Turning her attention once again to the stupid movie, Sarah crammed the second chocolatey shortbread into her mouth and ignored the temptation touching her like a well-muscled man beneath a full moon.
If Sarah were a regular person she’d never go to church. For starters, getting up early on Sunday morning was for the birds, and for another thing, she hated it. She shoved open the back door of Our Lady of the Light church ten minutes after Mass started and stood there, feet crammed into heels, sans pantyhose, wearing a short summer dress and makeup on the weekend.
She hesitated next to a bowl of holy water. She hadn’t worked up the courage to go into the attic all week. It was time to man up and embrace penance for the spell cast last weekend. She thrust four fingers into the water, up to the second knuckle.
Searing pain lit through her hand as though the water were boiling. Sarah yanked her fingers out and stuffed them into her mouth. Fingers throbbing with pain she crept into the back of the church to choose a seat.
The last row had already been claimed by loners looking for redemption themselves. Second to last row proved practically as good a place to show the light she was trying to be part of it, but still hide from the priests. This was the place where she usually sat, or stood, or knelt, depending on the parishioners’ actions and her mood for mimicry. Sarah didn’t understand Mass or Catholicism, but nobody bothered her at this church.
And she’d been to them all.
Evangelicals scared her. They had that look in their eyes. It kind of said maybe we’re crazy, or maybe we know the light intimately. Figure it out. People at the Baptist church were too damn friendly, in that are you friends with Jay-sus way. Too many of them were anxious to die and hang with him. Methodists wanted her to stay for pancakes after, join a committee, or go on a mission’s trip. Presbyterians wondered where she lived and who her people were; answers they didn’t really want any more than she’d dare give. The Lutherans had been very welcoming, so much so that Sarah had initiated hot nasty sex with the minister while the rest of the congregation focused on an Easter egg hunt. It had been the highlight of her church-going career, but common sense told her not to return. Besides, that minister had enjoyed it way more than she did.
Sex was only fun before she had it. It was more the idea of it that was fun, and Sarah worried that’s the way it would always be. It was a witch problem. Aunt Lily had always said to try try again. Her mother had said casting was far better than men anyway.
Sex wasn’t an issue at Our Lady of the Light. These priests didn’t do the hot nasty, and from the looks of the people, neither did they. They didn’t even talk to each other.
It was perfect.
An entire hour free from the temptation of dark matter.
Even if it was deadly boring.
During the lone moment in the service when everyone shook hands with their neighbors, Sarah stuffed her hands under her armpits and stared at the stained glass windows. Nobody seemed to mind. Most weeks she dodged out when everyone went to communion—something she’d never dared participate in. Not that Sarah respected tradition. She didn’t worry that coming from a long line of witches who practiced ritual sacrifice, where souls were offered to the dark side, might make her unwelcome here. Sarah just didn’t like suffering and figured the little wafer would torch its way through her body like a tablespoon of drain cleaner.
After doing the sit-stand-kneel-half-burpee routine for a half hour, Sarah decided it was time to go for the big guns in the penance department. She had to atone for all the casting. When an usher backed his way next to her pew and gestured for the row to line up, she stood with the others.
Sarah’s heart sank as she inched toward the altar and discovered a serious rite taking place. This really was big guns. The light emanating from these people pushed against the dark matter flowing through her. She didn’t have the lady balls to repel it and continue forward. She looked around, anxious for an escape.
A priest stepped in front of her and offered a wafer. It glowed with a light far different than dark matter. Sarah didn’t know what it offered to the congregation, but she knew what it offered her.
Penance.
She snatched it with her fingers and stuffed it into her mouth.
Fire.
Time seemed to slow, and the light in the church dimmed.
The priest paused and Sarah realized that the candles lighting the altar had all gone out. He shivered but turned his attention to the next person.
