Harper Llewellyn
Atlanta, Georgia, USA
...a few days earlier
Harper Eirian Llewellyn ended the call with her best friend from college, Samantha Kelly. They hadn't talked in a while, and it was always good to catch up, but Sam had unwittingly dropped a gift into Harper's lap.
Pushing back from her meticulously organized desk, Harper spun her chair to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling window of her office over Downtown Atlanta. She paid no attention to her reflection, that of a tall, "full-figured" woman wearing a perfectly pressed and exquisitely tailored classic Chanel suit in a tea rose pink, as turquoise eyes gazed blindly out over the Georgia Dome and Philips Arena. Her tawny, honey-and-amber streaked hair was slicked back into a French braid, revealing the flawless ivory of her complexion. Manicured nails tapped restlessly on the arms of her chair for a few heartbeats, before she uncrossed her ankles and rose to her feet.
Gathering up her Balenciaga satchel, Harper cast a final look out at the view before she strode out of the office. A letter of resignation remained behind, left dead center on the desk, as she strode—for the last danged time—out of the Law Offices of Daniels, Jameson & Walker.
A ping from her phone announced the arrival of an email. Giving it a quick check as she waited for the elevator, she quirked an elegant brow at the unfamiliar name, Clara Leon, before she opened it. Seeing contract information and a few other files, Harper truly smiled for the first time in days. A quick perusal showed a rather attractive offer, but she'd go through the contracts more thoroughly once she got home—she knew well and good that the Devil was in the details, having learned that the hard way.
The ride down the elevator was quiet—a benefit of coming in to the office on a Saturday afternoon. The moment the elevators swept open in the parking garage, Harper stepped out, already feeling the weight of responsibility sliding off her shoulders. A definite bounce in her step now, she rapidly walked toward her car. The heels of her onyx Louboutins punctuated each quick, liberating step, echoing like gunfire in the nearly empty employee parking level.
The electronic beep of her car unlocking was a loud, cheerful chirp that brought a small grin to Harper’s face. The huge Ram 3500 Laramie had been an indulgence, a massive beast of a truck with a mega-cab and all the bells-and-whistles, was a brute – well, a brute wearing a coat of glittering hot pink paint with black and chrome trim. It tickled her pink—yes, literally—when people compared her Little Lady to an oversized Barbie Dream Truck.
Climbing into the cab, Harper tossed her satchel into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Leaning her head back against the leather headrest, she closed her eyes and released the breath she hadn’t even realized she had been holding. She’d done it. After a lifetime of feeling indebted to her mother’s family, she was finished.
Still half-afraid someone would catch her, would drag her back upstairs and make her rescind her resignation to her grandfather’s law firm, Harper started up Little Lady and pulled out of the parking garage. Okay, so the tires might have squealed a little at how quickly she made her break, but once her truck emerged into the bright sunlight, she was able to breathe again.
Instead of heading for her condo, Harper turned Little Lady northward, leaping onto the Loop. Rolling down her window, she cranked up the radio, and with far more gusto than anything approaching the melody, she belted out both the male and female parts of "Phantom of the Opera."
Yes, her name was Harper. And yes, she had absolutely zero musical talent. It was her mother’s fault for naming her Harper, and it had become a point of pride…and sheer, absolute stubbornness…that Harper refused to embrace any musicality. Even if she did absolutely adore Broadway musicals.
Thankfully, traffic along the Loop was always a bit lighter during the weekends, so Harper was able to reach her grandmother’s little house up in Kennesaw in about half an hour, give or take. Pulling into the driveway, she parked and hopped out. Quickly, she kicked off her Louboutins and tossed them into the truck, wriggling her bare toes in the dirt with a sigh of relief. Shucking off her suit jacket, it joined the shoes. By the time she had closed her truck door, Harper’s grandmother was out on the porch, waiting for her.
Rhona Mae Morgan’s faded blue eyes gazed knowingly at her granddaughter. Drying her hands with a small towel, she jerked her head of wild, frizzy gray curls.
“Well, girl, ‘bout damned time you showed up. Been expecting you for a bit,” Rhona’s tone was flat, her drawl pure Georgia.
“Sorry, Meemaw,” Harper apologized automatically as she headed into the cool, comforting embrace of her grandmother’s old home.
The interior was spotless, as always, but it was like stepping into a time capsule. The décor could have come straight from Leave it to Beaver…okay, to be fair, it was probably more accurate to compare it to Bewitched, given that Rhona Mae Morgan was a witch. Hell, both sides of Harper’s family were witches, but they came from very different walks of life. The Llewellyn’s were one of the bluest of bloodlines, considered one of the Great Witch Families, while the Morgan’s were…not.
Harper looked around the living room. It hadn’t changed since the last time she had been here, more than twenty years ago. She had not been allowed to visit her grandmother since her mother’s death, when her father and his family had swooped in with their army of lawyers and taken her away. But she had not forgotten. She had never forgotten, just like she had never forgiven.
