My Favorite Witch

by Lisa Plumley

  She should have known better than to try again.

  For the umpteenth time, she cursed herself for forgetting her backpack in the classroom. Leaving an important item behind really put the kibosh on storming out of someplace. But she couldn’t leave without it. So now she waited. And waited.

  And wondered if she’d really glimpsed that hard-bodied IAB tracer, T.J. McAllister, standing outside—on the window ledge of all places—or if she was losing her mind completely.

  At this point, her money was on losing her mind completely.

  But maybe T.J. was still supposed to be tracking her. She had felt something special pass between them. Something that went way beyond, Don’t come to me, and don’t expect me to come to you. Obviously, he had come to her. And she’d known it somehow.

  She’d felt it, the same way she’d felt his emotions.

  And the strongest of those emotions had been undeniable longing…for her. The realization made her shiver.

  When the door finally opened, pastel-wearing Camille was first through. She shouldered her way past the other witches with an air of concern, then beelined straight toward Dayna.

  “Oh my God. I’m so glad you’re still here! Are you okay?” Wide-eyed, she took in Dayna’s face and clothes and hair. She touched the sleeve of her ruined corduroy jacket—the only item that had yet to drop its hex. Everything else had returned to normal several minutes earlier. “You look okay, but that couldn’t have been fun in there. For a second I thought you were really going to show those bitchy witches their places!”

  “Me? Not hardly. All I wanted to do was make up for lost time.” The lie slipped from Dayna’s lips easily, its path greased by all the half-truths she’d told to fit in among her human colleagues at the research library. “And I definitely did that. You’ve all been living without Dayna Sterling fuckupery for a long time. Now it’s just like back in the day, right?”

  Pretending not to care about her disastrous hex attempt, she watched as two of the cashmere witches exited the classroom for what appeared to be a short break. They wandered a few feet away, then leaned against the academy’s wall like models posing in Vogue. They lit up cigarettes—the sweet-smelling clove variety favored by witches, even in the human world. Through tendrils of hazy smoke, they examined the torn-up floor tiles near Dayna. Their eyes narrowed with speculation.

  “Hey, your ugliness hex might have gotten misdirected, but at least it didn’t last all night.” In a cheery voice, Camille pointed out the obvious. “That’s a relief, right?”

  “Right. I misdirected that hex and I couldn’t make it stick.” With effort, Dayna dragged her gaze from those mean witches. She didn’t know what they had that she didn’t. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything I touch falls apart lately.”

  “What do you mean?” Her friend appeared surprised—maybe even concerned. “I see your folks down at the shopping center sometimes, and they say you’ve been really happy living in Phoenix. They say you’ve done really well on your own.”

  On your own.

  The words shouldn’t have hurt. They still did.

  Everyone knew it wasn’t natural for a witch to be alone.

  Dayna tried to focus on the fact that her parents had also said she’d done “really well” in Phoenix. She didn’t get far with the effort.

  “Yeah, well…” She shrugged. “I could be living on the sidewalk and wearing Parkay tubs stolen from a Dumpster for shoes, and my parents would find a positive spin for it.”

  She’s always been innovative, they’d say. Or, Waste not, want not. That’s our Dayna. Or, Look, she’s recycling! Even in the face of their daughter’s repeated failures, Sam and Margo Sterling had always been unfailingly supportive.

  “They must be so psyched to have you back in town.”

  “I haven’t seen them yet.” Dayna couldn’t explain why. “I’ll probably head over there soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

  It felt like another lie. But Camille only smiled again.

  Gamely, Dayna smiled back. But their conversation lapsed anyway. She and her former best friend had spent too many years apart, she realized, for their usual camaraderie to spring back to life so easily. Feeling responsible for that rift, she frowned. She had no idea how to bridge the gap between them.

  In the silence, sweet clove smoke drifted closer, helping to hide the sulfurous smell of magic in the air. Maybe she should take up the habit, Dayna mused. She’d need cover for the many hours of magic practice in her future. And witches weren’t prone to addiction…unless they were stupid enough to try caffeine. Most weren’t. Especially her. She’d always had too much to lose if the effects of caffeine took hold while she was among humans.

