Witch Ways

by Tate, Kristy

  I didn’t know what to say.

  He picked up my hand and kissed my palm. Heat rose up my arm. He gently put my hand back in my lap, but didn’t let go of it. “That surprises you?”

  I still didn’t know what to say. No one had ever kissed my hand before.

  “I really like how you think you are just you—and you have no idea who you really are.”

  “I’m only fifteen. Do you know who you really are?”

  “I have a pretty good idea. I know what I want to be.”

  “Mmm, maybe when I reach the wise age of seventeen I’ll have a better grasp of things.” But somehow I doubted it. “What do you want to be?”

  “The guy who gets to be with you.”

  “You must want more than that.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be an attorney like my mom, or go to work for my dad’s investment firm. Or maybe I’ll go into medicine like my Uncle Pete. Or maybe I’ll collect ancient artifacts like Indiana Jones. But right now, the important things on my list are graduating from high school, getting into a good college, and being with you.”

  His words caused so much tingling, I almost missed the turn down Birdie’s long fern-infested driveway.

  Dylan whistled when he saw her topsy-turvy house.

  “Do you like it?”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “It’s kind of . . . I don’t know, off balance, maybe? I guess I need to grow to like it because someday it will be mine.” I paused, rethinking the conversation with Birdie. “At least that’s what she said.”

  “Then it’ll be okay if we go inside if she’s not here?”

  I shook my head without even thinking about it. “I won’t do that.”

  “Are you sure? Not even for a really great costume?”

  “Not even.”

  He looked disappointed until Birdie stepped out onto the porch. “Aw, the witch!”

  “Do not call her that!”

  “Why not? You think she’ll be offended?”

  “I really don’t know what to think.”

  Dylan choked back a laugh. “If you don’t decide, someone else will make your decisions for you.”

  “Where’d you hear that? Dr. Phil?”

  He looked smug.

  Birdie, in a flowy dress, saw us and waved, resembling a brightly colored bird flapping her wings. When she was a baby, did her parents know, or guess, she would grow up to fit her name? And that made me think about her parents, and if she had brothers and sisters, and aunts and uncles. Did any of them think they were witches, too? For all I knew, I was from a long line of witches, warlocks—and if witches and warlocks, then why not throw in vampires, werewolves, and fairies?

  Dylan looked at me. “Something wrong? Worried she won’t like me?”

  “No . . . I wasn’t thinking about you.”

  “I wish you would.”

  Dylan put the car in park and climbed out before I could respond, or even think about what he meant.

  With her arms outstretched wide, Birdie climbed off the porch. She wrapped me in a lavender smelling hug first, then turned to Dylan.

  “I know you,” she said, taking him in her embrace. “You’re Tabitha Fox’s son.”

  “That’s right,” Dylan said, returning her hug.

  She pulled away and observed him from the top of his bronze-colored head to the tips of his boots. “You’re a beautiful creature. Your parents must be very proud of you. Come inside, friends,” Birdie said, leading the way. “I’ve made us some treats.”

  “Did you tell her we were coming?” Dylan whispered in my ear as we trailed behind Birdie.

  I shook my head. “She likes to pretend she’s omniscient. I think it’s all a part of her witch’s persona.”

  “Good persona.”

  “You just like her because she called you beautiful,” I said as we climbed the porch steps.

  “And she made us treats!”

  We followed Birdie into the house. It looked as immaculate and bare as it had on my first visit.

  “Did Evelynn tell you that someday this will all belong to her?” Birdie asked Dylan.

  He shot me a quick questioning glance.

  I shrugged in return.

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Then you realize if you play your hand correctly, that this then may also one day belong to you.”

  “Birdie!” I wanted to die a thousand deaths. “I’m fifteen!”

  “Almost sixteen, love.”

  I planted my feet on the tapestry rug, refusing to move. “If my dad or uncle knew you were discussing my marriage, they would die.”

  “An exaggeration, wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Fox?” Birdie said.

  He grinned. “Yeah, but she’s right. There’s a great big long list of things we have to do before we can marry.”

  “I should hope so.”

