Magical Mojo - Ebook

Just when I thought the drama in my life was finally over, I got hit in the gut with drama overload. And then some.

My mother, Amelia Davenport, who I hadn’t seen in five years, decided to show up yesterday morning, of all mornings—the one when I had a very naked and glorious Marcus in my bed. This was not the fresh start I had in mind, at least not as far as relationships go. Not by a longshot.

Last night, after her arrival, I slept poorly in a small narrow bed. The springs in my mattress kept making music all night whenever I moved, which was constantly. I made a mental note to order a new mattress online as soon I got paid for the three sci-fi book covers I just finished.

The old pipes had performed a cacophony of their own, seeing as my bed sat next to the exterior wall with Davenport House’s main water pipes. My very little sleep was accompanied by everlasting groans, whines, and banging. You’d think a poltergeist was living inside the walls. Maybe there was.

I was in the attic, in the smallest guest bedroom in Davenport House. The air was stale with a scent of mildew, and the closed space looked as though it hadn’t been occupied in over twenty years. Maybe longer. The only good thing was I had my own bathroom—if you could even call it that. This morning’s shower was an acrobatic performance. Hell, I should join the circus. Try washing yourself with your head at an angle so you don’t smack it against the sloped, angled ceiling while trying not to slip on the tile floor.

If you’re wondering what happened to the glorious bedroom with a large king-size bed, plush rugs, and enough space to do cartwheels if I felt the need, my mother kicked me out. Because, well, as she’d so kindly put it, “It was mine first.”

Yeah. This was going to be an awesome reunion.

I’d snuck Marcus out the front door while my mother was busy greeting her older sisters. I didn’t want the two to have a confrontation, not yet. Marcus still harbored some pretty dark feelings toward my mother, and I couldn’t really blame him. I shared many of those feelings. I just didn’t want to go there right now. I’d watched him run down the snow-covered street barefoot, wearing only my bathrobe. He could really pull off that look. The man was hot.

After I’d dried my hair, I made my way down the narrow, creaking stairs to the second floor, checked to see if Iris was in her room—she wasn’t, having probably slept at Ronin’s, smart witch—before proceeding down to the kitchen.

Like every morning for the past months, Dolores and Beverly were gathered around the kitchen table, having one of their usual spats about either Gilbert’s store prices being too high or Beverly’s date of the week. Ruth hummed a tune and worked her magic at the stove—literally. Normal pancakes couldn’t taste that good.

This was my life now. It gave me comfort and a sense of family that I’d never gotten before. The only difference was that my mother sat at the table.

Sitting next to Beverly, she didn’t look at me as I entered the kitchen. Her attention was engaged with the cell phone in her hands.

We shared the same high cheekbones, full lips, and dark eyes. She had a brown mane of graying hair—way grayer than I remembered—that brushed up against her shoulders. Though she wasn’t as tall as me, she was still taller than Beverly and Ruth, but nowhere near Dolores’s five-foot-ten frame. As the youngest of the Davenport sisters, she inherited a bit of all of them—Beverly’s beauty, Dolores’s darker complexion, and Ruth’s gullibility. Amelia Davenport was known as the most free-spirited of the sisters. Free-spirited? She was a narcissist who refused to live up to her responsibilities—namely me.

Everyone said I looked like my mother, and I never really gave it much thought until right now. What we shared in looks, we differed in personality. She was selfish and vain with an excessive need for drama, and I was nothing like her.

How does that saying go again? You don’t pick your parents? If I could have, I would have picked Ned and Catelyn Stark.

“How did you sleep, Tessa?” Dolores removed her reading glasses and looked up at me. “I know we’ve neglected that part of Davenport House for a long time,” she said as she flipped her long gray braid back over her shoulder. She had hard features, sharpened by the passage of years, though her dark eyes were bright and confident.

“I slept okay,” I lied, moving to the coffee maker and pouring myself a cup. “Would it be okay if I worked down here on my next contract? If you guys don’t mind, of course. I don’t want to be in the way.” There was no way I could fit a desk in my room. I’d have to work in the kitchen.

“Of course not,” said Beverly, peering at me with her green eyes. She was dressed in jeans and a crisp, lowcut, blue silk blouse, her blonde hair resting just above her shoulders. Her makeup was flawless, which made me think she’d mastered a spell for it over the years. With a heart-shaped face, and a full mouth, she looked like Marilyn Monroe’s older sister.

“It’ll give me a chance to see how you work with photostore,” she replied.

I used Photoshop, but I wasn’t about to correct her. I knew my Aunt Beverly cared and was genuinely interested in my work. “Thanks.” I moved to the table. My mother still hadn’t acknowledged my presence as I pulled out the chair furthest from her and sat.

“Here you go, Tessa,” said a smiling Ruth as she flipped two buttermilk pancakes onto the plate before me. Her white hair was pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head and fastened with a pencil. The apron she wore today read DON’T MAKE ME FLIP MY WITCH SWITCH. She leaned forward, blue eyes sparkling, and whispered, “I added a whole extra cup of butter just for you.”

“I can feel my arteries clogging just by looking at them,” I said, smiling sweetly.

Ruth beamed as she went back to the stove. My mother still had her focus on her cell phone, her fingers scrolling up and down whatever she was looking at. She was acting as though I didn’t exist, but then again, I was used to that.

