The Witch and Her Second Chance

2 | A hard day's work

"Heya, Jack!" Missy cheerfully called as she made her way to the counter.

"Missy. Hey. What are you doing here?" Jackie asked. She was madly trying to make five coffees and two toasted sandwiches and take more orders. Her girlfriend and business partner had to urgently go to the bank to sort out a money issue, and Jackie had stupidly said she could handle the midmorning rush herself.

"I was in the neighbourhood," Missy's intense green eyes glared back at a woman impatiently huffing as she spoke to Jackie, even though Jackie hadn't slowed down in getting everything done.

Jackie called out the ready coffee orders, spinning around to grab the toasties before they burnt. Her movements were precise and swift.

She was back taking orders in no time.

"Can I get you something?" Jackie asked Missy between orders.

"I was just going to talk to Jo."

"She'll be back soon."

"Need help?"

"That'd be super. Um…" Jackie quickly glanced around the small cafe. It was geared more towards takeaway, but there were a few tables. "Could you clear the tables?"

Missy saluted and went to work around the small cafe. It was unnerving that she looked so similar yet completely different to her sister, Jackie's girlfriend. While their face shape and colouring were completely different, the family resemblance bled through their alien beauty. Though Jackie didn’t think anyone could rival Jos' beauty, both sisters often caught the eye of others.

After another half hour, the crowd died down, and Jackie could take a breath. She knew it would be short-lived, with the lunch crowd likely to arrive within the next hour. Where is my woman? She thought, irritated.

Almost like she sensed the fury building, Jo came swanning in. "Oh, Missy, what a pleasant surprise," she skipped over and gave her sister a peck on the cheek. They both gushed for a couple of minutes as they caught up.

Jackie took a breath and tried not to react negatively. Jo hadn't even acknowledged her. She tried not to take it to heart and reasoned that her short fuse had more to do with feeling harangued than actually being angry at the other woman. Sighing, Jackie tidied up behind the counter, prepping for lunch, as Jo ended her conversation with her sister. Missy farewelled Jackie on her way out.

"Hello, sexy poppit," Jo called as she leapt over the counter and bundled Jackie in a hug. Five-nine Jo rocked Jackie's five foot-five athletic form from side to side as she cuddled her, her mouth finding hers for a quick, slightly wet kiss. Jackie laughed and couldn't help but let all the tension go.

Jackie pushed a loose strand of copper-red hair behind Jo's ear. Her love was unlike anyone else, bringing her peace and calm the second they were together.

"All sorted with the bank. How'd you fare here?" Jo asked.

Jackie rolled her eyes. "Next time I say I can handle it myself, smack me upside the head."

Jo just grinned and gave her a quick peck, "Well, you go have a break. I'll message you when the lunch crowd hits."

Jackie cringed. "I'll take a break soon. Bruce called again," she spoke low.

Jo raised her eyebrows in surprise, "Why?"

Jackie shook her head sadly as Jo put her apron on. "He's just not getting it. I think he needs to hear it from you."

She made a whining sound. "Ahhh. I don't wanna…"

"You're the one he's hung up on, precious."

Jo couldn't argue with that. She stood there pouting, hoping the awkward task would fade away.

Jackie squeezed her shoulder. "You've got to do this now."

Accepting defeat and with slumped shoulders, Jo wandered through the back of their tiny kitchen and to the alley behind the building. A shaft of sunlight hit the stoop leading up to their door, which she sat on and pulled out her phone. It was tempting to put it off, but she knew it had to happen sooner rather than later. Jo stole herself before hitting the saved contact.

He answered on the first ring, the speed making Jo cringe.

"Joey…" he breathed his greeting.

"Hi Bruce…"

"I was hoping you'd call– I want to see you–”

"Bruce,” she gently but firmly cut him off. “I'm sorry, but Jackie and I are in agreement here. We need to stop sleeping together. It's not fair to you."

Bruce made a pained sound of frustration. "I don't care about that. I'd rather only have a part of you than nothing at all. Please. I'm sorry, let me take back what I said."

Jo felt like withering right there on the spot. You can't take back an I love you. That wasn't something that could be backtracked on. "I'm sorry, Bruce. It's too late. You need to move on for your own happiness."

