Get Witch Quick (Wicked Society Book 1)

by Daisy Prescott

  We’ve never had a conversation, but her hand gestures convey enough for me to understand her. She’s not a fan of Mr. Bradford either.

  Leaving her perch, she trails close behind him, imitating his walk and posture. She’d be a champion at charades.

  Of course!

  Other than her laughter, I’ve never heard her voice. I don’t know if she can speak, but she can understand me when I talk.

  I can use this to communicate what’s going on.

  “Are you a fan of books, Mr. Bradford? Your son and I met in English class. Did you know that? Andrew loves reading.” I make sure the ghost gets the point.

  Her eyes widen and she points at Stanford while she shakes her head. I nod in confirmation. She pretends to vomit and then disappears.

  “Books are a waste of time. Now, where is it?” He faces me with a scowl. “Don’t keep pretending you don’t know. My spies told me you found it in the library.”

  Spies? Mrs. Howe and her knitted notes, but is there someone else inside the coven doing his bidding?

  Both ghosts materialize near Stanford, flanking him. Tuxedo date appears perturbed and glowers at the uninvited guest.

  “Fine. You got me.” I casually stroll around the room with my hands extended.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “I’ve only had visions of the book. I need to lock in to its energy in order to find it. There are thousands of titles in this library. I’ll try to summon the right one. Let’s see, how did that spell go?” I tap my chin. “Right. Books of old, stories already told, if you are the one for me, fly, fly down to me.”

  Making eye contact with the ghosts, I point at the books on the shelves above Stanford’s head. Laughing, they nod and float off the floor.

  A second later, a heavy, leather-bound copy of War and Peace slides off of the shelf and drops on to Stanford’s head.

  “Ouch,” he yells, rubbing the crown of his head. Glancing down at the book resting on his shoe, he complains, “This is Tolstoy. Your spell didn’t work.”

  “Let me try again.” Scrunching up my face, I pretend to concentrate.

  More books drop off the shelves. He’s better at dodging the heavy volumes, but can’t escape the bombardment even when he runs to the center of the room. While he covers his head, books begin to pile up around his feet.

  “Call them off! This isn’t working,” he shouts and crawls behind a sofa.

  “Ouch, I’ve been hit, too.” I fake a groan of pain. “Books of old, authors dead, please stop hitting me in the head.”

  The ghosts pause their attack, giddy expressions on both of their faces. I imagine this is the most fun they’ve had in a very long time. Their blue light shimmers and sparkles around them.

  My fun over, I want to get out of here and back to Andrew. “Oh, look. There it is.”

  Stanford stands and then brushes off his suit. “Where?”

  I point to the Wharton section. “The only plain black spine.”

  He scrambles over the books on the floor, slipping and nearly face-planting. Probably petty, but I’m loving every small humiliation.

  In triumph, he pulls the black book off the shelf and holds it above his head. “Stolen from the Bradfords by unscrupulous witches over a century ago, finally returned to its rightful owner.”

  My brows scrunch together. “Your family? But I thought it was a magical book.”

  From his jacket pocket, he pulls out an archival plastic sleeve, carefully slips the book inside, and seals the closure. Relief spreads in my chest that he’s not going to open the book here. Less chance he’ll spot something off about it.

  “Enough questions. Let’s go.” He straightens his back and runs a hand over his hair.

  The ghosts scowl at him as he stomps on book covers and spines instead of walking around them. Tuxedo man vanishes, only to reappear again right in Stanford’s path. I watch as the ghost sticks out his foot and trips him.

  I’m definitely not the kind of person who condones violence—I don’t even like violent movies—but I want to high five my ghosts right now.

  Stanford stumbles and almost gets his footing but his balance is no match for the ghost giving him a shove from behind. The front door opens, narrowly avoiding beaming him in the head, and Stanford falls through it.

  From my spot in the library, I can’t see his landing, but I’m guessing it’s not pretty.

  Howling laughter fills the rooms after the front door slams shut.

  Ghosts apparently love physical humor.

