Cue the eyeroll. “I shall,” Malvyn said, adding a short sigh to his eyebrows’ acrobatics. “Any bets on which of our father’s four sermons are on tonight’s menu?”
I smiled at my beloved brother and patted his recently shaved and cologned cheek. “Just wait until you’re his age, visiting Leilani. Remember this feeling. Give the old man your ears. It’s the least we can do.” I pirouetted away before Malvyn could rope me into accompanying him into the wing of his house given over to our parents and their paraphernalia.
As much as I adored visiting my brother and his family, I knew I could not live year-round on this pile of rock in the Salish Sea. My planned three months with Malvyn and James had seemed like a crazy, murder-inducing idea when we first began negotiations. Once we agreed my stay would overlap with Margarita and Carlos’s summer trek to Salt Spring Island, the rest of the details were ironed out rather easily.
It seemed only fair. We would unite forces—or, divide and conquer—in order to ameliorate the stress of keeping our parents from giving each other hives, heart burn, and whatever other ailment the resourceful witches might conjure for one another.
I divested myself of the blouse and slacks stinking of onions and herbs on the way to my walk-in closet. James and Mal had fit right into island life from the get-go. James, a half-witch and botanist, had retired early from his position teaching non-Magicals at the University of British Columbia. His dream of having land for his greenhouses would have been astronomically expensive—even with my brother’s ability to manufacture coin—had they stayed in Vancouver.
Both men expressed concerns the length of my stay would cause friction. I expressed concerns that July’s and August’s excessive sunshine would suppress my growing necromantic powers. I then reminded the two I would spend most of our overlapping daylight hours resting, studying, or working with Alabastair.
We agreed that should my presence—or that of my apprentice—prove to be too much, I would find temporary housing nearby.
They offered me the well-shaded north wing, with a bedroom that faced the woods. On the other side of curtained, floor to ceiling windows, untamed patches of native undergrowth cluttered the forest floor, scenting the air with decay.
Knowing my preference for all things nocturnal, James had placed bat houses amongst the firs. The promise of evenings spent on my secluded deck, in the dark, watching the little mammals swooping for bugs set my heart to pitter-pattering.
A chime sounded near the door, followed by Malvyn’s disembodied voice. “Ten minutes to cocktails. Ten minutes.”
Gracias, hermano querido.
Dropping my bra and underwear in the laundry basket, I passed through to the en suite. Two minutes under the shower head was all I needed to feel refreshed, but the remaining eight minutes weren’t enough time to stitch up a new dress.
My needles rattled their displeasure. Poor darlings had spent the entire day locked up. I lifted the lid of the oblong black velvet case and admired the neat rows organized by length and purpose. One day, I would assemble the dress of needles I had been dreaming about my entire life.
Tonight, a sleeveless cocktail dress in classic black mourning silk would do.
I returned to my case and withdrew a crewel needle that had belonged to my sister. Tonight marked the seventh anniversary of her death. I poked the sharp tip through the bodice of my dress in lieu of a brooch, slid my feet into my shoes, and mourned the loss of my brilliant sibling.
The low lighting outside my quarters matched my mood and the tap-tap of my pointy-toed Fluevog Malalas set up a hypnotic rhythm against the massive, flat stones. Had the hallway been circular in design, I could have kept walking and walking, thinking and thinking, always searching for a way to connect with my sister.
As it was, I had to remind myself in the middle of a thought that I was on my way to dinner with my family and not on my way to reanimate a dead body or continue my search for a long-missing ghost.
Passing an illuminated niche where a life-sized statue of Mictlantecuhtli resided, I tucked myself against the Mexican god’s torso. At the carved stone’s silent invitation, I wrapped one arm around the figure’s blocky waist, rested my palm in the uplifted hand, and closed my eyes.
The God of Death liked to dance.
And so did I.
Chapter 2
Was I…nervous?
The giddiness in my abdominal region had nothing to do with the day’s extensive portal travel. I had been a regular user of the Magical system of transportation the entirety of my thirty-two years—more if you included adventures while in utero. The Nekrosine family of Toronto, Ontario had obligations within Magical communities across the Americas and my mother never viewed pregnancy or having toddlers in tow as a deterrent to her work. As soon as I could clutch a Death Rattle in my chubby hand, she and my father inducted me into the family business and took me everywhere.
Now, I stood at the double doors to my rooms in the guest wing of the Brodeurs’ coastal estate and re-checked that the buttons on my shirt lined up. Four months ago, on the Vernal Equinox, Maritza Brodeur, renowned witch, cultural anthropologist, and Professor of Necromantic Studies had announced she would take on an apprentice.
One.
The initial training period would last for twelve months, during which time she would begin to impart her extensive knowledge of death rites as performed throughout this and other realms. If the candidate proved worthy, a second year would be added and Professor Brodeur would invite the apprentice to travel with her and provide hands-on
