Witch Rising

by Paige McKenzie

  “Bye.”

  Nyala left, typing furiously. Iris spun around to face her desk again. She was puzzled—pleasantly puzzled—by her sister’s behavior. Nyala’s usual mode in Iris’s presence was insults or indifference. Maybe she was coming out of her “terrible tweens” phase? Had she been like that when she was twelve?

  The talisman. Iris needed to finish it up, and then she would morph herself into Jadora—nonmagically, of course—and head for downtown to catch the bus to Seattle. With a quick stop first to drop off her gift.

  Blueberries. Lolli was staring pointedly at Iris.

  “Right. I promised.”

  Iris remembered then that blueberries were good for protection, too. Maybe she should throw one or two into the mix along with the herbs and crystals?

  An hour later, Iris stood in front of the Curious Cat, admiring the Halloween-themed window display. Dracula by Bram Stoker, Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, and other spooky novels were interspersed with jack-o’-lanterns, dried cornstalks, and skeleton candles. Wispy white-lace ghosts with black button eyes appeared to fly over the scene. Iris wondered if Greta had designed the display; in addition to being a skilled witch and gardener, she was incredibly artistic.

  The sun emerged from behind the clouds, brightening the foggy morning. Iris caught her reflection in the windowpane. For a second, she didn’t recognize herself in her Jadora outfit. With her high ponytail, black leotard and leggings, and silver quiver, arrows, and bow made of coat hangers and aluminum foil, she looked seriously B.A. Overpowered. Sexy, even. The effect was night-and-day different from Iris’s usual flannel shirt, jeans, and glasses-falling-down-her-nose self. No wonder she preferred being Jadora the Justice Warrior Witch to Iris Evangeline Gooding.

  She pushed back her shoulders, winked at her reflection, and pivoted toward the front door. She was ready to see Greta.

  Opening the door, Iris was greeted by the wonderful smells of old books and freshly brewed coffee. Behind the counter, Mr. Navarro sat on a high stool, flipping through the Sorrow Point Sentinel while talking on the phone.

  Iris waved to him.

  “I’ll see if I can order a copy of that for you… oh, hang on one sec,” he said into the phone. “Hey there, Iris! Nice to see you. Great costume. Greta’s in the back, I think, in poetry.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Navarro!”

  Iris waved again and headed toward the poetry section. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and adjusted her glasses. “Hey, Greta! How are you?” she murmured under her breath. “Hey, Greta! I brought you a present! Nah, it’s no big deal, it’s just a little something I made myself….”

  “The face of all the world is changed, I think, since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul….”

  Iris froze. Someone was reciting a poem.

  That someone was Torrence.

  He and Greta were sitting cross-legged on the floor, close together, surrounded by boxes and crates. An old book was cradled on his lap. Greta was sipping from a blue ceramic mug.

  “Move still, oh, still, beside me,” Torrence continued.

  Greta caught sight of Iris. She smiled in surprise. “Hello!”

  Torrence glanced up from his book. “Hi!”

  “Hey, Greta. And… hey, Torrence, I’m Iris!” Iris blurted out. “JK, we’ve already met lots of times, I’m a little out of it because… anyhoo, I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys, I was just in the neighborhood… well, actually, I have a reason to be here, so it’s not like I was randomly in the neighborhood… this was one of my stops… but at the same time it was kind of random because my main reason for being in the neighborhood was… is… oh, argh.”

  Greta gathered her green velvet skirt, rose to her feet, and put a gentle hand on Iris’s arm. “Do you want to join us? We were just reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning, to cheer ourselves up. Sonnets from the Portuguese. Do you know them? They’re really amazing. Also, we’re drinking this special tea blend that Torrence made. Can I make you a cup, too?”

  Torrence stood up, too. “Sorry, I don’t think I brought enough. Next time, though.”

  “Well, we do have other kinds of tea up front, and coffee, too,” Greta offered.

  “It’s okay. I can’t stay, anyway, because”—Iris blinked, trying to remember where she had to be—Greta is touching my arm—“yeah, so I have to catch the Seattle bus. To get to WitchWorldCon. That’s why I’m wearing this”—she waved at her outfit—“so, yeah.”

