Christmas Brew (Witches of New Orleans #2)

2. Christmas Trees and Creepy Attics

CHAPTER 2

Christmas Trees and Creepy Attics

“ S tart talking, Zeke,” I warn, shooing Hecate off the counter. The small man relaxes his stance, holding the knife to his side.

“Well, I was born on a warm autumn evening, which means my parents most likely did the nasty during the peak of winter. I mean, what else is there to do when it’s cold in the old country?” He straightens his coat. “I’m the oldest of fourteen, and Mum is expecting twins in a few months, so who knows.”

“Zeke, that’s not what she means,” Drake chimes in. “What do you mean, Margaret sent you?”

The small man glares at my friend, clearly annoyed by his interruption. “I feel like my words are clear. Margaret sent me.”

“How?” I ask. “She’s been gone for nearly a year.”

A tiny laugh escapes his lips. “She’s gone in your world, but not in mine. I am an imp.”

“Okay.”

Zeke looks between the two of us, waiting for a different response. He clears his throat before speaking. “Imps have the ability to travel through dimensions.” He wiggles his fingers with his words.

“Okay.”

He sighs. “What is off limits or unreachable by humans can often be reachable by me.”

“Did you know Margaret while she was alive?”

Tiny shoulders shrug. “Yes.”

“Zeke, you’re talking in circles, and you’re running out of time,” Drake answers, moving closer to the small man.

He holds his hands in the air. “Okay, okay. Since you two are baby witches, I will explain. May I?” He motions toward the saltshaker.

“Sure?”

He slides on top, crossing his tiny legs at the knee. “I don’t know what you know about imps, so please forgive me if I overexplain.”

“Overexplaining is good,” Drake answers for the both of us.

“I met Margaret, your aunt, around thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years? How old are you?” I interrupt.

A tiny finger taps on his chin. “I’ve lost count, but somewhere around three hundred, plus or minus a few decades. Anyway, I met Margaret at a shop in New Orleans. She purchased an item I was bound to.”

“You were bound to an item?” I interrupt again.

He uncrosses his legs. “Are you going to keep interrupting, or may I continue my story?”

“No. I’m sorry. Please continue.”

He clears his throat once more. He points at a silver box high on the bookshelf in the kitchen. “It was that stupid thing.” Drake and I glance at the small box. “The witch that bound me to it died, and many of her items were sent to antique stores.” He jumps off the saltshaker dramatically. “Ta-da! She found me.”

“Why were you bound to the box?” Drake asks.

“I was called upon to do her bidding. Keeping me bound to an object ensured I would always be in her debt.”

“What kind of things would you do for her?”

He shrugs. “Whatever she wanted. Spells, granting wishes, etc.”

“Granting wishes? Like a genie?”

Tiny hands prop on his hips. “Don’t confuse me with those jerks. I’m not a genie. I am an imp, and I don’t appreciate the comparison.”

“When the witch who bound you to the box died, you were taken to the antique store, and my aunt bought the box, knowing you were inside.”

“You’re getting it.” Zeke smiles. “She said you were a smart one.”

“Why are you no longer bound to the box?” Drake asks.

“Margaret freed me.” His answer is simple and straightforward. “Over the years, we became friends.” He leans against the saltshaker. “I was saddened to hear of her passing. She was a great woman, and I loved her very much.” He shakes his hands in front of him. “Not in a creepy stalker-type way.”

“Zeke, do you know what happened to her?”

“No. ”

“If you can cross dimensions, can’t you just ask her?” I ask the imp.

“There are rules in the ethereal. When a soul dies, the method of their death leaves their memories. The Margaret I visit isn’t the same Margaret that lived here.”

“That’s confusing,” I admit.

“Yeah, I get it.” He moves closer to the stove. “I’m hungry. Have anything to eat?”

I point at what remains of our lunch, covering the floor, along with the broken glass of the container it was cooked in. “We did until you broke them.”

Zeke snickers at the mess. “Sorry about that. Old habits die hard.” He disappears from the counter, reappearing next to the mess. “Look. This part didn’t even touch the floor. You could still eat it. Hell, I’ve eaten worse.”

