Bitch Witch

by S. R. Karfelt

  SARAH DIDN’T KNOW how much time passed. Henry lay beside her on the sofa, an arm under her neck. They continued to rub their feet and legs together, pressing palms and touching noses. Random facts kept fluttering through her mind, most of them about his physical attributes. Six feet tall. Size twelve foot. Runs a mile in seven minutes. Sarah undid three buttons on his shirt and asked, “No horse tattoos?” No tattoos. Scar on left thigh. Has teeth whitened.

  “Hah, no. I think Paul was only making the best of his name with that.”

  “You need a necklace,” she said, running a finger over the spot where one seemed to be missing.

  “I gave mine to Paul. It’s been in our family for ages. It’s a first son thing, but I gave it to him when he got home from Afghanistan and was having…trouble.”

  “He told me. Not about your necklace, but about the hospital.”

  “He must trust you.” Henry brushed his lips over Sarah’s and a thrill shot through her. He pushed against the back of the sofa to roll her beneath the length of his long body. Sarah felt small beneath him, petite instead of squat. Somehow important areas lined up just right.

  Average sized penis. Shaves legs. Battling nail fungus on one toe.

  Her spell was incredibly annoying. Sarah stared into his eyes and tried to ignore it.

  “You’re lovely,” he whispered. The intensity in his golden brown eyes made Sarah very aware that her dress had scooted up somewhere around her panties. She smiled. He felt good, each touch as delicious as a small cast.

  A loud thump startled them both. Back from the attic with a stack of books, Paul proceeded to toss them onto the coffee table one by one.

  “I will get the hose,” he said.

  Henry sat up, pulling Sarah into his arms. “Get used to us, little brother.”

  Paul focused on Sarah’s eyes. “Your attic puts the creep in creepy.”

  “I know, right?” she said, but turned her eyes back to Henry’s.

  “She’s definitely a witch, Henry. Just in case you missed it when she pinned you against the front door with your feet dangling in the air.”

  Henry frowned.

  “I am sorry about that,” said Sarah. Dry heels. Regular manicures. Drinks expensive wine.

  “I’ve seen her pull fire out of thin air.”

  Henry’s frown deepened. “Would you show me?”

  “Sure thing,” said Sarah. “Hold your palm over mine and don’t panic. This kind won’t burn.” A small handful of flames leapt from her hand to Henry’s, dancing between them.

  He grinned. “Now that’s something else. It tickles. How do you learn to do this stuff?”

  “My aunt taught me this.”

  “But you never took any classes?”

  Sarah laughed. “No. I’m a natural.”

  “You’re not in show business are you?”

  “No! Definitely not.”

  Paul came closer and slapped their hands together, putting the flame out. “It’s not Criss Angel magic! They’re Salem witch—witches, Henry.”

  “No, now, that mess was not the Archers,” said Sarah. “I mean not entirely. The Puritans were ridiculous.”

  “They’re the kind who sacrifice cats and sometimes people to the dark side,” said Paul.

  Henry’s eyes widened.

  “Not me!” said Sarah. “You know, nobody can help what family they’re born into.”

  “That’s true,” said Henry, still looking uncertain.

  Cracks his ankles. Sleeps five hours a night. Drinks protein shakes for breakfast.

  “Last night she cast a spell at the movies so some teenage boy couldn’t stop holding onto his dick.”

  “You did what?” Henry let go of Sarah’s hand and frowned up at Paul. “Come on! You don’t really believe that stuff is real, do you? Don’t make me worry about you even more.”

  Sarah interrupted. “I was mean to the kid because I was afraid he was going to get Paul into trouble.”

  “You are so thoughtful,” said Henry, smoothing her dark hair away from her face and draping his arm around her shoulders again. “You have the most beautiful eyes. They’re so light, the palest blue I’ve ever seen. It’s striking against your skin and dark hair.”

  “Thank you! I like yours too. Brown eyes with black lashes is deadly sexy.”

  “Nobody has ever said that to me before.”

  “It’s very Hollywood.” Uses monogrammed handkerchiefs. Caught pink eye at the gym earlier this year. Keeps track of his illnesses in an Excel spreadsheet.

