“You at least going to say goodbye to Harper and Thatch?”
He glared at me over his shoulder and continued to march down the driveway, making it a point to slam the door to his SUV and accentuate his departure with a squeal of tires.
Men.
Twelve hours ago—was it only twelve hours?—I was in a tent, asleep next to Busy, surrounded by trees and birdcalls and other witches. I heaved a bone-deep sigh. I was exhausted from the excursion, in a good way, and now I had to deal with Doug’s shit. Again.
“Mom?” Thatcher’s quiet voice teased its way into my tiredness. “Tanner’s got us helping with dinner. Can I get you anything? Water? A beer?”
I turned and hugged my youngest son, a grateful heart rising and expanding in my chest. “I’d love a beer. And a snack. I’ll take whatever you can find,” I said. “Oh, and Thatch? I’m going to sit in the garden for just a bit. Your father—”
“I know, Mom. Dad can be an ass hat.”
He waved me off and went back into the house. I stepped off the deck and followed the footpath around the house and down the slope to my garden. The motherwort appeared to be settling into its new home, spreading inquisitive roots and sending up stalks.
I settled onto the old chair and scratched at the tattoo.
Thatcher appeared with my beer and a bowl of cheese puffs. “You okay, Mom?”
He stretched out on the narrow strip of trimmed grass running between the aisle of raised beds and crossed his arms behind his head.
“I’m really good, sweetie.” I popped a crunchy puff into my mouth and let it dissolve on my tongue. One day—probably later rather than sooner—I’d be comfortable with this swinging back and forth between the magical and the mundane. Until then, I would treasure moments like this. “I had a wonderful weekend. What about you?”
“Mm…Harp and I had a good conversation with Tanner on Friday, when he took us to the ferry. And we should have listened to you when you gave us that whole ‘don’t tell your Dad’ spiel because we did. We told him we have magic—or at least, it looks like we have magic—and he lost his shit, Mom. He also hit Harper.”
My blood came close to a simmer. I suspected something like that had happened, but to hear Doug wasn’t able to manage his anger around our sons…that was bad. “Did Harper hit him back?”
Thatcher rolled his head in the grass until he could look back at me. “He wanted to,” he replied. “I could see that, but Harp’s a lover, not a fighter.” He pulled at the dried grass and let it flutter from his fingers. “It hurt though. Emotionally, not so much physically. It’s fucked up, Mom. Dad’s fucked up.”
“Did all that happen Friday night?” I held the cold beer bottle to my face to cool my cheeks, took a long swallow, and then let the bottom of the bottle rest on the irritated section of my belly.
“Naw, we had a good time on Friday and most of Saturday. Dad’s got this sweet condo in Vancouver, and he took us out for Chinese after we finished moving his stuff. They got in the fight this morning when Harper found an injured bird on Dad’s balcony.”
“Does the condo have a lot of glass?”
“A ton, Mom, and it wasn’t the first bird to end up hurt. Dad said other ones crashed before and he just tossed them over the railing. Harper lost it.”
I sipped at the beer. Both sons were tender-hearted. Toward four-footed and winged creatures and to each other and to me. I prodded Thatcher’s shoulder with bared toes. “Then what happened?”
“Harper spilled. Told Dad about you and Tanner and what he does. I think Dad assumed you and Tanner were dating or something, and then he lost it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Mom,” he said, turning his head so he could look at me. “Want to know the good news?”
“Sure.”
“The bird lived.”
A series of piercing whistles ended our conversation.
“It’s too beautiful to eat inside.” Tanner yelled, gesturing to the deck. “Harper and I put everything out here.”
After the four of us ate, I curled into a corner of the porch swing, nursing my second beer. My body continued to hum, hours after the ritual. I was very much in the processing stage and not quite ready to talk about it.
I had questions, though “Tanner, can the wards keep Doug out now? Because after that display, I really don’t want him near me, the house, or the boys.”
“Mom, we can handle ourselves,” Harper insisted. “Tanner showed us how. And once we’re in the program, there’s going to be so much more we can do.”
I took one last draw of my beer, placed the empty bottle on the deck, and eyed Tanner.
“Uh oh, I recognize that look. You’re about to get your ass handed to you,” warned Thatcher, waving his fork at the man in my sights. He wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his urge to laugh. Neither was Harper.
Tanner adopted an exaggerated look of innocence. “What’d I do?”
“Tanner Didier Marechal.”
“Whoa! She used your middle name. Good luck, buddy,” Harper teased.
I tried to stay serious. I appreciated Tanner wanting to step in and provide my sons with a magical education in addition to the one they received at the excellent high school on the island, but there were steps to gaining my trust. And he wasn’t taking those steps in any kind of approved order.
Tanner’s face had paled slightly. “How do you know my middle name?”
I shrugged. “It just came out. I don’t think I knew it before I said it.”
He swallowed. “I think the ritual worked, Calli. Naming’s a latent skill, and it’s not used lightly.”
“Does
