Witches & Stitches
Designer Witch Mysteries
Beverly Sanders
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Contents
Visit Me On Facebook
Beverly Sanders Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Visit Me On Facebook
Newsletter
The End
Visit Me On Facebook
___
JOIN MY NEWSLETTER
___
Click to preorder book two in the designer witch series!
Click to preorder book two in the designer witch series!
Beverly Sanders Author
___
JOIN MY NEWSLETTER
1
There I was, with my heart in my throat as I waited for her to turn the corner and step onto the runway. To most people, it may have seemed like a small thing, just a girl in a dress walking to nowhere. To me, though, it was everything. I’d toiled over that dress for the better part of a month, sewing it together, then ripping it apart again, only to repeat the same process the next day. In the beginning, it was an off the shoulder number constructed of black silk, then came red velvet, then blue organza. In the end, they all hit the floor like a ton of bricks until finally, I’d managed to come up with something I thought might stand a chance against all of my other competitors’ designs.
I’d joined the Atlanta Institute of Fashion and Design about a year before that night. I’d gone against everything my parents wanted. I’d left my life of witchcraft behind in Enchanted Lake, Georgia, and set out into the mortal world to chase my dream of becoming a fashion designer. I wanted my name to stand for something other than my family’s magic. I wanted the name Ginni Black to stand for independence, for me. What I didn’t realize at the time, though, was just how much those two parts of my life would come to depend on one another.
So, as you may have guessed by now, this is the story of how I became a designer witch.
Because I’d rather skip the whole I was born on a dark and stormy night thing, lets just start in the middle, roughly one year ago, the night that changed everything.
A while ago . . .
There it was, the sound of that bass-thumping song I’d chosen, the one that had so perfectly captured all the emotions I wanted my designs to convey. Then, perfectly on cue, the lights dropped and Elle stepped onto the runway.
She paused for a moment, giving everyone around us her signature ‘watch this’ look. Since the moment I’d chosen her as my muse model, I’d told her to pretend the runway was covered in puddles of water. I’d told her to strut as though she were trying to splash everyone for miles around, and oh, my goodness, was that girl stomping.
“Get it, babe!” the words left my lips as she marched past me, her eyes focused dead ahead, the red jersey knit silk flowing behind her like a cloud of history she was stepping away from. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, accentuating her body perfectly as she paused, looked to her side, and then headed back. It was a perfect walk, the kind of strut that makes you stop and take notice, and it was my design. I was thrilled, to say the least.
This was everything I’d wanted for so long. I’d done it. I’d conceptualized something in my mind and brought it to life with my own hands, no magic, no spells, no calling on the strength of my elders.
“I’m so proud of you,” Pascal said, placing his hand on my shoulder as the second dress in my collection stepped out. “You’ve really done it. You made it happen.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking back at him.
For my second look, I’d chosen something that fit with the first look but was also completely out of the box. Think Avant Garde meets the roaring twenties, cover it in black velvet and blood-red fringe, give it a high neckline and a cutout back, and you’ll begin to imagine the dress. This time, the model was Alliyah, a young woman I’d seen walking down the bustling Atlanta streets a few weeks before the show.
Almost as soon as our eyes met, I knew she was the perfect girl to wear this gown. I stopped her, asking if she was a model , and wouldn’t you just know it? She was.
“This one is amazing!” Pascal said, watching her glide past, her eyes focused on the end of the runway as though it were the only thing that mattered.
He was overbearing at times, sure, but as my guardian, he always had my best intentions in mind, even if his constant interjections and reports back to my father drove me up the wall. It took me a little while to get used to him, especially given the fact that he’d been assigned to track my every move to make sure I didn’t get myself into any trouble.
But with my father being part of the Enchanted Lake Council, there wasn’t much I could do about him. I mean, I could scream at the heavens, render my garments, and denounce his presence—heck, I could even go so far as to lead him down a dark alley, stab him in the throat, and walk away—but it would do any good. We all knew that.
You see, Pascal Irons isn’t your normal guy. To be honest, I’m still not totally convinced he’s a guy at all. Older than nearly anything in the world, Pascal was born in the fires of magic, the collision of the mortal realm and the magical one. It was almost as if magic itself had created him to watch over everything important, and to my father, nothing was more important than his only daughter.
“Your father would be proud,” Pascal said.
“No, he wouldn’t.” I sighed. “We both know that. He’d just be upset that I wasted four months of my life tearing apart then sewing fabric back together again instead of working on my magic.”
“He might not understand,” Pascal replied, “but I assure you, he’d be proud.”
A little while after that . . .
