Get Witch Quick (Wicked Society Book 1)

by Daisy Prescott

  “A grander entrance has never been made.” Geoffrey gives me a slow clap, which he ends abruptly when he points at my hands. “Is that the book?”

  His eyes hold wonder and a hunger, like a toddler staring down at his birthday cake. The expression makes me clutch the leather closer to my chest.

  “What just happened?” Sarah asks Andrew.

  “We were trapped in the room with the book for a minute.” He slips his hand around my waist and pulls me close.

  “The ghosts closed the door on us,” I add, finally able to catch my breath.

  “Madison was smart enough to try the door into this room,” he says with pride.

  “I tripped and accidentally sprung the release.” I correct him.

  Stepping into the small room, Geoffrey studies the shelves. “Fascinating. I’ve always wanted a secret passage at the Society.”

  “Shall we set the charm on the copy and be on our way?” Philip suggests.

  Annoyed at my ghosts for pranking me, I’m happy to be done with this place and them for the day. “What do we do?”

  Sarah points at the library table decorated with a pentagram composed of crystals and herbs. In the center lies the book with the golden moons. “I prepared the altar while you were collecting the book. If you could place it on top of the other one, we can begin.”

  Eight

  The group gathers in a circle around the table. I stack my book on top of the other one.

  “Let us cast a sacred circle by calling the elements to join us. Please close your eyes, clear your minds, and focus your breath.” Sarah takes a deep inhale and slowly releases it.

  Each of us inhales and exhales a few times in sync with her. My heart rate slows and my lungs finally expand enough to draw in deep oxygen.

  “Hail to the spirits of the east, I summon the power of air,” she speaks in a soft voice.

  I open my eyes and see Sarah with her body turned to the window where the soft morning light spills through the window. She’s also speaking to Sam.

  Facing Andrew, Sarah says, “Hail to the spirits of the south, I summon the power of fire.”

  Sarah addresses Tate, “Hail to the spirits of the west, I summon the power of water.”

  With her back to the table, Sarah invites the final element. “Hail to the spirits of the north, I summon the power of earth.”

  Geoffrey, Philips, and Smith fill in the gaps between the cardinal directions, leaving me curious about their specific powers.

  Just outside of our circle, my ghost shimmers into a more solid form. I swear she mouths “sorry” and gives me an apologetic smile.

  After invoking all four cardinal directions and their corresponding elements, Sarah invites spirit to join our circle. “As within, so without. As above, so below.”

  Moving to be between Sarah and Tate, my ghost mirrors the sphere Sarah draws through the air. She also completes our circle, making our group an odd number. I wonder if the others can feel her presence.

  With the circle complete, Sarah lights a candle and places it on the table. With a happy smile, she enthusiastically says, “Let’s do this.”

  Unsure what to do, I stand with my hands by my side while Sarah hands a bundle of juniper to Andrew. He creates a small flame in his palm and holds it near the end of the juniper until it alights, sending up a fragrant spiral of smoke.

  “Thank you,” she says to him. “First, we’ll smudge both books to remove any negative energy attached.”

  The smoke turns black before paling to a pure white. Sarah places the juniper on a large oyster shell.

  Next, she places a palm-size piece of labradorite and smaller points of black tourmaline on top of both books. “For protection.”

  The tourmaline is the same crystal that sits on the windowsill in our rooms at headquarters.

  “Now we bind their power together. Repeat after me,” Sarah instructs us before softly speaking the sacred words. When the last word is spoken, the plume of smoke on the juniper sparks and goes out. “So it is spoken, so it shall be.”

  She thanks the four elements and cardinal directions, ending with a thank you to the Father Sun and Mother Earth. Sarah walks around the table, stopping at each point to slash the air with her finger as if she’s cutting the circle open. My ghost shimmers into nothing but dust motes dancing in the light before Sarah reaches the final point.

  With a few snaps of her fingers, Sarah pronounces the circle open and the spell cast.