  “Just stop talking. I am so embarrassed for you both,” said Paul. “So, Sarah. I found all these spell books. This is some cray-zay. Can you use these on normal people? Like there’s this one,” he dug through a thick black book, “that will make other people do what you say. I think it affects your voice. But I thought if you could do me a favor and put this on me, Sarah, maybe I could make you get a clue and quit drooling on my brother—who until a few hours ago was actually drooling in love with another woman!”

  Sarah looked into Henry’s eyes. Does he really love someone else? Why couldn’t that fact come to her?

  Paul leaned over to grasp her chin and force her to look at him. “Focus, witchy-woman. Can you put this spell on me?” He tossed the heavy tome into her lap, opening it to the page he wanted.

  Sarah glanced at the spell. “It would require you to drink the blood of a singer.”

  “Well, what about this one?” said Paul, tossing a leather bound book on top of it and thumbing through pages of parchment. The writing looked old, like calligraphy. “This one helps you see things from a logical perspective. You and Henry could both use a glass of that.”

  “I’m logical,” said Henry. “When you enlisted you told me you were doing what you’d always known you should do. Well, as soon as I saw Sarah I knew—something. That never happened with…uh….” His voice trailed off as he seemed to search for the name of his girlfriend.

  “Right,” said Paul. “It’s logical to fall in love with a woman you just laid eyes on, who you know zip about. She might as well be a different species than you are. She’s. A. Witch. You had a problem with Kathleen because she’s Catholic and Irish.”

  “I’m Catholic,” said Sarah, frowning at him. Agnostic. Goes to church on Christmas and Easter. Hates chicken.

  “You are?” said Henry.

  She shrugged. “Well, not technically.” Jogs on a treadmill in his office. Loves sushi. Hates cats.

  “All right then.”

  Sarah leaned her head against his shoulder, perusing the handwritten logic spell. It helped distract her from the random facts about Henry. Oddly enough none of the details made him less appealing, not even the toenail fungus. I’ll just make him keep his socks on. He appealed to her so strongly that if it weren’t for Paul, she would drag Henry up to her bedroom right now.

  Which would only increase the strength of the love spell.

  The logical spell seemed like a good idea. It would require making a potion and breathing it. She was already so deep into dark matter; it would make little difference in the penance department. “I need a slice of sour dough bread, a cup of well water, a sheet of blank parchment paper, a shingle from the roof of a man with his priorities in place, a sprig from an evergreen tree, a piece of undyed linen, a splinter from stocks, an earthen bowl to mix it in, and an abacus. We have most of this stuff right here. Paul, didn’t you make sour dough bread a couple days ago?”

  “Yes, and there’s some left over. Does it matter if it’s stale?”

  “I think that would make a better potion. The only problem is getting the shingle from the roof of a man with his priorities in place.”

  “You don’t know anyone?” Henry winked at her.

  Paul groaned. “What about from a priest’s house?”

  “A rectory? That’s a matter of debate in my opinion,” said Henry. “I’m not sure a man who gives up women fits the bill of having his priorities in place.”

  “I�
��m sure that it would work,” Sarah said, and nodded to Paul. “I could make this.”

  Henry flat out refused to get out of the Jeep to steal a shingle from the rectory of a church.

  “Sorry, kitten. I’ll get you all the shingles you want at The Home Depot, but I can’t steal for you, especially not here. If we got caught I don’t think I could do a credible job explaining why to my stockholders.”

  Cautious in real life. Ruthless in business. Protective of family.

  Paul crawled over his brother from the backseat, a hammer in the rear pocket of his jeans. “You know I can’t remember for sure, but I have a vague memory of him using that exact excuse when we were six and sneaking chewing tobacco out of Gramp’s toolbox.”

  “Seems to me we both got a whomping just the same,” said Henry.

  “Well, you were the older more responsible one.” Paul grinned. He gestured with the chisel in his hand toward the old man sitting on the front porch of the rectory. “You’re up, Sarah. This part was your idea. Remember? You’ll pay a little visit while I do the dirty work. Maybe you and Henry do have something in common. Anyway, get a move on. Operation Get-A-Clue commencing in three, two, one!” Laughing, Paul jogged across the lawn to the back of the old house.

