by Angie Fox
“I want to tell her in person,” I said, as if I hadn’t been avoiding the entire conversation.
She snarfed. “Did you tell her we’re witches?”
This whole thing was making me uncomfortable. “I wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase that.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “You did mention that the groom is a mythical shape-shifting griffin.”
“No,” I snapped. I’d tell Hillary in my own good time. Preferably before Dimitri or any of his relatives landed in the back yard. “First, we’re going to get through the tea party this afternoon.”
There had to be a downstairs bathroom where I could ditch the leather outfit, the shiny black boots, my Harley branded headband, my spell jar. I didn’t want to forget my studded leather bracelets, either.
Then I’d stash my switch stars in a straw purse. I’d trade the rest of it for a flowered sundress, wedge sandals and a large hat because, well, my hair was a permanent lavender color thanks to a spell gone wrong.
I took the porch steps two at a time. At least my hair had grown out a bit in the last few months. It was maybe an inch off my shoulders. I dug my fingers through it, trying to put it up in a French twist under the hat. No such luck.
“This garden is great,” Grandma said, heading the opposite direction. “She’s got mint and chamomile, white sage and sweet grass. And look! Diviner’s sage! Right there!” Grandma pointed as if it was the find of the century, as if my mother had somehow planted it all. “You’ve got to see this.”
“Don’t pick any plants,” I told her. The garden was pretty. Gorgeous, in fact. “I might get married right there.”
“On the back porch?” Grandma asked, rooting through the plants. “If that’s the case, I’d have dragged you in front of a minister in Las Vegas. At least there you could have gotten married by Elvis.”
“No,” I said, as she picked some white sage. “I’m going to have a classic wedding.”
With biker witches.
I tried not to cringe. Or care that she was stuffing lavender springs into her belt.
Focus on things you can control. Like getting changed before my mom saw me.
Out of habit, my right hand wandered down to my switch stars as I opened the iron and stained glass back door.
So far, so good.
I eased my way inside and found myself in a Spanish kitchen as big as my old house.
The original floor and fixtures looked to be at least one hundred years old, with intricate mosaic designs and large racks of copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. The appliances were new, gleaming stainless steel. The countertops and cabinets were dark and imposing, as was a large, wooden table that could seat at least twenty.
A narrow hall led toward the front of the house. There had to be a bathroom somewhere nearby.
“Lizzie?” I heard my mom’s voice from only a few rooms away.
Cripes.
Yes, I was a big, bad demon slayer, but for a moment, I really considered ducking behind the massive kitchen island.
The sharp clack of Hillary’s kitten heels on the tile sounded like nails in my coffin.
“I heard you pull up,” she called. “Next time, try the front door. I know it looks heavy, but it opens fine.”
I froze. My mind swirled with panic as my mother rounded the corner. And stopped.
She brought a French manicured hand up to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Hillary Brown wore an immaculately tailored, white button down dress, along with a pink pearl necklace and matching earrings. Her straight, pale, blond hair curled perfectly at her ears and shoulders. Her skin was unnaturally smooth for her age, as if someone had taken a sand blaster too it. Or more accurately, a scalpel. I’d never seen Hillary when she hadn’t been polished to within an inch of her life.
And I looked like a biker witch.
She stared at me for one long moment.
My heart thumped against my chest. I clutched the jar with Grandma’s Mind Wiper spell and briefly considered using it.
Instead, I pasted on my best good-daughter smile. “Hi, mom!” I said, trying for cheerful and sounding more like a drunken cheerleader.
She tried to respond but her face had frozen into a pasted-on smile-of-horror. “What on Earth…happened to you?”
Chapter Three
My face heated and I began to sweat. Buckets. I pulled up my bustier, even though it was in no danger of falling down. “Funny thing. I was just getting ready to change.”
Good God. The last time I’d seen my mom, I was wearing khaki pants and a yellow sweater, along with sensible Oxford shoes. I drove a Saturn. I went to bed at ten o’clock. I worked as a preschool teacher, and I didn’t even kill spiders, much less soul-sucking demons.
Had I wiped off my Sinfully Red lipstick? I didn’t think so.
She closed the distance between us, as if I was a wild animal and she was afraid to move too fast. “It’s good to see you,” she said, drawing me into an awkward hug. She smelled like clean cotton and orange blossoms, like always.
Hillary gave a hard exhale and pulled me tighter. It felt nice. She didn’t like to touch people. She didn’t always express her emotions and, “oof,” all of the air left my lungs as she tightened her grip even more.
I managed to pull back. “Thanks for coming.” She hated when I called her Hillary.
“It’s your wedding,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She held me at arm’s length. Her brows pinched. “Besides, you need me. I swore I’d never be that mom, but in heaven’s name, Lizzie, what are you doing to yourself?”
“This?” I said, as if I’d noticed it for the first time. “This is nothing. I have a nice sundress in my bag.” As if that would make her go easy on me now.
She looked at me like I’d stripped down naked right there in the kitchen. “Your hair is purple.”
Ah. “That was actually a mistake.” I’d gotten hit with a biker witch spell that made my hair go prematurely gray. We’d tried to fix it with a counter-spell, but I’d left that on too long because my long-lost biological father had shown up in a tower of flame.
