Get Witch Quick (Wicked Society Book 1)

by Daisy Prescott

  I’m a street width and a half a block from the Society’s front door. Even wogging, I can’t be more than three minutes away.

  However, if I run there, our number one nemesis will know the building.

  That can’t happen.

  Instead, I turn to face the man crowding me from the curb. Faking friendliness, I force my lips to curl into a wide smile. “Mr. Bradford, what an unexpected surprise.”

  “Isn’t that redundant? Aren’t all surprises unexpected?” He scoffs. Or laughs. It’s difficult to tell.

  “You make a good point. Well, I don’t want to keep you. It’s raining and your suit must be extremely busy. I mean your suit is getting ruined in the rain.” Embarrassed by my rambling nonsense, I rotate my body to slide past him in the narrow space between bumpers. “I’ll be on my way. I forgot to get sugar.”

  “We’ll give you a ride. You’re already soaked. We wouldn’t want you to become unwell.” He takes a step forward.

  Panic skitters over my skin. I eye the height of bumpers on either side of me, contemplating if I can jump high enough to clear one. Who am I kidding? The best I could hope for is an awkward scramble onto either the hood or trunk. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine. Only a few blocks from the hospital. Where I’m heading. To Mass General. The hospital down the street.”

  “I believe that’s on our way. Hop in.” He gestures past me to the waiting car.

  If his destination were the hospital, he wouldn’t be driving down this stretch of Charles. Mass General is behind us. I’m certain we both know this and yet he’s stepping off of the curb, forcing me to shuffle backward.

  “A short ride will give us the chance to catch up. I barely spoke to either you or my son at the graduation ceremony.” While he speaks, the passenger door opens.

  Never get in the car. Make a scene. Do not leave the location.

  The wisdom of every on campus self-defense class blasts through my brain as I feel the gentle pressure of a hand on my shoulder.

  “Here, let me take your drinks so you can sit down. I wouldn’t want you to spill the coffees.” Reaching around my side, Stanford removes the tray from my hands.

  I’m being ridiculous. Andrew’s father might be a stuffed-shirt and an asshole, but he’s not going to kidnap me off of Charles Street in the middle of a Tuesday morning. Such things aren’t done on Beacon Hill.

  Glancing down the street, I try to reassure myself my brain is prone to exaggeration, especially when under-caffeinated.

  I’ll text Andrew, Tate, and Sam from the car and let them know I’ve made a short detour to Mass General.

  With a last peek across the street to the plain, four-story house where my friends are working, I duck my head to slide into the backseat.

  Only after Stanford joins me and closes the door behind him do I realize three things.

  One, there is a woman in the front passenger seat next to the uniformed driver.

  Two, my cell phone is sitting on my desk, left plugged in and charging because I didn’t need it to pick up our morning coffees.

  Third, Stanford’s hands are empty as we drive away. The bastard threw away my coffees. He truly is a monster.

  Ten

  As Mr. Bradford’s car turns right and merges onto Storrow Drive, I settle into the idea that I am probably getting kidnapped.

  At least I’m wearing clean underwear. That has to mean something.

  “You appear upset,” Stanford speaks from beside me.

  “I’m wondering why we’re taking Storrow instead of looping around Beacon Hill to get back to the hospital.”

  “This time of day it’s quicker to get where we’re going.” He gives me a tight smile.

  “MGH, right?” I clarify again, clinging to the sliver of hope he’s being nice by giving me a ride.

  “Eventually. You won’t be too late. Do you have an appointment this morning? Or are you visiting someone in the hospital? I assume the latter because you were carrying multiple coffees. I hope your family is okay.” His words flow out in a torrent, leaving no room for my response until he finishes.

  “My family is fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re an only child, is that correct?” He assumes correctly, but I go on high alert. Why does he care?

  “Yes, just like Andrew.” I hope by bringing up his only son, I’ll tap into whatever human decency remains in his cold, black heart.