Bruce kept pleading, and as their conversation continued in circles, Jo was conscious of the increasing tightness in her chest as her impatience built. She was frustrated at herself for not taking Jackie’s warnings when Bruce started throwing up red flags. Annoyed that Bruce had seemed the perfect third but overstepped even when they had all agreed to the rules. And dread because she didn't want to be the bad guy, but she would have to be to get him to move on.

"Bruce," she cut him off, a lot less gently this time, "this is final. We're done. There's nothing else to talk about."

Bruce's voice rose, and she had to pull her phone from her ear. Not listening to what else he had to say, she whispered, "I'm sorry," and hung up.

She sniffled, forcing her tears to stay put. She'd liked Bruce, but he'd wanted more out of the three's casual hookups, and that wasn't something she and Jackie wanted. Their little family unit was solid. Jo just liked a little dicking now and then, and Jackie was all about giving Jo what she wanted.

Blocking his number from her phone, Jo told herself it was better this way. She didn't want to string him along, thinking he had a future with them.

Feeling better about speaking to the man, if not still feeling a slight melancholy, she headed back to work.

Seeing Jackie at the register and not servicing a customer, Jo embraced her from behind.

“All good?” Jackie asked as she tidied up the EFTPOS receipts from the morning and pinned them under the till tray.

“Yeah,” Jo replied softly. “It just sucks…”

Jackie turned, weaving her arms through Jo’s and around her waist. “He knew and agreed. You can feel bad for him.”

With a squeeze and peck, Jackie disentangled herself and went to restock the oversized muffins–ones Jo would make two dozen of every day. Their scarcity, mixed with how amazing they tasted, brought regulars back again and again, even at an exorbitant price of ten dollars per muffin. Jackie had been dubious about selling at that cost, but they always sold out.

“But it's not your fault,” she flashed a grin over her shoulder, Jo's hopeful face hanging on her girlfriend's words. She needed something to take this gnawing guilt she felt for hurting Bruce, unintended or otherwise. “You can't help how lovable you are.”

“You're the loveable one,” Jo countered, her lip tugging into a smile, only able to be brought on by the woman before her.

~*~

Verin fingered the healing burn on his chest. The injury from his device was due to it continuing to absorb, even beyond its capacity. He was lucky it wasn't worse–he'd severely underestimated how much attention his little show with Celeste and Tim would get. He smeared an ointment across the burnt skin, already thinking about how he could improve the design. It was only a prototype and on its first use outside his workroom. It needed to conduct less heat and not try to pull energy when no more storage remained. Both were interesting problems to solve, and his curious mind was excited at the prospect.

He dressed in a dark gray woolen suit, preparing for his day ahead. It was always cold in their part of Therien, with its buildings of pale gray stone. Rooms were typically heated by a fire. The use of magic for such creature comforts was one of the only things that divided warlocks internally; otherwise, their unity was assured.

What was writ and in rule was the sanctity of magical use. Heating a room with magic was considered a waste of its potential. It had better and more beneficial uses than simply heating the population. And, even more importantly, what was used needed to be replenished. A mighty and high-status warlock may use their own magic if they were willing to expend it in such a way. It was a show of a person's status in society–they would need time and resources afforded them to ensure ample and regular restoration. Skill was also a factor–knowing how to use only what you needed.

Verin lived by the sanctity. His unwavering dedication to his people, nation and government was only improved by it granting him a full time occupation of discovery and creation. Practically all of his magical reserves went into his work, with little allocated to luxuries.

It helped that he didn't find the cold unduly uncomfortable.

The bustling street receded from Verin's perception as he walked at a brisk pace, his to-do list cycling through his mind.

His first task that morning was to visit his physician. He'd been experiencing shame lately and needed it quashed–the world he lived in demanded strength, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he would start to experience turbulent mood swings.

The report he'd read days prior pushed up, demanding attention. He pushed it down again, cycling that to do list and always getting snagged on that first one, visit the physician and deal with his curse–then the report pops up again.

Verin would have preferred a curse. He may have been able to find a cure then. As yet, there was no cure for Verin's mental health issues. They had been a constant bane his whole life, all thirty years.