“I’ll make some sandwiches,” Drake interrupts, “then you can help clean up that mess.” He nods toward Zeke.

“Me?” the imp asks. “Clean?”

“Yes, you.”

Ten minutes later, the glass and lunch are cleaned up, and the floor is spotless. Zeke complained about not being able to use magic and being asked to hold the dustpan instead, but surprisingly, he helped clean up the mess he made.

“Could I have a sandwich?” he asks as Drake sets our freshly made lunch on the table.

“Of course,” I answer. The three of us sit at the large table. Drake and I occupy chairs, while Zeke sits on the edge of his plate. I’m shocked at how much food he scarfs down for his size. He’s eaten an entire sandwich in the time the two of us have eaten half of ours.

He stands, taping his now larger belly. “That was scrumdiliumcious. Thank you.” He leaps from the table, next to Hecate, who hasn’t taken her eyes off him. “I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs me.” He turns, glaring at the four-legged fur ball. “Including you.” He disappears from the kitchen.

Drake and I both stare at the spot he occupied moments earlier. “What the hell was that?” I whisper.

Drake’s laughter bounces off the wall. “That was a handful.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right. What do we do with him?”

He shrugs, taking the plates to the sink. “I have a feeling he knows more than he’s telling us. If Margaret sent him to you, there’s a reason.”

“I just need to figure out why.” I join him at the sink, and the two of us wash the dishes in no time.

“In the meantime, how about we go pick out a Christmas Tree?”

Wiping the water from the plate I’m holding, I turn, facing my handyman. “Really? A live Christmas Tree? As in we go pick one out, cut it down, and bring it back to the house?”

“Well, yes. The artificial ones don’t grow very well.” He smiles at his words, and I resist the urge to pop him with the damp towel I’m holding—my weapon of choice for the day. “The attic is full of decorations. Margaret loved Santa Claus almost as much as she loved Halloween.” He laughs at a memory. “I’ll bring the ornaments down when we get back with the tree. ”

The thought of decorating both a live Christmas Tree and the house for Christmas excites me. Since my parents’ deaths, I haven’t celebrated Christmas. Being on my own, the holiday is just like any other day.

“You might want to take a shower before we leave. You smell a little swampy .” I take the dish he’s holding from his hand, drying it carefully.

“That’s a great idea. I’ll be back shortly.” Drake leaves me alone with my thoughts and the few remaining dishes in the sink. I’ve never been to a tree farm. I’ve seen plenty of movies full of tree farms and holiday cheer, but I’ve never experienced one before. Butterflies take flight, thinking about the adventure.

Finishing in the kitchen, I sit at the large table, flipping through my family grimoire, when Drake appears in the doorway. His hair is still wet, and he’s wearing the iconic tree-cutting attire, a buffalo plaid shirt, and jeans that hug him in all the right places. When did he get so hot? I mean, he’s always been hot, but he looks…damn.

“Are you ready?” he asks, propping his hands on the door frame above his head.

I clear the frog from my throat. “Yeppers.” I stand, grab my crossbody, and move toward him. Goddess, that was weird.

Drake holds the door to his truck open for me, and I climb in. “Thanks,” I whisper, closing the door myself.

Thankfully, the drive to the tree farm doesn’t take long. “This is so cool,” I exclaim, seeing the massive amount of people walking around the farm. Large sleighs being pulled by green tractors carry visitors with their freshly cut trees back from the fields. “It’s straight out of a movie.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pulling the truck to a stop. “Ready?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I jump out of the truck, heading straight toward the excitement. Drake is right behind me, with his hand on the small of my back. “Is that hot chocolate?” I point to a shack with a line holding at least fifty people.

“Looks that way.”

“It’s not even cold.”

He laughs. “But it adds to the holiday cheer.” We stop in front of a sign that reads Tractor Loading just as an empty sleigh pulls to a stop. “We need to go to the back fields. That’s where the biggest trees are.”

“How big?”

“Margaret usually chose a twelve-footer.” He shrugs. “Sometimes bigger. Depended on which tree called to her.”

