Gypsy Witch: A Paragon Society Novel (Book 2)

by David Delaney

"Please, Bryan. 'Chicks' is such a . . . loser way to describe the lovely women of Stanford," Jimmy scolded.

  "Whatever, dude. You paid them, right?"

  "Of course not," Jimmy said dismissively.

  "Then, what the hell?"

  Jimmy wasn't about to talk about magic, love spells, and chicken blood. His friends wouldn't believe him, even if he told the truth. They were in the same place Jimmy had been just a few hours ago – blinded by the science of men. They were sheep, beholden to a worldview that didn't include an understanding that magic and the supernatural weren't just fantasy, but real, applicable tools – available, but only to the enlightened.

  Jimmy knew he had only scratched the surface of what was possible. Well, he hadn't done anything overtly magical yet. Tinkerbelle had done all the work on the love spell, but she had utilized a book – a book of spells. And Jimmy knew if it was written down, then it could be learned, and if it could be learned, then Jimmy could master it – he was a genius after all.

  A wadded up napkin bounced off his chest. He looked up. Gervais was talking to him.

  "What?" Jimmy asked, perturbed that his thought process had been interrupted.

  "Are you really not going to tell us how . . . seemingly overnight, this—" Gervais gestured to all the women at the surrounding tables that were clearly staring at Jimmy. "Whatever this is – happened? In the natural world, there is no effect without an originating cause."

  "Thanks, professor," Jimmy snorted.

  Gervais continued, ignoring Jimmy's condescending remark, "The three of us," Gervais inclined his head toward Bryan and Tim, "know that, as early as yesterday, you were not attracting the kind of attention now being exhibited. You arrived today in the same clothes as yesterday, looking very disheveled, and so we can surmise that whatever occurred to create the current situation must have transpired last night."

  Gervais tilted his head as if waiting for Jimmy to refute his supposition.

  Jimmy was doing his best to keep his face neutral. Stopping to show off in front of these guys might have been a mistake . . .all three of them were almost as smart as he was.

  When Jimmy didn't respond, Gervais continued. "Now, if we exclude Bryan's theory that all of these women have been paid, or that you're the grand prize Powerball winner, or that you somehow managed to get all these women to engage in an elaborate ruse, then logic dictates that you have stumbled on a process or series of processes that has created this very interesting effect. And we must ask ourselves why you wouldn't want to share it with us, your friends?"

  "Whatever, dude," Jimmy said, trying to dismiss Gervais's reasoning and the glares he was getting from the other two young men.

  Bryan crossed his arms. "Answer the question."

  "Of course, there is always the possibility, as I said before, that you simply sold your soul to the devil," Gervais said, snidely.

  Tim snickered at mention of the devil.

  But Jimmy's heart was racing. Gervais's repeated 'devil' comments were too close to the truth. It was in that moment that Jimmy realized he didn't want to share what he had learned about magic. And it was more than the fear that the guys would laugh at him. The secret was his. All the implied power that knowledge of magic contained was his, and he didn't want anybody else sticking their big fat noses into his discovery.

  Jimmy opened his mouth to tell his friends they could screw off, but was saved when the student center started buzzing. He looked around the room. People were staring at their phones and computer screens, and everyone was talking at once.

  "Holy crap," said Bryan, holding his phone out so that his tablemates could see the screen. "There was some kind of attack at a coffee shop on campus."

  "This says that a barista, high on bath salts, went nuts and started a fire," said Tim, checking his own phone.

  The people in the student center were on the move; everyone was on their phone now, some trying to call friends, others simply looking for more information on the coffee house incident. An emergency alert, from the Stanford campus police, popped up on most of the mobile devices, instructing the students to remain inside and wait for further instructions.

  "It's must be an active shooter," someone from another table shouted. This uninformed pronouncement only ratcheted up the anxiety, and people started to panic.

  "I can't get stuck in here for hours," said Jimmy, pushing back from the table.

  As the idea of an active shooter took hold of the crowd, people started shoving tables around in a poor attempt to barricade the doors.