  “At least this time, you did it to someone else,” I huff before joining in the laughter. Wiping tears from my eyes, I manage to tell them thank you.

  Both ghosts begin to fade and the room falls into silence again.

  “You could say goodbye.” I wait a moment to see if they’ll reappear. “Fine. I guess I’ll see you around.”

  Phyllis meets me in the foyer. Her eyes go wide when she catches a glimpse of the library behind me. “Is everything okay? Where’s Mr. Bradford?”

  “You didn’t hear any commotion?” I ask. “We had a small incident.” I twist to point at the chaos of books on the floor. “I’d stay to help, but I doubt Mr. Bradford will let me.”

  When I stare at the library, it’s exactly as it was when we arrived. No books cover the floor. Not a spine is out of alignment.

  The only change is a single piece of cream paper rests on the floor near the library entrance.

  “Did you drop something?” Phyllis points at the page.

  “How is that possible?” I mutter to myself. When I get close enough to read it, I can see there’s a bookplate in the middle of the page. Picking it up off of the floor, I read the neat cursive writing.

  This book is the property of Miss Alice W.

  Blue light in the corner catches my attention. My ghost is back. She points to the paper and then to herself.

  “Alice?” I whisper.

  With a happy smile, she confirms the name is hers.

  “Nice to meet you, Alice.” I return her smile. “Thank you for all of your help.”

  “Did you say something?” Phyllis stands next to me.

  A car horn breaks the quiet inside of the house. Not in one of those friendly toot-toot kind of noises, but a long, frustrated Boston rush hour blast.

  “I should go. Thank you, Phyllis.”

  “You’re welcome, Madison. Tell Tate I appreciate the extra money.” She touches my arm, calling my attention to her face as she peers at me over the thick glasses.

  “Mary Parker?” I ask, knowing it’s the same woman from the Salem Coven. “What are you doing here? Does Sarah know?”

  Her grin says everything. “It was her idea I play the housekeeper. Did I do a good job with my costume and baffling spell? The limp was my idea.”

  “You were perfect.” Shocked, but happy to have had a living ally here the entire time, I give her a quick hug. “Please get a message to Sarah the mission was a success and I’m on my way back to Boston.”

  “I’ll call her the second they’re gone.” She flicks her fingers several times. “I’m going to have to smudge the house and drive after they leave. Terrible people.”

  Outside, I quell my smile and curl my lips into a frown.

  The driver in his formal chauffeur hat stands by the open passenger door. “Mr. Bradford prefers you to ride up front with me. We’ll drop you on Charles Street.”

  “Is Mr. Bradford okay?” I ask, cautiously approaching him.

  He frowns. “Sir cut his cheek when he tripped exiting the house.”

  That’s one way of retelling what happened.

  “Fine by me.” I slip into the passenger seat. The scent of expensive but cloying perfume lingers in the space. Opening my window, I hope to clear the smell. The privacy screen is already up and I can hear only mumbled conversation from the backseat.

  Other than the death threat, I’d say it’s been a good morning overall. Which is saying a lot because I still haven’t
had my coffee.

  Twelve

  The driver pulls up to the exact spot where he collected me earlier this morning. I thank him for his safe and conscientious handling of the car. He merely nods.

  “Well, this has been lovely.” I’m not sure if Stanford can hear me through the privacy glass and I don’t want to linger in the car in case he changes his mind about releasing me.

  I’m closing the door when the rear passenger window lowers, revealing Stanford’s frowning face.

  “Remember to keep our visit today to yourself. Hopefully, this will be the last time we have to discuss this matter,” he scolds me from the backseat.

  “Have a lovely day, Mr. Bradford.” My flat tone says I don’t mean it.

  Keeping my front to him in case he pulls more shenanigans, I take a step back toward the curb. My foot lands in a puddle. I glance down and see I’m standing in a pool of coffee and rainwater. Kicking the clear plastic cups, I glare at the rear window of the departing black car.

  Not only is he a bastard for throwing away my coffees, he’s a litterbug.