  With a rueful shake of her head, Dayna considered the times she’d been tempted. If only humans knew the real reason some of their friends and neighbors drank decaf coffee. It sure as hell wasn’t to avoid caffeine “jitters” or sleep more soundly.

  “So…” With forced joviality, Camille spoke up. “You’ve been gone awhile now. I’m dying to know…What’s it like?”

  She could mean only one thing. “In the human world?”

  An avid nod.

  Dayna looked away. “Different from here.”

  “I’ll bet you’re so happy to be back, though, right?”

  Dayna gave a wry grin. “‘Happy’ doesn’t quite cover it.”

  “Thrilled is more like it, I’ll bet.” Camille put her hands on her hips, her upbeat demeanor never faltering. “This is where you belong, after all. I hope you’ll be staying awhile.”

  Reluctant to answer, Dayna hunched her shoulders. She wanted to keep her conversation with Camille going, but she refused to offer false hope. And the truth was, there was no way she belonged here. She watched discontentedly as two nearby witches rewound a memory flicker of her backfiring ugliness hex. The witches laughed as her magical split ends blossomed.

  “It’s been years since I’ve seen a memory flicker,” Dayna blurted out. Surprised at the nostalgic tone in her voice, she covered her gaffe with a fierce frown. “I mean, not that I’ve missed them or anything. I sure as hell didn’t want to star in one again. Already. Or ever. Stupid memory flickers.”

  Those things had haunted her teenage years, replaying all her many magical foibles—her unsuccessful transmogrifications, botched hexes, and garbled spells—and archiving them forever. Memory flickers were like instant, on-the-spot YouTube. Fun…unless you were the subject of the day’s hilarious video.

  “Come on. Human movies and TV cannot be nearly as good.”

  They weren’t. But Dayna refused to be lulled into admiring any part of the world she’d failed so spectacularly in. “And seriously—everyone here couldn’t be any witchier, could they?”

  “Well, duh.” Camille gave her a friendly shove. “They’re all witches. How else would they be, besides witchy?”

  Welcoming. Helpful. Nonsabotaging. But how likely was that?

  Dayna shifted, wishing she didn’t need help. Or to be welcomed. Or anything else from the magical world. She’d thought she’d escaped it years ago. Glumly, she stared toward the classroom. “I can’t believe I have to endure almost three more weeks of this.”

  Camille laughed. “The time will fly by, believe me.” She rummaged in her handbag, a retro model with a rigid handle and a jeweled clasp. She pulled out a business card and handed it to Dayna. “Here’s my card, so we can be sure to stay in touch while you’re here. You can’t believe how excited I was to see you in class, Dayna! Finally. I mean, all of us are supposed to be here, and that means you, too, but I kept looking at that empty desk these past few days, wondering where you were. And I know how you live for breaking the rules, so—”

  “Wait. You work at a children’s activity gym?” Dayna gawked at the card in her hand. Its face depicted a cozy cartoon house with cartoon children beside it. Camille’s contact information was displayed in crisp letters. “You? But you hate kids!”

  “What? Of course I don’t ha
te kids!” Blushing, her friend looked around to make sure no one had overheard them. “At least not since I had a few of my own.” She smiled. “And working at Toddler Time was only practical. I already knew everyone there, because we spent so much time at Tumbling Tuesdays classes.”

  Dubiously, Dayna frowned. Apparently, the pastel twinset had been just the beginning. Maybe the only person who hadn’t changed over the past decade was her. “You have children?”

  “Three children, one husband, and a corgi.”

  “A what?”

  “A dog. His name is Spencer.”

  “Spencer?” That did it. Despite her disastrous night so far, Dayna laughed. “Oh, thank God. I thought you were serious.”

  On the day she and Camille had graduated from Covenhaven Academy, they’d both vowed to remain independent, single, and fabulous. Dayna hadn’t exactly nailed the fabulous part, but she’d done pretty well otherwise…even if she was a fugitive from her former witchy life. She’d liked the idea, she realized now, that she’d been sharing a small dose of solidarity with her best friend, even if they’d been separated all these years.

