nancy werlock's diary s01 - episodes 1-7

by Julie Ann Dawson

  “So you think my mother is blocking your access to your mom and trying to trick you into falling for me? Why?”

  “That, my apprentice, is the magic question.”

  May 25th

  “OK, name the nine Colleges of magical study.”

  Houston takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Conjuration, Divinities, Enchantment, Evocation, Witchery, Necromancy, Transmutation, Psionics, and…er…ah…Technomancy!”

  “Good job! Took me forever to remember Technomancy.”

  “Yeah, but when you took your test you still have eight-tracks, right?”

  “Eight-tracks were before my time. But I did have a 45 player.”

  “A what?”

  “Next question,” I say as I slap his arm. I’m helping him prepare for his Demonologist Exam. He won’t be able to accompany me on exorcisms until he passes the exam and earns his Rank Five status. Usually an apprentice is supposed to train for at least six months (but usually a year) before taking the exam, but I pulled some strings and called in a few favors. I feel it best to get him fast-tracked so we can get the paperwork out of the way and focus on the more pressing matter of his mother’s bizarre obsession. Once he’s an official Rank Five, he’ll get additional clearances on WitchNet so he can help with the research into what she might be up to.

  “Under what College is the school of Alchemy?” I ask.

  “Tramsmutation.”

  “Name three schools of the College of Divinities.”

  “Restoration, Divination, and…er…Theomancy.”

  “YEAH!”

  “I told you I’ve been studying.”

  “I’m so proud.”

  “You should be.” He smirks.

  “List the following demonic types in order from least powerful to most powerful: djinn, imp, succubus…”

  Houston giggles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, continue.”

  “Djinn, imp, succubus…”

  Houston continues to laugh.

  “What!?”

  “I’m sorry! I just…I find the fact that succubuses are real funny.”

  “Succubi. The plural of succubus is succubi.”

  He starts laughing so hard his eyes tear up.

  “Oh by the gods! You are so immature!”

  “Sorry, sorry. Finish the question. You were a succubus.”

  I growl at him.

  “I mean you were at succubus.”

  “…mara, naga.”

  Houston stops laughing and bites his lower lip as he thinks about the answer. He takes a deep breath. “Imp, succubus, mara…no…naga, mara, djinn.”

  I stand and applaud. “You might actually pass the exam.”

  I am impressed with his progress. He’s taken to his training like a fire quasit to a pool of lava. Considering the less than two months ago he didn’t even know any of this was real, his progress is a surprise to me.

  “Hey, boss. Got a question. About the Nine.”

  “No, I don’t know their favorite baseball teams.”

  “No, I’m serious. The Nine weren’t always The Nine, right? Up until the Middle Ages, they were the Five. Five points of the pentagram.”

  “Correct, but during the Renaissance, Divinities became the sixth college. Before that, practitioners of those schools didn’t consider themselves magic users.”

  “And then during the Age of Reason, Witchery became the seventh college to bring the hedge witches and shamans and druids and those types of magic users into the fold.”

  “Very good. But you don’t need to study the history of the Nine for your rank five exam. Why the big interest?”

  “I don’t know. I just find the concept of them weird. These people with no names who just arbitrarily decide which schools of magic are legitimate or not and nobody questions their existence.”

  “You’re fine with the existence of demonic princes and elves living in the Aether, but the concept of the Nine is weird?”

  “Demonic princes and elves aren’t asking questions about my mother.”

  “The Nine wouldn’t have contacted you directly. And they haven’t contacted me recently.”

  “I been getting emails from…”

  “I am going to kill someone!” I throw my hands in the air and storm off toward my computer. “Names, Houston. Now.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to get people in trouble.”

  “Names!” There are few absolute rules among practitioners of the Craft. But meddling with someone else’s apprentice is one of them. “Damn harpies! I’ll see them banished to the outer planes!”

  “That’s a little over the top, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t say it would be permanent.” I log onto WitchNet. “Names.”

  “Just stop, OK?” Houston walks over to me and placed his hand over mine, moving the computer mouse to click off of WitchNet. “You’re getting all psycho on me.”

  “Houston, they had no business contacting you behind my back.”

  “Look, it’s my fault. Alright. I was trying to get information on erosmancy.”

  “You were whaaattt?”

  “I was just trying to figure out what mom is up to. I figured I could poke around and maybe talk to some people through Magelite.”

  “You created a Magelite profile?” Houston shrugs. I sigh. Magelite is the occult version of Facebook or Myspace. It’s popular with apprentices. I prefer WitchedIn myself. Fewer photo memes and game requests. “I can only imagine how a post requesting info on sex magic went over.”

  Houston blushes and grins. “Surprisingly well. Lot of…visual aids for my research.”

  “I just bet.” I turn off the computer and rub my eyes. This whole conversation is giving me a headache. “So did you actually learn anything useful? Or were you too busy studying your visual aids?”

  “Actually, I did learn something. Apparently erosmancy use to be part of the College of Necromancy.”