  There’s a definite shift of energy in the room. I glance at the plain black volume and loosen the focus of my eyes. It twinkles with a blue light, casting a faint glow on the copy beneath it.

  “I think it worked.”

  “You should be the one to hide the fake one,” Geoffrey says. “It will have your imprint on it.”

  Nodding in agreement, I pick up the second book. “Where should we put it?”

  “Not in the hidden room. Better if we keep that our secret.” Tate crosses his arms.

  “I think hiding it in plain sight is the easiest,” Philips suggests. “Less mess should someone break the protection to find it.”

  My ghost reappears and skips over to the bookshelves. She points above her head at a row of leather-bound fiction books. Her smile is amused and I follow her guidance to the shelf.

  “Here’s a good spot, but I can’t reach it.”

  Smith joins me. “Where do you want it?”

  “Next to the book of ghost stories by Edith Wharton.” I stifle my chuckle. “It’s an inside joke.”

  He slides the black and gold book next to the one I point at. “There.”

  We gather round to stare at our handiwork. The copy is small enough that it’s overshadowed by the rest of the hardbacks. You’d have to be looking for it to notice it tucked in among the classics.

  “Perfect,” Sarah declares, wrapping the real book in a swath of red silk, which she neatly ties and knots five times. “Madison, you should be the one to hold this.”

  “I need to collect Mildred.” Philips moves toward the front door.

  “We should all go. The sooner we get back to the Society, the better.” Geoffrey glances at the red silk covered rectangle in my hands.

  Tate repeats the process of setting the alarm as we exit. Outside, Sarah mumbles a quick spell of protection that both Philips and Geoffrey repeat. I catch movement in the upstairs window and spot my ghost and her lover. They wave and I return their gesture with a small smile.

  “And now we wait,” I say to Andrew once we’re heading back to Salem.

  It’s meant as a joke, but my tone is heavy and full of dread.

  ***

  “We’ll assemble in the archives.” Geoffrey doesn’t wait for us to all climb out of the Mercedes before he strides through the gate at the back of the Society.

  Smith stays behind the wheel of the SUV while the rest of us exit. “You better hurry. He’s a kid on Christmas morning about opening the book.”

  I touch the outline of the envelope in my pocket and make sure the silk wrapped book is tucked tightly against my body when I exit the car. Not everyone in the room knows about my grandmother’s gift and for now, I’ll keep that secret.

  Movement at the end of the alley catches my attention. A slim, young woman crosses to the far side of the street. With her hair tucked under a Red Sox cap, it’s impossible to see the color. She’s walking too fast to catch more than a glimpse of her profile.

  Probably a coincidence she’s walking down the street at the same time we arrive. We’re in the middle of a crowded city. Pedestrians are everywhere and less than .0001 percent of them care about the Wicked Society and witches.

  Reassured, I follow Andrew and Tate through the gate, Sam behind me.

  We meet Geoffrey in the basement’s largest conference room. He hands out pairs of white cotton gloves to each of us.

  “Are we doing Mickey Mouse cosplay?” Tate wiggles his fingers into his gloves.

  Geoffrey’s jaw twitches as he fig
hts a smile. “No. Madison, can you unwrap the book, please?”

  Smith was right; Geoffrey is practically vibrating with excitement. He must not have been loved enough as a child.

  Untying silk while wearing cotton gloves is a lot more difficult than I imagined, but I eventually undo Sarah’s knots to reveal the plain cover.

  Geoffrey leans into my space to study the black leather. “You were right. It’s as simple as could be. Unremarkable.”

  “Want me to open it?” My voice shakes. As far as we know, no one has opened the book since it was hidden. And when that was is anyone’s guess at this point.

  “Please do the honors.” He inhales sharply and holds his breath.

  “Should we wait for Sarah and Dr. Philips? Weren’t they behind us?”

  Sarah should be here with us. Philips, too. They’re as vested in this as anyone else here.

  “Smith will bring them down as soon as they arrive.” Geoffrey straightens. “We can give them a few more minutes.”

