“Clothes are overrated.” I begin unbuttoning the top of my dress.
“So is undressing yourself.” He stills my fingers. “Let me.”
My heart races beneath his hand as he finishes what I started. He takes his time peeling off my clothes, leaving me a squirming mess each time his fingers brush against my bare skin.
I tug at his T-shirt, encouraging him to remove it. He gives into my demand and pulls it over his head. This is far better than eating pizza in a stuffy restaurant.
Trailing a line of kisses down my naked body, he pauses after nipping my inner thigh. “This is three.”
My head lolls back on the pillows as he fully explores option three. I silently and not so quietly express my gratitude for three until light sparks at the edge of my vision as my body contracts, sending me into bliss.
But he’s not through and neither am I.
“Two, we can’t forget about two,” I mumble as I pull him up. “Or four, which is two twice.”
He chuckles at me using his lame euphemisms. His laughter shakes the bed.
“What?” I peel open one eye and stare at him. “You started it.”
“I did. And I’m not finished.” He reaches across me to the nightstand.
“I don’t have any condoms.” I groan in frustration.
“Yes, you do.” He shows me the box he pulled from the drawer before taking care of business.
“When? Wait, I don’t care.” I kiss him, biting his lip and gently tugging as I pull him down on top of me.
With a deep groan, he thrusts inside of me, filling me completely. He lifts his head to gaze into my eyes. “This is everything.”
Threading my fingers through his hair, I tug his face down to mine. “You’re my everything.”
He kisses me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth and swallowing every moan and cry of pleasure from me as he works his magic on my body.
We lose ourselves in each other until we skim too close to the edge and tumble into pleasure.
For a few moments, we lie together, mindless and free of responsibilities. All threats and secret societies exist outside of our bubble. I wish we could stay like this forever.
Six
I have a feeling that no matter the season outside, the interior of the Society’s headquarters is kept at a perfect temperature for a light cashmere sweater.
We’ve been here three days and on every one of them, Geoffrey has worn a thin, but incredibly soft looking brightly colored sweater when he comes down to the archives. He’s the Mr. Rogers of witches. No black robes or other Gothic garb for Mr. Gardener.
I’m not sure what I expected, but expensive cashmere wasn’t it. Then again, we’re in one of Boston’s wealthiest neighborhoods and he fits right in with the Beacon Hill crowd.
The headquarters’ Victorian brick building looks like any other elegant row house with four floors and a basement. The rooms on the three upper floors are decorated like the library, formal with traditional furnishings and American antiques. However, the basement is anything but typical. A state of the art, climate and humidity controlled archives could be inside any world-class museum.
The entire building is kept at a moderate temperature, which means I’m wearing multiple layers inside that I need to peel off whenever I have to exit the building. I’m in a constant state of undressing and redressing like a weird mix of librarian and stripper.
In the basement, it’s even chillier. Sam and I have thick blankets to cover ourselves with while we sift through endless document boxes. Thankfully, we also have an endless supply of tea and cookies. The electric kettle in the small kitchen down here makes enough tea for Buckingham Palace.
Sam closes a manila file folder and sets it on top of the growing stack. “I still think Mrs. Howe is the witch working with Stanford. She was the one taking notes via Morse Code in her knitting during the coven meetings. Sneaky and crafty are a dangerous combination.”
Wearing my fancy white cotton gloves, I flip another page in the nineteenth-century ledger I’m studying. “The power of three could be three generations of Howe women. We know her granddaughter Lucy, has bad energy all over her chart. Mrs. Howe is a spy. What about the estranged daughter? What information do we have about her?”
“Do we believe that Mrs. Howe hasn’t spoken to her daughter in years? She also denied knowing if Lucy came into her powers.” Sam uses the back of her gloved hand to brush a loose strand from her braid out of her face.
“Let’s assume she lied. Where’s Lucy now?” I ask.
“How would I know? She blocked me on social media.” Sam laughs. “We weren’t even friends there.”