  "This is why our generation has such a bad reputation," Jimmy huffed. "There is no evidence of any danger, and yet everyone is freaking out. Pathetic."

  "Jimmy, where you going?" Tim called after him.

  Jimmy pushed his way to the closest exit where several students were doing their best to secure the doors.

  "Excuse me," said Jimmy. "I need to get through, thank you."

  "No way, dude. There's a shooter on campus," a guy in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt barked at Jimmy.

  "No, there is not. Someone at that table, over there," Jimmy pointed, "said there was a shooter, but that is not that case. He was just speculating. So, please, if you could just let me squeeze by . . ."

  The guy in the Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and several of his friends stood shoulder-to-shoulder, arms crossed, blocking the door. "No one leaves until we get the all clear. Understand?"

  "You can't keep us all in here. That's kidnapping or wrongful imprisonment or something," Jimmy insisted.

  "You're not leaving, dude. End. Of. Story." Mickey Mouse sweatshirt poked Jimmy in the chest to emphasize each word.

  Jimmy was so frustrated he could cry. He hated the feeling of powerlessness. He rubbed absently at his chest where he'd been poked.

  "Hey, keep your hands to yourself, and if he wants to leave, he can leave," a female voice shouted from behind Jimmy.

  Turning, Jimmy found a group of six women standing behind him. They were all students and looked to be of varying ages. All of them were alternately smiling at Jimmy and scowling at the guys blocking the door.

  "I said, nobody leaves," Mickey Mouse sweatshirt repeated.

  Jimmy had an idea. Technically, it fell within the research parameters he had already been devising in his head – a kind of experiment on the strength of magic spells.

  Jimmy turned to the group of women. "I need to leave, and they won't let me. Can you help me, please?" Jimmy gave the women the most sincere smile he could muster. He could see Bryan and his other friends watching from their table. If this unfolded like he expected it might, they would hound him to share his secret. I'll just have to avoid them, Jimmy thought. Maybe there was a spell for that?

  "Open the door," one of the women demanded. Two of the other women turned their phones on the would-be bouncers, recording everything.

  Mickey Mouse-Sweatshirt held up his hands in a calming gesture, and in a terrible misreading of the situation, said in a placating tone, "Look, ladies, it isn't safe—"

  A battle shriek cut the guy off in mid-sentence, as four of the women attacked as one entity. There was kicking, slapping, and even some hair-pulling. Mickey Mouse-Sweatshirt and his friends didn't know what to do; the women had gone absolutely insane.

  Jimmy laughed, clapping his hands in delight. Magic was amazing. With the guys afraid to really fight back, the altercation was over in seconds. Jimmy couldn't help himself. He smiled over at his friends, or soon-to-be former friends, who stared back in stunned silence, and then he walked out the door.

  "Wait," a voice called after Jimmy.

  Jimmy turned. It was one of the women who had come to his aid. "Yes?"

  "I just wanted to give you my number, so you could call me later." The woman's shirt had popped a button in the almost-fight, her bra was visible, and Jimmy couldn't help but stare. The woman followed his gaze and grinned when she realized what he was staring at.

  She held out her hand and Jimmy passed over his cellphone. She a
dded her contact information, increasing his growing list of potential hook-ups. Jimmy considered the idea that he was going to have to create a new database with a rating system based on hotness. She handed Jimmy's phone back with a wink and walked back into the Student Center.

  * * *

  Jimmy made a beeline for his apartment, already organizing how he would approach the research of magic.

  He laughed out loud.

  Research and magic, those were two words he would never have imagined being used in the same sentence, especially by him.

  When he reached his apartment, he pulled off the clothes he'd been in for two days, dropping them as he walked to his bedroom. He paused in front of the mirror; he still had magic symbols drawn in chicken blood all over his body. He didn't know the rules. If he washed the symbols off, would the spell stop working?

  He couldn't risk that. The attention he'd been receiving was intoxicating, and he didn't want it to stop. Jimmy used a wash cloth to dab the around the symbols, cleaning himself as best as he could. He then dressed in a pair of comfortable sweats and t-shirt, switched his phone to do-not-disturb, made sure the printer was stocked with paper, grabbed a Red Bull and a giant package of Skittles, and sat down in front of his computer. He cracked his knuckles and began entering search parameters.