But I didn’t think my adoptive mom wanted to hear that.
From the way she kept opening and closing her mouth, she’d had about as much as she could handle already. She paused, straightened her already squared shoulders. “Is this type of style…” she waved a hand over me, “appealing to you? You look like a hooligan.”
I let out a sigh. “Try biker.”
She glanced past me, toward the back door, as if she knew Grandma was out there rooting around in the garden. “I’m glad you found your biological Grandmother, but you don’t have to dress like her. You have so many nice clothes, Lizzie.”
Yes, but it wasn’t up to her to dictate where and when I wore them. “I can’t ride a Harley in white Capri pants.” If there were a way, I would have figured it out a long time ago.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is there some kind of rule that you can’t look nice?”
“Mom,” I glanced out over the kitchen, “I haven’t been here for five minutes.”
She looked so truly pained that I almost felt sorry for her.
Until she gave me the death glare. “Are you rebelling against the way you were raised? Is this my fault?”
As if I, who I was, was somehow bad or unacceptable or wrong.
“They’re only clothes.” What I needed on the road. To do my job. And I was damned good at it, thank-you-very-much.
Her eyes trained on the switch stars at my waist. “That belt could cut you.”
It had actually saved my life. Many times over.
At least she couldn’t see the actual stars. Those were only visible to magical people. No, she was talking about the spikes that one of the biker witches had added between the oversized pockets on my utility belt. Sure, they were a little over the top, but I liked them. They made me feel badass.
She walked to the refrigerator and removed a
bottle of white wine from the top shelf. “Has your fiancé seen this side of you?” She retrieved two glasses from above a large wine rack built in under the counter. “You’d better give up this lifestyle fast, because I don’t see any respectable young man from a good family willing to put up with it.”
Hmm…Dimitri had ripped off my leather pants before, but it wasn’t out of disapproval. My blood heated at the thought of what that man could do to me.
She watched me carefully as she poured two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
Yes, life had changed since I’d last seen her. Still, “Deep down, I’m the same person.”
Mostly.
Don’t think about it.
I took a sip. The wine was tart, crisp and sharp. Very Hillary. “It’s not like I can keep up with Grandma while wearing heirloom pearls and driving an electric car.”
Hillary hadn’t touched her wine. She ran her manicured finger up and down the stem. “I want to support you, honey. But I worry. With the clothes and the hair and that awful belt…and what are you holding?”
I looked down to the recycled Smuckers jar in my hand, with the Mind Wiper spell plastered up against it like a lovesick puppy.
“This?” I had to think. “Ask Grandma.”
Her eyes widened.
“Or better yet, don’t.” She’d tell mom the truth. I stuffed the Mind Wiper in my bag. “For the record, I hate having purple hair.”
She took a small sip of wine. “It’s true things don’t always turn out like we plan,” she ventured.
“Like with this house?” I liked it, but it was so not Hillary.
She gave a small smile. A real one this time. “Most of the pictures they sent were of the gardens,” she said, touching a wine droplet at the rim of her glass. “But you know me. I can make anything work.”
“You can.” It was the God’s honest truth. Hillary was a master at planning and organizing. If I’d given her more time, it would have been frightening to see what she could do.
“Follow me,” she said, placing her wine on the counter. “I’ll show you where you can change.”
The hallway was lined with oil paintings of nighttime landscapes and long-dead Victorians posing in uncomfortable clothes. We passed a formal dining room and a sitting room on the left, before we entered a spacious foyer.
Large red and silver patterned rugs decorated the floor and tapestries hung from the carved wood walls. A classic staircase wound up to a second floor landing that boasted an impressive collection of medieval weapons, all within reach.
Those could come in handy. If I wasn’t on vacation, which I was. Crimeny. Maybe my demon slayer lifestyle really had warped my brain.
“The bathroom is right through there,” Hillary said, pointing to a door near the foot of the staircase.
“Thanks.” I wrapped my hand on the faceted crystal handle and paused. I looked at her over my shoulder. “I know this house isn’t something you’d normally choose, but I like it.”
Hillary’s gaze traveled over the room, as if cataloging everything she’d like to change. “I honestly can’t figure out why I picked it,” she said, sounding a little lost.
“Well, hey,” I said, opening the door on a bathroom with gold plastered walls and an antique sink, “adventure is good.” Most of the time. It certainly kept things from getting boring.
Her heels clacked on the tiled foyer and stopped. “I’d like to help you,” she said. “With the hair at least.”
Heaven above, I’d love it if she could return my hair to its normal dark, dark brown. I’d even settle for light brown, or blonde. I’d take Dolly Parton hair—anything but this unnatural, blaring shade of platinum purple. Still, I didn’t want to get my hopes up.
“I’ve tried everything.” I warned her. Sure, Hillary prided herself on her ruthless devotion to style, but, “This is one fashion faux pas I don’t think you’ll be able to fix.”
She perked up at that. “Is that a challenge?”
Oh, no. I’d unwittingly matched an impossible job up against sheer Southern determination.