  Andrew meets my eyes and nods, confirming he’s thinking the same thing I am. “Why the rush?”

  Sarah’s voice enters the conference room before she does. “Sorry for the delay. We had to circle twice before we found a place to park. I hate driving in this city.”

  Philips and Mildred in her crate trail behind her into the room. “What have we missed?”

  “Nothing,” Andrew and I say at the same time.

  “Jinx.” His lips curve into a small smile. “We were waiting for you.”

  “Perfect.” Sarah adjusts her reading glasses before selecting a pair of gloves and handing two to Philips.

  I want this moment to be the moment when everything changes. Answers to be revealed and mysteries solved. I think we collectively hold our breath as I sweep my hand over the cover.

  “Ready?” My voice is barely above a whisper. Like at a wedding when the pastor asks if anyone objects, I only wait a beat or two for someone to protest. “Okay, here we go.”

  Eight heads lean over the table as I carefully open the cover.

  The first page is covered with swirled lettering. I’m not sure if it’s in English or Latin. Handwritten for sure.

  “Look at the paper. It’s handmade.” Philips ducks his head even lower, stopping a few inches from the table. “Incredible.”

  “What does the writing say?” Sam asks.

  “As it is written, there is none righteous, no, not one,” Geoffrey reads out loud. “I believe it’s from the Bible.”

  “Romans, book three.” Philips adds, “Twenty years of Jesuit education.”

  “A witch’s book begins with a Bible verse?” I ask. “Are we sure we have the right one?”

  “Below that it continues, ‘as it is written, so it shall be.’ Sound familiar?” Sarah asks the group.

  “You used a variation of that earlier,” Sam says. “It’s still used in spell casting today.”

  “Interesting combination.” Philips rolls his hand. “Please, let’s see more.”

  Apparently, my official job is to be the page turner. I’ll be sure to add that to my blossoming resume.

  The following pages are filled like a ledger with neat rows of letters and numbers. There aren’t text strings longer than groups of two or three letters followed by either two or four numbers.

  “At least it’s not written in the Witch’s Alphabet.” Sarah grimaces.

  “Or worse, Greek,” Philips snorts. “Because then it would be all Greek to me.”

  We groan.

  “Can you continue?” Geoffrey asks. “Perhaps there is more legible text farther on.”

  I comply, carefully lifting and flipping page after page of alphanumeric gibberish. Occasionally an illustration or diagram breaks the flow.

  “It reminds me of the NASDAQ index. Or the old ticker tapes from Wall Street,” Andrew says, pressing against my side for a closer examination.

  Pausing, I study the letters and numbers. “Some are repeated on each line. N, E, S, W. See?”

  “Could that be for New England?” Sam asks.

  “Or Salem Witches,” Philips says. “New England Salem Witches. That must be it.”

  Sarah presses her lips together so tightly they go pale. “It can’t be that simple.”

  “I agree.” Geoffrey touches her arm. With a resigned sigh, he stands upright and crosses his arms. “This will take more study.”

  He sounds like a kid who didn’t find what he wanted under the Christmas tree.

  “We should take a break and return to this later.” Sarah removes her glasses. “Who wants breakfast? I’m starved.”

  “Mrs. Peale makes delicious pancakes,” Geoffrey suggests. “I’ll let her know we’ll be eight for breakfast.”

  “Who doesn’t love pancakes?” Tate asks after Geoffrey leaves the room.

  Mildred hisses from her crate.

  “There’s one in every crowd,” he says with a laugh.

  Blue haze flickers in the corner and my ghost appears. Her partner isn’t with her. For some reason, this surprises me. He’s never appeared here, but she has. I guess ghosts aren’t joined at the hip for all eternity. Or however long they’re stuck as ghosts.

  Becoming more substantial than haze, she smiles at me. Her features are delicate and a dark stain colors her lips. With her classic black gown and neat chignon, she’s a timeless beauty.

  I find myself smiling back.

  She points at the book and nods in approval. Mildred hisses again and ghost girl shoots a dirty look at the carrier.

