by Cate Lawley
“Just because I believe there might be ghosts, doesn’t mean I buy the zombie apocalypse is around the corner. And just because I believe in psychics and witches, doesn’t mean I believe in Voodoo.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.”
Looking simultaneously impatient and sleepy, Hillary asked, “What happened next?”
“Well, sticking with the voodoo doll analogy, like someone twisted the doll inside out. Then, boom, I’m in some antique shop with a Glenda, I can only assume the Glenda.”
Hillary nodded. “Bet it was her vintage clothing store. It’s just down the road.”
“No. Antiques. I’m sure. The whole place was full of furniture. Maybe we’re talking about a different Glenda? Blond hair, pretty, nice…ah, figure.” Filter, Brad. Filter.
“Sounds like our witch. What did she have to say for herself? Did she do this to you?”
“Wow, you do not like that lady. I thought she hooked your friends up? Beth and Edward?”
Hillary rolled onto her side on the sofa. The moonlight that streamed through her windows highlighted the dark smudges under her eyes. “Yeah. She did. It’s just her flakey there-and-gone attitude. She sticks her nose in, and then she never seems to be around when you need her. Like we’re some little side-project that catches her attention every once in a while. And really, the seductive glasses, begging to be worn? That is not okay.”
“I didn’t get the impression her involvement was casual. She seemed pretty worked up about it all—well, except the part where I live or die.” He thought back to their conversation. “She was actually pretty casual about my possible death.”
“I told you she’s the evil witch of this story.”
“Well, evil or no, I am glad you put her glasses on.” He shrugged when she shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Hey, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation otherwise. And I’m pretty sure Glenda saved my life when she yanked me out of here, so it’s hard for me to judge her too harshly. Even though you’re convinced she’s Satan’s offspring, she’s not so bad. The woman who cursed me, maybe that’s the one we should call the evil witch.”
Hillary snorted and chuckled. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. But really, curses? Good witches, bad witches? It’s like a fairytale come to life.”
And he’d forgotten. “Glenda was my girlfriend’s godmother. My girlfriend—Grace—was supposed to have died in a car accident.”
“Yeah, if that’s the case, then I think I found some information about you. Did Glenda confirm that you’re this Stephen Bradley Sherwood?
“No. But since the world imploded when I learned the name, I’m guessing yes. She did tell me that I’m cursed.”
Hillary perked up. “Cursed means that we can break it. Don’t suppose she mentioned how to break the curse?”
“No. Wait—yes. Something to do with forgiveness, but I was yanked out of the shop before she could say more. She told me Grace, my girlfriend, was killed in car crash—I still don’t remember that—and her mother had cursed me.”
“You were gone for three days.” Hillary’s eyes narrowed in consternation. “There has to be more.”
“I was with Glenda for, I don’t know, a few minutes. At most. She was trying to tell me, but she wasn’t in control when I left. ”
“That’s worrying.” Hillary let loose a huge yawn and her jaw cracked.
“It’s the middle of the night. Why are you even up?”
“You disappear from my living room filled with holes like something’s eating you. I don’t know, maybe I haven’t been sleeping so great these last few days.”
She sounded annoyed, but he thought she might be uncomfortable letting him know she’d been worried. Or she was cranky as heck from lack of sleep. Either way, pointing out her apparent concern for him didn’t seem particularly clever—but maybe that boded well for her not exorcising him into oblivion.
“Maybe you should get some more sleep. But can you call Walter when you get up and let him know I’m okay?”
She rolled off the sofa and landed lightly in her feet. “No need. He’s crashing in my spare bedroom. When you didn’t show after a day, he got pretty worried. He said you’d probably turn up here first.” Her lips twisted. “I think he was a little suspicious I did something to exorcise you. Like I’d do that on the sly. Anyway, we’ll catch up in the morning. After coffee.”
“Yeah, in the morning.”
He did his best not to stare as she walked away; she was Walter’s grandkid. But those shorts were so tiny…
After she left, he settled back into the same armchair. He had until morning to make sense of his unexpected and decidedly odd teleportation and to consider the new facts that Glenda had revealed. His girlfriend had died. He’d been driving. It was an accident, but he’d been driving. And Grace…Brad felt a stab of remorse. He still had no memory of Grace, a woman who’d died in a car he was driving. Not a woman, his girlfriend.
He knew one person had no reservations about his guilt. Grace’s mother, the witch who’d cursed him.
Chapter 9
Hillary wandered back to her bed in a state of combined relief and exhaustion. But a niggling concern arose as she climbed into bed: Maybe, if she had to make the choice, Hillary wouldn’t be able to banish Brad into the ether. Hillary hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Three days believing that she’d accidentally sent him to the netherworld—because where else would he be going with that tortured look on his face?—and she could barely look herself in the mirror. She wasn’t sleeping, which was giving her horrendous dark circles, meals tasted terrible, which just made her sad, and, worst of all, she caught Walter eyeing her suspiciously.