I caught a glimpse of Dolores glaring at my mother, clearly upset at her ignoring her only child.

I reached for the maple syrup and drowned my pancakes in it until they were practically floating in my plate. I tore into my pancakes and moaned as my taste buds exploded in my mouth. I’d missed Ruth’s famous pancakes yesterday with my mother showing up. I’d lost my appetite. But you could bet your ass I was going to make up for it today.

“All those images you put together and manipulate… I find it fascinating,” Beverly was saying as I finished my first pancake and tore into the other. “You’re so talented. I wish I was an artist. What am I talking about?” She laughed and gave a wave of her hand. “Of course, I’m an artist. My body is my canvas. I pose naked at least four times a week.” She smiled wickedly.

Dolores pursed her lips. “Naked decoupage doesn’t make you an artist, Beverly. It makes you a slut.”

Ruth snorted. “You two are so funny. I’m so happy we’re all back together again. And right before Christmas, too. More pancakes, Tessa?” Ruth spun around with a frying pan still in one hand as she scooped up the golden pancake with a spatula.

I smiled, lifting my plate, careful not to spill the maple syrup. “Yes, please—”

“She’s already had two.” My mother placed her phone on the table. “Now I can see why she’s gotten so fat.”

My mouth dropped open, heat rushing to my face. “You calling me fat?” I set my plate back down, my posture stiff with an old flame of anger that hardened my insides.

My mother flicked her eyes at me. “Well, your rear end and your thighs are doing that for you.”

“It’s just a pancake, for cauldron’s sake,” snapped Dolores. “Let the girl have her damn pancake.”

“That’s two hundred extra calories she doesn’t need,” my mother shot back with a smile.

I gripped my fork until my knuckles turned white, imagining me stabbing her in the head with it. What? She made me do it. “Nice, Mom. Real nice.”

“I’m only trying to help.” She had the nerve to look innocent. “You’ll thank me later when you don’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe to fit that ass of yours.”

I pushed my plate away and stood. “It’s always such a pleasure, Mother. I’ve got work to do.” I’d rather be cooped up in the tiniest of bedrooms in the history of tiny bedrooms than sharing air with this witch.

But I needed to know something.

“What?” exclaimed my mother, looking at me like I’d grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead.

“Nothing.”

My mother’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You keep staring at me like you want to ask me something. Ask.”

“Fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Where’s Dad?” The words felt strange on my lips, now that there was a little confusion about who my biological father was. It was something I had to ask my mother. I needed to hear it from her lips, but that conversation would have to wait. The only times my mother left my father’s side was when he was on tour and she wasn’t allowed to accompany him. Which was rare. If she was here, it meant something was up. Or she wanted something.

My mother twisted her face into a false smile. “He’s working on his music.”

“So he’s not on tour?”

“He’s recording in the studio,” she answered, a tinge of bitterness in her voice.

“And you’re not with him?” I asked suspiciously. “Why?” When she didn’t answer I asked instead, “How long are you staying?” Yeah, something was definitely up.

My mother flashed her dark eyes at me. “Why, it almost sounds like you don’t want me here.”

You’ve got that right. “Just wondering when I’m going to get my room back.”

“You mean my room.” She took a sip of her coffee, a patronizing smile on her face. “My room. My things. You had no business thinking it was yours.”

“Very mature, Mother.” Wow. She was acting like a fifteen-year-old kid who was mad at her sister for taking her favorite sweater. “What the hell are you doing here?” I spat, knowing all too well that if she wasn’t with my father, something had happened. Had they split? Now that would be interesting.

“Tessa,” warned Dolores, but my monster was out, and I’d tossed away the leash.

Ruth whipped her attention back to the stove, looking like she wished she could weave a transportation spell and magic herself out of the kitchen.

Beverly had the strangest smile on her face as she regarded my mother. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was rather enjoying this.

My mother gave me another one of her infamous fake smiles. “Was that Marcus Durand I saw leaving in a bathrobe yesterday? The two of you are a thing?”

I didn’t like the way she said that, like dating Marcus was a bad idea. “So, what if we are? You have a problem with that?” I seethed, scowling. “What am I saying? I’ll date whomever I want. I really don’t give a monkey’s ass what you think.”

Ruth laughed. “Monkey’s ass,” she repeated, as though committing it to memory.

Dolores smacked her forehead. “I need Tylenol. Where’s the Tylenol?”

Beverly snatched up the large bottle of Tylenol from the wicker basket in the middle of the table. “Here,” she said after she took two herself.

My mother leaned forward in her seat and matched my glare. “I just never thought you’d go for a shifter. All that animal… you can’t trust them. They’re wild. You never know when you’re talking to the beast or the human,” she said nonchalantly.

I went cold as my mother slandered one of the very best men I knew. Marcus was not only the hottest man I’d ever known. His looks were nothing compared to his loyalty, kindness, and affection.

My jaw clenched at the slight in her words. “You’re a nasty piece of work,” I ground out.

My mother’s face darkened. “How dare you speak to me like that? I’m your mother. You show me some respect, young lady.”

“Like the respect you’re showing me now?” I felt more blood gush up to my face. “Stay away from me. And stay the hell out of my life.”

I heard the sharp intake of my mother’s breath as I spun around, grabbed two more pancakes from Ruth’s stash next to the stove, gave her a wink, and marched out of the kitchen.

Like I said. This was going to be the best reunion ever.