Free An Unlikely Witch by Debora Geary

could think of that would rock her wise, serene sister-in-law like that.  And all of them required the same immediate response.  She reached for her phone to text her brother—and then realized there was a far easier way.  One that gave her very upset son something to do. 
    She tugged Aervyn into her lap, pretending for one more day that he was still little.  “Can you find Uncle Jamie, sweetie?  Tell him to go home, that Auntie Nat needs him.”
    He nodded quietly into her chest.
    She hugged him tight, knowing Jamie would be at Nat’s side in moments.
    And knowing that he had something far bigger to tangle with than fire-breathing dragons.
    -o0o-
    Jamie landed in his living room like the invading Norse hordes.
    Aervyn hadn’t known why Nat was sad.  But on this day, there could only be one reason.  Devastation by stupid line on a plastic stick.  He tried to calm his magic long enough to actually find his wife’s mind.
    And gave his ears a chance to work instead.
    Sobbing.  From the kitchen.
    He ported there.  And landed with an odd crunching, feet headed every way except down.  Jamie grabbed for the walls, a chair, anything—and executed a perfect home-run slide straight into his wife’s legs.  She landed on top of him with a wallop that chased the air out of both of them.
    Bloody hell.  So much for his avenging-superhero skills.  Jamie tried to get any of his body parts working and sensed weird, sharp, lumpy things under his back.  Better not to move.  And then the woman lying on top of him started to shake, and all coherent thought fled.  “Nat.  Sweetheart.”  Desperate, he tried to sit up, cursing as he stuck his hand down on something that sliced into his palm and its sharp companions attacked his jeans.  None of which mattered in the slightest, except it was making it damnably difficult to soothe the wrecked woman in his lap.
    And then she looked up, tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes, incoherent sounds pouring out of a raw, angry throat.
    His heart closed—and then his ears caught up.
    Her tears weren’t finished.  And in the midst of the storm, she had found enough solid ground to laugh at him.
    He went with it, picking it up like the huge and mighty sword he needed it to be.  “One of my better entries, huh?”
    She hiccupped, twice.  And the slightly crazed giggles started again.  With better foothold this time.
    Retha Sullivan hadn’t raised complete idiots.  He smiled at his laughing, crying wife.  Wiped her nose with the front of his shirt, which fed the laughter more than it did the tears.  And managed to tamp down on the urge to port them both to Tahiti.
    Big swords couldn’t fight everything, even Tahitian ones.  He stroked her cheek, wishing like hell her tears didn’t wreck him—she surely needed to shed some.  “That’ll teach me to land on whatever the hell I broke.”  He’d finally identified the shards trying to poke holes in his jeans.  Some poor, innocent plate.  “I hope it was something we hated.”
    Nat snorted, which in her current condition, had him diving for his shirt again to take care of nose goobers.  “It was already broken before you got here.” 
    Jamie’s brain froze.  Nat had thrown things?
    She looked up, eyes tilting back toward anguish.  “A plate.  I threw it at the wall.  Just one.  You got here in time to save the really ugly ones from my parents.”
    That was horribly unfortunate.  He dragged his brain out of the cryogenics lab.  “Wanna throw them together?”  He could use a good tantrum against the stick too.
    “Maybe.”  She was breathing deeply now.  Pulling herself back from the edge, one lift of her ribcage at a time.
    Jamie wondered if he should stand up and throw the entire contents of their kitchen with her and let her rage.  He raised his hands to her cheeks, ignoring the line of blood trickling down his palm.  Far more important things were bleeding.  “I’m so sorry.  I wish I’d been