  “He isn’t the reason you were going to the hospital this morning, is he? I’d hope someone would let me know if he were injured or ill.” He shifts in his seat, tugging on his shirt cuffs. A small furrow of worry forms between his brows and then fades.

  I toy with the idea of bluffing with the hope he’ll take me straight to Mass General. The hospital campus is huge and it would be easy to lose him. Unfortunately, we pass by the exit and keep going. “I believe your driver missed the turn.”

  “No, we’re making a quick detour first. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  Eyeing the slow traffic in either lane flanking us, I debate jumping out of the backseat and running back toward the exit.

  “I know you don’t like me, Madison. You have a terrible poker face. But you must believe me when I say I only have my son’s best interests and future in mind. His mother has poisoned his perception of the world. If we can all share the knowledge contained in the little black book you discovered, I think we can come to an amicable place.”

  Doubtful. If he wants to live in the land of make believe, I’ll play along. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you mean the Black Book café in Salem? That’s the only one I’m familiar with.”

  “Lying is a disappointing and dangerous trait, Miss Bradbury. I know about your family and your grandmother’s farm. Shame about your ancestor. Poor Giles Corey, pressed to death. Can you imagine the suffering of slowing being crushed, unable to inhale a breath as the stones are piled on top of your chest? Horrible.”

  Strange to bring up a three-hundred-year-old death and the farm in the same sentence. Unless he knows about the bones. And if he knows about the bones, he’s also probably involved in the dark corners of magic. Corpse magic.

  “At least we agree about that.” I meet his stare, not blinking and not backing down from his not so subtle threat. With a deep inhale, I remind myself Stanford might be an intimidating asshole, but he’s no witch.

  No powers. No magic at his disposal. Studying his face, I see a middle-aged man with lines around his eyes and thinning hair. Nothing remarkable or unique. He could be any other successful Boston businessman. Only he is obsessed with the one thing he can’t have or control. Magic.

  A feminine cough draws my attention to the passenger in the front seat. From my spot, I can only see her blond, shoulder-length hair and enormous sunglasses. She’s wearing a sleeveless navy dress and has a sprinkle of freckles on her shoulder and upper arm. If I had to pick her out in a lineup of other Boston blondes, I’d fail.

  Creating a profile of her, I guess she summers on either Nantucket or the Vineyard where she plays tennis as much as possible and spends her evenings at various clam bakes while wearing lobster-decorated Lilly Pulitzer ensembles with color coordinated flip-flops. Yes, I’m stereotyping her based on her profile and the fact she’s hanging out with a man named Stanford who has a driver for his fancy, black sedan. She could be his assistant or his girlfriend. Or both.

  Mystery driver follows a curving off-ramp and drives north over the bridge, leaving behind the city and the pretense of giving me a ride to the hospital. We could be returning to Salem. Or starting a road trip to Canada. I’ve never been kidnapped before, so I don’t know if being smuggled out of the country is an option. I’d think I’d need a passport, but maybe they plan to hide me in the trunk.

  It’s possible I’ve watched too many crime shows. Attempting to distract myself from my current situation, I focus my mind on something other than being stuffed inside of a trunk.

  Aren’t witches the ones w
ho are always kidnapping people, especially children? That’s Witch Lore 101. Who builds a house out of cookies and candy to lure unsuspecting children? The witch. Who’s obsessed with a pair of ruby slippers to the point of kidnapping the girl wearing them? The witch. Entrapping children in order to suck out their youthful essence? Witches.

  I’m seeing a pattern.

  I have no desire to abduct anyone, least of all Stanford Bradford. Seems to be a lot of trouble and it can’t be good for your karma. Doesn’t seem to bother him. Unless karma can be weighed in gold or traded for cash, I doubt Mr. Bradford is interested.

  This car ride is clearly not ending any time soon. My grandmother’s words about magic being part self-fulfilling prophecy come to mind. I change my attitude from ohmygodkidnapped to visualizing myself walking away from this car, unharmed. I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself. Might as well use this time to get information from the enemy.