  It didn't take long for frustration to set in. He had been meticulous in creating his search algorithm; he should be getting more insightful hits on his queries, but instead all he had to show for a few hours of work was a long list of useless junk. Oh, there were many websites and chat-rooms about the practice of magic, but all of it was nonsensical BS. Tinkerbelle and Dahlia had told him that finding any real information about magic was next to impossible, that all knowledge was passed person to person, but something as important – as momentous – as this had to leave a footprint, something, somewhere.

  But as the hours passed, he had to come to grips with the fact that the knowledge of real magic was well hidden and that finding anything of worth on the Internet was not going to happen. He would have to go back to Tinkerbelle and ask – no, demand – that she teach him what she knew.

  Jimmy mashed the pause button on his laptop, freezing a video with a fat goateed guy who called himself Aleister in mid-sentence. The guy had been droning on for ten minutes about aligning oneself to the energies of the cosmos, thus being able to "manifest the desires of the heart."

  "Yeah? If you could manifest anything, you wouldn't be sitting in what looks like a 1970s era paneled basement," Jimmy shouted at the screen. "And what's with the ponytail? You're bald, dude. Deal with it and just shave your head." He pushed his laptop aside in disgust, careful that it didn't slide completely off the couch. He was angry, not stupid.

  He leaned back and rubbed his temples. Magic was real, but out of his reach. It wasn't fair; knowledge was supposed to be free. That was supposed to be one of the driving forces of the digital age: freedom of information. And yet, someone – or more likely a group of someone's – had scrubbed the reality of magic from the entire net. It seemed impossible, but it was the only explanation.

  His attention was drawn to his phone screen when it lit up. From this angle, he could tell he had missed a ton of texts. He leaned forward and pulled it from its charging pad. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

  Boobs. The last text to come through was a picture of boobs. Some girl had texted him boobs – well, boobs encased in a lacy green bra. Jimmy fumbled with his phone, trying to unlock it, as another text lit up the screen. It was from the same sender as the boob pic. This time, it was a reminder that the party the hot senior, Lydia, had invited him to was currently in full swing. This was quickly followed by another text: a mirror selfie of Lydia in her green bra, a big smile on her face. Jimmy was having trouble breathing. His thumbs flew over the screen. He assured her that he was on his way.

  He snapped his laptop closed. He wasn't abandoning his search for magic, just setting to the side for now. He was getting half naked pictures from beautiful women – it seemed like the right decision. He debated the need for a shower, but in the end, keeping the symbols on his body intact seemed more important. He used a washcloth to dab at himself again and then liberally applied cologne. He then spent way too much time picking out an outfit. He was still a bit anxious about all the comments his cool salmon pants had received, and he wasn't sure he should continue to follow the fashion ideas he had researched. He didn't want to get laughed at for his clothes choices. In the end, his 'I'm always right' attitude won out, and he pulled on a pair of casual pants who's product description stated they were the color of blue-mist, a shiny red shirt that a sales clerk had assured Jimmy was 'fitted' and not too tight, and the entire look was rounded out with a pair of brown leather Oxfords – no socks.

  Jimmy checked himself out in the mirror, "Not too bad, James. Not too bad at all."

  He looked at the picture of the boobs one more time to help psyche himself out. "I can do this. How can I fail? I've got magic on my side."

  The party was a quick drive across town. Jimmy cruised by the address to make sure he was in the right place, found a parking spot up the street, squared his shoulders, and walked with his head up.

  The party was raging. People had spilled out onto the front lawn, Jimmy gave nervous nods to several of the partygoers. He received big smiles from the women and looks of unbelief from all the guys.

  "Dude, did you steal that shirt from your mom?" a guy called out to Jimmy, his circle of friends laughing at his joke.

  Jimmy's ears felt like they were on fire. This had been a mistake. Who was he kidding?

  "Hi," a perky voice said from his left. Jimmy glanced up. A cute girl was smiling at him. "My name is Becky?"

  "I . . . I'm Jimmy."

