WISTERIA WRINKLE
A WISTERIA WITCHES BOOK
Angela Pepper
WWW.ANGELAPEPPER.COM
Chapter 1
That sunny Monday in May, brainweevils were the last thing on Zinnia Riddle’s mind. Which was good. Because nobody wanted brainweevils on the mind or anywhere near it. Brainweevils hungered for delicious brains, particularly those of supernatural beings. Being a witch, Zinnia had heard all the horror stories. Ever since a brainweevil had shown up at City Hall a month ago—on a cafeteria plate!—Zinnia had been ever watchful. She’d also been applying a liberal coating of brainweevil-repelling potion to both of her ear canals.
Just before lunch time, Zinnia looked up from her computer screen. She was startled to find she wasn’t alone. Her coworker, Dawna Jones, stood silently in the doorway to Zinnia’s private office at the Wisteria Permits Department.
Dawna Jones was a slim black woman of thirty. She owned somewhere between two and five cats—nobody knew how many—and she’d apparently picked up their feline ability to suddenly be in a room without anyone noticing her arrival.
That Monday, Dawna wore shimmering bronzing powder that made her clear, dark skin look rich and luminescent. She had her natural, curly black hair pushed back from her face with a bright white headband, all the better to draw focus to her earrings, which were four-leafed clovers. Dawna loved good luck symbols. She had several tokens of luck from different cultures on her desk.
Dawna didn’t know it, but her luck came from magic, not her tokens. Zinnia had recently discovered that Dawna was a cartomancer. This explained Dawna’s knack for choosing winning scratch-’n-win lottery tickets. Dawna used her winnings to supplement her modest clerk income. She bought designer handbags that she passed off to others as knockoffs. Funnily enough, Dawna Jones did not know about the existence of magic. The cartomancer believed she was lucky thanks to her positive attitude and good luck charms.
“Hi, Dawna,” Zinnia said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Dawna sniffed the air. “Ooh, is that a new perfume I smell?” She wrinkled her nose. “It smells pretty, like flowers, but also a bit like the goopy stuff my auntie used to put on my chest whenever I got a bad cold.”
“Oh, that,” Zinnia said offhandedly as she searched for an explanation. The witch had added a touch of menthol to her brainweevil repellent that morning. Too much, apparently, if other people could detect it.
“Smells nice, anyway,” Dawna said. “Not like regular perfume.”
“It’s just a new hand lotion,” Zinnia said, even though she never wore lotion. Since becoming a witch at sixteen, Zinnia’s resilient skin had never needed hand lotion, moisturizer, or even chap stick. She was a pale-skinned redhead who got to enjoy her delicate coloring without the sun sensitivity. She was forty-eight now, so that added up to thirty-some years of time and money saved on moisturizing products. She’d applied plenty of lotions and potions for other things, but that was to be expected. Her magical specialty, being Kitchen Bewitched, involved whipping up various magical compounds in her kitchen. She made lotions for attracting or repelling magical things the way non-magical people made cookies. She had recently made a bookwyrm out of dough for her niece. That particular creation had led to endless trouble, but everything had worked out in the end. Not for the bookwyrm, unfortunately, but at least the little critter had gone out a hero.
Dawna was still in the doorway. She fidgeted with her four-leaf-clover earrings as she studied Zinnia intently.
“Can I help you with something?” Zinnia asked.
“You look puffy this morning,” Dawna said. “I know it’s not my business, but did something bad happen to you? Did you get in a car accident?”
A car accident? No, but it did feel that way. Zinnia rubbed her shoulder self-consciously. She’d had that arm in a sling the day before, when she’d had Sunday brunch with her niece and grand-niece. She could have used the sling again today, but she’d chosen to leave it at home because a sling would have only led to questions, such as the ones Dawna was now asking.
Zinnia patted her face self-consciously. “I must be retaining water. Too much salt last night.”
Dawna raised her eyebrows. “How much salt, exactly? The whole box?”
Zinnia chuckled. Dawna was as perceptive as she was lucky. Zinnia’s witch powers allowed her to heal quickly, but they could only do so much, and the injuries had been grave. She’d been the victim of a violent attack, hobbling away with two blackened eyes and deep scratches on her face. And she’d deserved the pain as a reminder to be more careful in the future.