  “Since I doubt you’ll tell me where we’re going or why, let’s pretend there is a secret book. Who cares? People have been obsessed with the Salem witch trials for centuries. I doubt there’s a twist or angle that some scholar hasn’t already researched. Have you considered checking out Wikipedia? I hear a lot of people use the site for crowdsourced information.” I give him a saccharine sweet smile.

  The mystery woman in the front seat scoffs and mutters something about disrespect. “This is a waste of time, Stanford.”

  “Thank you for your unsolicited opinion. I disagree.” He presses a button on the door, and a tinted, privacy window slides closed, dividing us from the front of the car.

  He’s a stone-hearted jerk. I can’t believe he’s Andrew’s father and Sarah’s ex. There’s nothing redeeming about him. Maybe he’s the perfect example of how people change as they age. That has to be it. The 90s version of Stanford could’ve been cool in a snobby Ryan Philippe in Cruel Intentions way. Brooding, aloof, and quiet.

  Yikes, now I’m describing Andrew. I hate thinking he shares half his genes with the man beside me.

  I wonder if Andrew’s aware I’ve disappeared. Sam would certainly notice I didn’t return with her coffee. If they try to call me, my phone ringing on my desk will catch someone’s attention. I hope.

  Angry Archie might remember me being there this morning. I’d like to think under his surliness, he’s become fond of me. Same way I’d like to believe right now Andrew, Sam, and Tate are out looking for me. I should’ve left a trail of breadcrumbs or a shoe behind.

  The rain on the tinted windows makes it difficult to see outside and decipher where we’re heading. We’re off the highway and winding through neighborhoods with colonial houses and mature trees. We could be anywhere.

  Stanford exhales an exasperated sigh. “To respond to your sarcastic suggestion, not everything can be found on the Internet. As we are both aware, the book I speak of is located in the Winthrop’s library in Marblehead.”

  “Is that where we’re heading now?” I ask, allowing myself a small pulse of relief that he doesn’t know the book has been moved.

  “I can’t enter the house without being invited,” he answers my question without answering my question.

  “Why do you think I can help you? I’m not a Winthrop. I can’t stroll into their house on my own and walk out with a piece of their property.”

  “Silly girl, I don’t expect you to retrieve the book.”

  “Then why bother kidnapping me?”

  His barely there laugh sounds bored by my suggestion. “Is that what you think I’ve done? We’re only going on a little drive so we can chat and get to know each other.”

  I arch an eyebrow. He’s the master at never answering my questions. “Fine. What’s your favorite color? Are you a vegetarian? Scotch drinker? Red Sox fan? Wait, you aren’t a,” I add a dramatic pause, “Yankees fan, are you?”

  My grimace is exaggerated on purpose. There’s no point in pretending either one of us is going to be open or honest. I’d rather get to know a snake or hug a porcupine.

  “Do people find you charming?” he asks. “My son must see something in you. From what I’ve gathered, you’re strongly above average but unremarkable.”

  I could really use more coffee to put up with his nonsense. “Any chance we can swing by a Dunkin’ on our way to wherever we’re going or not going? You threw away my coffee earlier.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  Peering out the window, I spot a black and white Welcome to Marblehead sign.

  This should be interesting.

  Eleven

  Unlike my visit with Andrew and the group a few weeks ago, today’s arrival at the Winthrop mansion involves bribing the groundskeeper at the gate. At least I assume money is inside of the envelope Stanford pulls from his suit pocket.

  Part of me wants to remind him about the spells of protection on the house, but then I remember he’s a human toadstool. Toxic.

  We arrive at the house and the driver parks by the steps.

  Stanford lowers the privacy guard. “Stay in the car. This won’t take long at all.”

  His blond companion-assistant-girlfriend opens her door.

  “That means you as well,” Stanford chastises her. “It doesn’t take four people to pick up one book.”

  “But what if it’s enchanted?” she asks, sullen. “You’re not equipped to handle magic.”