“Same. Damn her.” I shake my fists in mock frustration.
Putting the lid on the document box, Sam says, “Time for our training with Geoffrey.”
I remove the blanket from my lap and fold it. “Thank goodness. I need to thaw out. Do you think I have time to make a coffee run before lessons begin? I want to check out the café down the street.”
“By lessons, you mean flipping over random tarot cards while you stare into space, trying to conjure up some ghosts?” She releases an exasperated sigh.
“I did get a glimpse of an old woman in a sleeping bonnet and a long white nightgown, so this week hasn’t been a complete failure.”
“I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t sorting files in a basement.”
“I think Geoffrey is trying to ease us into life here. Once we have the book to study, I’m sure things will become more interesting.”
Sounding resigned, Sam peels off her white gloves that are now smudged with old newspaper ink and dust.
“Maybe at dinner tonight we can get Smith to play Cards Against Humanity with us. I’m going to crack his stone cold façade and make him laugh. There’s a hearty belly laugh in there somewhere.” I suggest to cheer her up.
“Tate’s been trying. Can’t crack him either. But good luck with your challenge.” Sam stands and folds her blanket. “Let’s go get coffees. I need to warm up.”
After taking an order for Andrew and Tate, we strip off our sweaters before leaving the house. We follow the alley to the cross street and head down the hill to Charles Street. I spot the café a few doors down from the pizza place.
Inside is empty except for a guy in a beanie glaring at his tablet on the counter. We stand in front of him for a minute before he glances up. Even seeing us waiting, he jabs at the screen a few more times.
“Can we get a couple of coffees to go?” Sam asks, her voice sweet. Today her blond French braids hang down her back and she’s wearing an apron dress over a striped T-shirt. She’s hard to ignore.
“Anything but drip coffee. It’s five hours old and I’m not going to make another pot today just to throw it away.” He stares at his screen.
“Okay, that’s fine.” I study the chalkboard menu hanging behind the counter. “Two cold brews with room, and—”
“Give me a minute.” He picks up his tablet and walks to the other end of the counter.
Sam and I meet eyes with matching expressions of “what the hell is going on right now” on our faces.
“Should we go to Dunkin’? There’s one farther down Charles.” I turn toward the door.
“Fine.” He exhales and moves the tablet to a shelf on the wall near the cash register. “You don’t need to be jerks. Two cold brews. What else?”
We stare at him. He glares back.
“Maybe we should go,” I tell Sam.
“My iced coffee is the best. You’ll be missing out.” He shrugs, and then pulls out two to-go cups.
I wish Tate were with us to change this guy’s mood, yet I find myself repeating the rest of our order.
While he makes our coffees, I ask his name. Not that I’m dying to know, but I’m curious if he’ll tell it to me, or just tell me off.
“It’s Archie. Most people call me Angry Archie behind my back, but my friends call me that to my face.”
When we laugh, he d
oesn’t join us.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam, this is Madison.”
“Suit yourselves,” he says with no emotion as he sets a tray of coffees on the counter. “I prefer tips in cash.”
We pay and slip a dollar bill in his stuffed tip jar.
Outside, we burst into laughter.
Sam takes a moment to catch her breath. “I really need to bring Tate next time. He loves a challenge.”
“I can’t believe he glared at us until we gave him all of our change.”
Sipping my iced coffee, I sigh. “Damn, he’s right.”
Seven
“Five flipping flapjacks thirty in the morning is too early for a group outing,” Sam complains from beside me in the third row of the enormous Mercedes SUV currently being driven by Smith with Geoffrey riding shotgun. Tate and Andrew occupy the middle row because they’re taller and need the leg room, according to Tate.
By sitting in the last row, I thought I’d be able to go back to sleep. And I might be able to if it weren’t for Sam’s complaining and the random radio station Smith has playing at top volume. It’s impossible to hear the conversation in the front seat from here and I suspect that might be on purpose.
