Magical Influence Book One

  Chapter 4

  Uncle Fred had weaved his particular kind of magic. While Granny’s spells included mud, cocaine, lizard heads, and colored jars, Fred’s involved robust arguments that cited previous cases, precedents, and criminal law codes.

  In short, we were out of custody, and all charges had been dropped. Somehow. I didn't want to go into the details, because I didn't understand them. In fact, I'm fairly sure Fairweather hadn't understood them either, but somehow, despite his best attempts, both of his perps had walked away, scot free.

  There was something to be said of coming from a family of witches. There was also something to be said of coming from a family of ordinary people. Ordinary people don't order large amounts cocaine off the Internet, dig mysterious holes in the garden, and come to the attention of the Federal Police.

  With every good there was always a bad; nature loves a bit of balance.

  It also loves a bit of chaos.

  When I had finally gotten home, called my boss and explained, without telling him what had happened, why I hadn't gone to work, I had been exhausted.

  Thoroughly exhausted. I grabbed a slice of chocolate cake from the fridge, wandered upstairs, ran a bath, and slipped into it.

  So much for practicing any magic.

  Another reason I had moved in with my grandmother had been the possibility of learning a thing or two, and having more time to practice.

  But with work so thin on the ground, and nobody coming in for any love potions, identity fixes, or influence lessons, I seemed to do nothing these days but complain, clean, and have baths.

  As I lay there, opening the hot tap for another burst of heat, I stared up at the ceiling.

  I'd picked those tiles. I’d picked the paint. I'd even picked the exact taps, and I had chosen my favorite iron-claw-footed bath too.

  But had I kept it together today in the police station? Had I gathered influence around me to change the situation? Had I used the special knowledge I had as a witch to manipulate the context, to alter things so my desired outcome would arise?

  No. I’d simply asphyxiated myself out of nerves, chugged down my nasty-tasting tea, and had made a complete fool of myself in front of Fairweather. Not that that mattered, of course, because I had no intention of ever crossing paths with that man again.

  As I closed my eyes, turning off the tap, and settling down into the water, the last thing I wanted to hear filtered through the closed bathroom door.

  “Oh Esmerelda,” Granny called.

  I winced, and I cursed under my breath.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “I'm having a bath,” I pointed out angrily.

  “Of course, I can hear that, I meant what are you thinking? Ask yourself this, my witch, what magic are you casting right now?”

  I was in no mood to play Mary's games considering the kind of day she had given me. “Look, I'll be out of here in a couple of minutes,” I lied, fully intending to stay for another hour or so, until I was thoroughly pruney.

  “You need to be careful,” her voice dipped.

  Just as had occurred this morning, she got back a bit of the old authority. The power. I could hear it, hell, I could feel it; it danced across my skin, making my hair stand on end.

  “What are you talking about?” I finally gave up on ignoring her, and sat up straight in the bath, bringing my knees in, and curling my arms around them.

  “Remember your tarot cards. Remember The Tower,” her voice still had that same quality to it. It was a quality I could not ignore, no matter how hard I tried.

  I frowned.

  The Tower card. Precisely the kind of card you did not want to see after a day full of trouble; it would only bring more. It was a warning. One that told you that a situation that had been allowed to build and build was about to explode. Your tower was about to crumble, and you were going to fall along with it.

  But why was she mentioning it now? Especially when all I wanted to do was eat soggy chocolate cake and stay in the bath for hours.

  She wasn't going to tell me; I would have to ask. “What are you talking about?” I glanced over at my bathrobe, wondering whether I had the energy to get out, open the door and actually have a conversation with her face-to-face.

  “I know what you're thinking. And I'm not blind, my dear, I have seen your behavior over the past weeks and months. You are letting something build. You feel trapped, darling, and you want to break free. But in breaking free, and in imagining yourself as trapped, you will have to destroy something. Fancy building yourself a new identity?”

  To an unskilled witch, my grandmother's words would not make sense. I, however, was not unskilled. I knew exactly what she was talking about. If you spend a great deal of time moaning and groaning about your life, complaining, whingeing to anyone who will listen, and dreaming about something better, only one thing will happen. You'll lose what you have. At first you will lose it simply because you do not pay attention to it, but then as you allow all that negativity to build, it will seep right into the cracks, expand, and bring everything shattering down. Your job, your life, your marriage, it doesn't really matter; allow concentrated negativity to build, and you’ll lose it all.

  I finally pushed myself out of the bath, feeling the chill against my skin instantly.

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” I tried, but my voice was so low and shaky, that I couldn't have convinced a child.

  “Yes you do,” she called my bluff. “Now be careful. You may not like the current life you have, but if you let it break, you might not like living in the rubble.”

  With that, I heard her turn and walk away.

  I stood there on my bath mat, dripping, freezing, staring at the closed bathroom door.

  She was right. Entirely right. I couldn't blame her either. It's one thing to not like what you're doing with yourself, it's another to spend all of your time complaining about it and doing nothing to fix it. You can grow and change what you currently have, or you can take a sledgehammer to it, and leave it shattered and broken by your feet. My grandmother was thoroughly right. Break what you've got, and you might not like living in its remains.

  Feeling shockingly uncomfortable, I dried myself off and headed to bed.

  I hoped tomorrow would be a better day. But unless I listened to my grandmother and actively tried to make it one, hope would be all I would get.