  So I’m not the only one in the room who can see spirits.

  Philips brings Mildred into the dining room and Mrs. Peale opens a can of tuna for her. The gesture is met with profuse gratitude from Philips that is definitely over the top and possibly his attempt at flirting. I can’t believe what I’m witnessing. In spite of being called Mrs. Peale, she doesn’t wear a wedding ring. It’s hard to say with her obviously colored bright auburn hair, but they might be about the same age. Could this be a love match?

  Given the strangeness of today, nothing surprises me anymore.

  Nine

  The next two weeks pass in the most uneventful, delightful, and frustrating way. No ghost visits. No field trips. And zero progress on deciphering the text of the LBB as I’ve taken to calling our favorite little black book.

  It’s been wonderful because Andrew and I can sneak out in the evenings to explore the city. I’ve convinced him to stop being paranoid every time someone speaks to us. We’ve gone to concerts in the Seaport and movies on the Greenway. Romantic strolls along the Esplanade have led to late nights in bed together.

  Summer is finally here and life’s good.

  Soupy, humid June air wraps around me in a damp hug as soon as I open the door of the café. Behind me, cool, refreshing air conditioning strokes my back, tempting me to close the door and declare this my new home.

  I can text Andrew and have him forward my mail care of Angry Archie, the world’s crankiest barista. He’s the troll who lives under the bridge, but the iced coffee is too good here to pass up. Plus, it’s the closest place to headquarters. If I have to travel farther than half a block, I might melt into a squishy puddle.

  “Close the door or I’ll make you pay our utility bill,” Angry Archie shouts across the tiny space.

  Without turning and acknowledging his anger, I step outside, jostling my tray of coffees.

  A drop of rain hits the crown of my head before his cousins join the party, plopping on my shoulders, pinging off of the plastic coffee lids, and splatting on the sidewalk by my feet.

  “Well, this is delightful,” I say to the thick gray clouds above me. “Can you wait five minutes until I get back inside?”

  The rain falls harder, like someone has adjusted the pressure in a shower.

  “You’d listen to Andrew!” Lifting the tray of coffees above my head, I attempt to use it as a cardboard rain hat, mumbling out a few curse words as I weave through the morning crowd on Cha
rles Street.

  Men and women dressed in expensive business attire jostle for sidewalk space with their enormous umbrellas as they walk to work or to the nearby T station. My cotton dress with red cherries on a black background, along with the tray of multiple coffee orders, screams intern or at best, office fledgling.

  I don’t belong on this street with the go-getters and gotten-there’s of Boston.

  If they only knew how different I am than any of them.

  I bet none of them can see ghosts.

  Or have a boyfriend who can start fires with his mind.

  Or a friend who manipulates emotional energy, but only for good.

  Always for good.

  Never for evil.

  Checking the one-way traffic, I step off the curb to cross the street, saving myself at least three minutes of sweating by not going to the corner crosswalk. I slip between two parked cars—ready to make my dash across the street—when a large, black vehicle blocks my jaywalking route.

  “Of course you stop right in front of me. Of course,” I mutter to myself, pausing to let the pretentious car do its thing.

  The rear passenger window slides down, releasing a cloud of chilled air. My body leans forward, seeking out the cooler air like a bee drawn to an irresistible bloom. No one appears to be sitting in the back and I wonder if they’ve confused me for a fancy ride-share customer.

  “Miss Bradbury,” a male voice speaks my name from behind me, “a pleasure to see you again.”

  I jump and my shoulders tighten, every muscle seizing with two realizations. First, I’m trapped between the parked cars and the monstrosity of privilege idling in front of me. Second, my escape to the safety of the curb is blocked by Stanford Bradford, estranged father of my boyfriend and suspected plotter of nefarious deeds.

  For a glorious, but all too brief moment, I imagine myself tossing the coffees in Stanford’s face while simultaneously leaping onto the sedan’s hood and running down the row of cars from hood to roof to truck in a real-life version of the lava game.