He’d come to stay not long after Brad disappeared, which had been good for both of them. They’d both needed a little company. The weird thing? She kinda liked having him there. Their current status as temporary roommates had one good result. Hillary could envision living with her grandpa long-term. She had no idea why it hadn’t occurred to her before, or if he’d be up for it—but it was another option as their crazy family drama unfolded. Gramps’ competency hearing wasn’t for weeks, but his evaluation was scheduled in a few days.
She rolled onto her side, trying to get more comfortable, and reviewed her efforts of the last few days. She’d read up on curses—both cursing and breaking curses—witchcraft, protection spells, and anything related to magic that looked like it might have a kernel of truth in it. And after three days she had less than she’d started with. No facts, no solid information, and a real fear that the curse wasn’t breakable. Oh, and some mildly annoyed clients who’d needed placating. Canceling appointments wasn’t her norm, but she cultivated a certain type of client—the kind who didn’t like changed plans.
While Hillary had been digging around, Mary Margaret had pursued different lines of inquiry. She’d even found a referral for a local paranormal investigator, one who was off the grid. No advertising, no website, no social media. Clients by referral only. When Mary Margaret had described his set-up and how he had a P.O. box where prospective clients sent their contact information and information about the job, and then he’d contact you if he was interested, well, she’d thought he’d sounded like an assassin. Or a corny, wanna-be detective.
As Hillary tossed and turned in her bed, she decided that desperation might push her to call him, but it made her uncomfortable. Glenda was the key, not some shady guy who busted ghosts under the table for cash. Or if not Glenda, then Brad’s past. What had Glenda meant about forgiveness? Forgive himself? That was hard to do with amnesia. Forgive Grace’s mom for cursing him? Would that involve a confrontation? Bad, bad idea, since Grace’s mom was seriously pissed off and crazy powerful. See exhibit A: the depth, breadth, and length of the curse. And the woman might be literally crazy—because what sane person cursed another person to a life of such loneliness?
Hillary sat up in bed and then punched her pillow. Confronting the mom should not happen.
She plopped back down on h
er bed. Now, Glenda, the meddling absentee witch, there was someone she’d like to confront. Hillary had tried to contact her at the shop, and the sales clerk had been really nice—but that didn’t change the fact that Glenda remained unreachable. Given Brad’s description, Hillary thought she’d give it one more try tomorrow. Now she knew Glenda’s end destination…sort of. Surely the antique shop was another of Glenda’s properties. And if it was, then she’d get that number from the sales clerk, and she’d try that shop.
Finally, with a firm plan of action in mind, Hillary turned over and fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 10
Glenda addressed the mirror inside her vintage compact. “I’m concerned.”
The mirror was stubbornly still and silent.
“Bedivere? Are you there?”
Silence.
She flipped the heavily ornamented silver lid down, closing the compact with a decisive click, then flipped it open again. “Now is not the time to be temperamental.”
The mirror shivered as a chuckle tickled its surface. “Calm yourself, woman. I had another call. You’re not my only responsibility.”
“The Sherwood case is unraveling. Prioritize.”
The silver surface of the mirror darkened with his disapproval, but he didn’t respond.
“The boy learned his name and triggered a counter-measure within the curse. A lethal counter-measure. It must have been tied to the memory dampening component of the curse.”
“You intervened? He’s still alive?” Her tiny compact trembled in her hand, an indication of strong emotion.
“He lives. I snatched him from the edge only just in time. But what if…” She couldn’t say it.
“If you had been too late? If there are other counter measures—lethal counter measures—built into the curse? Then she’ll be executed. A killing curse executed in full? You can’t save her from that.” A sigh rippled across his small mirror. “What was she thinking?”
“I don’t know.” Glenda bit her lip. The pain helped her focus. “She was grief-stricken, not thinking. Surely the council—“
“No,” Bedivere’s sharp retort made the compact itself vibrate. “Seven years, Glenda. She’s had seven years to make it right. The council will make no allowances for her if Sherwood dies. No special dispensations for her grief or her ties to you.”
“If it comes to that,” Glenda said, “you must do everything you can.”
“No,” His voice was firm, but softer than before. “Her only chance is to make certain it never comes before the council. Save the Sherwood boy.”
Glenda snapped her compact shut.
Math. She nodded. Math would help her make this right. But her confidence wavered. In all her calculations and predictions, she’d missed the counter-measure. She straightened her spine. She would simply have to look more closely, work harder, be better. Neither the Sherwood boy nor her friend would die. She was the maker of improbable matches. What better application of her skill than using love to break a curse, save two lives, and find a happily ever after for two lonely souls? She could do this. She would make this work.
Chapter 11
Hillary sipped her orange juice, and eyed Brad across the kitchen table. He’d walked into the kitchen a few minutes ago wearing different clothes than last night. She’d been tired, but not so tired she couldn’t remember clothes. If he was Stephen Bradley Sherwood, and chances were looking exceptional that he was, his wardrobe certainly wasn’t stuck in 2009. He must have some way to update his appearance. And judging from his haircut, that included more than clothes.