  “Oh yeah. I had forgotten all about that. In ancient times erosmancy was considered white necromancy because it focused on fertility and the creation of life. But it’s been part of the College of Enchantment since like the late 18th century.”

  “1806 to be exact. Twenty years later, the College of Psionics is recognized, with the first rank one psionist being a former member of the school of erosmancy.”

  “Aren’t you just a fount of useful information?’

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, before that, erosmancers plied their trade to kings and emperors to ensure their lines of succession. And an unusual number of the early psionists were also erosmancers. Maybe mom is nervous about protecting the family line? I was her only child.”

  “After your motorcycle accident, it’s possible she panicked. All of the sudden she realized her lineage could end.” I hadn’t considered the most obvious reason. Mothers can get unreasonably pushy about getting grandkids from their adult children. And when you are a powerful practitioner of the Craft, a little thing like death wouldn’t really get in your way. If anything, it would be a reason to get even more obnoxious about it. “Huh.”

  “Huh, what?”

  “That makes perfect sense, then.”

  “It does?”

  “You expected me to disagree with you?”

  “No…well…I just know you were assuming something evil out of Mom.”

  “I wasn’t expecting evil. Slightly nefarious, perhaps. Look, do me a favor. Don’t get too involved with these people on Magelite over the topic of your mom. People get a bit starry-eyed over celebrities’ kids. Let me follow up with the Dean of Enchantment and maybe we can put this whole thing to bed.”

  Houston giggles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Putting it to bed, huh?”

  I set my jaw and point at the door. “Don’t you have an exam to cram for?”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Houston leaves my office.

  “Vivika, your son doesn’t need a baby mama. He needs a mother.” I sa
y it to myself more as a joke. I didn’t expect a response.

  “How very Oedipal of you.”

  I look around as her laughter quickly fades back behind the Veil.

  The Show Must Go On

  June 3rd

  “Your mother always had a booth at the festival,” says Mrs. Middleton.

  I’m not my mother. That’s what I want to say. “I apologize for the confusion, Mrs. Middleton. But I can’t throw a booth together in one week.”

  “Your mother committed last year and —”

  “My mother is dead. Unless you expect her to attend from beyond the grave, I fail to see how that commitment matters now.”

  The only sound I hear from the other end of the phone is Mrs. Middleton’s Bichon Frisé, Tinkerbell, whining in the background. I look down at the confirmation letter than came in the mail from the Mullica Hill Summer Arts Festival committee. Mom loved the festival. She loved Mullica Hill. She said it always reminded her of a miniature version of Salem, Massachusetts. For a few years, she considered moving Three Wishes to Mullica Hill, but she could never find a suitable building.

  It’s not that I don’t want to have the booth. OK, I’m not really interested in running a booth, but the concept of the booth doesn’t actually bother me. The confirmation letter was addressed to my mom. That is what bothers me. She died just two months ago, but nobody bothered to update the information on their mailing list before sending out the confirmation. It rings hollow to tell me how important it is for me to have the booth and how much you miss my mother when your mailing list doesn’t even recognize the fact that she’s dead.

  “Nancy, I’m sorry. I realize this is difficult for you. The booth is already paid for.”

  “Then keep the money as a donation. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “Well, the booth is paid for,” she repeats. “So if you change your mind just let me know.”

  “I could run the booth if it’s important.” I turn around to see Houston standing in the doorway holding an oversized box.

  “Is that the crystal order from Ludden House?”

  Houston nods and hands me the box. I start unpacking it.

  “I could run the booth.”

  “Not by yourself. It’s a weekend festival. You need at least two people so that someone can cover if you need a bathroom break or something.”

  “Then how did your mom run the booth?”

  “I don’t know. I guess she would just recruit a helper or borrow someone’s apprentice. I don’t know. It’s not important.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “No, it’s —.” I pretend to study the packing slip.

  “I guess it’s true what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. Or in your case, counsel.” Houston turns to leave the office.

  “No, no, no. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re a licensed psychologist and you are the absolute worst at talking about what really bothers you.”

  “You are just far too sensitive for a heterosexual man.”

  Houston’s mouth gapes open. “Wow, you actually…wow, you went there.”

  “That was awful of me,” I say. But I’m laughing at Houston’s expression. “I need to make a donation to GLAAD now before Karma bites my ass.”

  “Wait…what? Was that serious? I have trouble telling sometimes.”

  “For minor infractions, sure,” I say. “Did you not finish the workbook on Karmic Backlash and Witches?” Houston makes the proverbial deer-in-headlights face. “You haven’t finished that workbook yet? You need that for your Rank Five exam next month!”

  Houston is on the fast-track program to get his Rank Five Demonologist certification so he can be more useful around the shop. That, and be more effective at researching what his dearly departed mother is up to. Grand Madame Vivika hasn’t tried anything since her heavy-handed attempt to get Houston and me in bed together. That doesn’t mean she’s given up. That just means she’s plotting.

