This version showed my acreage had, at one time, been packed with garden plots and not at the expense of cutting down the glorious Arbutus and Garry Oak trees. There were neat rows of fruit trees: pears, apples, plums, and cherries. Herbs occupied a couple of round formations that resembled Celtic knots.
I had my answer. And before the Building Your Herbal Garden module began, I would go over my land, inch by inch, to see if I could uncover even a shadow of what once was.
Satisfied with my search results, I reordered my Good Housesweeping books, all but the unlabeled, empty volume. I wondered if there were words in there, somewhere. I had tried my saliva and my athame. I hadn’t tried to use my blood, but if the book wanted my blood, how was I to do that?
I’d sliced my thumb to create a rudimentary blood ward with Tanner’s help.
I’d had my Blood Ceremony and fed my menstrual blood to my land at the witches’ insistence.
But if this book wanted a taste of me in order to reveal any secrets it might have? I was at a loss.
I shook my head, tucked the book next to the others, and woke up my laptop.
Maritza had responded, short and to the point. I lingered on her closing line: “Please bring with you a genealogical chart and the possible grimoire.”
Chapter 13
I closed my laptop. Spun my chair and rested my calves and feet on the rumpled bedcovers. Closed my eyes. Started to bargain with myself. A nap now, in an empty, quiet house would give me energy for tonight. And tonight’s agenda included a search for the Apple Witch.
I would return to Cliff and Abi’s. Enlist River, Kaz, Belle, and Rose’s help, and Hyslop and Peasgood’s too, if they were up for it. I could not let Jessamyne disappear, Tanner in her wake. Surely, River or one of the other druids would know how to reach Tanner no matter where he was and bring him back.
Bring all three of them—Tanner and Abigail and Clifford—back.
I was afraid to admit the depth of my tiredness. I hauled myself out of the chair and into the bathroom intending to scrub my filthy feet. A glance in the mirror convinced me a full shower was the humane thing to do.
Hair washed, conditioner in, I turned from facing the stream of hot water to let it pummel my upper back. One foot slipped. My hand smacked the wall as I steadied myself. Lifting my chin, I kept my head under the spray until my hair was thoroughly rinsed.
The thud of something heavy landing on the floor above me had me grabbing for the faucets and crouching low. I turned the water off, slicked my hair away from my face, and waited, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Another thud and the muted rattle of a door handle. I slid one leg over the edge of the clawfoot tub then the other, shot my arms into my bathrobe, and scanned the room for a weapon.
Boom.
Menstrual pads and sponges. Nope. An almost empty canister of toilet cleanser. Uh-uh. A plunger. I hefted the wood handle, gave it a swing, and admired the weight and density of the black rubber cup.
Armed and ready, I grasped the door knob and turned.
Mrrowwl?
“Jasper,” I hissed, my legs quaking. “That was not nice!”
The damn cat walked away. My terrycloth clad butt hit the tile floor. I leaned against the toilet and fanned my face. Jasper returned, dropped my cell phone between the doorway and my bare legs, and meowed again.
A text from Thatcher winked at me.
“Mom. Please feed Jasper. Shama said he eats anything.”
This was my life now. Defending myself from hungry magical cats with nothing more than a toilet plunger. I stumbled a bit coming to stand, towel dried my hair, and held the damp mess on top of my head with a thick elastic. I’d brush it out later.
Jasper was waiting by the front door, flicking his tail.
“Do you want to go out?” I asked. The feline was acting very dog-like, and I wasn’t about to assume the creature didn’t understand what I was saying.
I opened the door. The cat stepped outside, stopped, and meowed again. He turned his head and glared. His next meow sounded more like a question than an order.
“Do you want me to come out with you?”
His body language said yes. My brain supplied, Idiot. I followed his fluffy butt and upraised tail down the steps, turning to round the corner, all the along the side of the house to my garden area. Jasper walked to the base of the crabapple tree and pawed at the bark.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you need a lift?”
Wrong thing to say. Jasper crouched, leapt, landed on a branch above my head, and jumped down. When he lifted a front paw to his mouth and started to lick, I’d had enough.
“Jasper, what do you want?” I asked, plopping next to him.
Leaning my weight against the tree, I found the sky through the mesh work of branches and little globes of fruit. The annual Perseid meteor shower was due tonight or tomorrow.
“Tanner probably loves the Perseids,” I said to my feline companion, reaching to pet his fur.
A shift in the air pressure preceded a voice coming from behind me. “Who doesn’t love a good meteor shower? Or any other kind of sparkly— Whoops, hello, kitty!”
I screamed and dragged Jasper into my lap. He unsheathed sharp claws from all four of his paws and dug into my thighs. The terrycloth provided no barrier to a Coon cat on the defensive.
“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” the male voice