  We needed to leave. Immediately—or at least as soon as we found our costumes.

  “For example, we have to find something to wear to the ball,” Dylan said.

  Birdie clapped her hands. “A ball! How wonderful. I have just the thing.” She waved her fingers at a plate of cookies on a side table in the entryway. “Snag a cookie or two and follow me.”

  Dylan took a napkin and a couple of gingersnap cookies. Since I was beginning to have my doubts about Birdie, I passed on the cookies, afraid she might have placed some horrible spell on them and I’d wake up in the morning married to Dylan and trapped in her house. Pregnant. Barefoot. Growing herbs in the garden by day and casting spells in the moonlight. No wonder my mom had escaped to the far corners of the Earth.

  “Don’t be such a Donna-Downer,” Birdie said over her shoulder to me. “You’ll be wonderfully happy here.”

  “Evie tells me you’re a witch,” Dylan said as he followed Birdie up the stairs.

  I elbowed him as hard as I could.

  “No need to be violent, Evelynn,” Birdie reprimanded. To Dylan, she said, “Yes, just like your mother.”

  “Your mother?” I halted, thought about bolting out the door, and tried to process my shock. Mrs. Fox, gorgeous, smart, successful Mrs. Fox—thought she was a witch?

  “Don’t act so surprised, dear. We have quite a large and thriving coven here.”

  Wait. Why wasn’t Dylan shocked and appalled that my grandmother had just called his mom a witch?

  I gripped the banister, holding on tightly as my world shifted. “You think your mom is a witch, too?”

  Dylan didn’t even turn around.

  “Come along, Evie,” Birdie said.

  “No. I don’t think so. I want to go home.” Where people are sane, I thought.

  Birdie turned and faced me. “Why are you so skeptical, child? What exactly are you afraid of?”

  I sat on the steps and put my head in my hands. Maybe if I really was a witch, then I really did burn down the science room. The enormity of the realization hit me and made me feel sick. No. It couldn’t be true. There were no such things as witches. And spontaneous human combustion was hooey and malarkey.

  Dylan took my elbow and lifted me to my feet. “Are you okay? I can take you home, if you like.”

  Dylan said he liked me, and he wanted us to be together. He hadn’t even flinched when Birdie said the M word, marriage, which was different, but not so different from Uncle Mitch’s M word, malarkey. Was that because of the love elixir I’d made in the waxing moonlight? Maybe it hadn’t worked for Bree, because she wasn’t a witch, but it had worked for me, because I was.

  With my eyes closed, I swayed and my knees turned weak.

  “Oh dear, I think this has all been too much for her.” Birdie sounded far away.

  I stiffened my spine and found my voice. “You said there’s a large coven. Are there . . . do I know other witches?”

  “Now, love, you must know that for centuries—actually since the beginning of time—witches have been maligned and tormented. Why, it’s in our very natures to be discreet and protective of each other.�
�� She blinked. “We have a code we’re sworn to uphold. I can’t violate the confidentiality of the coven.”

  “B-b-but you told me about Mrs. Fox,” I stuttered.

  Birdie’s looked back and forth between Dylan and me. “Surely, since his family will soon be your family—”

  I held up my hand, not wanting to hear another word. “Stop! Just stop! I like Dylan, but I am not thinking of marrying anyone!” I turned and stumbled down the stairs as fast as I could.

  I heard Dylan start after me, but Birdie stopped him.

  “Let her go. She’ll come around in time.”

  “Are you sure,” Dylan asked. “Her mother . . .”

  “Was a fool,” Birdie finished his sentence.

  I knew I was at least five miles from town. Fingering my phone, I thought of calling Bree, but then remembered she was mad at me. None of my friends from Faith Despaign were driving yet, and I hadn’t talked to my friends from Hartly in weeks. Calling them now just because I needed something would look lame.

  I decided to walk, but since I didn’t want Dylan to find me, I took what I thought would be a short cut through the woods.