  “And that is precisely why I’m going inside. I’ve found a loophole.” Stanford opens his own door and exits. “At least the rain has stopped.”

  I haven’t moved an inch during their brief snarkfest, assuming I’ll also be staying put in the car. Given the tension between Stanford and the woman, I’m hopeful I can chat her up for information, woman-to-woman.

  “Madison.” Stanford sounds irritated. “We don’t have all day.”

  I meet his eyes when he ducks his head into the car.

  “Oh.” I manage as I slide over the seat to climb out the door.

  “I didn’t bring you along for the stimulating conversation. Let’s make this clear. You’ll find the book and give it to me. Don’t bother trying to hide or escape. I’ve heard rumors of an armed Hawthorne student breaking into summer homes and stealing things to sell for drug money. You fit the description perfectly.”

  My mouth drops open. “You’d frame me for burglary?”

  “People have been killed during home invasions. We wouldn’t want that to happen to you before you can get the help you need at the private rehab clinic in Boston. I believe you’re doing a 90-day program this summer. However, the official story is you’re interning for the Winthrop family archive. Shameful you’d take advantage of your connection to them to feed your addiction.” His eyes never leave mine.

  The ohmygodkidnapped panic from earlier morphs into ohmygodhe’sgoingtoframemeandthenkillme. All of my bravado and snark disappears into a poof of smoke above my head.

  “Are you serious?” I whisper and then clear my throat. “You’re Andrew’s father. You’d destroy him if you did that.”

  “Do we have an understanding, Miss Bradbury?” Stanford ignores my question, tilting his head to the side as he waits for my answer. “You’ll help me collect my family’s property and I’ll return you safely to Beacon Hill. We’ll never speak of this again and be civil to each other whenever our paths cross.”

  “What about Andrew?” There’s no way I can’t not share this with him.

  “Tell him what? There will be no evidence or proof of this outing other than your word against ours. Three stories that align and can be corroborated versus yours? Not very good odds of success for you. Additionally, I’m a wealthy, well respected and connected member of Boston’s elite. Not to mention I come from an important New England family tracing their lineage to the Mayflower.” His attention switches to the front door swinging open. “Ah, Phyllis. Nice to see you again.”

  Standing on the threshold is an unfamiliar older woman in a black and white uniform. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. In fact, th
ere’s never been any staff at the house when we’ve been here. Now that I think about it, that’s strange, too. A house of this size must have a full time caretaker or an estate manager. I’ll have to ask Tate.

  “Mr. Bradford.” Her voice holds no emotion and her face is a blank page behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

  “Shall we, Madison?” He gestures for me to walk ahead of him. He holds another thick envelope in his hand.

  She accepts it from him, tucking the slim rectangle into the pocket of her apron before she says the magic words, “Please come inside.”

  I wonder if she knows about the house and the magic surrounding it.

  “Thank you, Phyllis.” Stanford gently presses his hand on my lower back to encourage me to enter.

  His touch raises bile in my throat. Not three minutes ago he told me how he’d kill me and get away with it. No, he doesn’t get to touch me. I don’t care what Phyllis thinks when I jump away from his hand like it’s burned my skin.

  There’s no way she could miss my reaction, but her tone is still flat when she tells us, “Follow me. I’ll show you to the library.”

  She walks with a slight limp in her left leg. Studying the back of her, I decide her hair is probably a wig. I note both of these things to share with Tate, so he’ll know which person to fire.

  “This shouldn’t take long, but we don’t want to keep you.” Stanford enters the library, leaving me in the foyer with Phyllis.

  “If you need anything, please let me know.” She keeps her voice low, almost a whisper. When she pats my arm and gives me an exaggerated wink, I realize I have an ally.

  “Madison,” Stanford says my name with a mixture of annoyance and contempt.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to Phyllis.

  Taking a few steps into the library, I see my ghost sitting on the arm of one of the sofas near the fireplace. She watches Stanford peruse the shelves, her nose wrinkled in disgust. Spotting me, she switches to a smile.