  Greta’s smile morphed into an anxious frown. “WitchWorldCon? What is that? Is it some sort of public witch event? Will there be Antima there?”

  Greta didn’t play video games. How could Iris have forgotten that? She was old-fashioned, from another century. Like one of those beautiful sunlit girls in a Victorian painting.

  “I don’t think so. It’s a convention for Witchworld fans, and Witchworld doesn’t involve real witchcraft, it’s just a video game, and it’s super-popular with normal humans”—Iris face-palmed—“I didn’t mean… it’s not that witches aren’t normal… we are… the point is, no one thinks Witchworld is a game for witches. It’s like, you don’t have to be a Pokémon character to play Pokémon video games, right? Sure, it’s not possible to be a Pokémon IRL, but you know what I’m saying. Although I wish a person could be a Pokémon IRL, because if so, I would totally be Goodra because Goodra is cute plus O.P…. which means overpowered, which means superpowerful, not powerless….” She stopped; she could feel heat in her cheeks and wondered if she was doing her ugly blushing again. “So, um… why do you needing cheering up? Did something bad happen? I mean, aside from all the bad stuff that’s been happening, including finding another murder victim?”

  “Yes, well… I talked to Ridley this morning. Binx told her that the police think Mrs. Feathers’s death was an accident,” Greta explained.

  Iris digested this. “So the police don’t think she was killed by the Antima or Maximus Hobbes or someone else who’s connected to, you know, Penelope?”

  “Exactly. And I don’t think Maximus Hobbes is even on their radar, since…”

  “… he’s not even supposed to be alive,” Torrence finished.

  I’m talking to Greta, not you, thank you very much!

  “How are Mrs. Feathers’s kitties doing?” Iris asked Greta. Sweet, kind, protective Greta had taken the four orphaned pets home with her—the gray cat with the missing eye and the three black kittens.

  “They’re doing a lot better. I’ve been feeding them lots and giving them some healing herbs, too. Gofflesby”—Greta hesitated—“Gofflesby seems happy to see them. Which is weird, because he’s always been kind of a loner. One time when my brother brought home his friend’s cat for the weekend, to take care of her while their family was out of town, Gofflesby became really upset and aggressive.”

  “You saw—we all saw—Gofflesby at Mrs. Feathers’s house in your vision,” Torrence reminded her. “Is it possible he knows those cats?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine.” Greta touched her throat—she must be missing her raw amethyst pendant—then let her hands fall to her sides. “I suppose I should do more scrying spells about that, though.”

  “I can help you. We can all help you,” Torrence told her.

  Greta smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you.”

  Iris started to make a gagging motion, then stopped herself. This wasn’t a competition. Actually, it was a competition, and Torrence was winning. Still, she needed to be calm and mature about this. Maybe she should talk to her therapist, Deanna, about increasing her Zoloft….

  Zoloft.

  A random memory flashed through Iris’s brain.

  “Loviatar!” she burst out.

  Greta blinked. “Lo-vi-a-what?”

  “The gray cat. I thought her name was Prozac, but actually, it’s Loviatar. It just came to me. I was confused because Loviatar sounds like a medication, too. But Mrs. Feathers had that photo of the gray kitty in her office at school… and she
told me she named her Loviatar after the… um, let’s see… the Swedish goddess of desserts. No, not that… the Finnish goddess of death… no, not that, either… it was the daughter of the Finnish god of death.”

  “Oh!” Greta said.

  Iris closed her eyes and tried to recreate the photo in her mind. The image was fuzzy at first, then sharper, more vivid. Yes, that’s it.

  “There’s another cat in the picture, too. A little kitten. With long golden fur, kind of like”—Iris gasped and opened her eyes—“kind of like Mr. Gofflesby.”

  Greta turned ghostly pale.

  “It must be a coincidence,” Torrence reassured Greta.

  “Haven’t you had Mr. Gofflesby since forever? Since he was a baby?” Iris asked.

