldn’t admit the real reason for her anger at the stranger’s offer was because she was afraid. Ever since that night seven years ago Lydia hasn’t touched her magic—not because she swore to never do so again. Lydia was terrified of her magic. Scared that if she ever dared to touch it again Lydia would lose her humanity and become just like him.

And that frightened Lydia more than anything.