Sarah took three quick steps toward a young woman holding a wine goblet in one hand and running a cloth over the golden rim with the other. She nabbed the goblet out of the woman’s hand and sucked down two swallows. Instead of relieving the fire, it scorched her mouth and throat worse and landed in her belly, white-hot. The woman wrested the cup back, glaring, and Sarah ran.
FOR HOURS SARAH lay face down on an old-fashioned, gilt-trimmed sofa. She wondered if kosher food or fasting during Ramadan would cause as much damage, and made a mental note never to find out.
She sensed rather than heard the tune of the ice cream truck three blocks away. Shoving to her feet she didn’t bother with shoes, pausing only long enough to grab her credit card.
It took a moment of fumbling with the old lock on a back door to get out of the house. Sarah jogged across the wide back porch, down the steps, and then full-on ran across the grassy backyard. It took her short legs a few minutes to cross the property and cut through trees in the side yard. The grass stood high on this end of the property, and no one maintained the woods. There were no paths, not even deer trails.
No one crossed the Archer property unless forced, except the old guy who maintained the grounds, a casualty of one of her aunt’s spells from a couple decades ago. Sarah assumed it had been a love cast, because the man had never once asked for payment in the years since everyone else had gone.
“Pop-Goes-the-Weasel” pinged from the truck’s old speaker as it came crawling down High Street. Sarah jogged toward it, waving. She knew mascara ringed her eyes from crying, and that she’d been tossing on the couch long enough for her hair to nest around her head like a witch from a horror movie. The kid driving the truck stopped it in the middle of the street.
“Sup?” The thin, tattooed guy leaned out the window.
Sarah’s mind automatically compared those arms to Cowboy’s, and realized she’d been dreaming of him at night. In her dreams she knew all his tattoos, but she couldn’t remember them, except to know the one on his hand looked like a horse’s nose. In her dreams he rode a horse, but something was wrong with it. Shaking her head, she eyed the menu painted on the outside of the truck.
“A dozen Creamsicles and Fudgsicles.”
“A dozen?” His eyes swept down her body.
There was no way regular food could pass her lips today. She didn’t care what he thought, but his tone still irked her. “Yes, and do you have banana and root beer Popsicles?”
“Yeah.”
“A dozen of those, too.”
“That’s twenty-four treats.”
Sarah glowered at him, and the guy scurried to the back of his truck. By the time he’d returned to pile the haul on the small counter, a crowd of kids and a mom had gathered behind Sarah.
“Mom,” said one of the little kids, “how come she’s buying so many ice creams?”
Sarah handed over her credit card and glanced back at the kid. His mom’s eyes widened. Grabbing her son by the shoulders, she turned away and hurried toward the sidewalk. The kid bellowed in protest.
Sarah couldn’t place the woman. It might be someone from high school, or an old family from the neighborhood who knew enough. Sarah didn’t socialize, nor did she terrorize, but her family certainly had and people had a long memory for some things.
“I don’t have any sacks,” the ice cream guy said, handing her credit card back to her.
Sarah tucked it inside her lemon-colored bra strap, ripped the wrapper off a banana Popsicle and crammed the treat into h
er mouth. The ice both soothed and stung the blisters. Holding onto the icy treat with only her teeth, she separated the floaty nylon fabric of her dress from the heavier material beneath. Holding the top layer out like an apron, she motioned with her head toward her makeshift receptacle.
Shaking his head, the guy shoved everything off the tiny metal countertop and into the fabric. Sarah jammed the second half of the Popsicle into her mouth, nodded her thanks and headed home, this time by the road.
Hot pavement warmed her feet, but icy cold soothed her mouth even as her sensitive teeth protested. She wondered if taking communion had mattered at all. Normally she could sense where she stood against dark matter. It had gravity and mass. The weight of evil pressed down on her or lightened, depending on what she’d been up to. Simply being a Shrewsbury Archer left a persistent pressure. Not casting for seven months had definitely lightened it. Going to church, synagogue, or a mosque lightened it too, so she knew that it mattered. But the love cast—the double spoken spell in the parking lot of Target had done something weird. The dick spell against Avery made it worse, although she’d lifted it as soon as she found him in the men’s room down on the first floor.