Our plan involves an early morning swing through Salem to meet up with Sarah and Dr. Philips. I pray they bring their own car and we don’t try to cram two more bodies in here. At least not living ones. Ghosts would be okay.
Closing my eyes, I attempt to concentrate on visualizing the blue haze of the past the way I’ve been practicing all week. When I peek through my lids, I only see the back of Tate’s dreadlocks. I guess the SUV is too new to be a vehicle with ghostly passengers.
According to Geoffrey, we need the more powerful witches to strengthen the charm on the fake book to fool whoever comes to steal it. A witch will be able to read the energy, so not only must it look old, it has to feel old, too. And the best way to do this is by duplicating the original’s imprint in person.
We arrive at our rendezvous spot in front of Sarah’s large, gray Victorian. No one lingers outside to greet us and the windows are dark. Idling the SUV, Smith lightly taps his horn like we’re the jerky date who can’t be bothered to come to the door.
“Want me to go get them?” Andrew places his hand on the door. “I have my key.”
“No, here they are.” Smith points through the windshield.
Sarah and Dr. Philips walk toward us on the sidewalk, not from the direction of the front door. Dressed in her usual flowy Stevie Nicks style with a red chopstick in her hair, Sarah gives us a happy wave with the hand not holding a wicker basket. Next to her, Dr. Philips, in his typical tweed jacket, carries a cat carrier. He must have a personal sauna going on under that sports coat.
“They look like they’re going on the weirdest picnic ever,” Sam says as she leans forward to see them more clearly.
“Knowing my mother, that basket is filled with all of her favorite tools for magic as well as a few snacks.” Andrew waves back.
Dr. Philips sets the carrier on the roof of a silver Prius parked in front of us before opening the driver’s door. Somehow it suits the tweed-loving English professor to drive a hybrid.
We make the short drive south to Marblehead. At the large iron gate to his family’s property, Tate gets out of the SUV and enters the security code. Used as a summer house, the estate is more gothic than beach chic. Imposing, cold stone covers the enormous façade at the end of the long drive. No colorful bursts of spring flowers decorate the gardens. Neat hedgerows of boxwood flank the wide expanses of lawn dotted with old trees.
The house will always remind me of Halloween and Tate’s infamous parties. Last year’s party was the first time I saw Andrew’s powers and discovered magic is real.
After clambering out of the cars, we gather on the front steps.
Sarah gives Sam, Andrew, and me welcoming hugs. “I can’t believe it’s only been a week since Tate and Andrew graduated. How’s the Society? Amazing?”
“Cold is a better word for it.” Sam gives her a weak smile. “And exhausting. All work and no play.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Smith interrupts. “We played Cards Against Humanity with Mrs. Peale last night after dinner. The vulgarity inside that woman’s brain could shock the most depraved.”
Tate chuckles. “I’m scarred for life.”
Philips sets the cat carrier on the grass and opens the door. “I brought Mildred to keep an eye on things out here for us while we take care of business inside.”
His familiar stretches a black leg out of the carrier and extends her claws before her head appears. Slowly, she stretches her body until she’s outside of her cage. With a soft hiss, she dashes across the lawn and disappears around the corner of the house.
With a few rapid blinks, Sarah shakes her head. “Well, shall we?”
Tate unlocks and steps through the oversized, wooden front door to deactivate the alarm.
“If this is his family’s summer home, why isn’t anyone here?” Sam whispers to me. “There’s a beautiful private beach and no one is using it.”
“It’s a complete waste. I agree,” Tate says, swinging open the grand door and waving us through. “My family hoards things, not to enjoy them, but to own them so someone else doesn’t. Welcome, please come in, but don’t enjoy yourself too much. The house won’t know how to handle unbridled joy.”
Inside the oversized foyer with its crisp black and white marble floor, a sense of welcome and calm sweeps over me.
“Shall we wait here while you collect the book, Madison?” Sarah touches my arm. “We’ll meet you in the library.”