  "Ignore those idiots, Jimmy. You look fantastic. Red is definitely your color." Becky moved closer to Jimmy.

  "Oh. Um, thanks."

  "You don't have a drink," said Becky.

  "No, I just got here." Jimmy was feeling calmer by the second.

  Becky looped her arm through Jimmy's. "Well, Jimmy, follow me and I'll take care of all your needs."

  Jimmy stole a glance back at the group of guys who'd laughed at him. They all looked very confused at Becky's friendliness. Jimmy, feeling emboldened, brazenly pulled Becky closer. She responded by snuggling right up to him. Jimmy flashed a smirk at the group of guys and followed Becky into the house.

  A sea of drunken college students flowed from room to room, swaying to the thumping music. Becky led Jimmy to a row of kegs; she poured him a ubiquitous red cup of beer.

  Jimmy took a swallow. He was not a beer expert, but it tasted better than the beers served at dollar beer night at some of the local bars.

  "That's pretty good," he had to almost shout to be heard.

  "Imported," Becky shouted back. "This is Stanford, after all."

  Jimmy nodded and smiled. The line for beer forced Jimmy and Becky into the undulating crowd; standing still to have a conversation was impossible. As Jimmy moved through the crowd, he started drawing the attention of all the women in the room. Most just smiled or stared openly. A few braver ladies moved into Jimmy's path and reached out to run their fingers along his arm or back. Becky stared daggers at the women who touched Jimmy.

  "He's with me, bitch," Becky shouted, after a particularly drunk sorority sister pressed her entire body up against Jimmy and nuzzled his ear.

  The sorority sister's head snapped to the side, eyes flaring, a long finger pointed directly in Becky's face. "What did you say, pledge? Because it sounded like you called me a bitch?"

  Becky didn't back down, but continued in a much more respectful tone, "I said, he's with me."

  "How dare you! You little slut, I—"

  "Sisters!"

  Jimmy, who had been enjoying two hot girls arguing over him, turned to see who had shouted. It was Lydia. Jimmy's eyes immediately slid down to her breasts, as if he would suddenly gain the power of x-ray vision and be able
to see the lacey green bra he knew she was wearing beneath her t-shirt.

  Lydia arched an eyebrow at Jimmy, who still had enough decency to be embarrassed. Lydia let him squirm for a moment and then turned on her sisters. "Jimmy is my guest, so why don't both of you run off and find someone else to make fools of your selves over."

  Becky looked like she might challenge Lydia's command, but the other sorority sister, who was older and wiser, grabbed Becky by the arm and pulled her away. Jimmy waved as they left; he was feeling like the king of the world.

  Lydia wrapped her fingers in Jimmy's collar and pulled him into her, brushing her lips lightly against his. Jimmy's knees buckled, and if Lydia hadn't been holding onto him, he would have dropped to the ground.

  "Hi," Lydia purred.

  "Hello," Jimmy was able to stammer.

  "Follow me." Lydia let go of his collar, grabbed him by the hand, and pulled him after her.

  Lydia moved deftly through the party crowd. She kept a tight grip on Jimmy's hand, so tight that Jimmy grimaced from the grinding pressure on his fingers. The lady was strong, Jimmy sure hoped that she wasn't a freaky Fifty Shades of Grey fan-girl. Jimmy didn't like pain, especially when all he wanted was a soft female body to snuggle up against.

  On their short journey through the drunk, semi-drunk, and soon-to-be-drunk house full of people, Jimmy attracted the eye of several other female partygoers. He watched, fascinated, as the women catching a glimpse of him immediately lost all interest in whatever it was they were doing – laughing with friends, dancing or even flirting with a guy – and followed after him. By the time Lydia had led Jimmy into a room at the back of the house that was at least quiet enough to hold a normal conversation, three other women were trailing after them.

  The room looked like it had once been a back patio, but it was now completely enclosed and used as a TV and party overflow room for the sorority. The lighting was more subdued, and once the double doors were closed, the room offered an oasis of relative quiet. There were already a few couples scattered around the large space, most of them engaged in whispered conversations, but some in full make-out mode.