  Camille looked puzzled. “I’m not joking.”

  “Right. Next you’ll tell me you’re in the PTO.”

  Her friend tilted her head. “Well…of course I am.” A tiny frown line appeared between her groomed brows. She drew in a deep breath. “You must have known some things would be different around here. People change. They grow. They move on.”

  “Yeah. Well, you know me. I’m only familiar with the ‘move on’ part.” Suddenly distraught for reasons she couldn’t explain, Dayna looked away. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to run.”

  Camille grabbed her arm. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  Dayna had considered it—leaving class, leaving town, leaving witchy life altogether. If only that were possible.

  Not that Camille would understand those impulses. She’d obviously mastered small-town witchy life and everything that went with it. How else could she look so perfect? So serene?

  Even with her own best friend, Dayna felt like an outsider.

  “Nah.” Mustering a smile, Dayna shook her head. “I’m not leaving yet. I’m just going to get my backpack.”

  Without it, she felt inescapably vulnerable. She needed it—needed to have the illusion (at least) of being able to run at will. She needed to have her things nearby—in particular, her plastic pencil case of decoys, talismans, and weapons. T.J. might have compared her defenses to the playthings of an able child (a humiliating memory she still winced at), but Dayna had to have them. Now more than ever, she felt antsy without them.

  Not that she intended to admit it.

  “And to clear my head for a minute,” she continued, putting on a straight face. “You know, so I can be ready when you tell me you’re a die-hard Follower now.”

  Camille gave her a solemn look. “Actually…”

  Oh God. Stricken by the thought of her former best friend siding with all those self-righteous “purifiers” of witchkind, Dayna stopped in her tracks. “You mean you’re—”

  “Kidding. Gotcha!” Camille laughed.

  Her laughter was the same inelegant honk that Dayna remembered. When she heard it, her heart—usually so guarded—gave an unashamed squeeze. For an instant, her old rabble-rousing friend reappeared, shining through her newly polished clothes, flawless makeup, and expertly highlighted blond hair.

  Hearing that laugh, Dayna suddenly felt much less alone.

  “Okay. I can deal with the kids and the husband. And the dog.” She smiled. “But I can’t deal with this”—she aimed a meaningful nod toward the nearby classroom—“without you. What do you say we rearrange the seating chart after the break?”

  “Rearrange it? Let’s throw it out the window!” Camille threw her arms in the air like a woman just freed from etiquette prison. “Let’s sit on the floor! Let’s conjure Barcaloungers for everyone! Let’s sit on Professor Reynolds’s lap!”

  “Woohoo!” a witch cried from a few feet away.

  The three of them shared scandalous smiles.

  “You’re on,” Dayna said. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  Feeling lightened in a way she’d never expected, she headed for the classroom. With a wave to Camille, Dayna stepped inside…and stopped dead at the sight that greeted her.

  T.J. had only seconds to hide his encrypted packet of data. Still shrouded in darkness, he sent a burst of magic straight toward it. As instructed, the data packet nudged its corner into the ground. Using its rigid edge as a shovel, it made a hole. It shouldered its way inside, then burrowed deeper. T.J. sent dirt to tamp down over its top. It was a shitty hiding job, but it would have to do until he could retrieve the packet later.

  The information it contained was too valuable to leave buried in the academy’s quad for long. But for now he had other problems. Like his eager, angry, impatient pursuers.

  They were almost on him. He could hear their ragged breath.

  Light on his feet, he cast off his shadows and turned to face them. There were four, all warlocks, all perfectly placed to cut off potential areas of retreat—except the dark sky above.

  T.J. knew as well as they did—that was no good either. All five of them could ride the currents and take this battle to the skies. But doing so was risky and unpredictable. Winds failed. Currents died. As a Patayan, T.J. could summon an airstream on command—an airstream that might sweep him to safety. As coached by the IAB, he considered it…then mentally shook his head.

  He was having a bad day. It might feel good to smack a few heads together.

  With a blur of movement, he unleashed a clod of turf. It smashed the first warlock in the face, temporarily blinding him. T.J. followed up with his fist, then a fast kick to the knee.

  The warlock crumpled, grunting in pain.