“Want me to come with you?” Andrew asks, stepping closer.
“Of course. Always.” I reach for his hand. When our skin makes contact, a soft, blue light floods my vision.
My hearing pricks up and I listen for the now familiar echoes of laughter or footsteps from the resident ghosts.
Giggling and breathy whispers from down the hall welcome me.
“They’re here,” I whisper back, excitement and happiness coating my words. “They’re still here.”
Taking this as a good sign, I tug on Andrew’s hand to pull him out of the foyer. We turn the corner into a long hallway and I catch a glimpse of my ghosts dashing through an open door. Increasing my pace, I follow after them.
“Wait. Please wait,” I say out loud. “I have so many questions.”
The voices fade when I reach the doorway.
“Don’t go.” My earlier happy mode fades when we’re greeted by an empty office. The same portrait of John Winthrop, patriarch of the family and original owner of the house, still glares down at us from the wall.
“What happened?” Andrew walks toward the painting and the secret door that is hidden in the wood paneling.
“They’re nothing but teases. I barely got a glimpse of the couple and they were whispering too softly for me to understand their words.” I’m pouting with unrequited feelings.
“Maybe it’s the new people?” He slides his hand along the molding, searching for the hidden release.
“I thought they’d be more excited to see me again.” Pouting, I join him in the search. My finger catches on a crease and I slip it into the notch to open the door. “Got it.”
With a soft sigh, the molding splits, revealing the secret room.
“After you,” Andrew says, widening the gap.
The same shelves line the small space that’s not much larger than a walk-in closet. Across from us is the door leading directly into the library. Every secret room needs an escape route.
Blurring my vision, I cast my attention to a high shelf. Sure enough, a blue glow illuminates a small, black leather book.
“It’s still here.” Exhaling, I release the built-up dread from my body.
“Were you worried it wouldn’t be?” Andrew steps up to the shelves and reaches above his head.
“Part of me was.” I guide him to the book. “More to the left and b
ack a little. Don’t forget the envelope, too.”
“Got it and the envelope from your grandmother.” He hands both to me. “Are you going to open it now?”
“No. I’m supposed to wait until I know it’s the right time.” I tuck the cream paper into the pocket of my black cherry sundress. An important reason to always have a dress with pockets is you can hide secrets in them.
“I love you.” Andrew gives me a quick kiss, which I accept with a sigh, inviting him deeper by opening my mouth and swirling my tongue against his.
A soft “ooh” fills my head, but it didn’t come from either of us. I pull back from the kiss and listen.
With a hard thump, the door closes, sealing us in the room.
“Not funny,” I say as I press against the door, which doesn’t budge. “We’re stuck in here.”
The panic I thought was gone snaps back into place.
“What if the book was a trap?” My breathing goes from normal to shallow and useless. “All those copies Geoffrey had at the Society. We should’ve known this one’s a fake, too. Now we’re going to die in here. Probably from suffocation because I think we’ve already used up all of the available oxygen.”
Andrew observes me with a small twitch to his lips—his beautiful, full lips that I should be kissing if these are our last moments together.
I launch myself at his mouth, which isn’t easy given our height differences and that I’m clutching a book with both hands. Instead of creating a passionate moment, I slam into his chest and bounce off before he can even move his arms. I ping off the shelves and hit my shoulder on the door, the one leading to the library, which immediately springs open.
Because I’m already off balance from the failed launch, I stumble through the gap and land in a sprawl, face down on the carpet.
Embarrassing for sure, but throw in the hearty ghostly guffaws echoing around the space followed by a spirit snort, and this now tops my list of moments I never want to relive.
Ain’t no shade like ghost shade.
Multiple hands grip me as the group tries to lift me off of the floor. Too stunned to use my own arms for leverage, I still manage to hold onto the black book. Once Andrew, Tate, and Sarah have me upright, I notice Sam is bent over her knees, shaking with laughter while Philips wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.
Get Witch Quick (Wicked Society Book 1) Page 5
