**If you read and like my short story, please consider purchasing some of my full-length novels! This story is a tie-in to my new Hedgewitch mystery series, due out next month.**
A core belief of my spirituality is that what we put out into the world comes back to us threefold—good or bad. One random act of kindness could return a hailstorm of good juju; mugging a person at gunpoint could make you a toad in the next life.
I don’t know what I did to earn the past three years, but it must have been bad. Stabbing-someone-with-a-knife bad. Ripping-fingers-off-to-feed-to-small-animals bad. Something so naughty I was running full tilt from the negative energy I must have earned because of it.
There I was, urging my tiny Ford hatchback through the driving snow and trying to see beyond the blanket of white that obscured the street. It wasn’t even the Solstice yet and already winter was brutal. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and wondered what in the name of Freya had brought me to Maine in December.
Besides the obvious.
Being a tree-hugging, dirt-worshipping, nature-loving witch doesn’t necessarily keep one from making bad decisions. On the contrary, we’re as prone to error as the next guy. Maybe even more so, because unlike most of the “normals”, we worry about our actions.
That train of thought was not helpful. A shiver snaked up my spine despite the overwhelming heat inside the car. I fiddled with the heater, turning it down a bit, and then glanced in the rearview mirror.
Nothing here but us snowflakes.
I silently berated myself for being stupid. I hadn’t been followed.
I needed to get my mind in a better place before I veered down the wrong path. With my eyes glued to the invisible road before me, I searched for the radio controls with one hand. I pressed what I thought felt like the “on” button and was startled by a loud blast of punk rock. My gloved fingers fumbled to turn the volume down to a trickle. I laughed at myself. At the way my heart was pounding.
I had no idea where I was headed. Just…away. Somewhere northern. I was worried about where I would sleep—where I would live—but I wasn’t worried about money.
There’s something to be said for being frugal while your life is falling down around you.
The warm glow of an establishment was approaching on my right, creeping towards me at a snail’s pace. A large, pulsing red arrow advertised “Diner”. The front of the small building spilled light into the night, and the lack of cars in the lot promised obscurity. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, pausing in the icy street while I considered my options. With a shrug—what did I have to lose?—I turned in.
I slid smoothly into a parking spot near the door, cut the engine, and let the keys fall to my lap before resting my head wearily against the headrest. The wind howled outside, shaking my little car like a toddler with a Tonka. I shivered, reaching for my long, emerald scarf and wrapping it around my neck.
I popped on the dim overhead light and adjusted the rearview mirror so I could see my face. The bruise had only gotten worse in a day’s time. I probed the dark purple spot, wincing as pain shot through my jaw. No amount of concealer could cover up that bad boy.
There was still a yellow tint to the skin under my other eye. It would probably be gone in a day or two, but beneath the dark blue of my eyes, it looked green and dirty. I sighed, pushing the mirror back into position a little too forcefully.
Here’s hoping no one’s nosy, I thought, turning the light off. I pulled my funky, sage-colored ski cap with the ear flaps over my wild, dark curls and braced myself.
