Get Witch Quick (Wicked Society Book 1)

by Daisy Prescott

  Contents

  Blurb

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  First Chapter of Bewitched

  Also by Daisy

  About Daisy

  Sneak peek of Someday my Witch Will Come

  After falling for tall, dark and brooding Andrew Wildes, Madison Bradbury’s life goes from boring college parties to fighting off curses and dark magic with the help of Salem’s most powerful witches and a pair of ghosts.

  When she and Andrew accept summer internships at the Wicked Society, she imagines long days spent learning magic and researching New England’s oldest families, followed by romantic nights strolling around Boston with her new love.

  What she doesn’t plan on is getting kidnapped.

  If Madison is going to outsmart her enemies, she’ll need to master her magic as quickly as possible.

  Get Witch Quick is the first book in the Wicked Society series of interconnected, lighthearted paranormal romances with a cozy mystery twist.

  Daisy Prescott

  Copyright © 2018 by Daisy Prescott, All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Renee George

  First ebook edition: August 2018

  This edition is part of Love Spells. For more information and to see other books in the Love Spells collection, please visit www.lovespellsromance.com

  Thanks for reading!

  If you want to keep up with my upcoming releases and updates, please subscribe to my mailing list.

  Prologue

  The previous December…

  Only a few patches of snow brighten the dark grounds of the Winthrop mansion as the Audi’s headlights sweep down the drive. Clouds filter out any weak sunlight, leaving the early afternoon gloomy and as gray as late twilight. Darkened windows greet us.

  “It looks more imposing than ever.” I crane forward to stare at the house as Andrew parks. My shoulders slump with defeat. “How am I going to find a small book in there?”

  “You’re going to need your extra sight. Want to start on the outside to get your bearings?”

  Sam’s headlights shine through the rear window, casting Andrew’s face in sharp angles between light and dark.

  “I suppose,” I reluctantly agree.

  His warm hand brushes my cheek before he replaces it with the heat of his mouth. I tilt my head, capturing his lips with mine, secretly hoping kissing him is the key to my power.

  As we kiss, a car horn bleats behind us. Andrew gives me a peck before leaning away. When I open my eyes, a faint blue light shimmers outside of the windshield.

  “It’s back,” I whisper.

  “Hold on to the feeling.” He opens his door and runs around the hood to get mine.

  When I step out, I focus on the front of the house. Blue light forms a fog that slowly clears as I stare at the elegant façade. Nothing is different.

  “I can see the light, but nothing about the house is different.” I sense Sam and Tate step beside me. A flickering of the porch light catches my eye. “Except the lights are powered by gas, not electricity.”

  “Interesting,” Tate says. “Shall we go inside?”

  Grabbing my hand, Andrew tucks it over his elbow. “Try to keep the vision and let us know what you see.”

  I follow him up the front stairs to the grand entry.

  Tate pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket and unlocks the door. “Give me two seconds to disarm the alarm.”

  He steps inside and closes the heavy wood door. I blink a few times and the blue haze returns.

  When he opens the door again, I step back. The foyer is decorated for Christmas. An enormous tree fills the center of the entry hall, illuminated by real candles and silvery mercury glass ornaments.

  “Madison?” Andrew’s voice carries through the haze, but I’m already stepping forward into the warmly decorated room.

  Boughs of evergreen and boxwood drape every entry and twist like a giant snake up the staircases. White candles provide more light, their flames dancing in the drafts.

  “It’s a holiday party,” I whisper.

  Aware of my friends nearby, I wander into the library. The familiar fireplace glows with a fire beneath the mantle heavy with greenery. The lack of warmth against my skin reminds me it is only part of my vision.

  Books stand in perfect rows on the shelves, but I don’t see anything resembling the gilt leather volumes from my previous vision. I wander through the room, trailing my hand along the shelves and molding, hoping for a secret catch. Finding nothing, I move to the middle of the entry hall, and slowly spin, trying to blur my vision enough for the book to call to me.

  Laughter and the quick dance of shoes across the marble foyer stops my movement. I blink, expecting to see the sound coming from Sam and Tate, or even Andrew, but they’re standing closer to the fireplace.

  When I allow the blue haze to cover my vision, I have to jump out of the way of a laughing couple dashing out of the dining room. Faint tea rose perfume tickles my nose. He spins her and kisses her on the mouth while she smiles up at him. Dressed in a classic tux, the man’s brown hair is slicked back from his face. Debonair is how I’d describe him. Holding his hand is a young woman in a strapless black gown, her dark hair twisted into a chignon bun.

  “Is your family having a party here tonight?” I ask Tate. “I’m suddenly feeling very underdressed.”

  “What?” he asks. “The Winthrops don’t believe in holiday cheer.”

