Magic and Macaroons by Bailey Cates Page B

flower heads six feet into the sky. But most interesting to me was the grouping of angelica, elderberry, and fluffy, golden Saint-John’s-wort—all traditional magical plants with multiple uses. I turned to see that Jack had settled onto the cushion of one of the chairs and was considering me with those misted eyes.
    He could see me. I knew that somehow. And as I had the thought, I felt a little nudge , an extremely subtle inquiry at the edge of my consciousness. I tilted my head to let him know I felt it, and he raised his eyebrows a fraction before the feeling of mild interrogation vanished.
    Maybe Jack couldn’t read my mind, but, like I was sometimes able to do, he could direct his intuition, focus it, and get very real information that way. He was probably a lot better at it than I was, though.
    “This is a beautiful garden,” I said, sitting next to Cookie on the willow love seat across from his chair.
    “I enjoy it,” he said. “A good friend who is a resident here planted it and cares for it almost daily. It gives her great peace to work out here.”
    “I imagine,” I said.
    “She practices magic,” he said.
    I kept my expression neutral.
    “Of the old-school variety,” he went on. “Like the old village witches used to practice. From what Cookie told me on the telephone, you know what I mean.”
    I hesitated for a second before nodding. “I know exactly what you mean.” Of course Cookie had told her old family friend I was a hedgewitch. He needed to know who he was dealing with. After all, I was about to ask him questions about his own magic. Or was it a religion? Like Wicca, voodoo was apparently both.
    “Are you any good?” he asked.
    I blinked. “What?”
    “At working with plants. Roots. In voodoo, we call your kind grune hexe .”
    That was the term Cookie had used. I leaned back against the woven wicker, and heard it creak. “My kind, being those who practice garden and kitchen magic.”
    He shrugged. “For the most part.” He settled further into the chair like a cat in front of a comfortable, warm fire, as I felt a trickle of perspiration run down my temple.
    “I’m still learning about my gift,” I said, trying for modest. “And I have a long way to go.”
    That nudge at the edge of my mind again.
    I nudged back. “But I have hereditary power fromboth my mother and my father, and I’m doing my best to learn quickly—from anyone who is willing to teach me.”
    “Is that so?” A small smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “Is that why you’re here?”
    I looked at Cookie. She dipped her chin, encouraging me.
    “Not exactly,” I said, leaning forward. “I need information about voodoo queens in Savannah, and Cookie says you’re the man to talk to.” This was not a time to play games. Jack would know if I kept anything back and would probably refuse to help.
    So I told him everything. I started with Franklin telling me I was a lightwitch—that raised a speculative eyebrow—then gave him the play-by-play on Dawn showing up at the Honeybee, her muttered message and subsequent collapse, and ended with Quinn telling me Franklin was dead. “I still don’t understand how that could be,” I said. “How could he contact me through a psychic if he was still alive?”
    Jack sat for a long time, looking at the garden with his veiled eyes. I could practically hear his thoughts clicking away—and then clicking into place.
    “It is possible,” he began, then stopped, frowning with indecision.
    We waited. My temples throbbed, and I realized I was holding my breath.
    In the silence, a shiny purple dragonfly winged into the garden, zooming from star point to star point, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw it pause at the fountain to drink. If this was one of those taps on the shoulder from the universe telling me to pay attention, it was a bit late. I was already focused like a laser on Jack and what he was about to say.
    Then the dragonfly flew to me, landing on the back of