“Have you been dressing Gramps for the past few years?” The thought just popped into her head. She’d been so impressed with his ability to keep up, she’d never considered an outside source.
Brad‘s eyes softened, hinting at a smile. “When I met Walter, he was wearing this tatty bathrobe over a white T-shirt, and these old man slippers were practically falling off his feet. He looked as close to homeless as a guy with a roof over his head can look.”
“You know my grandmother hadn’t been gone for long, right?” Hillary knew she shouldn’t be defensive. It had been a long time ago. But she felt guilty, and that made her tone sharper.
“I know,” he said, eying her like she was some unpredictable, crazy person. “That was a lifetime ago, and that man that Walter was seven years ago doesn’t have much in common with the man I know.”
“I’m sorry.” She put down the fork she’d been clenching in her hand. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve been worried the last few days. I thought…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them, Brad was leaning forward in his chair. “I thought I did something to banish you.” She pinched her lips shut and shrugged.
“Not sure what you think made me disappear…” He hesitated, eyeing her. “Unless you were practicing exorcism rituals on the sly? Or praying me away?” When she glared, he smiled and said, “You didn’t do anything. Like I said, there was a memory charm. I’m willing to bet a bunch of cash I don’t have that I’m Stephen Bradley Sherwood. I got that creepy chill, and I think my name triggered the self-destruct on part of the curse.”
“The timing could have been a coincidence.” Hillary’s tongue tangled when she tried to say the name, and she decided maybe that was best. They could skip his full name for now. “So, you’re Stephen?”
“Stephen Bradley Sherwood.” He squeezed his eyes shut as he said Sherwood. When nothing happened he opened his eyes. “What do you know? Maybe it’s just the first time. If you’re asking about my amnesia, I’ve still got nothing. So I can’t be sure, but everything points to him being me. But don’t call me Stephen.”
Hillary nodded. “I’ve always known you as Brad, even if I did think you were a figment of Gramps’ imagination. Brad’s easier for me.”
“You remember those jeans from the eighties? The ones that practically reached his armpits?” Brad asked.
A grin escaped before she could stop it. “Yeah. I remember those. I tried. I swear I did, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He just said he’d wear them until they wore out and that I should know better than to think he’d waste money buying new clothes when the old ones were still good. How did you manage to convince him?”
“I sold his old stuff on eBay, so it wasn’t going to waste. That and I told him that I had to look at him more than he looked at himself, so I should at least get veto power on his clothes.” Brad relaxed back into his chair again. “He didn’t really agree with either of those arguments, but I think selling his stuff online was fun, so we ended up reaching a compromise. Eventually, he figured out that updating could be more comfortable, and he could still keep his own style.”
“Nicely done.”
Brad looked unsure, as he said, “At first, the clothes were about getting him out more. An excuse to leave the house. Then, I thought, maybe he’d be able to meet someone, maybe date, if he looked like he belonged in this century. He’s great company, crazy smart, fun to spend time with, and he’s not a bad-looking older guy. I mean, what do I know? But it seemed like a good idea.”
Hillary had to stop and think about how that made her feel. She’d never given Gramps’ dating life—even the existence of one—two seconds’ thought. She’d hoped her grandpa would meet more people, get out more, but she hadn’t thought so far as dating. Even the word seemed wrong when paired with him. Gramps dating? Gramps getting a life? Moving on finally? “Yeah, I guess that would be cool.” More than anything, she wanted him to be happy. “Actually, that would be really cool.”
She finished her now lukewarm scrambled eggs quickly. She needed to move on with her investigation. She had the uncomfortable feeling she’d let her grandpa down in more than one way. Not buying in to his Brad stories? Possibly understandable, even considering her more liberal views of the supernatural. But Brad had done more to help Gramps in the last few years than anyone else in the old man’s life. Including her. She really needed to fix Brad, beca
use she didn’t think sending the guy who’d been Gramps’ best friend for seven years into oblivion was such a hot idea.
She picked up her plate and carried it to the sink. “I’m waiting on a copy of a yearbook from Sherwood’s high school, your high school. If we can get a photo match, then we’ll have proof. Since you can’t actually remember—”
“That’s great.” He nodded eagerly. “I’d love some kind of factual confirmation. And maybe flipping through an old yearbook will jumpstart my memories.”
Rinsing her plate and not looking at him, Hillary said, “Thanks.” She loaded the dishwasher, avoiding any eye contact. “I know what you did for him. All the stories he told… I know how much you helped to get him going again.”
Before Brad could respond, Walter walked into the kitchen.
“Thank goodness. About time you were back,” Walter said as he entered the kitchen, a broad smile stretched across his face. “One more day and it would have been Hillary going to the funny farm, not me.”
Hillary blushed. She didn’t know why. She’d already admitted she’d been worried. “All right, Gramps. That’s enough. And you know that no one is talking about institutionalizing anyone. Assisted living is hardly the funny farm.”
Gramps grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows. He was messing with her. Nice.
Served him right if she made him cook for himself—except his scrambled eggs were better than hers, so not really a punishment. “You slept late this morning.”
