Carmen Miranda Everhart Newton, an air witch, newly widowed and with a baby in one of those portable car-seat thingies resting on the counter by the register, squealed, rushed around the counter, and threw herself at me, hugging me. She smelled of milk and talcum powder and other people’s cash. And baby. I couldn’t help my smile. Beast purred deep down inside. Kitssss, she thought at me. We had saved Carmen’s life and, by extension, the baby’s life, before it was born. Of all the sisters except Molly, she liked me best. I patted her back, feeling like a giant next to the tiny woman.
The wholly human sisters, Regan and Amelia, and two other witch sisters, twins Boadacia and Elizabeth, ran the herb store, which wasn’t open yet, worked at the café as waitstaff, and doubled as cooks when Evangelina was off. The witch twins were the babies of the family, fearless, gorgeous, and always getting into trouble trying spells they shouldn’t have. Dual screams announced Cia and Liz just before they tackled me. All four of us staggered back against the door, laughing. Which left me in the middle of a giggling, chattering pack of females. It made me feel all mushy inside. The hugging felt weird. I wasn’t a hugger. I patted shoulders knowing I should be doing something else. Something more. I met Molly’s eyes over her sisters’ heads, and was surprised to see tears. Molly was happy I was here. The mushy feeling spread through me, unaccustomed, unfamiliar, alien. And wonderful.
The witches smelled of bread and cooked meat and herbs. Despite the Mickie D’s, my belly rumbled. The girls laughed at the sound and pulled me to the family’s corner booth near the kitchen. I usually avoided booths from an ingrained security standpoint, but I didn’t say no. The Everharts were the closest thing I had to a family, the group of sisters having practically adopted me when I brought Carmen out of a vamp’s lair alive and well. They had hair in various shades of red, eyes of blue or green, and names with character, strength, and something like poetry.
Feeling warm and content, I allowed myself to be pushed into the booth next to Molly and took Little Evan on my lap where he stood, squealing. His sneakered feet bounced on my thighs and he tried to climb onto the table, his little denim-covered bottom up in the air.
“He’s into everything,” Molly said over the ruckus. “Ten times worse than Angelina ever was.” At my inquiring look, she said, “Angie’s in school.”
“Which feels so strange,” one sister said as they all tried to cram into the booth with us, all talking at once, and over each other until I couldn’t follow who was saying what, not while trying to hold on to Little Evan.
“Angie Baby’s so grown up.”
“The next generation of Everharts is going to be huge.”
“Cia’s boyfriend wants six kids.”
“I’m trying to talk him down.”
“We’ll take better care of this batch.”
“No deaths with ours. Never again.”
“No runaways, no losses, no disappearances.”
“Good health and happiness. From now on,” Molly said. It sounded like a blessing, and when the others repeated the phrase in unison, “Good health and happiness!” I knew it was—a blessing for family, in the ancient way of blessings, words spoken with purpose and power.
“Amen to that,” one sister said. The ones with mugs clinked them together.
“Janie, you want the usual?”
I craned around looking for the speaker and said, “Yes, please,” in my best Christian schoolgirl’s manners, figuring I’d never be heard. But a rasher of black-pepper maple bacon, cut thick, fried crisp, and a half loaf of seven grain bread appeared on the table as if by witches’ conjure. A pot of fresh tea followed. One sister took Little Evan, and I started eating, knowing I wore a goofy smile, as much because of my feelings as for the food. Everhart sisters’ hips crushed against mine; the chatter was almost deafening. Six eggs scrambled hard and a stack of pancakes with blueberry syrup found places between the arms and hands and mugs, the two sisters on duty keeping food and drinks flowing to customers seated around the café, too.
“Anyone figure out what Angie’s dreams mean yet?” Cia asked, pouring tea into my cup and topping off the four other mugs.
“Deer could be some sort of anthropological, Celtic, mass-memory.”
“Dead deer in a big pile. Blood and bones. No horned ones. Not a Celtic thing.”
“A warning?”
I couldn’t help with dream interpretation. If I dreamed of dead deer, Beast would be eating them. I grinned wider and dug in as one sister upended a canister of whipped cream, squirting a mountain on top of the pancakes and another poured on blueberry syrup. The New Orleans French Quarter had nothing on the Sassy Sisters’ menu. The chatter grew as customers departed and the sisters settled in for a visit. The baby’s car seat landed in the middle of the table, the baby asleep, and cute in a drooling-snoring-bald-toothless way. And my heart expanded until it might explode. Yeah. If I’d grown up with a family, this was what I would have wanted it to be like: noisy and loving and demonstrative.