  “The couple who ran through the foyer, laughing and kissing?” I point at the same time I realize there’s no one there.

  “You can see ghosts?” Sam’s voice comes out as a squeak. “I’m out of here.”

  “They can’t hurt you, Samantha,” Tate reassures her. “I’ll hold your hand if that’ll make you feel better.”

  Without glancing at them, I know Sam is probably blushing.

  “Follow them,” Tate instructs.

  I listen for the sound of the couple’s happy laughter. The faint echo comes from down the hall, so I move in that direction. Soft voices engage in light banter that ends in giggles after he says, “Come on, I’ll show you if you don’t believe me.”

  Scanning the darker interior hallway, I catch a door closing. “This way.”

  Stopping in front of the doorway, I inhale. I don’t believe in ghosts. Like I didn’t believe in magic.

  “I’m here and I’ll protect you.” Andrew squeezes my hand.

  “Me too,” Sam agrees without hesitation, and Tate repeats her words.

  I open the door, revealing an office, lined with more bookshelves. There are no decorations or candles in the
darkened room. A sliver of light from an opening in the wall illuminates the space.

  “There’s a hidden door.” I don’t bother to pretend the thought doesn’t excite me.

  Even though I’m terrified right now because I’m following a ghost couple.

  Unfortunately, the secret passage closes before we can step inside and the laughter fades away.

  “It’s gone,” I say, disappointed.

  Tate flips a switch and bright electric light fills the space. It feels harsh and I’m aware of the faint buzzing in the wires.

  “This is my father’s office. I used to play under his desk when I was an adorable toddler.” Tate walks into the middle of the room. “Pretty sure I’d know if there’s a secret door in here.”

  I’m listening as I study the wall where the couple disappeared. Deep mahogany paneling follows a pattern of rectangular molding above thick wainscoting below a chair rail. I run my index finger along the chair rail until my nail catches on a crease.

  “I think I found it.” Above the notch is a portrait of a stern looking man in all black with the fluffy white wig of eighteenth-century men’s fashion.

  “Of course,” Tate laughs. “Jonathan Winthrop, you old dog.”

  Tate rubs his hands along the wall and under the chair railing. A soft click sounds when he finds the catch.

  The panel swings forward, revealing a small room lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling.

  “This must share a wall with the library.” Sounding curious, Andrew pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight. “I wonder if there’s a door on either side for escape.”

  Sure enough, there is a faint outline of another door opposite ours.

  “Is the book in here?” Sam refocuses me.

  I blur my vision, wondering if I can call up my visions without kissing Andrew first. Scanning the shelves, a bright shade of blue catches my attention.

  “Up there.” I point to the top shelf. “In the middle.”

  Andrew reaches up and pulls down the slim black leather book I first glimpsed in a vision down in my grandmother’s cellar.

  I hand him the envelope from my coat pocket. “Place this on top and return it to the shelf. For now.”

  He gives me a curt nod. “Until you need it.”

  I expect a wind to swirl around us, or the lights to go out, but nothing extraordinary happens. Besides the fact that I had a vision of a book and two ghosts helped me find it.

  One

  Early May

  Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

  I know this because the commencement speaker yesterday told me so. Along with emphasizing the power is within us, Dr. Emile de Snoozefest shared other deep nuggets of truth such as the future is ours, the world needs us, and we should always keep learning. He didn’t mean me in particular. I didn’t graduate. More generic graduation words of wisdom, but the last two hit a little too close to my current reality and summer plans.

  Of course, I can’t talk about my internship at a secret society of witches. When anyone asks, I tell them I’m spending the summer in Boston working for a private archive. Cue the yawns of imagined boredom from my family. Why would I spend my last official summer of college in a stuffy library? If they only knew what they don’t know. Dr. Snoozefest shared that truth nugget, too. Makes my head hurt, trying to unravel that one.

  Before the rest of my life begins, I need to deal with today. If my future is anything like this morning, I’m going to be spending my days without enough sleep, in desperate need of more caffeine, and wearing yesterday’s clothes.

  Not sure how auspicious this is for the start of the rest of my life, let alone this summer. I’m grateful I packed everything from my dorm room and hauled it back to my parents’ house after finals. When I say everything, I mean everything, which explains why I’m wearing the same red floral sundress from graduation while I try to sneak out of my boyfriend’s bedroom with my shoes in one hand and my underwear stuffed in my purse. I’m nothing if not a classy lady.

  This is what happens when a carefully packed weekend bag is left behind.

  My grandmother’s warning about clean undergarments still echoes ominously in my head whenever I go out. Over the years, the importance of fresh underwear as a talisman to avoid the shame of a random EMT’s disgust has morphed into a bonafide superstition. How to prevent getting in an accident or suffering from a catastrophic calamity? Clean underwear. Like carrying an umbrella so it doesn’t rain.

