A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery by Juliet Blackwell Read Free Book Online Page B

Like Bronwyn, my familiar couldn’t hold a grudge. Not if there was food involved.
    “Real coconut? Not from a package?” He leaped up to perch on the kitchen counter. It was a bad habit I’dtried to break him of—like standing on the stove while he cooked, apparently impervious to the heat—but needless to say, I’d failed in my attempts.
    “Is there any other kind?”
    “Oh, and, mistress? Another thing.”
    “Yes, Oscar?”
    “Don’t forget you’re taking the GED on Saturday.”
    “I’ll be there.”
    “It’s just that you kept forgetting to register, remember? So I thought I should remind you.”
    “Thank you. I haven’t forgotten.” How could I? My friends, and Oscar, were practically hounding me about the subject. All because a fit of absentmindedness had led me to miss the exam once. And I had forgotten to register for the next one until it was almost too late.
    They knew the truth: I didn’t want to take it. I was afraid of algebra.
    Fortunately, I had no such fear of cooking. I brought down my old battered tin canisters of organic flour and cocoa from a high shelf and took out some whole milk in the old-fashioned glass bottle and a couple of brown eggs I’d bought at the farmers’ market.
    “Want me to drive you to the test?” Oscar asked.
    “No
.
”
I mixed the dry ingredients, then combined them in a large mixing bowl with the milk and eggs and turned on the mixer, enjoying the old machine’s familiar cranking sound. “Wait. You know how to drive?”
    “’Course I know how to drive! I just had a birthday. I’m no kid.” Oscar stuck one long bony finger into the batter and brought a chocolate dollop to his mouth.
    “But—”
    Suddenly my heart sped up, I could hear pounding in my ears, and I smelled roses. Not long ago, I might have been afraid I was experiencing a seizure of some kind. But I now knew the signs: a certain sexy, grumpy psychic named Sailor must be nearby.
    There was a smart rapping on the door of my apartment.
    Last week, in a gesture of trust I could scarcely believe myself, I had given Sailor a key to Aunt Cora’s Closet, as well as to my apartment above the store. Still and all, he always knocked. He was a gentleman that way.
    I hurried to open the door, then stepped back, embarrassed by my own eagerness.
    “Well, aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes,” Sailor growled, setting down his motorcycle helmet and taking me in his arms. He smelled of fresh laundry, leather jacket, and that indefinable scent that was just . . . Sailor. He had dark eyes and hair, was tall and lean but strong, and I was obsessed with a different body part every time I saw him. Lately it was his forearms. They were broad and capable and covered with dark hair.
    We kissed for a long moment, the connection deepening until he pushed me gently up against the wall, leaned into me, and—
    “Ahem,”
said Oscar from the kitchen, his arms folded over his scaly chest.
    Oscar liked Sailor, even had a bit of hero worship for him, but he wasn’t fond of what he called “PDA,” or public displays of affection. The fact that we were in my apartment and not on a crowded street didn’t matter. If Oscar could see something, he considered it “public.”
    “Ever hear the saying: Don’t count your change in front of the poor?” Oscar groused.
    “Sorry, little guy,” I said with a smile. In fact, my familiar had stolen that saying from me.
    Sailor shot him a dirty look. “Maybe it’s time you moved out, found your own place.”
    Oscar’s eyes grew so wide you could drown in their bottle-glass green depths.
    “Mistress,”
he breathed. “Mistress, tell me you’re not planning on making me—”
    “Of course not,” I said, hitting Sailor lightly on the shoulder. He just grinned. “You bully, don’t be mean.” I turned to my familiar. “Oscar, as long as I have a home, you have a home. And even if we didn’t have a place to live, we’d be each other’s home. We’re