  “OK,” I begin. “The most important thing to remember is that Karma is real. For witches and others with a connection to magic, we are particularly susceptible to Karmic Backlash. It’s part of the cosmic checks and balances to keep spellcasters from abusing their power. If you do bad things, over time you accumulate a lot of negative energy and if you can’t disperse it, it attracts negative things to you.”

  “Soooo, if I make an off-color joke I have to make a donation to clear my conscience?”

  “Consider it erring on the side of caution. Minor infractions, by themselves, are no big deal. But if they are allowed to accumulate…it’s like anything else. You know, it’s ok to eat at McDonald’s once in a while. But over time if you do it too often your ass gets to be the size of a car.”

  “Should I use that example on the test?”

  “No.”

  “What about Anastasia?”

  “What about her?”

  “You could pay her to help me run the booth. She’s been looking for summer work.”

  I have to admit, it’s not a bad idea. The girl knows almost as much about the shop as I do. She’s in the shop almost every day, either bothering me with her teenage-witch understanding of the craft, lusting after poor Houston, or actually buying something. But she has the perfect disposition to run a booth. She’s bubbly and loves to talk. I finally relent and agree.

  I decide to head to the office. I have a 3:30 PM appointment with the Russells and I want to get some paperwork done before they arrive. That and the landlord apparently dropped off the new lease agreement and, according to Isabel, some of the other tenants were already complaining about the rent increase. With the number of clients I’ve lost and my reduced workload, I need to make a decision as to whether or not to keep the office, find a new location, or just focus full-time on the shop.

  There is a part of me, to be honest, that WANTS to run Three Wishes full-time. Just me and my apprentice. Selling potions and exorcizing demons to make the world a better place. But it’s hard to let go after spending all that money on getting my doctorate and all of those years as a practicing marriage counselor. It would almost be like admitting that Mom was right.

  Ye gods, she would love that.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor!” says Isabel as I enter the building. “The Russells are running late but said they should be here by 4 PM.” She hands me my mail and messages. Isabel is one of the reasons I’m reluctant to move. Isabel is part of the lease agreement. All of the professionals in the building share a receptionist. How she manages to keep the schedules and messages for a dozen different offices straight is beyond me. The point is, if I move, the chances of finding a location with a build-in receptionist are slim to none. This means I need to hire a receptionist. This means an added expense.

  This means I hope this new lease isn’t going to make my head explode.

  Upon opening the lease renewal agreement, my head doesn’t explode but my ability to breathe pauses momentarily. A fifty percent increase? Is that a typo?

  I crunch numbers until the Russells arrive. I spend another hour crunching numbers after they leave. Even using creative math, the increase in the lease is going to strain my budget. I don’t want to give up my parking spot, though (did I mention that the building includes a parking garage? Do you know how hard it is to find a parking space in Philly?). I definitely don’t want to give up Isabel.

  As I leave the office, I notice a brochure on the sidewalk. Litter on a sidewalk is not an earth-shattering discovery in a metropolitan area. But the bright red cross on a pale yellow background stood out against the grimy concrete. I picked it up.

  It’s a brochure for a new Christian family counseling center. The address is way across town.

  You ever get one of those feelings where you just know something is wrong, but you have no rational reason to suspect something is wrong? It just seems weird for this to be in front of my office. I have no legitimate reason to think this is weird. But I know it is.

/>   I put the brochure in my purse and go home.

  June 4th

  Anastasia is bouncing. Literally. For a moment, I think the girl must be made out of rubber to get that sort of bounce.

  “Thank you! Thank you! This is so amazing!” she keeps exclaiming.

  “Your mom still needs to sign your working papers. I need them back ASAP so you can work the festival.”

  “I’ll have them back tomorrow!”

  And with that, my newest employee rushes out the door and almost falls into the FedEx driver as he delivers my packages.

  I decided to hire Anastasia part-time for the entire summer. There was just too much work for Houston and me, particularly with him studying for his Rank Five certification and the matter of his mother. I really don’t know how Mom managed to run the shop by herself all of these years. There was no record of her ever hiring help. Maybe she paid someone under-the-table? Or maybe she had an arrangement with a brownie to help with the cleaning and manual labor? I don’t know how she did it. But I am exhausted at the end of the day.

  Speaking of exhausted, a few minutes later Houston returns with a massive sheet of plywood (I think it is plywood). He’s sweating, has sawdust in his hair, paint on his jeans, and dirt on his shirt. Unfortunately, he’s one of those men that look gorgeous when grungy.

  He leans the sheet of plywood against the counter and offers a half bow toward me.

  It’s a sign for the booth. It has an ivory-color background and the shop’s name in metallic blue large Bookman style lettering. Below the name is a genie-style lamp in silhouette that seems to be cut from a piece of sheet metal and painted goldtone. There is some hand-painted “smoke” coming from the lamp.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “Did you make this?”

  The way he nods his head reminds me of a puppy that just learned its first trick. He’s very proud of himself. “Uncle Harold has a bunch of stencils for when he makes signs for his construction company. Cheaper than paying for one of those plastic things that’ll fall apart. And he gets to claim he’s being green since the wood is biodegradable.”