Like it mattered. He’d spent at least a half hour holed up in a stall scratching his dick. You left a mark, bitch.
All of it left a strange vibration surrounding her and made it hard to sense gravity properly. Sarah knew what caused the confusing anomaly. It was the love spell awaiting completion, a double-edged blade, like a weapon with kick that could suck her right into the heart of dark matter and crush her. Breaking the damn spell demanded a trip into the attic, digging through trunks she’d locked up and thought never to look at again. Trunks she’d have burned, if they’d burn. Books she’d never wanted to see again, but hadn’t dared lose, in case she needed them. Like now.
Fuck! Evil had an easy job. Evil was delicious and fun.
Better than sex with a Lutheran Minister.
For sure!
A witch could have whatever they wanted. If they pay for it. Or kill a cat, or hurt your neighbor. Or make some guy scratch his dick raw.
Absolutely nothing in life was free, and that included favors from the dark side.
Angrily Sarah yanked the paper off another banana Popsicle with her teeth and jammed it into her mouth.
Turning left onto North Street, she came to the sidewalk in front of her house. Gnawing her way through the second half of the Popsicle, Sarah almost tripped over the pile of newspapers that had been moved to the sidewalk in front of her Jeep. I should cancel that thing. She wouldn’t though, because newspapers were a normal thing, unlike the pile of junk in the attic. Although she’d disposed of the worst of it and relegated dangerous artifacts to the basement, important stuff remained, like the book on love spells. All she had to do was find it.
Shit. That’s gonna hurt.
Sarah walked halfway up the porch steps before she realized someone stood on the porch, hidden by a riot of blue Morning Glory cascading from the roof. Her mouth full of Popsicle, she found herself looking right into Cowboy’s face. Somewhere in the back of her mind she swore she heard evil laughter.
SARAH YANKED THE treats out of her mouth and tried not to drool down the front of her dress. “You are not welcome here.” She said it like she was banishing an evil entity and immediately backpedaled. “How did you know where I live?”
Cowboy held up a square of paper. “You gave me your registration, not your insurance card. It has your address on it.”
Of course I did! The urge to touch him hit—the spell was stronger already. Chill! Breathe. Think! You handed him the wrong paperwork because you didn’t think!
Sarah took a slow breath. “Give me a minute. I’ll get you the insurance card. Would you mind opening the door for me?” She motioned with her head, holding onto her dress full of ice cream with as much dignity as possible.
Cowboy tugged at the old iron handles, first on one of the double doors and then the other. “It’s locked.”
“The key is under the mat.” She ignored his expression, determined not to look directly into his face.
Jamming the skeleton key into the old-fashioned lock, he laughed. “You must not watch the news. If keeping the key under the mat isn’t bad enough, I think I could pick this lock open with a pen.”
Sarah rarely locked the doors when she wasn’t home, only when she was inside and didn’t want to be bothered. It occurred to her if she ever came home to an intruder she’d likely wrap him in a spell to revert his motor skills to that of a ten-month-old child. Or worse.
I’ve got to pay closer attention!
Big time penance took a long time. How many years could she devote to fixing her mistakes? Thirty approached quickly. The Archer women always said that was the year casting became truly delicious. That didn’t leave much time to give up casting for good and stop making mistakes that needed fixing.
Like this one.
Cowboy tucked the key back under the mat and held the door open. Sarah swept through. “Wait here.” She shot him a witchy glare, hoping to glue his boots to the front porch. Because of course he wears cowboy boots. She needed a moment, or a cold shower.
Because his jeans fit his thighs like that.
Because without his hat his bedhead needs to be on my pillow.
Because he wore an undyed linen button-up shirt with long sleeves that hugged every muscle, and he’d tucked it into his jeans.