“Maybe it’s seasonal allergies,” Zinnia said. She was tempted to use a spell to change the conversation, but she had a rule about not using magic at work.
Dawna frowned and leaned into the office tentatively. “How come I never noticed how pretty your eyes are? What’s that color? It’s not green, but it’s not brown.”
“Hazel,” Zinnia said.
Dawna looked skeptical. “That’s a real color? I thought it was just a name for old ladies.”
“I assure you, hazel is a real color.” Zinnia smiled with relief that the topic had changed. “You can go up to the third floor and check with the DMV. Hazel is what it says on my driver’s license.”
Dawna tilted her head to the side. “Maybe you should put some cold tea bags on those pretty hazel eyes of yours.”
“I’ll be fine,” Zinnia said. “I simply had too much, uh, fun over the weekend.”
Dawna sniggered. “Sure, you did. I can just imagine, you wild thing. Did you go to the Chintz Boutique and buy more wallpaper?” She gestured to the floral wallpaper that now covered the walls of Zinnia’s redecorated office.
“Something like that.” Zinnia tidied the unopened mail on her desk. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Dawna remained on the threshold, in the doorway. She swished her lips from side to side thoughtfully.
Zinnia prompted her with, “Anything at all?”
Dawna seemed to force the words out. “I was thinking about Annette, and all that crazy stuff she wrote about us in her book.”
“Oh?” Zinnia was surprised to hear Dawna talking about their deceased coworker’s book. The topic had been taboo around the office, ever since the second tragedy that had happened back in January.
Dawna continued. “Specifically, I’ve been thinking about all of us in this office having magic powers.”
“Not us,” Zinnia corrected. “Annette wrote about fictional characters that were only loosely based on us.” Loosely based, and yet eerily accurate. Their deceased coworker hadn’t known she was a witch, let alone that she’d correctly guessed the magical identities of her friends in the office. It was such a shame Annette Scholem hadn’t lived long enough to develop her witch powers.
“Fictional characters,” Dawna repeated, nodding. “Yeah, I got that. But you have to wonder, don’t you? I’ve been wondering a lot lately.”
Zinnia raised an eyebrow. The redheaded witch also wondered about plenty of things. Being as aware of the supernatural as she was, Zinnia knew just how many things in the world there were to wonder about.
Zinnia cautiously asked, “Dawna, has something happened?”
“Not yet,” Dawna said. “But let me ask you a question, Zinnia. I respect your opinion, and not just because you’re a mature lady. I think you’re smart and wise.”
Zinnia felt her barriers rise the way they always did when someone paid her compliments.
Through a tight mouth, Zinnia said, “Ask away.”
Dawna took a chest-raising breath and expelled it in one sentence. “Do you think it would be crazy if I got a deck of tarot cards?”
Zinnia felt a tickle of worry wrinkle
her forehead. Dawna didn’t know she was a cartomancer, but she might discover her powers if she started looking. Would she be better off knowing or not knowing? Powers came with responsibilities, not to mention a big load of trouble.
Zinnia looked down and rubbed her thumb where it ached. Her shoulder twinged. Her eyes really were puffy, now that she thought about it. She could actually hear the soft smack-smack of her eyelids sticking together when she blinked.
Dawna Jones was a perceptive woman. Would she be responsible with her powers? Dawna might use tarot cards to win the state lottery, and then quit her job at the Permits Department. Zinnia would miss her. Then again, Dawna might play with tarot cards for years without results. Powers didn’t always manifest just from being sought. If it worked that simply, Zinnia’s great-niece would have found her own abilities by now. Little Zoey would have stopped moping around the way only a disappointed teenager could.
Zinnia flicked her eyes up to meet Dawna’s gaze. Dawna had the loveliest orange, cat-like eyes.
“You ought to do what you feel is right,” Zinnia said. “If you’re curious about tarot cards, get yourself a deck.” Zinnia felt a calm certainty settle over her. It was good to have the wisdom of age, and good to share it with others.