  “N-no. I’ve only had him for a few months. Over summer vacation he kept coming to my garden, and he was obviously a stray….” Greta stopped and stared agitatedly past Iris and Torrence. “That day in Mrs. Feathers’s house… I’m remembering now. She told me Gofflesby was her familiar, and that she’d sent him to spy on me. Which was a lie. He’s my familiar. He would never do that to me!”

  Greta’s hands were shaking, and she looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Torrence put his arm around her shoulders and whispered something in her ear.

  Time to make my exit. Iris didn’t want to be there anymore.

  “I have to go. I’m so, so sorry things are such a mess, Greta. Let me know what I can do to help. Oh, and I made you a present, ’k, bye!”

  Iris had wrapped the magical talisman in pink tissue paper and tied it with a lavender ribbon from Grandma Roseline’s sewing basket. She thrust the package at Greta and turned to go.

  Greta said something to her, but Iris wasn’t listening, because she was too busy trying to get away from the lovebirds and also recall the name of that app that that girl in the bathroom had told her about. Oh, right. Krush. She would search for a new true love during the bus ride to Seattle.

  Iris rushed toward the doorway, but stopped abruptly when her foot made contact with something on the floor. Greta’s tea had spilled.

  “Argh, I’m sorry! I’m such a klutz!” Iris apologized.

  “Honestly, it’s fine,” Greta assured her.

  Iris bent down to pick up the mug at the same moment as Torrence. She got to it first and wiped up the spilled tea with the back of her sleeve.

  The realization hit her like a wave.

  The tea wasn’t just tea. It was something else.

  Could it be… a love potion?

  “Here, let me get that!” Torrence said nervously.

  As Iris handed him the mug, he wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  13

  WITCHWORLDCON

  Some humans think they have power, when they do not. Some witches think they have no power, when they could rule the universe with what is inside them.

  (FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)

  “Over there! Quick, before someone else gets it!”

  Binx sat up in the passenger seat and gestured wildly at an empty parking spot in the corner of level 5. She was as excited as if she’d tracked down a super-rare Lunicorn in the Dominion of Subcrystals, which she—or rather, Ms. Magius, her Witchworld avatar, whom she’d named after a Pokémon ghost-type character—had yet to do in the game. She and Div had been circling the convention center’s underground garage for nearly half an hour.

  Obviously, everyone in the entire country had decided to show up for WitchWorldCon this year.

  “Finally! Good work, Binx,” Div said. She drove her white Audi to the spot, parked, and cut the engine.

  “We should have used a parking-spot-finding sp—I mean, enhancement. Is there such a thing? If not, there should be.”

  “Perhaps. It’s good for us to hone our real-life skills without resorting to the enhancements, though, don’t you think?”

  “I guess?”

  “So what’s first on our agenda?”

  “We need to pick up our passes and go through security and stuff.”

  Binx consulted the WitchWorldCon schedule on her phone. Good… they were still well within the check-in and registration window. She opened the car door and stepped out, slowly, because it wasn’t easy to maneuver in her thick, padded ski pants with the gazillion tiny rainbow-colored pom-poms stapled precariously onto them. Not to mention that the ski pants used to be her father’s, so she kept having to pull them up and recinch the belt. Also, her plastic headband with the papier-m ch demon horns pinched, and her black sequined spandex top scratched and itched. And her plastic ax, which she’d found in the basement along with a box of other childhood toys, was just sad. Why had she agreed to this nonsense? Not only was she incredibly uncomfortable, but honestly, she looked more like a failed clown than a fearsome Hodge-demon from the Brandlewycke Dimension.

  If only she’d been allowed to just buy a costume from Target or such. Cosplaying apparently involved making everything from scratch. What was she, a pioneer girl? On top of which, she’d had like twenty minutes to pull all this together.

  “Please explain again why you’re wearing that outfit. Is it a disguise?” Div asked her as they headed for the elevators.

  Binx glanced around to make sure they were alone. They were.