  After a few miles, when the daylight faded and mist blew in, I broke into a run. Branches snagged my sweater, and ferns and blackberry bushes scratched my legs. Looking over my shoulder, watching and listening for Dylan, I tripped over something in my path. Pain slammed across my forehead and I fell.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I blinked and my eyelashes brushed against rotting leaves and twigs. Pain forced me into a tight ball. My head throbbed. I touched it gingerly and found leaves stuck in my hair. I pulled them away—even in the semidarkness I knew they were stained and sticky with blood.

  A dense, cottony fog hung in the trees and blocked the light. Something skittered in a nearby thicket, and a twig snapped. I sat up, ignored the pain, and listened intently. How long had had I been on the ground? Long enough for my muscles to cramp with cold.

  A skin-prickling sensation indicated that I wasn’t alone.

  Animals. Maybe a red fox, a raccoon, a skunk, or a possum—harmless night creatures. Still, panic caught in my throat and I scooted on my bottom and leaned against a pine tree. Someone, no something, I thought, hid in the dark, watching me. Bracing myself against the tree, I stood and managed to brush off my jeans. They had a new hole, a tear up the inseam, and my thigh had a corresponding scratch.

  I limped away with wet noodle legs and unfocused eyes. Another twig broke. I swallowed and patted my sweatshirt for some sort of weapon and found a tube of kiwi kiss lip gloss. I chose a stick off the ground and swung it as I walked in what I hoped was the direction of home. My head thudded with every footfall, but I held it high, careful not to demonstrate weakness or fear. Another twig snapped. I broke into a jog.

  Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps.

  I peered into the dark woods, seeing nothing but white mist, I ran, praying for a straight, unimpeded path.

  The ground became uneven and rocky and I recognized a dry riverbed. Stumbling, careful not to twist an ankle, I tried to ignore the screaming cut on my thigh. I heard someone behind me, so close I imagined his or her breath on the back of my neck. Scrambling out of the riverbed and up the bank, I knew any moment I’d pass the Hendersons’ shed, a reasonable hiding spot. I sprinted up the incline leading to the pasture and saw a roofline poking out of the fog. As I raced toward it, my foot caught on something and I pitched forward.

  Hands caught me as I fell. I smelled beer and sweat as someone lifted me off the ground from behind, pressing my back against a man’s chest. I kicked and screamed.

  “Go ahead and scream, who you think is going to save you?” The man had a surprisingly high voice and a strange accent.

  I threw my hands behind me, in an attempt to pull his hair or gouge his eyes. “Let me go!”

  He chuckled in response, kicked his knee between my flailing legs, and held me viselike with one arm, while the other ripped the front of my sweatshirt and fumbled at the buttons on my shirt. I screamed louder and bucked my head back, making contact with his chin.

  And then it happened again—the tingling in my hands, the warmth at my fingertips—sparks and the smell of burning flesh.

  “What the hell?” The man dropped me.

  I landed face first and kissed dirt. Spitting, I lunged for my stick and scrambled to my feet.

  A rock torpedoed past my head.

  “What the-” my attacker began to say before he tumbled forward.

  I whacked him on the head with the stick as he fell. As he lay prone at my feet, I hit him again and again until the stick broke. The tall, thin, man lay face down on the ground. Weeds poked up around his torso and between his sprawled legs. His dark hair was matted above his exposed ear and a trickle of blood ran across his temple. He didn’t move. He wore a loose Levis jacket and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. The thudding in my chest accelerated.

  “Geez, Evie, did you kill him?” Josh, holding a rock and wearing only a pair of sweatpants, crept out from behind his shed.

  I opened my mouth, but all I could manage was a strangled snivel.

  The man groaned and then moved his shoulders. Josh grabbed my wrist and yanked me forward. With a grip like a metal cuff, he pulled me through the pasture. The tall grass slapped my jeans with heavy dew. Josh propelled me over the fence separating his property from mine, and finally pulled me to a stop. He leaned back against the house and closed his eyes.

  My knees gave way and I sank to the ground. My shoulders began to shake and I sobbed.

  Josh opened his eyes wide, horrified. His long arms dangled at his sides. “Don’t Evie,” he begged. “Oh, geez, don’t cry.”