  Sarah’s heart slammed against her ribcage as she marched up the sidewalk toward the priest. Why do I listen to Paul? Why do I need another spell? If I have to be stuck in a love spell, Henry is the perfect man to be stuck there with. Really, where’s the harm?

  Kathleen. The name echoed in her head. And spells aren’t real. Sarah shoved the thought of Henry’s old girlfriend out of her head. If Henry could do it, she sure could. As far as real went, Henry was the most attractive man she’d ever met. He’d dropped everything to come find his little brother. Despite being wrapped into a love spell, he’d even had the fortitude to call his parents in the car, and make Paul apologize to their mom for worrying her.

  Just because there’s a love spell doesn’t mean he’s not perfect.

  Right. Perfect OCD businessman with toenail fungus.

  I don’t care about that stuff!

  Since when?

  The logic spell was definitely a good idea.

  Plus, since we are perfect for each other, it’ll make Paul see that!

  “Hello, Father,” said Sarah, extending a paper bag toward the priest sitting on the porch swing. “I brought some ice cream for the priests.” It was all she had. A pile of treats from the ice cream truck that she’d spent a fortune on.

  “Oh!” The priest leaned forward, his wrinkled smile displaying a mouthful of worn teeth. He looked ancient, with wisps of silvery hair stuck to his smooth, freckled head. “What flavor you got?”

  Sarah forced herself up the first porch step. “Um, well, all different kinds. Fudgesicles, Creamsicles, and root beer Popsicles.” She’d kept the banana for herself.

  The priest clapped his hands together. “That sounds wonderful! I haven’t had a Creamsicle in years! Do you have orange?”

  Sarah studied him, planted and tucked into the swing with a robe on his lap and a Bible beside him. Determination settled through her, mostly to be finished and get back to the car where Henry waited. She stalked up the steps and handed the bag to the old priest. “They’re all orange.”

  “Sit with me right here.” He patted the wide swing. “Share one too.” He lifted the Bible and extended it toward Sarah. “Put this on that little table over there for me.”

  Sarah froze. The cover of the book had been worn smooth in places, the edges frayed from use, and bits of colored silk markers jutted from between the pages. If it weren’t a thing of power to begin with, it had become one from years of devotion and prayer.

  Once on a dare, Aunt Lily had touched an old copy of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. It had taken her a month to figure out how to repair her blackened hand. Sarah suspected if she took that Bible from the priest her entire hand would catch fire.

  “Oh, I don’t have time to stay,” she said, holding the bag out. “You enjoy them with the other priests.”

  “Do I know you?” He peered over the top of wire-framed reading glasses, blinking rheumy pale eyes. “What’s your name?”

  He was still holding the Bible out. “Sarah,” she said.

  He raised his brows. “Sarah?”

  She cleared her throat and said quickly, “Archer.”

  “Sarah Archer, I’m Father McCloud. You look familiar. Does your family go to Our Lady of the Light?”

  “They don’t. I do, but I’m new.”

  “Will you take this Bible for me, Sarah Archer?” Something knowing glowed in his eyes and Sarah took a deep breath.

  It would be good penance. She glanced around. A bird bath full of rainwater sat against the porch railing; it might work. She reached for the book and the priest’s left hand snaked out and grabbed her right one with surprising strength.

  “I see what you are, Sarah Archer. Why are you here?”

  She closed her eyes and battled tears; his fingers scalded her wrist. She wondered if her skin burned his too. “I’m trying not to be that anymore,” she said.

  Father McCloud let go and set the Bible beside him, resting his hand on it. Sarah wondered if it soothed his blisters. His eyes briefly took in the red welts on her wrist.

  “You have to give up your dark ways, if you mean what you say.”

  “I’m trying,” she said. “I keep backsliding.”

  The priest nabbed the bag of treats from her other hand. “Who doesn’t?” He peered inside the bag and smiled. “These look good.” He looked up at her, taking his glasses off and folding them. “Have you tried asking for what you need instead of taking it?”