  T.J. gave a fierce grin. Witchfolk were always caught flat footed by human fighting techniques. Not stopping, he rounded on the second warlock, landing punches to his jaw and gut. The warlock doubled over, grunting out a transmogrification spell.

  T.J. dodged it. He wasn’t as lucky in sidestepping the two remaining warlocks’ magic. One hit him with an immobility spell. It glanced off his left knee, leaving him wavering but upright.

  Barely grounded, T.J. punched and kicked. His blows found targets. Satisfying targets. This was what he’d needed tonight. Aided by magical targeting and ancient Patayan martial arts, he kept moving. He liked fighting—liked pitting his skills against an opponent and winning. In his younger days, he’d used his abilities for darker purposes. Now he used them to stay alive.

  And to do battle for the good guys at the IAB. Of course.

  The fourth warlock conjured a net. Witchmade, it shimmered in the scanty glow of the academy’s landscape lighting, moving with its own intelligence and purpose. Its end snaked around T.J.’s bare ankle. He jerked and shook it off, then aimed a hit of Patayan earth magic at his pursuer. It sucked the air from the warlock’s position, leaving him gasping for breath.

  Enveloped in an oxygen-free space, he collapsed.

  T.J. returned the atmosphere to normal. He swiveled to confront another warlock, his immobilized knee making his motions jerky. He took a blow to the chest. A wallop to the chin. The gleaming witchy net twisted around his feet again, determined to capture him. He knew better than to kick it.

  One of the warlocks on the ground stirred. T.J. kicked him into silence. The whole world narrowed to bursts of magic and hoarsely spoken spells. Conjuring a fistblade from the toxin-soaked grass, T.J. swung his arm in a wide arc. His blade caught one of the warlocks in the neck. With precision, it skidded away, leaving a gash that would be painful but not deadly.

  T.J. nodded, satisfied. He wanted to find out who’d sent these foragers, not kill them. Not if he could help it.

  These days—unless the darkness took hold—he could help it.

  The witchmade net tangled around his feet again. Grunting with annoyance,
T.J. aimed his fistblade downward. It sliced through the net with a sharp thwack, then embedded itself in the turf. Beside it, the remaining warlock wavered as he clutched his wounded neck. His eyes glittered in the net’s fading glow.

  “You’re outmatched,” T.J. told him. His muscles thrummed with exertion. Eager for more in a way he’d almost forgotten under the IAB’s strictures, he motioned to the other warlock. “You should have brought eight foragers with you.”

  “What makes you think I didn’t?”

  With an eerie smile, the warlock signaled. His body moved like a bundle of underwater seaweed, jerking to and fro with an invisible current. An instant later, he appeared to divide.

  T.J. eyed the newly formed doppelgängers surrounding him. They appeared as real as the warlock did, but T.J. knew better. He sighed. “You know it’s easier to hurt fractionals, right?”

  The magical pieces of a divided warlock or witch were more vulnerable to attack. Everyone knew that. Creating fractionals was an effective way to share magical strength with wounded partners—the IAB employed that tactic among its agents—or more commonly, to befuddle dozers. But T.J. was no fearful, superstitious human, easier cowed by his own fears than by reality. He created his own reality. He knew others did, too.

  “Easier? Maybe,” one of the fractionals said in its uncanny echoing voice. “It’s also easier to capture a half-breed compound when he’s distracted by a fucking parlor trick.”

  Oh hell. Too late, T.J. felt the witchmade net climb his body. Its deceptively soft coils clamped across his chest, as sturdy as iron bands. The net trapped his arms at his sides and muzzled his voice. It answered his mumbled counterspells—his efforts to free himself—with an eerily sentient binding caress.

  Beneath its touch, T.J. squirmed, filled with disbelief.

  In front of him, the fractionals coalesced, merging into one smirking, dark-suited warlock. “You must have forgotten, half-breed. Witchmade nets, once knit into loyalty by a knowing warlock, are resistant to other magic.” He tilted his head, examining the situation. He appeared pleased with T.J.’s capture. “Oh…and while we’re on the subject of witchstory and other trivia, you do know that cutting a witchmade net—”