  I gulped. “You saved me, Josh . . .”

  “No, I didn’t. I don’t think I even hit him.” Josh shook his head. “Stop it, Evie. You’re safe now.”

  “But who was he? Why was he hiding in the woods? Do you think he was looking for me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are we just going to leave him there?” I shuddered and glanced at Josh from under my bangs.

  “I’ll tell my parents what happened, and they’ll call the police. You’ll probably have to make a statement.”

  My thoughts skittered back to the burns on his hands. No one could know. “Can you not say anything about me?”

  “But Evie . . .”

  Panic thundered in my head. I grabbed Josh’s hand. “Please—don’t mention me to your parents, or especially the police.”

  Doubt flickered in Josh’s eyes. “But why?”

  “Just please, Josh. I’ll have to go and live with my dad, or my mom, and . . . just please.”

  “But what if this guy attacks someone else? What if that someone else is you, Gabby, or Bree?”

  I put my head on my arms and sobbed. Through my tears, I saw Josh’s feet shuffle in the dirt beside me.

  “Fine, I’ll tell them I found him drunk and passed out. You don’t need to worry . . . or cry.”

  I nodded and dried my tears. “I owe you.” I tried to think of a way I could pay him back. I looked up into his face and then managed to stand. “I mean it, Josh. I’ll do anything.”

  “You already owe me.”

  “I’ll owe you more.”

  Josh kicked a rock and kept his eyes focused on the toe of his shoe. “I honestly don’t think I hit him . . . I don’t know why he fell.”

  I thought about the sparks from my fingertips, and the smell of burning flesh. Part of me wanted to go back and look at his hands. Would his skin be charred? But a larger part of me wanted to hide in my room, and burrow in my quilts, with a pillow covering my head.

  We walked in silence to the back porch. I rubbed the tears on my face and turned to Josh. “Thanks,” I said. “Even if you didn’t hit him, you still saved me.”

  Josh looked up at the newly risen moon shooting rays of light through the alders and maples bordering our yards. “You owe me.” His smile helped ease
my pain and confusion.

  #

  That night, I looked up incendiary on the Internet. I couldn’t find it ever used as a word to describe a person. I thought about calling Birdie. I looked at the clock. Ten p.m.—7:30 a.m. in India.

  I called Mom. To my surprise, she picked up on the first ring.

  I skipped the greeting and went right to my questions. “Tell me about you and your mom.”

  “Well, hello, pansy—how are you?” My mom’s voice was full of laughter.

  “I’m seriously . . .” I couldn’t even think of the right word to describe how I felt. I paused before launching into my story. I told her about my sparking fingertips and circled back to the burning of the science room.

  “Sweetie, I told you. It’s the power of suggestion. Why I remember once when I went to the doctor for a healthy check-up and he said he didn’t like the way my lungs sounded and sent me to get an X-ray. As I was waiting, I swear I had trouble breathing. By the time they took my X-rays, I was wheezing like a hundred year old smoker! But do you know what happened?”

  “Did sparks fly from your fingertips? Did you burn down the doctor’s office?”

  “No. The X-rays and my lungs were clear. Immediately, I felt better. Stopped wheezing. Came home and went running. Your mind has that kind of power.”

  “I don’t think that’s it.” Although, I did feel better.

  “I’m sure it is. Someone told you sparks fly from your fingers and when you were scared and felt threatened, you made it real . . . but not really. Did you stop to look if the man had red marks on his hands?”

  “No. But it wasn’t just the guy in the woods!” I told her about Dylan and the love elixir. “He never even looked at me before, but the next morning he was waiting for me at school. Today he and Birdie were talking about when I marry him! Marry Him! Mom!”

  Silence, and then the Mom lecture I knew would follow, did.

  “You will not rush into marriage. That will not happen. You are too smart, too bright . . .”

  “Birdie said Mrs. Fox is a witch, too.”

  “Tabitha Fox?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Yes. She was a few years older than me—and when you’re in high school, a few years are like an ocean apart. But I knew about Tabitha, Lauren, and her friends.”