Who does that? Sarah wanted to shove her hands down those jeans and yank it out, after exploring for a moment or two.
Wallowing in those delicious thoughts, Sarah rushed across the stone entryway cluttered with shoes, boots, and coats for all seasons, and moved down the dark hallway to the kitchen. Opening the door of the stainless steel freezer, she crammed all the ice cream inside, next to her chocolate and frozen pizza stash.
An arm brushed past her in slow motion. The tattoo on the back of the hand covered in dark hair was definitely a horse’s nose. The skin of that hand brushed Sarah’s as she tried to yank hers away.
The slightest touch.
Damning them both.
“Mind if I have a Popsicle? Banana’s my favorite.”
“I told you to stay on the porch!” Sarah shouted at him, unable to believe he hadn’t obeyed, that he hadn’t been afraid not to. Not only was he not afraid, he was acting friendly and familiar! “Who are you?” She crossed her arms and retreated several steps.
Cowboy withdrew his arm from the freezer without taking a Popsicle and ran his fingers through his hair. “My apologies, ma’am—I mean, Sarah.” He offered his right hand. “My name is Paul Revere Longfellow.”
Sarah fought the sudden urge to laugh out loud.
“I know,” he said. “Why do you think I avoided telling you?” He dropped his hand, smiling with even teeth, a little pointy at the edges of the canines, like a lame vampire—if they really had fangs—or a kid who hadn’t worn braces to have his eye teeth trained into place. It made him ridiculously adorable.
Sarah took a Popsicle out of the freezer and handed it to him without making physical contact. She slammed the door shut with her foot. “So your family is from Massachusetts I assume, Paul Revere?”
“Yes, Concord originally. But they went south before the War Between the States.”
It took Sarah a beat or two to remember that was another name for the Civil War.
“Are you related to the poet Longfellow?” The spell came with Longfellow’s words. “Listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.” Eff me. This isn’t good. It would make the spell stronger.
“According to family legend we are. I don’t think we have the pedigree though.”
Sarah glanced at the horse nose on Paul’s hand. “But you obviously believe it.”
“I want to believe it. I did the tat during my enlistment. It goes up my entire arm, and the tail ends up here.” Paul pointed to the back of his neck with the edge of his Popsicle.
He grinned. “Just me.”
“Of course, Paul Revere. You know there are rumors that he didn’t really make that ride.”
“So everyone I’ve met in Massachusetts has mentioned, but the tat is about the poem, not the 18th of April 1775. I hear that’s still a holiday here.”
“Patriot’s Day is the 19th. What’s your father’s name?”
“Henry W.”
“Seriously? Tell me the W stands for Wadsworth, like the poet.”
“Henry Wadsworth Longfellow he is. The fourth.”
“Good lord. At least you escaped that.”
“Thanks to my older brother. The fifth.”
Shit, whether the link was blood or not there is definitely a tie to the poet. Reverence and obsession create powerful bonds! It adds depth to the spell. It adds layers of tentacles twisting through time and lives. Binding. Dark witches like the Archers were always women. It was simple genetics. But if Paul was even a dabbler, it would strengthen the spell and she’d never be able to break it on her own.
“Can I see your tats?” asked Sarah. “All of them?”
Paul’s brows rose, wrinkling his forehead.
“Please? I’m curious about the horse,” she said, putting the smallest amount of force into the request, turning it into a command strong enough for him to obey. She needed to know if he had other symbols on his body, something telling.
Paul chewed through the last bit of Popsicle and put the stick between his teeth while he unbuttoned his shirt. “I’ll show you most of it, but it’s going to cost you one insurance card.”
It took Sarah a moment to focus on the horse. The spell, dumbass! Here’s a good idea, have the hot guy you’re tied to with a love spell take his shirt off. Paul appeared to have zero body fat and the thick hair covering his chest and torso, disappearing enticingly into his jeans, looked like the kind that Sarah wanted to bounce against on her bottom.
Bitch Witch Page 3
