Here, everything was mismatched, quilted together or slightly cracked, but every piece had a purpose. Everything had been sought out or built by hand. Reagan and her mother, Yemi, had filled their home with stacks of books, football trophies, patchwork quilts, and scattered pages of Reagan’s spell work. Stashes of loose-leaf tea in silver tins sat on crooked shelves, and battered trunks and treasure chests nestled in nooks and crannies.
The house was full of her childhood, warm memories hidden in every corner. Memories of sleeping over in Reagan’s squeaky-springed double bed, the two girls tucked under the bumpy quilt, filling the darkness with giggles. Memories of dancing in the kitchen, turning the radio up when Yemi went out for groceries. And best of all, the moment the three of them were camped out on the couch, bowls of popcorn on their laps, watching reruns of Yemi’s favorite soaps. Reagan had grabbed a handful of popcorn, and casually, though Dayna could tell her friend was fairly bursting with excitement, told her she was a witch. And that Dayna could be one, too. Yemi could teach them both.
Dayna had been part of the coven from that moment on. They were her real family. Here, Dayna left everything that wasn’t witchcraft behind. Here, Reagan Etomi was her best friend, and magic existed, and nobody quoted scripture at you.
The driveway was long and winding, and her hatchback stirred up clouds of dust as she whipped around the curves. Even on her way up the dirt lane she could feel the tension melting from her shoulders. She knew every dip, every turn, every pothole. She cracked the window and let the cool, pine-scented night air kiss her face.
This was home.
She parked crookedly next to Reagan. Her friend drove a blue minivan covered with a combination of obscure band stickers, her Wexford Football club logo, and witchcraft jokes, and as Dayna passed the back she looked for a new one. Sure enough, there was a small square sticker on the left side of the bumper—My other car is a stick, with the silhouette of a witch on a broom.
Dayna grinned. The new sticker would send Bronagh into fits. She was always going on about how brazen young witches were these days. To talk about it so openly was asking to be drowned or stoned in her day.
This was of course, a terrible exaggeration, since Dayna was fairly certain Bronagh had not been alive in the fifteenth century.
She passed through the three gates leading up to the yard and through the wild garden, and the sensor lights kicked on as she walked through. It was exactly the sort of garden a witch was supposed to have, full of overgrown ivy and suspect-looking plants. Down the stone pathway, she pushed past the screen door, which shrieked her arrival to the entire house.
She found the coven assembled around the long wooden plank that served as the kitchen table.
Reagan bounced in her chair when she saw her, clapping her hands. “Finally, for the love of all the gods, woman. She’s got us waiting to open our blooming mouths.”
If it were possible for Reagan to be any less like the people at school, she wasn’t sure how. Today Reagan was wearing a patched dress, colorful against her dark brown skin, and her feet were bare. The dress looked as though someone had slain a patchwork quilt and made clothing from its hide. It would be hideous on anyone but her. With Reagan’s beaded, blue-dyed locs and the black velvet choker she always wore, she managed to make it look like a high-fashion piece.
“Patience is a virtue, Reagan.” Yemi was hovering over the table. She’d already poured black tea into five mismatched china cups, and now she looked up at Dayna, brows raised. “Come chop, Dayna. Biscuit? Jam tart? Pie?”
“Oh, uh. Tea would be nice.” She raised a brow at Reagan as Yemi bustled over to the counter to collect another cup. “I brought Bronagh’s tea. What’s going on?”
Reagan leaned sideways in her chair, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her dress. Reagan refused to wear anything without pockets as a general principle. “She’s been stress baking all day.” Her dark eyes flicked between her mother and the other witches. “Apparently there’s another coven coming to meet us, which I guess means we need an entire bakery’s worth of desserts.”
“Another coven? I didn’t know there was one nearby.” Dayna glanced over at Yemi, who was busy refilling the kettle on the stove, humming along with the transistor radio on top of the fridge. She knew Reagan’s mother better than her own father, and as the woman came over and set her cup on the cluttered table it was obvious how preoccupied she was. The hint of an accent had returned, as it often did when she was stressed or excited, and she’d pulled her cloud of black hair into a tight knot at the base of her neck. She had the glassy-eyed look of someone who’d traded multiple hours of sleep for hovering over the stove.
When Dayna was anxious, she used cognitive behavior therapy. When Yemi was anxious, she made cookies, and her tendency to force tea on everyone increased. Dayna bit her lip, wondering what exactly it was about this other coven that was making Yemi so nervous.
“Thanks.” She watched Yemi pour the tea, steam curling up from the surface. Tea would be good. It warmed the throat for what she knew was going to be a long, strange conversation. Of course, when you were surrounded by witches, most conversations were long and strange….
Yemi gave her a sympathetic smile, pulling her into one of her warm hugs before pushing her gently back to study her face. “How are you dealing, my girl? I’m glad to see your face isn’t scratched. Mercy, you should see that Morgan girl from your church. She’s all slashed up.”
Dayna blinked at her, startled. She’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of the other coven, she’d nearly forgot about the birds.
She set her backpack down, sliding into an empty chair. “I’m fine, Yemi. Honestly. But someone tell me about this coven. Why are they coming?”
“Don’t ask us. They certainly weren’t invited.” Brenna, the fifty-something-year-old daughter of Bronagh, and the middle of the trio of Callighan women, sat at the opposite end of the table. She had her tarot deck spread over the tablecloth, and she flipped a card over and tapped one long red nail against it, her gaze distant. Now and again she’d tilt her head back to look at the dusty tapestry on the wall above the table, a colorful portrayal of the Celtic gods embroidered on green fabric.
“Their leader used to be part of our coven, back in the day.” This from Faye, ex-surgeon and granddaughter to Bronagh, who’d inherited her grandmother’s red hair and fair complexion but not her laugh. Her tea sat untouched.
Bronagh, the oldest Callighan, and their coven leader, winked at Dayna before plucking a scone off the plate in the center of the table. Bronagh’s curly red hair was shot through with gray, and she had a shriveled-apple face and an easy laugh. She always wore outrageous floral patterns and knitted shawls, clunky costume brooches and pearls.
Personally Dayna suspected the grandma disguise might be a kind of ruse to lure her prey into relaxing.
“You’ve got the tea?” Bronagh inquired around a mouthful of scone, and nodded with satisfaction when Dayna slid the satchel across the table. She wasted no time ripping open the bag and dumping the contents into her mug.
Faye wrinkled her nose. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Grandmother.”
Bronagh ignored her. “The other coven is on their way, invitation or not. I suspect it has something to do with those damn birds.” She dipped her scone in her teacup, and Faye looked utterly horrified. “Oh, stop, girl. It doesn’t affect the reading.”