Just a Little Magic

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Owen hurled his pencil against the wall in frustration. Useless. If he ever expected to earn his Master’s Degree in Music Composition, he needed to create music of grace and precision. Not the syrupy drivel he’d been slogging his way through for weeks now. How was he supposed to write joyful music when he couldn’t remember what joy felt like?

The pieces he’d written expressing loneliness, grief, and need—now those had quietly offered themselves like old familiar friends, nodding their understanding. But joy? The notes he wrote fell flat. The melody screeched “counterfeit.” Better silence than this pathetic sham.

He viciously crumpled the page of manuscript paper he’d been writing on and lobbed it at the wastebasket. Pulling out a fresh, blank sheet, he stared at the empty staves with loathing.

A long, mournful howl sounded from the back bedroom. Two more joined it in rapid succession. The tiny house was suddenly filled with an awful crescendo of need.

Hopeless exasperation welled up in him. Shoving his chair away from the rickety table, he stalked down the hallway to the spare room. Three black cats pushed to the front of their cages to rub and head-butt against the doors. The howling increased in volume as they saw a potential savior.

Trying to project calming and peaceful thoughts, he said, “Ladies, please, hush! No one is getting laid tonight—not you, and certainly not me. Believe me, I sympathize. But more kittens is not something any of us needs.” Owen had always enjoyed a deep empathy for animals, cats in particular. He could read them and, to a certain degree, communicate with them. Except when they were in heat—the overwhelming drive to mate blocked out everything else. Tonight was no exception.

The frenzy inside the cages intensified, and the volume ratcheted up.

Owen’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Over the din, he pleaded, his voice gradually rising louder and louder, “Look, you’re black cats; I’m Wiccan. Aren’t you supposed to feel a kinship, an urge to be my familiars, to do my bidding? Because I’d really like it if you would just shut up!”

The moment of shocked silence that followed was electric.

Three pairs of sage green eyes fixed upon him, measured him, and found him wanting.

The yowling resumed.

Flinching at the noise, he gave in. Work would have to wait. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you run around a bit.” Securing the bedroom door, Owen went from cage to cage and released the cats. They bounded out and curled around his legs, rubbing and purring and meowing. He grabbed a can of cat food and three bowls and sat in the middle of the floor. “Yum—seafood medley tonight.” He divided the treat equally among his guests. Blessed silence reigned while they gobbled the food.

He sighed in relief. “Only a couple more days, girls, and then it’s off to the animal rescue in Kenston to be spayed.” Owen petted and scratched the cats and had them leaping through the air chasing toys—anything to divert them from the demands of their hormones. And he found it soothing as well—a respite from trying to force uplifting music from his stubborn muse.

But as the shadows lengthened, that ever-lurking voice of urgency was calling to him again, and he returned the cats to their cages. It was already late October, and his final project for his degree was due before the end of the semester. With only half of it complete, there was no time to dawdle.

Now the cats were temporarily lulled into sleep by food and exercise, he retrieved his pencil and settled back at the table in the living room. Joy. Just how does joy sound? He strained to hear notes that his mind steadfastly refused to play.

Instead, the phone rang jarringly loud in the silent room.

A sharp flash of annoyance swept through him at the interruption. Annoyance quickly turned to guilt when he looked at the caller ID. How long had it been since he’d called his older half-sister? Too long, if he couldn’t even remember. “Hi, Brynne. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check in—I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Is everything okay?” Her voice was tinged with a mixture of reproach and concern.

“Yes, I’m fine. Still working on the composition, but I’m making progress.” Yeah, like an ice age makes progress. But at least he could report the headway he’d made with the darker emotions. “The moody pieces are pretty good, I think. And the cats seem to like them.”

“Uh huh. Just how many cats are we talking about now?”

That familiar feeling of failure settled over him, and he slumped in his chair. “Too many. I think the colony totals near forty now. And I’ve got three females in heat locked in the back bedroom. At least I got the rescue up in Kenston to lend me some cages. But the endless howling—you have no idea.” Owen shuddered at the thought of another sleepless night of unrelenting screeching as the cats demanded to be set free to find a mate. “But it should only last a few more days. Then I can take them to be spayed.” He had to keep reminding himself it was safer for the animals to wait out the heat cycle before having the surgery. But this past week had been brutal—for both him and the cats.

“Well, caring for that feral cat colony is very compassionate of you, but it sounds like you’re taking on too much. Come stay with us for a week. Or even just a couple days—you could use a break.” Brynne hesitated for a moment. “I miss you. And Alan said he wants you to come as well.”

Owen stiffened at the mention of his half-sister’s husband. After their mother died, Brynne had taken over and raised Owen. They hadn’t had much—just the safety and security of belonging to each other. But then Brynne had met Alan and, for some inexplicable reason, decided to marry the conservative dolt.