"When did it start again?" the older warlock asked as he sorted through some vials and placed them onto a tray by Verin's medical bed. He had removed his clothes and lay fully naked, waiting for his treatment.

"A week," he replied.

"Was there a specific event that triggered it?"

"No," Verin lied. Although the physician couldn't tell anyone else, as they took a deadly magical oath as part of their profession, Verin didn't want to discuss it. The report. What it told him.

The feeling had been sparked by the knowledge that his inventions had been turned into an offensive weapon–which, in and of itself, wasn't the problem—but it had been used on a werewolf pack in the human realm, wiping them out—a whole pack. Once that piece of disgrace made its way through, other past and present actions brought it forward again and again, twisting his guts with anxiety.

"Hmmm," the physician looked like he wanted to press further, but one direct look at Verin with eye contact, and he just shook his head and loaded up a syringe with a combination of potions he had collected. The syringe was an artifice and would trigger the magic within the potion to work.

The physician injected the concoction into various points of his body, including his neck, inner elbow, groin, and between his big toes. Verin remained still and quiet, although it was not a pleasant experience.

Finished, the physician placed the spent syringe back on the tray. "You know the drill, Master Verin. Stay here for half an hour for the treatment to take effect." He handed Verin a leather strap to bite into should he need it. "We might need to experiment with other treatments if you're experiencing relapses so regularly."

Verin just nodded and took the strap. The pain had started, causing his hands to ball into fists. He felt a trickle of sweat at the back of his hairline.

The physician exited the room, closing the door behind him to give Verin privacy.

The pain built quickly, faster than he remembered from other times. He fought to contain the scream that was building up inside him as the sensation of being burnt from the inside out rocketed through his body, his blood carrying the remedy through every inch of him, altering his core makeup, trying to alter what brought him down so low.

Outwardly, there was no symptom to what he was experiencing, though his muscles pulled taught as he instinctively fought against the pain, unable to relax into it. He couldn't even get the strap into his mouth, so he just clenched his jaw as groans of pain slid up from his throat.

It had been almost half an hour by the time the pain receded, the burning still present as he was getting dressed. The after-effects of his tensing were felt, too, his muscles and jaw sore.

He hastily made his way to his workshop. He had an important deadline today, task 2, to present to the governing council, referred to as the Book of Bodon. Verin's proposal was for a new alloy for their military to use. The warlock nations' military used the same metal mix as other functions of the warlock realm, where the military use was more strenuous and, therefore, broke down quicker. They constantly made new ones, which strained the kingdom's resources for day-to-day manufacturing requirements.

He reviewed his notes again and retested everything twice before the meeting, checking and rechecking that his efficiency and resource improvement calculations were correct. Everything worked as he expected. He had a moment of pause just as he was collecting his materials for the presentation.

The report reared up again. Quickly proceeding it was the image of the weapon he had created –weapons. It had been two devices he had invented that were used in conjunction against the wolf pack. The first was a disruptor, designed to temporarily sever shifters from their beasts. Purely intended for self-defence–to level the playing field as wolves were warlocks' natural enemies and overpowered them massively, especially if warlocks couldn't draw power to protect themselves. It required a high amount of magic to power it, and only a very skilled warlock could set it up in the first place, let alone use it. The connection between the person and the beast was strong, requiring a scalpel-like precision cut into the fabric of their beings to disconnect them into their two halves. Again, it was temporary but effective. Verin had thought it had been shelved–he had made it the year he left the archipelago, where artificers spent a gruelling two years studying the craft. He’d never heard either of the devices had been retrieved from archives and reproduced.

The real damage had been caused by what he had called his percussion bomb–again, another self-defence weapon that blinded and then knocked the person down with a powerful blast. It was typically just enough to induce unconsciousness, depending on the target. The problem was that it was built to be used against shifters with their beasts intact. The strength of the bomb was calibrated for a powerful being. The combination of use meant they had no beast to boost their strength, essentially making them equal to a human–and humans easily died from head trauma.

His gaze went unfocused as he considered how his new alloy could be twisted and used for purposes other than its intended function. The endless possibilities created a tar-like parasite that curdled in his stomach. He sighed at the unwanted thoughts and the feelings that came with them.

The treatment hadn't kicked in yet.

~*~