“Can we put her on the top of the list? Just interview her first?”
And that was something to look forward to: interviews. It had to happen, but I didn’t have to like it. It sounded like me inserting myself even more into the neighborhood, the community, the world of people in general.
My plans of slow integration burst into flames. Actually, they’d already burst. Now I was just poking at the embers and sulking, which was juvenile. Interviews, right. When viewed through another lens, this was an opportunity to meet my neighbors.
“Yes, we can visit her first,” I said with a forced cheerfulness. I read somewhere that “faking it until you make it” was a strategy that might have merit.
It looked like some of our neighbors were getting a visit from me and my friendly cat. A reverse welcome to the neighborhood, if there was such a thing.
Fake cheeriness aside, it still sounded painful.
13
Tuesday mid-afternoon
Tamara Gilroy was a witch.
Not the “check out a book and learn spells” kind. And not the religious practitioner variety. Tamara was the hereditary type. And with witches, it was all about lineage, family, and connections—so what was Tamara doing here, on my gentrifying South Austin street?
“Ha, I told you,” Clarence stage whispered. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Just because a person has a few herbs growing around the house doesn’t make them a witch.”
In a very un-catlike act, Clarence stood on his back legs and pointed, claw extended, to a wind chime hung near the front door.
Pretty glass charms tinkled merrily as they gently jostled each other. I identified a few protection charms, one for health and wellness, one for abundant growth—which might explain, in part, the flourishing herbs we’d seen in her front yard—but there were also several that were foreign to me.
And while they gently swayed and chimed in a harmless, even soothing way, it was impossible to ignore the fact that there was no breeze.
The door swung open, revealing a pleasant, though perhaps not particularly remarkable, woman. Average height, plump in a pretty, motherly, soft-around-the-edges way, light brown hair that was tucked up in a loose knot, and grass-green eyes. I hastily revised my opinion. Those eyes. She had the most beautiful light green eyes. “Ow.”
Clarence carefully extracted his claws from first my leg and then my jeans, where he’d left at least a few puncture marks.
Tamara chuckled. “Smart cat.” She leaned down and looked closer. “Hm, not quite a cat.” Returning her attention to me, she said, “I hear that you’re supposed to be a retired teacher.”
I hadn’t had dealings with witches, so I only knew what others said. They were apparently wily, always older than they looked, and not completely trustworthy. But I had to consider the source. Soul collectors were their own kind of odd, and tended to be cliquish and leery of outsiders.
“And you’re supposed to be a redhead.” Clarence started to back slowly away without taking his eyes off her.
“Ah.” She smiled broadly. “He speaks. What a clever kitty. And yes, I was a redhead . . . once. Have you been hacking into my past, kitty?”
Her smile was inviting, but her words sounded vaguely threatening. And her casual use of the word “hacking” was likely anything but. Clarence’s computer shenanigans had been discovered. She extended her hand to me. “Tamara Gilroy.”
Clarence hissed as I reached for her hand.
“A completely harmless handshake, cat. Nothing more than a welcome to the neighborhood.” With a twinkle in her beautiful eyes, she said, “I promise.”
And for a moment, I caught a glimpse of a very different woman. One who stole my breath. I blinked and the motherly witch stood before me again.
What had she said? I saw her extended hand, which jogged my memory. She’d promised no harm.
Witches didn’t lie. I wasn’t sure where I’d learned that fact, but I seemed to recall it was a reputable source. Something about karmic debts or burdened souls. The specifics eluded me, but it was enough for me to ignore my poorly mannered sidekick and accept her hand, belated as the gesture was.
“Geoff Todd. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And on some level, it was. I wasn’t the only one living here, on this quiet street of humans, with the weight of otherness resting on my shoulders. Witches were more “other” than I was, in many ways.
Her welcoming smile turned to a grin. “I like you, Geoff Todd. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? No harm,” she said, aiming a sharp look at Clarence.
I glanced at Clarence, now two feet behind me.
“The cat creature can come, too. He’s very welcome.” She leaned down so that she was nearly eye level with Clarence. “Even though he’d like to eat my liver.”
Clarence sputtered. “A liver, not your liver.” His head drooped low and his tone turned defensive. “I’m not a cannibal, just hungry.”
She winked at him. “I thought there might be some human in there somewhere. Come inside. I think I have some chicken liver in the freezer I can heat up for you. And if not, how does beef heart sound?”
He stood to attention when she mentioned livers and hearts. In a much subtler whisper than was his norm, Clarence said, “I might have been wrong about this one.” Then he darted through the door and disappeared into the house.
Once we’d all gathered around the kitchen table—Tamara and me with herbal tea and Clarence with tiny cubes of medium-rare beef heart—I gave Clarence a look, hoping he’d be smart enough to use his company manners.
“He’s fine,” Tamara assured me. Her cheerful demeanor slipped slightly. “My own companion recently passed, and it’s good to have a feline presence in the house again.”
Clarence swallowed, then licked his lips. “Part feline.”
Which made her grin again. “Yes, that’s right. Might I ask what you’ve done? I sense
