Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Two: Little Gray

Yes, our love affair might end very badly indeed.

If I were a black witch, it would most assuredly end badly for Nick. If I were a white witch, it would probably end badly for me. I was neither. I was a shifty shade of gray when it came to my craft, so it was a toss-up as to whether I would get my heart broken or I would turn Nick into a toad.

Truthfully, I couldn't actually turn him into a toad, but I could bespell him so that he thought he was a toad. I smiled, imagining a spurned, cartoonish-version of me, with bad teeth and warts, waggling my fingers over a cauldron, condemning a squat, greenish version of Nick to hop around for the rest of his life, trying to swallow down insects with a woefully inadequate tongue.

How many flies would a bespelled Nick need to eat in a day? Didn't matter, at his size, he would never catch to survive. I supposed toad-turning wouldn't work after all. If this thing between us went badly, and in a moment of darkness I felt compelled to retaliate, I supposed I would have to find a less serious revenge curse. Condemning him to believe he was a toad would be a terrible death by starvation, and I didn't kill people, not even ex-boyfriends.

"What's funny?" Nick had just asked me.

"Just thinking about something comical my dad said this morning."

Toad-turning Nick had actually been my father's growly threat when I'd arrived at his house this morning to perform healing. Having a black witch for a father was mortifying in unexpected ways, especially now that I was a grown woman. He had read sexual satisfaction in my aura and arrived at scathingly accurate assumptions about whom had delivered that satisfaction.

"I will turn that cross-wearing, badge-sporting, son of Baptist deacon Nick Townsend into a toad for sticking his mundane dick far above its reach with you. And you, my dear daughter, are equally pathetic. A witch with an eight-century pedigree, at least, unable to control your own aura. Have I not taught you better? Revealing your emotions in your aura allows other witches to see your vulnerabilities. If you are going to fuck mundanes, at least choose ones you aren't in danger of falling for. That boy is a liability to you."

It was not lost on me, that I had decided to become a social worker in response to the bizarre, inappropriate relationship my father had perpetrated upon me as his only witchkin. It wasn't abusive in the mundane ways, but I was fairly certain what we had wasn't a healthy father-daughter relationship, even among witches. Perhaps if my father had a coven, he might not be so twisted. But it had only ever been the two of us. I didn't even know who my mother was or why we were so alone in life. Dunne was not our real last name, I was sure. There was no Dunne coven, at least not that I could tell from the extensive library and files my father kept regarding witches and other monsters.

I could not say I had made my peace with my father's bad parenting, but he had at least made me tough. Tough enough to shrug off his rebuke this morning. I did not particularly care if my father disapproved of my lover. It was nothing new. My father had always despised Nick—since we were teenagers.

He claimed his objection was due to a sixth-sense that Nick's moral compass could never accept what I was. I've always suspected my father just doesn't want me to be happy. He held out hope that I would darken. Casting black was much easier when life was misery.

Nick was well aware of my father's dislike, but even back in high school, he had always laughed it off as an entirely normal reaction on my father's part. "Some fathers are like that—they are jealous of the guy destined to steal away their only daughter."

Nick—kind, decent, Nick—treated my father with respect and tolerance. Even now, he reached for my hand, entwining our fingers, and I knew he did it to offer comfort because he thought I was worried for my dad today. "I'm glad to hear his spirits are high.