The tractor bounces us through the already cut fields. Most people get off around the seven- to eight-foot tree section. Drake and I are the last to exit, waiting until the trees don’t look as well-manicured.

“Margaret usually chose one of these.” Drake stops in front of a rustic tree, at least three feet taller than him.

“That’s gorgeous. Will it fit?”

“That depends on where you put it. Margaret always put them in the foyer, so the tops of the tree could be as tall as she wanted.” He stands next to the cypress tree, giving me a visual of how tall it is.

“I feel bad cutting it down. ”

“The great thing about this type of tree is they grow back quickly. They sprout from the base and grow an average of two feet per year. If we cut this one down, there will be a new one in its place next spring.”

“Then, I want this one.” Rubbing the greenery between my fingers, I send a silent apology to the tree for what we’re about to do.

Drake lays on the ground in front of the cypress and begins cutting. “The tree says to tell you we’re not hurting it.”

I stare at my handyman. “You can talk to the tree?”

“Sometimes.” He laughs. “I know it sounds crazy. Must be something I inherited from my mom.”

“You didn’t ask for my opinion, but I think you’ve barely tapped into your powers. There’s more to you than you know, Drake Ross.”

“You do realize how ironic it is to hear that from you? You haven’t even touched the surface. You’re a gray witch, Rose. You’re more powerful than anyone I’ve met…including Margaret.” His words make me uncomfortable. I’ve never been the “best” at anything. Thinking I could hold unmatchable power is intimidating.

The tree falls to the side with a soft thud as he cuts through the thick trunk. “Thank you, my friend,” I whisper to the tree as Drake grabs the trunk and pulls it toward the sleigh stop. “This thing is huge.”

“Yeah. It’s perfect.” The tractor pulled sleigh stops in front of us. The driver jumps off to help Drake load the tree. We take the last two seats and bounce our way back to the bustling area.

Christmas carols ring through the air as families drag their bounty from the sleigh toward the packing area. “Can we get some hot chocolate?” I ask, not sure why I want to drink something hot in seventy-degree temperatures.

“Sure. I think they have brownies, too.”

“You’re speaking my love language, Drake.” I smile as we get to the back of the mile-long line. It moves quickly, and the small talk between us becomes more natural the longer we wait. I’ve noticed Drake since day one, but something about him is different. Maybe I’m different? I find myself noticing little things about him that I haven’t noticed before. His crooked smile—the dimples when he smiles—the freckles covering his nose.

Ten minutes later, we’re on our way back to the house with the world’s largest tree in the bed of the truck, along with two lukewarm cups of watered-down chocolate and a brownie.

“I’ll grab the decorations from the attic after I get the tree in the house and set it up.” Drake drinks the last of his cold chocolate.

“I’ll go.” I wave my hand toward him. “It’ll be fun to search through the attic anyway.”

Drake wrinkles his forehead. “Are you sure? That room is on the creepy side.”

“Yeeaahh. Clearly, I haven’t had enough creepy stuff.”

Drake laughs as he unloads the tree from the truck, and I work my way to the third floor and the attic door. Turning the antique knob, the door creaks open to another set of stairs. Twelve steps later, I’m standing in the highest room of the house. The single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling is straight out of a horror movie. “You’re a witch, Rose. Why are you letting a dark room freak you out?” Speaking the words aloud doesn’t help ease the tension.

How would a witch bring light into a room? Since inheriting the house and money, I’ve spent countless hours studying the grimoire and the spells Margaret left. Most of the spells have been complicated. Something as simple as turning on a light bulb hasn’t come across my feed.

A memory from my favorite book series comes to mind, and the word used for light with it. “Lumos,” I say out loud. On command, the single light comes to life, and shadows fill the room, bringing the space to life. In true Margaret form, the room is perfectly organized and labeled. “Not so scary in the light, huh?” I announce to no one.

Moving to the section marked Christmas, I find three boxes labeled ornaments and five labeled décor . From the looks of all of it, Margaret liked Christmas as much as she did Halloween.