Hillary reached for my lavender bob. “You’d be surprised at what I’ve learned over the years.” She ran her fingers through my hair, testing its weight, “Hmmm…” she clucked. “Interesting.”
“What?” I asked, turning with her as she studied my situation.
She lifted a section and took a long look at my roots. “Do you trust your mother?”
“With my life,” I said, wary of her satisfied grin.
“Then leave it to me.”
Chapter Four
One makeover later, I was in danger of being late for the Celebration Tea.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t pry myself away from the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t the pink seersucker dress, or the diamond studs in my ears. I was wearing my natural hair color. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to look utterly and blessedly normal.
What was truly disturbing was that I didn’t know if I liked it or not.
Now that I had my own hair again, I couldn’t stop looking at it, touching it. Hillary, with much more glee than necessary, had treated me with her own special blend of organic herbs and colorants. And it worked. She’d brought me back. I couldn’t get over it.
She stood behind me, smiling as I ran my hands through my hair yet again.
Her fingertips dusted my shoulder. “I’ll mix a blend for you to use whenever you need.” She’d even given me a trim so that my dark hair fell in stylish layers around my face.
“I still don’t know how you did it.” She’d defied biker witch magic.
Hillary made her own adjustments to her impossibly perfect hair. “Never under-estimate your mother.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Time to go. The caterers are ready with tea.”
“Right,” I said, playing with my hair the entire way as she led me to toward the large sitting room off the foyer. I remembered seeing it when I came in.
A black stone fireplace dominated the room, with an aged wooden shield mounted over it. A coat of arms was carved into the shield, with painted chalices and red pansies. I pitied the knight who had to go into battle with wine glasses and flowers on his shield.
A round, wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling. Under it, Grandma and her biker witch buddies crowded onto the dark red and black leather couches and overflowed onto spare chairs from the dining room. I stifled a gasp. They’d changed as much as I had.
Grandma sat in a straight-backed medieval-looking chair wearing a loud, colorful flowered dress that looked like it had come from a psychotic Hawaiian Mumu enthusiast or more likely, a Goodwill reject box. She’d styled her hair into an honest-to-god bun and had tied a yellow ribbon around it.
Next to her, Frieda had wrapped herself in a tweed suit with a pink silk shirt that tied at the neck into the biggest bow I’d ever seen. She’d tamed her blonde hair from its usual bouffant style and had wound it into a helmet-head bun that had been hair sprayed to within an inch of its life—as if that was what people wore to tea parties.
Buns.
They must have seen it in a magazine.
Creely the engineering witch had gone for the Little House on the Prairie look, but had neglected to remove the mini silver deer skulls that dangled from her ears. Or perhaps she figured it completed the look.
My dog, Pirate, was nowhere in sight. However, his pet dragon, Flappy, had his large, nose pressed up against the bay window. Flappy snorted, fogging the glass around his pink and ivory mottled snout. I pretended not to notice.
I still didn’t know why my dog needed a pet. The white, snaggle-toothed beast was the size of an SUV, and still growing. At least non-magical people couldn’t see him.
Hillary was having enough of a shock as it was. True to form, she kept it all inside. Still, I couldn’t help noticing how she stared at the witch who was displaying ample cleavage above a corseted, medieval gown. Two Date Tessa actually looked good. As for the rest of them?
There was no lea
ther, no denim, no doo-rags. Only fashion mistakes as far as the eye could see.
Hillary and I exchanged a glance.
“Welcome to the Celebration Tea!” she chirped, clearly determined to forge ahead, blithely ignoring the biker witch to her left, who was studying a dainty porcelain cup like it was a moon rock. Mom painted a smile on her face. “This is the first event in a week of friendship, family, and joy that will lead us to Lizzie and Dimitri’s big day.”
I’d happily skip right to the wedding.
She gestured at two catering assistants, who entered from the arched doorway off the dining room. They held gleaming silver serving pots.
“Simply turn over your cups,” Hillary instructed as the biker witches eyed the delicate painted tea sets in front of them. “And tell Tina or Gina which of our seventeen specialty teas you’d prefer. Each one of them is organic and caffeine free!”
Grandma turned over her teacup like she expected a bug to crawl out from under it.
My assigned chair was across from the couch that held Grandma, Ant Eater and Frieda. At least, I thought the spot was mine. It had a white and silver bow attached. Let’s hope I wouldn’t have to strangle anyone with it. So far, the witches were remarkably well behaved.
I turned over the pink teacup in front of me, recognizing it from mom’s display case back home. She really did go all out. These antique serving sets were from her special collection. I couldn’t help but feel touched, and a little worried.
Ant Eater, grandma’s second in command, stared at me from behind a green and gold painted fan, as if she needed some kind of spiritual protection from what was taking place. It was clear Grandma had dressed her—and done her hair. The biker witch slowly lowered the barrier, her good tooth glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window. “What happened to your hair?”
“My mom fixed it,” I said, refusing to feel embarrassed for looking like myself.
Her eyes traveled over my Malibu Barbie outfit. Okay. So I wasn’t exactly the seersucker sundress type anymore, but I didn’t think Ant Eater had suddenly taken to giraffe patterned Mumu’s, so she could cut me some slack.