  “You’ll say no.”

  Father McCloud dug a Creamsicle out of the bag and tugged it out of the wrapping. “That’s how the world is meant to work. Free will and all. Ask anyway.”

  “I need a shingle from the roof of your house. I’ll bring it back.”

  “What on earth do you need a shingle for?”

  “I’m trying to break a spell, I guess.”

  “You guess?” He took a bite of his ice cream.

  “Well, it’s a love spell, and I think—no, I know—or I’m pretty sure I want to break it. I think I would love him anyway, so maybe it doesn’t even matter. But if I do this spell, I’ll know for sure if it’s real.”

  “The church doesn’t hold with witchcraft and spells.”

  “I didn’t do it. It was an accidental cast.”

  “Accidental?”

  Under his sharp gaze, Sarah shifted from foot to foot. “No one did it on purpose. It was kind of a mix up because of another spell.”

  “Huh.” The priest gnawed on the ice cream bar. “The trimmings and trappings, spells and casting, are to get your head in the right place you know. It’s dark matter toying with you, moving your soul into position for acquisition. You’re being foolish.”

  Sarah knew the priest was right, but she also needed to understand what to do. She needed clarity. “It’s a small thing. I mean, it’s not a dark cast, but I still need the shingle.”

  Father McCloud rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. “You don’t, and the spell won’t work because they never do. I’m not giving you permission to use my shingle for witchery, but I am asking you to remember to bring it back when you take it anyway. I don’t want a leaky roof. Someday, when you ask for something you want, and it is denied you and you don’t take it anyway—that is a day you’ve walked away from dark matter. That is the day you’ve stopped trying to change and have changed. You may go, Sarah Archer.”

  “THERE ARE STOCKS in the basement, and an abacus,” Sarah told Henry as facts about the hair care products he used buzzed through her brain.

  “I think I might like a peek into your basement myself. It sounds like a museum buff’s dream.”

  Nightmare maybe. Standing upstairs in the open doorway, Sarah listened to Paul rooting around in the bowels of the deep, dark cellar. Far bel
ow her, the beam from his flashlight shone through the darkness as he searched. Puffs of dark matter billowed from the open door and shivers raced up her spine. Henry’s hand running up and down her back did nothing to soothe it.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his breath warm against her cool skin. “It’s just a basement. Paul can handle basements. I’m protective of him, but this is nothing compared to what he’s been through.”

  No it’s not! “Paul, are you all right?” she called down the rickety stairs.

  “I’m seriously creeped out, Sarah,” he said from the darkness. “Is that a guillotine in the back?”

  “Please let me go too!” begged Henry.

  Bi-monthly facials. Weekly massage. Uses organic moisturizer.

  She shook her head at him and yelled, “Yes, Paul. Try not to look around. You’re searching, not exploring. Does your pendant feel warm on your neck?”

  “It’s my cross, remember?” said Henry. “I loaned it to him, and I can promise it’s not supernatural.” He chuckled against her ear.

  “No, well, a little, but it’s cold down here,” came Paul’s answer. “This is one deep skanky basement. I think there’s water dripping. This isn’t just dirt is it? I mean the floor is, but the walls are stone, right? I feel like I’m inside a mine that might collapse.”

  “Hurry up, please. The abacus is right by the first post near the stairs, inside a pile of old laundry baskets. It’s red and white, see it? The stocks are about three posts back. They’re just the board where the head and hands went through and they’re leaning against another post. Just use your knife to dig a piece of wood out, and get back here.”

  “Oh! Well, I see the abacus. Seriously, why isn’t there electricity down here? Of course, why would there be electricity? This was designed for creep factor, right? I think there’s a cardboard box of bones down here.” His voice sounded shaky.

  “They aren’t human. Don’t freak. Just get the splinter. It looks like old weathered wood with three holes in it.”

  “Yeah, really? That’s no help. A lot of stuff looks like that down here. And you gave me one crap flashlight. Give me a second.”

  “Have you ever thought about growing your hair long?” whispered Henry against her ear.