Opal Fire Read Free Page A

Justice Seeker.” That was a term Birdie had pinned on me. Cin thought it was hilarious to repeat it and watch my skin crawl.
    “Shut up,” I said. Then I cocked my head and asked, “Why don’t they run from you? The kids, I mean.”
    Cin smiled, still looking ahead. “Oh, they do. Just for different reasons.”
     
     
    It was true what Cin had said. I did pick up a wand again since I had moved back to town a few months ago, but only to appease my grandmother. Birdie was named after the great Goddess Brighid of Ireland. The name means “exalted one” and if she had purchased the title at Witches-R-Us, she couldn’t have chosen a better one.
    Birdie has a book of theology that holds my maternal family history, which spans back to an ancient Celtic tribe from Kildare. The book is filled with laws, spells, symbols, beliefs, and even predictions for future generations.
    Which is where I came in. My great-grandmother had scribbled something about a third generation child of the New World in the Blessed Book, blah, blah, blah and poof! I was now dubbed, the Seeker of Justice. I pointed out that it was just a coincidence, since that happened to be my father’s last name, but Birdie didn’t buy it. I was the one, she was sure of it. So while Cinnamon was off catching fireflies, skateboarding and flashing crossing guards, I was learning about the properties of herbs, crystal power and how to position a scrying mirror beneath the full moon.
    Not that it did me any freaking good.
    The scene back near the bar wasn’t any less hectic than when we left. The fire was still smoldering, an eerie orange glow illuminated the building. The brick seemed to pulsate beneath the force of the water pressure, like the walls were breathing a sigh of relief. We just stood there for a moment, mesmerized, and I still had that feeling that I was forgetting something.
    “Damn shame,” I heard behind me. I turned to see Mr. Huckleberry puffing away on a stogie.
    Mr. Huckleberry was a longtime family friend. He used to play poker with Cin’s dad and he sold Cinnamon the bar when he retired a few years ago.
    “Hi Mr. Huckleberry,” I said.
    “Hey Huck,” said Cinnamon.
    He nodded towards us. “Girls. You okay?” He looked like Santa Claus with his white beard and protruding belly.
    “Hm-hm,” we said.
    “Huck,” said Cin, “I’m so sorry this happened. I know how much you love the place.”
    “Sweetheart, these things happen.” He puffed the cigar, the burning tobacco mirroring the flame from the fire. “Old buildings with old wiring plus a bunch of numb nuts that don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground inspecting them. Bound to be trouble sooner or later.” He patted Cin on the back. “You take care, sweetheart.”
    Mr. Huckleberry ambled away and Gus Dorsey came up to us then. Gus had a Basset hound face and floppy ears that were too big for his frame. I was sure he had yet to shop in the men’s department.
    “Hey, Stacy. Hi Cinnamon. You okay? Can I get you something? You cold? You thirsty or something?” This was all directed at Cinnamon, whom Gus has been in love with forever. He hadn’t quite grasped the fact that she was back with her ex-husband and even if she weren’t, he was a used Volvo kind of guy where Cinnamon was a muscle car woman.
    “Gus, get Stacy a blanket, would you?” Cin said.
    “Sure, sure. Oh, I almost forgot. Stacy, the chief wants to talk to you right away,” Gus said and scampered off.
    “I feel another lecture coming on,” I mumbled. I returned Cin’s coat and rubbed my arms.
    Derek was talking to a fireman and snapping photos a few yards away. He and Iris were jotting down notes. I guess Parker didn’t send anyone else to the scene. Odd.
    I turned to Cin to tell her I was going to find Leo and that I’d meet up with her later, but before I could say a word, a meaty hand smacked her upside the head.
    “Ow, Mama!” Cin cried. Aunt Angelica. Famous for her cannolis and right