  Stanford, you are the definition of dastardly.

  Needing some time and distance from Stanford and his car before I return to the headquarters, I decide to buy myself a new iced coffee from Angry Archie.

  The same delicious air conditioning greets me when I enter the café. Unlike most times I come in here, there is a line of people at the counter waiting to be served. Torn between caffeine and letting Andrew know I’m okay, I pause with the door open.

  “I’m going to count to ten, and if you don’t close the damn door, you owe me money,” Archie shouts from the back of the space.

  “Sorry.” Releasing the handle, I slide behind the last woman in line.

  “You,” he says at a quieter, but still angry volume.

  I assume he’s taking the next person’s order and ignore him.

  “You, in the bac,.” Archie’s deep rumble is aimed at me.

  Pointing at myself, I ask, “Me?”

  “Who else would I be talking to? Don’t answer that. I’m too busy for more of your drama.”

  My eyebrows shoot toward my hairline.

  “Your friends were here looking for you a couple of hours ago. Made a big fuss about you being missing.”

  “They did?”

  “None of my business, but maybe don’t be the asshole who pretends to get coffee for people and then disappears to do your own thing.” Clearly disgusted by me being that sort of person, he rolls his eyes.

  “Thanks for the advice.” I pull open the door and dash outside. Checking the street for lurking black cars, I cross and continue my quick pace up the hill to the Society.

  Focused on remembering every detail of the morning, I don’t pay attention to other pedestrians, which is how I end up slamming into someone walking toward me.

  “Sorry, sorry.” I apologize and rub my shoulder where I made contact with a woman in sunglasses and a Red Sox cap.

  “Are you okay? That was totally my fault.” She removes her glasses.

  “Hey, aren’t you the waitress from the pizza place?”

  She blinks at me and seems confused by my question.

  “The one on Charles? You gave me and my boyfriend a to-go bag for our bottle of wine.” My eyes bounce over her features.

  “Uh, maybe. I work a couple of different jobs.” She shifts her feet and walks around me.

  “Madison!” Andrew sprints down the street. Seeing his worried, beautiful face, I forget about the waitress and her strange behavior, and sprint up hill in his direction.

  Unlike when I launched myself at him in the secret room, this time he catches me. His arms wrap tightly around my waist as he lifts me, spinning us around in a circle.

  “I’ve been so worried. You didn’t have your phone. No one knew where you were. Are you okay?” The words rush from his mouth until I silence him with a kiss, which he immediately deepens into something intimate and passionate, and not seen on the streets of Beacon Hill.

  “Are you two going to stand out here, making a scene?” Tate’s laughing voice breaks the spell around us.

  I open my eyes enough to spot Tate and Sam standing together on the sidewalk a few feet away from headquarters. “We should probably take this inside.”

  Andrew kisses me again and begins walking us back up the hill.

  Wrapping my legs around his hips, I tell him, “You can put me down.”

  “No, I can’t. Not only can I not put you down, I don’t want to.” He peppers my mouth with light pecks in between his words. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’ll tell you once we’re off the very public sidewalk.” I glance behind us to see if the waitress is still loitering there. There’s no one else on the sidewalk.

  She can’t be a ghost, right? She served us wine and pizza. If not a ghost, then is she friend or foe? Or a random neighbor?

  Shaking my head at the mini obsession building in my mind, I refocus on Andrew and the events of today.

  ***

  Andrew leads me up the stairs and into the library, not releasing my hand until he sits on the sofa and then pulls me into his lap.

  “No more using Madison as bait. Never again.” His angry tone surprises me.

  “Sarah and Tate came up with the idea of planting coven members at the house as extra security.”

  Andrew glares at Tate.

  “Stop it. We couldn’t tell you, either of you.” Geoffrey claims his favorite wingback. “If you knew, you would’ve ruined the plan. We needed an authentic reaction from Madison to diffuse any suspicion.”

  “Hold on.” I hold up my hand and twist to face Geoffrey. “You knew Stanford would kidnap me? And you were okay with that?”