  Also important to note, I might be a little hungover from too much champagne. It’s a classier hangover than one from keg beer drank from a red Solo cup from my early days at Hawthorne College. We all live and learn. I guess I now know what I didn’t know before. One point to Dr. Snoozefest!

  Maybe there’s a spell or magical tincture for the removal of headaches and sour stomachs. I’ll have to ask Sarah Wildes, aka Salem’s most powerful witch, my boyfriend’s mother, and owner of the house I’m about to sneak out of on an early Saturday morning.

  No, my boyfriend doesn’t live in his mother’s basement. This enormous Victorian is big enough for him to have his own apartment in the attic. At least he doesn’t have three roommates sharing a one bedroom with a single bathroom. Things could always be worse.

  “Where are you going?” the sleepy, muffled voice belonging to yesterday’s graduate, aka my boyfriend, asks from the bed behind me.

  “I have to drive to my parents’ house today for my dad’s birthday and pack what I’m bringing to Boston for the summer.” Turning, I tuck my shoes under my arm. All I can see of Andrew is his dark hair against the pillows and the vague outline of him beneath the comforter.

  “Why so early and why are you tiptoeing around like a thief?” His voice sounds deeper in the morning and sexier.

  “If your mother catches me sneaking out of her house again, I’ll die from embarrassment, again, and probably shrivel up into a human raisin and then turn to dust on the spot. A sad raisin size pile of dust will be all that’s left of me.” I check the zipper on my small purse to confirm my underwear isn’t poking out or dangling from the side. “I want to hold onto a tiny scrap of my dignity.”

  “It’s my home, too. We’re all adults here.” Andrew rolls to his side and stares at me, sleepily blinking his light blue, iceberg-colored eyes in the dim morning light slanting through the curtains of his attic apartment. A heavy lock of dark hair hangs in his face, a shadow over his pale skin. “You’ve spent the night plenty of times over the past three months. In case you forgot, you have your own key.”

  Right. I do. Not that I’ve used it. “I took that as more of a symbolic gesture. Like a ribbon cutting ceremony. Or one of those giant checks lottery winners receive. Not for practical use like coming and going from this house as I please.”

  Laughing, he flips to his back and bends his arm behind his head. Because he’s shirtless, my eyes travel over the various muscle groups that make up his chest and arms. “Do you really need to leave now? In the grand scheme of things, will another hour or two matter?”

  He makes a good argument, but I’m stubborn. “There might be traffic. I want to get the awkward humiliation of not looking your mother in the eye over and done with before the churchgoers flood the streets with their judgment and uncomfortable shoes.”

  His lips twitch as he fights a smile. “But if you wait until closer to ten, all of the church ladies will be attending services and you won’t have to face my mother because she’ll be at the Spelling B. Seems like the best possible plan all around.” The hand not behind his head pats the mattress next to him. “Come back to bed.”

  For show, I tap my index finger on my chin, pretending to weigh my options. Pursing my mouth, I lower my brows to give the appearance of debate. As if I can resist him. My draw to Andrew is stronger than any spell or magic could create. Once upon a time, I thought I needed a love spell to make him fall in love with me when all I really had to do was be myself.

  While I act out indeci
sion, Andrew peels back the covers, revealing his black sleep pants and defined abs. He crawls to the foot of the bed like a predator, his movements smooth and feline. Like a jaguar and I’m whatever sweet little jungle critter jaguars hunt. Probably sloths. I’m a slow moving, sweet sloth. An apt description if anyone has ever seen me go wogging (walking plus jogging) around Salem.

  Mind reading isn’t one of Andrew’s “special” skills, but my face must reveal my thoughts, because he pounces for me.

  I squeal in surprise with a shiver of fear coated in excitement when he lifts me up and carries me back to bed.

  “What time are the birthday festivities?” He stands at the edge, his thighs between my legs and his naked chest at eye level.

  Distracted by the hard planes of his muscles, it takes me a few seconds to comprehend he’s asking me a question. “Two, but I promised I’d help decorate.”

  “Your parents only live ninety minutes away.” He ducks his head and lifts my chin with a single finger, a silent question in his eyes. “According to math, you’ve overestimated your travel time by at least three hours.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, I flop back on the bed. “I need to pack. Don’t forget that part. I’m nervous and I don’t know what to bring for an internship at a secret witch society. Do I need robes or will all black work? Is there going to be a list of required supplies and a hidden shopping street where I can buy a wand and textbooks?”

  With a small burst of laughter, he sits next to me on the bed. “We’re not going to a fictional wizard school in England. There isn’t a required dress code.”

  “Will I still be given a pet owl?” I attempt to appear hopeful.