“So,” Avery Wright asked, “what made you want to become a fashion designer?” She was tall, with a thin frame and long black hair. Her face was the kind of thing you see on the inner pages of a magazine, advertising that perfect blend of eyeshadow and mascara. But it wasn’t her looks that had my heart racing. It was her simple notepad and pen I was enamored by.
Bright Stitch Magazine had been around as long as I could remember. Many the night I’d spent under my covers flipping through the seemingly endless pages of ads, interviews, and editorial spreads, absolutely amazed by the fashion of the outside world. And now, here I was, giving an interview to the very publication that had shaped my childhood dream.
“I guess there’s just something about clothing that always drew me in,” I answered. “You may not know anything about a person. You may see them pass you on the street without saying a word. But it’s their clothing that often tells a story. You may see a jacket paired with the perfect boots and think to yourself, where is she going? or I want to know that girl. I’ve always been intrigued by the mystery behind that. The thought that my designs could be the reason someone turns heads. It’s mysterious and exciting,” I said, letting myself get lost in my own words.
“Well.” Avery smiled. “That’s the kind of thing that makes a great designer. And I must say, when I saw your line walk the runway, I just had to know more.”
And finally, now . . .
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Pascal asked.
“No,” I replied. “I’m never sure I’m ready. That’s how I know I am.”
It seemed to happen overnight. After my interview with Bright Stitch, my whole world seemed to move at the speed of light. I found myself getting daily phone calls requesting my designs for things like commercials and editorial campaigns. Then, as though that wasn’t enough, I’d actually gotten an invitation to show my collection at Atlanta Fashion Week beside some of the biggest designers in the world.
I felt as though lighting had struck, and then, lighting quite literally struck.
“Dad?” I said, completely shocked to see my father outside the magical realm where I’d left him. “What are you doing here? And why do you always do that? You’re like the male version of Endora with those entrances.”
Colorful smoke and dazzling light swirled around him as the carpet beneath his feet sizzled and popped from the heat of the lighting strike. I was being truthful, though. He really did remind me of the mother from that old Bewitched television show with the elaborate ways he often entered rooms. I’d often wondered about it but never asked. I guess back home in Enchanted Lake, it looked more reasonable than it seemed to be in my small Atlanta apartment.
“Male version of who?”
“Not important,” I answered. “What’s up?”
“Pascal tells me you’ve accomplished something. That your work will be seen by the whole world. Is this true?” he asked, stepping closer.
I loved my father. I loved all of my family more than anything, actually. Seeing him here, though, standing in my workspace surrounded by things like zippers and bolts of charmeuse, just set my pulse racing. It was something like a mix of fear and excitement. Though, when it came to my dad, one of the most powerful warlocks in history, it was usually more fear than anything else.
“Yes,” I said. “I will show at Fashion Week.”
“And this is a big deal?”
“Huge,” I replied, a bigger sense of pride in my voice than I’d expected.
“Then this is an occasion for the family,” he replied. “We will celebrate this event with you, my daughter.”
“Celebrate with me . . .” I took a deep breath. “Who will celebrate with me?”
“The entire magical community,” he answered. “The Council has voted to bring them all forth into the mortal realm in celebration of your achievement. Everyone you know will descend upon this place to witness your victory.”
“Everyone I know?” I asked, feeling my heart sink into my chest at the thought of my big moment being filled with the one thing I didn’t want, the one thing I had sworn not to use.
“Magic is coming to town.” Pascal jabbed his shoulder into my side. “This should be interesting.”
Was this for real? Was Atlanta actually about to be overrun with witches, warlocks, and a million other magical creatures? How could I possibly be expected to deal with this kind of thing, and now, of all times? This was the moment I’d been waiting for.
“Dad!” I snapped. “No! You’ve got to keep them away. Everyone? Really?”
“You’re my daughter,” he said. “If this is important to you, then it’s important to me. You are ushering in change. You’re the face of the new world. My little girl.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, more confused than I’d ever been. “What new world?”
“Since you’ve been gone,” he began slowly, “there’s been a ground swell of youngsters making their dreams known. You’re the face of change. You’ve proven that magical beings are capable of living in the mortal world. You’re an inspiration.”
“What?” I snapped. “I don’t want to be the face of anything. I don’t want to be an inspiration. I just want to sew.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” my father said, waving his hand through the air.
Clouds, thick, dense, and alive, filled the air in front of me. I recognized them immediately. They were Kaza Clouds, the things that made up the barrier of the magical realm. I hadn’t seen them in some time. They were beautiful in a way nothing else was. My heart ached for a moment as it suddenly dawned on me just how much I missed my home.