  “See? She’s pissed and has every right to be angry.” Andrew tightens his arm around my waist. “You had no right.”

  I don’t think I’m nearly as mad as he is.

  “If Mrs. Howe is the mole, she knew Madison located the book on the Winter Solstice. Because of that, we suspected Bradford would come for Madison at some point. He’s not a stupid man and knows enough about magic to realize he couldn’t claim his prize without help from one of us. Andrew wouldn’t work because of their estrangement. Tate might seem the logical choice, but why would he allow Stanford to steal from his family? That left Sam and Madison. No offense, Sam, but we knew it wouldn’t be you. Given the strained relationship between Andrew and his father, kidnapping his son’s girlfriend was a win for Stanford on two levels. Getting the book and pissing off his son. He’s probably gloating to his club members right now about his victory.”

  My stomach churns with extra acid at the thought of being outsmarted by the troll known as Stanford.

  “For the greater good, the plan worked perfectly. Well done, Madison.” Pride shines through Geoffrey’s words.

  “Yes, well done,” Smith adds. “Resourceful under pressure. Impressive.”

  “He threatened to kill me and make it seem like a drug-related robbery,” I mumble the words as I fight off a yawn. The adrenaline rush wears off, leaving me exhausted and heavy-lidded. Even in my half-asleep state slouched in his lap, I feel Andrew’s body go completely still beneath me. He’s stopped breathing. I focus on his face and see a faint tic of muscle working in his jaw. “Andrew?”

  “He did what?” His voice is low and sounds deadly.

  I fill in the gaps in their knowledge of the day’s events, trying to skim over the death threat. Andrew’s body coils with anger with each new detail. When the others laugh over the ghosts’ antics, he doesn’t even smile.

  “Oh, and Alice introduced herself to me.” I poke Andrew’s shoulder to get his attention.

  He stops his staring contest with the window and blinks to clear his vision. “Who is Alice?”

  “My ghost. She showed me her name on a bookplate in one of the damaged hardcovers. Miss Alice W.”

  “Could it be Winthrop?” Sam asks Tate.

  “Or Wildes?” I s
ay.

  “Don’t forget Wardwell,” Geoffrey adds. “At least we’ve narrowed it down to the W’s. We can research this in the archive.”

  Andrew growls. “Who cares what the ghost’s name is? My father is out there, victorious over his prize. Don’t you think he’s going to come for Madison when he realizes the book isn’t real? What then? How are we going to protect her?”

  A wave of calm spreads over me like a blanket.

  “Stop it, Tate. I don’t need you manipulating my emotions right now.” Andrew pats my side and I shift off his lap to avoid being dumped on the floor when he stands. He paces around the room for a minute as the rest of us watch in silence. “I’m going out. Don’t try to stop me. I promise I won’t do anything stupid, but I can’t sit here and talk about family trees when half of mine is rotten.”

  He stalks out of the room. The sound of his footsteps racing down the stairs and then the door slamming shut confirm he was serious.

  “Do we go after him?” I ask Tate.

  “Let him cool off for a couple of minutes. He’ll probably walk around the block a few times before he realizes he’s being an asshole.” Tate gives me a sympathetic smile.

  I don’t even care Tate’s flooding the room with calming energy like a human version of an oil diffuser.

  “Anyone mind if I take a nap?” I push myself up from the sofa and shuffle my way toward the back stairs.

  “Rest and we’ll bring up lunch,” Sam says. “Nobody is getting any work done today anyway. We can binge some Doctor Who episodes later.”

  “Sounds good.” The words come out slurred and muddy as another wave of sleepiness crashes over me.

  Flopping on my bed, I can still smell Andrew’s scent on his pillow. He’s not once slept in his own bed the entire month we’ve been here. Jeez, has it only been a month? This is the longest summer ever.

  I quickly pull off my dress and drape it over the laundry basket. The slip of cream paper from the library pokes out of the pocket.

  “Oops, don’t want that going through the wash.” I unfold the page and smooth out the slight crease.

  This book is the property of Miss Alice W.