“Ugh!” Thistle slapped at her cousin’s hair. “Learn proper hair etiquette,” she barked. “The person with the shortest hair stands at the front for this very reason.”
“I’ll remember that next time,” Bay said dryly, folding her arms across her chest as she watched her great-aunt deftly maneuver the kick scooter over the uneven concrete. When Tillie had first unveiled her new toy, almost everybody in the family had been against it because it seemed a surefire way for the elderly witch to get hurt. No matter how many times Tillie declared she was middle-aged, her family knew better. The scooter had turned out to be less dangerous than Tillie’s plow and, yes, she liked wearing a cape when riding it, which could’ve resulted in an unfortunate snagging incident, but as of yet she hadn’t incurred as much as a scrape.
That looked likely to change today.
“Slow down,” Bay ordered once Tillie came within hearing distance. “You can’t outrun a storm.”
Tillie made a face but did as requested ... mostly because there was no way around her great-nieces that didn’t involve jumping the curb. “I’ve outrun thirty storms in my lifetime.”
Thistle rolled her eyes. “Thirty, huh? It seems funny to me that you would keep count.”
“Well, I did. I’m so good at it, I could do it professionally.”
Bay cracked a smile. “We thought maybe you caused the storm. It seems to have come out of nowhere.”
Tillie glanced over her shoulder. She didn’t even top five feet and appeared particularly diminutive today. Of course, what she lacked in stature she made up for with her mouth. “That’s not me.”
Bay shot a triumphant look in Thistle’s direction. “Hah!” She jabbed a finger into her cousin’s shoulder. “I told you it was just a storm.”
Thistle rubbed the spot Bay struck. “I didn’t say it was anything more than a normal storm.”
“You didn’t?” Tillie was blasé. “That’s too bad. If you believed it was a magical storm, you would’ve been right.”
Thistle brightened and jabbed a finger into Bay’s shoulder. “Hah! I was right. Bow down and tell me who the smartest Winchester of them all is.”
“It’s me, Mouth,” Tillie shot back. “I’m the smartest Winchester ... and you just said you didn’t believe it was a magical storm.”
“I only said that because Bay was being a pain.”
“Well, you lost your chance to be the second smartest Winchester because of it. Maybe you’ll learn to stick to your guns.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Thistle let loose a dismissive hand wave. “So, what’s the deal with the storm? If it’s magical and you didn’t create it, who did?”
Tillie’s expression was momentarily blank before she shook her head. “You can’t even be in the top five smartest Winchesters saying things like that. Of course somebody else triggered the storm. Don’t be a ninny.”
Thistle shot Bay a look, but her blond cousin was too busy avoiding eye contact to respond. “Are you going to help me here?” the purple-haired witch hissed.
Bay exhaled heavily and then held out her hands. She wasn’t keen to be caught between her cousin and aunt — it was a familiar position — but she figured she would have to move this conversation along somehow. “I don’t suppose you know who started the storm, Aunt Tillie,” she prodded.
“I don’t know directly who.” Tillie’s eyes flashed with the reflection of the lightning that split the sky above their heads. “I think it’s coming from Shadow Hills.”
Bay was caught off guard. Shadow Hills was one town over and quiet, almost distressingly so. “Why would it be coming from there? I didn’t know there were any witches in Shadow Hills.”
“There haven’t been for at least twenty years. Not since ... well ... an old friend decided to move south and embrace being a warm-weather witch.”
“You had friends?” Thistle smirked. “Good for you.”
Tillie pinned her with a withering look. “Keep it up. I’ve been sitting on a good curse for weeks. I think it might have your name on it.”
Thistle balked. “I was just congratulating you on being such a stellar human being. There’s no reason to get worked up.”
“I agree.” Tillie held her gaze for a moment and then flicked her eyes to Bay. “They’re hellcats over there. I assumed when the head witch left town that the line would fall. None of her children showed any aptitude. She was disappointed but held out hope for the grandchildren. They didn’t spark either, though.”
Bay wrinkled her nose. “Hellcats? Is that a technical term?”
Rather than laugh, Tillie shook her head. “No, it’s just something someone said one time. I kind of picked up on it.”
“What does it mean?”
“Just that the Shadow Hills line of witches might not be entirely dead,” she replied. “It could also mean nothing. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“If there’s a new witch in town over there, what makes you think we’ll find out about it?” Thistle challenged. “It’s not as if we’re tight with those people.”
“Not now,” Tillie agreed. “But we were at one time. You never know. Old bonds could be re-forged in new generations ... if necessary.”
“I still want to know what a hellcat is,” Bay pressed.
“All in good time.” Tillie gave her great-niece a light shove to get her to move. “Until then, I have a storm to outrun. If this is going to turn into something, we’ll find out soon enough. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. That last one goes double for you, Thistle.”
Thistle raised her hand and waved at Tillie’s back as the woman sped along the sidewalk, away from the clouds and rain. “I love you too.”
“I heard the sarcasm,” Tillie barked. “I’ll be waiting for you at dinner tonight.”
Thistle swallowed hard before shooting her cousin a look. “Do you ever hate our lives?”
Bay glanced at her ring again and grinned. “I don’t, but I can see why you would.”
“You’re not much comfort to me.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that’s what I was supposed to be doing. Next time.”
One
Present Day
“Order up.”
Grandpa slid two plates of what I would loosely call eggs and hash browns in my direction across the top of the stainless-steel counter. I leaned closer, wrinkled my nose, and then raised my eyes to him.
“These eggs are scrambled.”
He arched an eyebrow. “So?”
“So, these eggs are scrambled,” I repeated. “They asked for sunny-side up.”
Grandpa frowned. “Do you want to know something about sunny-side up eggs?”
I really didn’t, but I had no doubt he was going to tell me regardless, so I painted what I hoped was a tolerant smile on my face. I, Stormy Breeze Morgan — don’t ever ask about my middle name — was nothing if not patient. Well, kind of. “Of course.”