To be entirely truthful, Owen did have to give the man a little credit for accepting that Brynne and Owen were a package deal. And maybe if Owen had been bright and bubbly and blonde like his half-sister, Alan would have dealt with an instant family better. But instead, the man had been handed a graceless teenager with long, ink-black hair and an even darker attitude. The situation had been doomed from the start. But Alan moved in anyways, unpacking all his possessions and his prejudices. And one of those prejudices was a total opposition to anything connected with the Wiccan religion.

Which really shouldn’t have been a problem. After the death of his mother, Owen had let his commitment to her religion lapse. But, just to pique Alan’s ire, suddenly Wicca was promoted to great importance in Owen’s life. Wiccan symbols and tools were prominently displayed in their home, rituals were performed, and holidays observed. The tension was constant.

And when, in an already strained situation, Owen announced he was gay, any chance for domestic harmony rolled over and died. Alan was not a happy man. Neither was Owen. At least not until Owen moved out to attend college, seeking solace—and a degree—in music.

After a silence too lengthy to be comfortable, Brynne said. “Look, I know you feel obligated to take care of those cats—really, I get it. But you can’t give up your life for them. You should sell that place and move back here. Find a nice, quiet apartment and finish your project. You could bring Gideon with you.” Her voice wavered. “Please, Owen, at least think about it. I hate this distance between us.”

Regret at causing her pain stung him. “Brynne, I miss you, too. And I’ll try to get there. Soon.” He sighed. “Look, I’ve got to go now. I still have a lot of work to do tonight.” They said their goodbyes, and Owen set the phone down.

A huge, long-haired, orange tabby strolled into the room, settled on the tattered rug, and stared at Owen with bright amber eyes.

Owen’s spirits lifted immediately. “Hi, Gideon, I wondered where you were. Brynne thinks the two of us should move back there. Any opinion?”

The cat gracefully lifted his rear leg and began to lick his butt.

Laughter bubbled up. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say.” No, Gideon wouldn’t willingly leave this place. The enormous Maine Coon cat—all twenty-six pounds of him—had been waiting on the porch when Owen first arrived to check out his unexpected inheritance. The inscrutable feline was apparently part of the odd bequest from Owen’s estranged father. No one understood why the man had left forty acres and a threadbare house to a son he’d barely known. But whatever the reasons, Owen had been delighted with the rent-free solitude the place offered. Of course, that had been before finding out it was a dumping ground for unwanted cats, courtesy of the residents of the small town of Sadler’s Mill.

Gideon suddenly abandoned his grooming and crouched, his claws digging into the rug. Tufted ears pricked, he growled, low and rumbling.

Catching the cat’s sense of danger, Owen rose and moved quietly into the shadows, waiting.

A moment later, the window in the front door exploded, and jagged glass shards showered the room, tinkling like wind chimes. A fist-sized rock rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor.

Shock hit Owen hard. It was immediately followed by incandescent anger. Heart racing, he flung open the door. Remnants of the glass still in the frame shattered as the door crashed against the wall, but Owen was already down the front steps and running through the overgrown yard.

From the left, he heard rapid footsteps crackling through the tall, dry weeds. Fueled by rage, he pivoted and headed straight for the sound, determined to catch the bastards who did this. Up to now, they’d only thrown trash into the yard or left dead animals on his porch—just “pranks” according to the sheriff. But this was actual property damage—maybe enough for the lazy-ass law officer to actually do something about.

Moving beyond the pool of light radiating from inside the house, Owen slowed his steps in the near darkness. He stood still, listening, letting his eyes adjust to the pale glow of a quarter moon.

He could hear whispering now. Picking his way carefully, he moved towards the voices until words became intelligible.

“Jimmy, come on! He’s gonna catch us.”

“I gotta find my hat. Now help me look.”

“Forget the hat—if he catches us, he’ll kill us. She only paid us to scare him. But we broke the window, Jimmy. We broke the damned window. If my dad finds out about this, he’ll take his belt to me—hard.”

“We’ve both had worse.” The brave bluster was spoiled by the quiver in the voice.

“Jimmy, please!”

“All right, stop whining. Just shut up, and let’s go.” The sound of bicycle kickstands being flipped up came out of the darkness.

Astonishment rooted Owen where he stood. Kids. Those were just kids trying to scare him. And the one named “Jimmy” had lost his hat. Owen retraced his steps to his front porch. He searched carefully and thoroughly until he found it. Grinning, he picked up the hat and climbed the steps. In the light spilling out of the doorway, he could read, “Property of Jimmy Delano. Give it back!”

Oh, this could be useful. Very useful.