Bad Luck, Baby

9 - Bad History

Luke turned out to be a shy, quiet man with curly brown hair and soft, dark eyes. Like Tobin, he showed interest when Ro introduced me as a witch, and Ro was again quick to claim me as his.

"Don't worry," Luke murmured, studying the tofu burger on his plate, "I don't want another witch."

"Why don't you go home then?" Ro asked.

Luke merely shrugged.

We were seated around the small, square table in the kitchen. Tobin had served everyone a tofu burger and a helping of green salad, but the others had yet to touch their plates. I waited, too, wondering if daemons said blessings, until Ro nudged my leg.

"Are you just going to let it go cold, or are you going to eat?"

I looked at the others. It seemed rude to dig in before anyone else.

Ro rolled his eyes. "They're waiting for you, dummy. Witches eat first."

"Oh!" I blinked at Tobin and Luke. "Please don't. I'm hardly a witch. I—"

"Just eat," Ro commanded, cutting me off.

Excruciatingly conscious of the others watching me, I picked up my tofu burger and took a bite. It seemed only Luke was strictly vegan (Ro had told me his animal form was a small, spotted deer, of the sort native to the Indian subcontinent), and the rest of us had cheese and regular burger buns, along with lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles. The tofu was seasoned as well, with tamari and black pepper, and grilled until firm. Surprisingly, it was quite good.

I expressed as much, and Tobin glowed at the praise. I could easily picture him as a dog with a wagging tail and bright, happy eyes.

To my relief, the others joined me after the first bite, and my discomfort soon vanished.

Tobin carried most of the conversation, telling us how his witch had abandoned him after nearly twenty years of service, trading him for a more powerful daemon, while Luke's had died a few months earlier after a long illness.

"Wait," I said, setting down my salad fork and turning to Ro. "I thought you said witches were immortal, or something?"

"Effectively immortal, and High Witches. It has to do with the strength of one's daemon. The more powerful the daemon, the slower the witch will age. The tradeoff is that witches who bond with high-level daemons lose their ability to procreate—with other humans, anyway."

He regarded me with interest, and I laughed.

"My mom was human, trust me. You think she'd have waited tables to work her way through law school—while raising a child on her own, no less—if she were anything else?"

Ro nodded at Tobin. "He works in the nightclub downstairs. Luke's a sales assistant in the record shop next door. Daemons gotta live. Appearances deceive, as you ought to know by now."

I frowned. "So, wait, that means you're a high daemon, right?"

He inspected his nails. "Of course. The more powerful we are, the less human we appear."

I studied Tobin and Luke. Tobin's canine teeth were a little long, but not impossibly so, and the only thing odd about Luke were his ears, which were a bit large and pointed, and covered by a soft fuzz. He kept them hidden beneath his curls, most of the time. Ro, on the other hand, would fit in at Halloween parties or Comic-Con, and few places else.

"I'm your average, common daemon," Tobin offered. "My witch aged pretty normally, and I thought he was cool with that. Then he, like, 'leveled-up,' or something, and then next thing I know it's 'hasta la vista, baby."