A sound from the opposite side of the attic grabs my attention. I drop the Hawaiian Santa I’m holding, turning toward the sound. The only thing in the corner is a rounded item covered in a sheet and what looks like an older-style couch covered in the same material. The sound happens again. I stare at the sheets, trying to decide if I’m the victim of my own imagination.

Against my better judgment, I move toward the items, praying I’m losing my mind. The sound happens a third time, this time the sheet slides down, revealing a golden-framed wall-sized mirror. “Shit. ”

I do what all the people who die first in a horror movie do—I stare into the mirror. The person in the reflection is me. Her dark hair is messy and probably has coffee grounds stuck in it from work. Her dark eyes look tired and confused. In a moment of stupidity, I move closer. “What do you want to show me?” I ask the woman in front of me.

Magically, my image morphs into someone I don’t recognize. A man with dark hair and eyes stares back at me. The waistcoat he’s wearing is straight out of the 1700s, along with the sword attached to his belt. What’s happening?

The man smiles, revealing two pointed teeth, sending my heart into my stomach. Pirate? He lifts his hand, pressing it firmly against the glass. An invisible force takes over, compelling me to mirror his movements. My hand rises slowly, moving as if controlled by his. Just before I make contact, the mirror shatters, spraying shards of glass across the attic. I stumble back, shielding my face as slivers slice across my skin.

“What the actual hell were you thinking?” a voice says behind me. “Do you know what could’ve happened if you’d have touched his hand?”

I turn, finding Zeke the Imp standing a few feet behind me. He’s changed from the suit he was wearing into what looks like a jogging set and sneakers.

“No,” I answer truthfully. “Was that real?”

“It was very much real,” Zeke continues. “Are you always this dumb?”

I turn toward my rude houseguest. “Listen, Z. I’ve only known I was a witch since October. I’m allowed to be dumb at this point.” I turn back toward the empty brass frame. “Who was that?”

“That was Kragen. The asshole who wants Margaret’s amulet.”

Remembering the name from my ancestor’s journal. “The one Clary stole the crystal from?”

“The very same.”

“What was he?”

Zeke sighs. “Other than being a complete jerk, he’s your worst nightmare.”

“His teeth…”

“Yeah, it’s a vampire thing.”

“Vampire?” I laugh at Zeke’s words. “Now who’s dumb?”

“You,” he answers. Leaning against an old box, he crosses his legs at the ankle. “You’re a witch. You’ve seen magic. I’m willing to bet you’ve performed magic, yet you don’t believe there are other things in this world?”

“I…I guess I never thought about it. Are you saying vampires are real?”

“Very much real. Werewolves, too.” For the first time in a while, I’m speechless. Zeke laughs. “Most of them are jerks.”

“Do they glisten in the sunlight?”

The imp doubles over in laughter. “Wait until I tell Fran about that.”

“I’m guessing that means no.” Turning back toward the broken mirror, I start piecing the story together. “The man Clary stole the crystal from was a vampire.” My words are more of a statement than a question.

“Yes. A vampire pirate to be exact. ”

“Kragen,” I speak his name out loud.

“Don’t say his name three times. He’ll appear.”

I stare at the small man in front of me. “You’re teasing—right?”

“Yes, he’s teasing,” Drake says, moving to my side. “Sorry. I couldn’t help but overhear the last part of that conversation.” He looks around at the shattered glass. “What happened?”

“Rose, here, tried to touch a vampire’s hand.”

Drake looks at me. “I think I’m going to need a little more context here.”

“This used to be a mirror.” I point at the empty frame. “I was searching through the Christmas decorations and heard a noise coming from underneath the sheet that covered it. When I pulled it off, there was an image of a man.” I glance at Zeke. “He said he was a vampire.”

“No. I believe I said he was a vampire pirate. Tell her, Frank. Vampires are real.”

“My name is Drake. I’ve heard rumors of vampires in the city but never met one. Are you saying a pirate vampire was in the mirror in Rose’s attic?”

“Yep. You get a gold star.”

“How is that possible?” I ask.

“Kragen is a very old and powerful vampire. Appearing in that mirror is something he would do just for the hell of it,” Zeke answers.