“Really?”
“Dawna, I believe your name means daybreak.” Zinnia rested her chin on her hand and regarded the woman thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are a true bringer of light.”
Dawna let out a surprised laugh. “It’s just a pack of cards for fortune telling,” she said. “You make it sound like I’m going to start a coven and bring on the apocalypse.”
Little did she know! Zinnia felt a smile curl her mouth. “If you do start a coven, I hope you’ll invite me.” She kept smiling as she added, “And Margaret, too, of course.”
Dawna’s orange, cat-like eyes widened. Her jaw dropped open. “What? Margaret’s a witch?”
Zinnia felt her cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. Joking about forming covens was the exact opposite of being careful. Silly witch!
Zinnia quickly explained, “I was making a joke. Only because Margaret and I were the basis for Nina and Gretta, the two teenaged witches in Annette’s book.”
The doorway of Zinnia’s office darkened with the arrival of a second person. Their coworker Margaret, who was also a witch, appeared next to Dawna as though summoned.
Margaret asked, nostrils flaring, “Did someone say teenaged witches?” Margaret had a highly tuned sensitivity for the word witch, as well as other witch-related terms such as brewing, spell, wand, eye of newt, and so forth.
Dawna explained, “We were just talking about Annette’s book. Remember that girl who was based on me? Wanda? She was a fortune teller.”
“She was a cartomancer,” Margaret said crisply. “A card mage.”
“Exactly. A fortune-teller. Same thing.”
Margaret’s whole face pinched toward her scrunched lips. Cartomancers and fortune-tellers were not the same thing, and Margaret didn’t like to hear an error go uncorrected. Her eyes twitched from the effort it took to restrain herself from explaining to Dawna the difference between a circus-level charlatan and a magic-wielding card mage.
Dawna continued, “Zinnia was just saying it might be fun if I get some tarot cards and see what happens. I’ve always been lucky with cards. Do you know where I might get a deck? I was reading on the internet that you can’t buy them for yourself. It’s a superstition thing. They have to be given to you, as a gift.”
Margaret’s face was still pinched from holding herself back.
Dawna waggled her eyebrows at the shorter woman. “So, what do you say, Margaret? Will you give me a deck of tarot cards?” She winked. “Or should I say Gretta? You know, like your witch character in Annette’s book.”
Margaret’s eyes bulged. Her expression reminded Zinnia of a dog’s squeaky toy being squeezed in the middle.
“Nothing expensive,” Dawna said. “Just a basic deck. Your choice.”
Margaret replied vehemently, “No! Why would I ever get involved with something like that?”
Dawna leaned back and raised both hands, waving her manicured orange nails in the air. “Easy, girl. I didn’t mean anything by it.” She backed away from the door frame. “Time for lunch, anyway.” She looked right at Zinnia. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll probably let Gavin give me some cards instead of flowers or chocolates, the next time he does one of his annoying Gavin things.” She turned and left.
Margaret came into Zinnia’s small office and put her hands on her hips. “What was that all about?” Before Zinnia could respond, Margaret said, “You do look puffy. I heard the whole thing, and she’s right. You look like you’ve been put through the wringer.”
“Thanks.”
“How bad was that attack on the weekend?” She waved a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. It’s easier for me to stick to the cover story about the gas explosion if I don’t know different.”
“That’s what I figured, on account of how you always need to interrupt people and set the record straight.”
Margaret snorted. “I do not.”
Zinnia bit her tongue.
“Get up.” Margaret waved for Zinnia to rise from her chair. “If you want to heal faster, you need to move around more, get the juices flowing. Come on.” She waved again, with more enthusiasm. “Let’s walk over to the Gingerbread House of Baking for lunch. I’ll buy you anything you want. They do fresh cream horns on Mondays.”
Zinnia rose from her chair and joked, “Cream horns? Twist my arm.” She winced as pain shot through her shoulder. “On second thought, don’t twist my arm. And definitely don’t yank it off and punch me in my own face with it.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped open. “Wha-wha-wha—”
“Joking,” Zinnia said, except she wasn’t.