CRACK!
The crazy old bitch had snapped the hand towel and slapped Harper’s ass!
Indignant, Harper’s hands flew to her rather plump ass as she spun around to glare at her Meemaw, who was smirking like a loon.
“Stop lollygagging, girl! Tea’s in the fridge. Pour us a glass while I get my deck,” Rhona directed before disappearing behind a beaded curtain.
Grumbling under her breath, still rubbing the stinging spot on her ass, Harper headed into the kitchen. She still remembered where the glasses were kept, still remembered the old icebox’s sticky door that took way too much effort to open, and still remembered the taste of her grandmother’s sweet peach tea. Already, her mouth watered in anticipation.
Setting the pitcher and two glasses on the table, Harper poured them both some tea just as her grandmother came in, clutching a glass case against her bosom. Recognizing the case, Harper’s breath caught, but she ruthlessly crushed the grief. Later.
Harper thought she had concealed the grief behind the same mask of general geniality she had worn for years, the same friendly façade that she had honed into a weapon she ruthlessly wielded both in and out of the courtroom, but she had forgotten one thing. Her grandmother was an empath, an extremely powerful one.
A surprisingly gentle hand briefly landed on Harper’s shoulder. “Chin up, girl. The past is in the past, where it belongs. Don’t be summoning up any ghosts that don’t need to be.”
Harper met her grandmother’s gentle, understanding gaze, and felt the lock inside her chest click. It didn’t spring open, but it eased some of the tension she had long since gotten used to. Taking a slow, deep breath, Harper nodded and picked up her tea.
God, it was as good as she remembered. Sweet tea is a Southern thing, ingrained deep in their souls, but Rhona’s sweet tea was on an entirely different level: sweetened with peach syrup and honey, with a hint of mint, it was orgasmic. Okay, not really, but closer than Harper had gotten in longer than she cared to remember, and she just might have expressed that in a throaty groan.
“Done?” Rhona’s voice was amused. When Harper met those dancing, laughing eyes with her own, she actually laughed. A real laugh, one from the belly, that she just couldn’t hold back.
It felt good to laugh again. To laugh properly, to really be happy and give in to amusement. It had been years since she had felt free enough to give more than a polite chuckle.
“Let’s get down to business, girl,” Rhona said, her tone turning serious as she placed the glass case in the center of the dining room table. The case was the size of a small jewelry box, about eight inches long by four inches wide and three inches deep. Each side of the box was crafted of tiny slivers of jewel-toned glass carefully arranged to create an elaborate forest with a blackbird, a stag, an owl, an eagle, a salmon, and a toad—symbols representing the known “Oldest Animals” named in Welsh tales.
Rhona opened the glass case, removing the silk cloth-wrapped bundle nestled within. Carefully, she spread out the silk fabric on the table between them before she set a deck of well-worn, but beautifully hand-painted stack of tarot cards in the center of the pure ivory fabric. With a wave of a hand, the deck rose from the table.
At a pointed look from Rhona, Harper took a deep, steadying breath and lifted her own hand. There was a faint twinge, a little knowing, the moment Rhona’s energy pulled back from the deck, allowing Harper’s power to instead curl around the cards.
For a moment, the cards wavered. A sheen of perspiration dotted Harper’s forehead as she strained, flexing the instinctive magic that was her legacy from the Morgan blood in her veins. It shamed her how much she had let this half of her magical heritage fall fallow, but in the look of her grandmother’s eyes, there was only understanding, no condemnation.
Gritting her teeth, Harper stared fixedly at the cards, mentally building the image of what she desired to occur. She steadied her breathing, matching it to the beat of her heart, falling into the flow of magic that pulsed within her. Only once she had the mental construction completed did she mentally reach outward, to manifest it into reality.
Slowly, but with increasing confidence, the floating cards began to drift apart, dancing around, flicking together, spinning and circling, until with a mental push, Harper shuffled them back together and let the deck settle unto the table once more.
Meeting Rhona’s gaze once more, Harper flicked her wrist. One-by-one, the top three cards of the deck slicked forward, sliding free of the pile to arrange themselves in a row. Another flick of Harper’s fingers, and the cards flipped over.
Both women stared at the three revealed cards. Both women inhaled sharply as vivid turquoise eyes met faded denim in shock. Without a word, Rhona stood up and walked over to the sideboard. She returned a moment later with two cut crystal glasses and a bottle of Penderyn Celt whisky. Pouring them both a healthy draught, Rhona handed one of the glasses to Harper.
“Well, girl,” Rhona drawled out, pausing only long enough to toss back the two-fingers of whisky before she leveled an amused smirk at her granddaughter. “Seems to me, your life is about to get even more interesting.”
Harper slumped back, glaring at the three cards spread out before her. “Fuck my life.”
Bydd hyn yn digwydd yn fuan!