Then, images began to fill them almost as though they were a movie screen. It was Enchanted Lake, my home . . . only it was a little different. There, in the middle of the lake stood a living hologram that, for a second, looked just like me. Wait. It was me.
“Dad . . . what . . . ?”
“I told you,” he said. “You’ve given hope to young witches everywhere. Until now, it was believed no witch could survive without the use of magic. You’ve proven that false.” He touched my face, his large hand cupping my cheek. “You, my beautiful daughter . . .”
“No,” I muttered. “This wasn’t what I wanted. I’m nobody. I just want to make clothes.”
“Nobody?” he scoffed. “To some, you’re hope.”
2
“Your father? Are you serious?” Babbs asked. “And you didn’t let me see him? For shame, girl. For shame.”
“I still don’t know why you’re so hung up on meeting my family,” I said.
“Are you serious?” She cocked an eyebrow. “They’re only some of the most powerful witches of all time. Maybe they know something. Maybe they can tell me who he was, or why I’m this way. Besides, it’d just be pretty damn cool to see one of your dad’s signature entrances!”
I smiled. “I told him to stop doing that.”
Babbs Mcghee was my best friend. I met her shortly after arriving in Atlanta, and by shortly, I mean like . . . half an hour or something. I’d barely made it down Peachtree Street when she came barreling up beside me, literally sniffing the air and running her hands down my arm. It was alarming, to say the least! After I finally got the girl to calm down, she launched into an all-night tangent about how she knew magic was real and how she’d been able to cast since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.
I found it odd, sure. I mean, I’d never heard tell of a mortal with the ability to cast, let alone the ability to sense the presence of magic. But according to Babbs, once I set foot in the mortal realm, she knew it. She said nothing was going to keep her away, and oh, how she meant it.
Quicker than a flash, we were sharing an apartment just a few miles from North Buckhead, one of Atlanta’s swankiest neighborhoods. When I asked her how she was able to afford such a place, she replied simply, “Magic, babe!”
I know what you’re thinking. I wanted to leave magic behind, to do things on my own. That’s true, but I wasn’t the one who cast the spell, and turning down such a sweet pad would just be foolish, right? Anyway, less than an hour into my new life as an Atlanta-based fashion designer, I’d found myself a roommate. A week later, I had myself a business partner. It was quick, I know. But it just felt right.
Besides, the area in which Babbs lived had the small-town feel I’d been looking for. The streets were sprinkled with small coffee houses, little cafes, dress shops . . . everything. Not to mention, witches! Yes, you heard me right. Right there in the middle of downtown Atlanta existed a community of witches.
I was floored. Living in the magical realm, I’d never heard of witches living in the mortal world. Apparently, I just didn’t know where to look. It took a few days, but finally, I understood what happened. I’d been walking past a small café when I felt it, the magic. It bubbled out of the ground like a small spring, sprinkling around and creating a small city of magic.
“I promise the next time he swoops in, you’ll get to meet him.”
“Swoops?” He eyes practically lit up. “Does he like, for real, swoop?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Aww shizzz.” she said, pulling a bolt of fabric from the corner. “Look at this sweet little number I found in Marietta today.” She unrolled the bolt onto the table.
A shimmering black Jacquard loom rolled out like waves on the sand. It took all I could do not to clutch my breast old-lady-style and gasp. I was in love. There are times in life when you j
ust know things, when you just see something and say to yourself, Yes, babe, come to mama.
More times than not, that was a fine young piece of man, but today, it was a Jacquard loom so sinfully gorgeous that just touching the stuff made me feel like I was doing something wrong.
“Don’t you just wanna wrap yourself in it and head for the hills?” Babbs asked.
“Yes.” I smiled. “But what’s in the hills?”
“Just me and this fabric.” She gave the bolt a wicked smile. “And that’s all I need.”
Two hours of staring at that fabric later, and . . .
“So . . .” Babbs mused, walking back in from the kitchen. “Is there like . . . magic coffee where you’re from?”
“No,” I answered. “I mean, I never really saw anyone brew coffee so much as just spell it.”
“Huh.” She looked to the sky. “We should open a coffee shop.”
“One mountain at a time, Babbs,” I answered.
For my best friend, the thought of magic was something to be marveled at, something she could spend hour after hour talking about while I, on the other hand, just wanted to forget about it for the most part. But I guess that’s only normal, seeing as how I was brought up in the magical realm while Babbs had been raised in small-town Georgia. I’d never asked my father about mortals having magic, but mostly because it just hadn’t occurred to me that some might. And until I met Babbs, I wasn’t even sure it was possible.
Witches & Stitches Page 1