Margaret didn’t know all the details, but Zinnia had taken quite a beating over the weekend while helping her niece, Zara, with a ghost problem. Zinnia’s two black eyes had been delivered by her own fist, after her arm had been yanked off by a demonic force in a borrowed body.
Zinnia had been broken, yet she hadn’t been beaten. Anything that failed to kill her only made her stronger. She had survived to fight another day... and to eat a cream horn or two. She grabbed her purse and joined Margaret for lunch.
The forces of evil would have to try a lot harder to keep Zinnia Riddle down.
Chapter 2
Outside, the spring sunshine felt wonderful on Zinnia’s pale skin. She’d worn her thick, red hair in a high bun that day, so the sun’s rays were particularly warm on the back of her neck, which didn’t usually get much sun. The lunch hour had one of the highest UV indexes of the day, but luckily for the witch, her regenerative powers protected her from sunburns.
Margaret Mills had also arrived at work with her hair pulled up in a bun. Several of Margaret’s frizzy gray curls had escaped the updo, including the single curl that stubbornly adorned the center of Margaret’s forehead like a rhino horn. Margaret was six years younger than Zinnia, and often lamented that it wasn’t fair that Zinnia’s hair was still red while Margaret’s had lost its color already. Marriage and four kids will do that to a woman, they both agreed. Sometimes they joked that Zinnia should take over two of Margaret’s kids so they could share the load evenly, but they never could agree on which two. “Because your children are all equally adorable,” Zinnia would say, which was an absolute lie. She would take the eldest and the youngest. The eldest was the smartest by far, and the youngest had the most adorable, pinchable cheeks.
Margaret Mills was shorter than Zinnia, especially in the legs, which gave her a short pace. The clip-clop sounds of Margaret’s boots on the sidewalk never synced up with Zinnia’s footsteps. Margaret took two steps for every one of Zinnia’s. Perhaps it only seemed that way due to the noise Margaret made when she walked. The woman could clomp, even on carpet. Why did Margaret sound so much like a hoofed animal? It was anyone’s guess. She had a
solid build, but she wasn’t overweight. Perhaps it was a side effect of her magic.
Margaret and Zinnia were part of a small coven that included two other local witches, Maisy and Fatima Nix. Zinnia had not yet introduced her niece, Zara, to the coven. Zinnia had decided she wouldn’t attempt to bring the younger witch into the fold until both she and Margaret agreed Zara was ready, and Zara hadn’t even met Margaret yet. Since Zinnia had reunited with her family three months earlier, she had been wildly secretive about her associates, her personal life, and even her place of employment. Both she and Margaret agreed it was for Zara’s own protection. The novice witch had to deal with one thing at a time—or at least one ghost at a time.
The two coworker witches cast a rolling sound bubble for privacy so they could talk about magical business as they walked.
Margaret asked, “Any sign of young Zoey’s powers kicking in?”
“Nothing. I fear she is developing a permanent pout. Like this.” Zinnia stuck out her lower lip in an impression of the teenager. “And when Zoey pouts, her kooky mother levitates pastries and sends them flying around the room. She drops bits of custard on the poor child’s lower lip. Then the two of them scream hysterically about someone or something named Marzipants.” Zinnia shook her head, smiling. “Never a dull moment with those two.”
Margaret’s round shoulders hunched up and forward. “Sounds fun,” she said glumly.
“They can be amusing.”
Margaret looked down at the sidewalk, her shoulders hunching even more. “I can’t blame you for spending so much time with them. They both sound like a lot more fun than boring ol’ Margaret Mills.”
“Well, I didn’t mean...” Zinnia struggled to find the right words. She couldn’t deny that she enjoyed her family. Spending time with the other Riddles was worth the pain of the occasional arm-ripping.
Margaret let out a long, world-weary sigh.
“Poor Margaret,” Zinnia said. “I’m sorry you feel so neglected.” She’d meant to sound compassionate, but it had come out somewhat sarcastic. What now? Should she put her arm around Margaret? Was that what ought to be done in such a situation? Zinnia wasn’t a touchy, huggy person, but she could certainly make some sort of effort when it was socially necessary.
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