  “I told you before. I arranged to meet ShadowKnight at the cosplaying competition, although I won’t be competing because, well, I’d rather eat one of those orange parking cones than get up on a stage in this and be judged by a panel of nerd fashionistas,” she said in a low voice. “He’ll be in costume, too, and so will the other Libertas members. It’s to blend in with the crowd better. Sort of like the Homecoming Committee thing. Although he and the other people in his group may be competing… I don’t know.”

  “Cosplaying,” Div repeated. “I think Caitlin and Cassie were talking about that the other day.”

  “Oh, do they do cosplaying?”

  “No, but they seem to want to get into it. Maybe you can teach me about it so I can help them make costumes, and whatever else this activity entails?”

  “Sure. I’m hardly an expert, but I can share what I know. Websites, et cetera.”

  “That would be useful.”

  They got into the elevator and Binx pressed L. It was weird, hearing Div talk about the Jessup twins in a big-sisterly way… not that Binx knew what it was like to be a big sister, despite technically being one to her super-annoying half-brother, Lucas. Before switching covens, Binx had thought of Div as the ice-cold, ruthless, and extremely powerful leader of the enemy camp. Someone to be avoided at all costs, especially when she was accompanied by Prada, her terrifying boa constrictor familiar. Did she actually have a beating heart under that frosty exterior? Of course, maybe the big-sister vibe was part of her disguise, her fake persona as Hunter’s girlfriend, a way to ingratiate herself with the family. Binx shuddered to think about what Div really thought about the Jessups and what she was planning to do to them. For being Antima. For being the force behind the New Order. And for maybe having a connection to Penelope’s murder, too?

  The elevator stopped at parking level 2, but no one got in. Div sighed impatiently, jabbed at the L button, and glanced at her watch. “What time did you arrange for us to meet up with ShadowKnight, exactly?”

  Us?

  “Umm… so… he’s expecting to see me, not you. I thought I could talk to him alone first, and then you can join us later?” Binx said vaguely.

  “Binx.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you tell him I was coming to this convention with you?”

  “Umm…”

  Div sighed. “Fine. I understand you’re trying to protect his privacy. But as coven leader, I need to protect you, protect our coven. Besides, Libertas and we—and by we I mean our coven and Greta’s coven—have a common goal. Working together will provide a considerable mutual benefit.”

  “Got it.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Binx fi
ddled with a loose sequin and said nothing. At least Div wasn’t insisting on accompanying Binx to the initial meetup. Still, Binx hoped ShadowKnight would be okay about Div being here. She hadn’t given him the heads-up that Div would be accompanying her to WitchWorldCon, in part because she hadn’t wanted to scare him away. The most important thing was that she, Binx, would get to see him face-to-face… finally. She didn’t want anything to jeopardize that moment.

  When they reached L, the elevator doors whooshed open, and the two girls stepped out into a three-story glass-and-steel lobby. The air smelled like hot dogs and fruit punch and hand sanitizer. The lobby was jam-packed with people—kids, tweens, teens, adults… even parents with strollers. The Witchworld theme blasted over the loudspeakers, interrupted by occasional announcements: “Cosplaying weapons must be cleared by our security staff.”… “Those with VIP passes can go straight to Table A.”… “There are a few spaces left in this afternoon’s Witchworld voice-over stars’ meet and greet, so sign up now!”… “Make sure you stop by and check out the hundred and fifty vendors we have in our Artists’ Alley.”…

  Binx felt a frisson of excitement; she hadn’t been to a con in over a year. Staring out at the crowd, she noted that more than half had dressed as a witch, elf, troll, goblin, demon, vampire, ghost, zombie, halfling, or other character type from Witchworld. Even the babies were wearing Witchworld-themed clothing, like tiny knit caps with dominion affiliations or onesies with images of Draska, Ilyara, or one of the other High Council witches.

  Despite her anti-human feelings of late, she had to admit that this seemed pretty fun. Of course, she didn’t know what percentage of the attendees were actually humans. Maybe she and Div were in the majority here, not the minority? That would be cool.

  “I appear to be underdressed,” Div remarked, peering around. “Perhaps I, too, should have cosplayed.”

  “I don’t think that’s how the word is used, but okay. Maybe we can buy you a Witchworld-themed hat or cape at one of the booths?”