I could feel it. The energy of the spells cast here. The loving care of its original builders. They would have been warlocks too. I loved to imagine when houses were new and you could still smell the fresh paint. Wizards lived a long time, so I guessed this house had probably only had two or three owners across its lifetime.
Kiersten wasn’t going to think of stuff like that. She’ll just start tearing the old girl to shreds.
There was a lot I could tell from the outside with a few quick spells and simple observation. My familiar was a bat, and he knew what to do. I summoned him wordlessly and he swept up toward the attic to get a closer look. Bevan was a creature of few words.
Another quick spell told me the ground under the house was solid. That was borne out by the lack of serious foundation cracks in the stone the house was built upon.
No electricity, except for a very basic off-grid solar system to power a few lights and a fridge. Water from a cistern and a passive solar water heater on the roof. The place was owned by an old-school wizard who wanted to stay entirely off the grid and away from the toxic effects of electricity on magic. The human buyers were muttering. And Kiersten wasn’t going to like it either. She was what I thought of as ‘nouveau witche’. She would give up some of her magic for the comforts of the modern world. And she would make this place look picture perfect. Granite countertops, shiplap, barn doors. She would probably make a lot more money than I would.
Well, it wasn’t about money for me. It was about the integrity of the old house and the residual magic of the wizard who lived there.
Really gives her a damn advantage in an auction, though, I thought bitterly.
But maybe this location would be too remote for her taste. And with the power I felt emanating from the walls of this place, there could be a treasure. I made money from the first house I ever flipped, not off the house, but because I sensed something inside. It turned out to be a collection of antique wands forgotten inside some junky boxes in the attic. The antique dealer found me a buyer easily.
I hated to lose this house. It spoke to me. But I had to be careful and make some actual money. I was living out my truck.
I opened the doors to the garden to get a look. The garden was surrounded by a high wooden fence, and it was large. A real secret garden. Complete with the crazy overgrowth. It needed help. Lots of sweaty days with trimmers and pulling out weeds. Still, all the magical plants and healing herbs my buyers would want were already in place, some of them twining around statuary. I lifted aside some grape vines to reveal a little shrine for the spirits tucked away with offerings of shells and stones and a tiny liquor flask.
“That’s so sweet,” I whispered. I didn’t see offerings for spirits much. The wizard who owned the place must have been very old. I could feel the energy of this place, and that he must have loved his home. He was isolated out here—no magical community within ten miles, which was a long way when there was no evidence he drove.
A kindred spirit, I thought. Someone who liked being alone, with nothing but plants, creaking stairs, books and their familiar for company.
The garden doors creaked behind me. I stood up straight as a mundane human in a casual business suit walked into the garden. He looked surprised to see me. And I was equally surprised to see him, because he was easily six and half feet tall, with a naturally broad build and presence that commanded attention.
“Are you here for the auction?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I think you’re wasting your time here. I expect you’ll just tear all this down. The living room is 1970s in the worst way. Lead paint, I expect. Junk. Failing plaster. And there’s only one bathroom in the entire place.”
“What are you doing here, then?” I didn’t like humans rooting around houses like this at all, and I definitely didn’t want them asking me about my own business.
Honestly, I probably would have been more of a jerk except that he was quite handsome, and I wasn’t blind. Sure, he was way too polished and professional for my taste. From the gold watch to the tailored suit and worst of all, short hair slicked back—he practically had the same hairstyle as my dad. I didn’t care for the warlock elite, but throw the human trappings of an iPhone and a diversified investment portfolio and all in all, rich humans were just as jerky and much more boring. Even if he did have amazing golden-brown eyes. Even if he had very masculine hands. And I definitely didn’t care how chiseled his jaw was.
“I’m the seller,” he said, and I must also note that his voice was deep yet silken enough to melt butter. Did that metaphor make any sense? No, Helena, I’m afraid it’s your brain that has melted instead. “This was my grandfather’s house.”
What? This guy was the grandson of a warlock? Impossible. Everything about him screamed ‘normal’.
Well…okay. Not everything. Through all the polish, there was something a bit intriguing about him. I couldn’t put my finger
