Maybe there’s a spell or magical tincture for the removal of headaches and sour stomachs. I’ll have to ask Sarah Wildes, aka Salem’s most powerful witch, my boyfriend’s mother, and owner of the house I’m about to sneak out of on an early Saturday morning.
No, my boyfriend doesn’t live in his mother’s basement. This enormous Victorian is big enough for him to have his own apartment in the attic. At least he doesn’t have three roommates sharing a one bedroom with a single bathroom. Things could always be worse.
“Where are you going?” the sleepy, muffled voice belonging to yesterday’s graduate, aka my boyfriend, asks from the bed behind me.
“I have to drive to my parents’ house today for my dad’s birthday and pack what I’m bringing to Boston for the summer.” Turning, I tuck my shoes under my arm. All I can see of Andrew is his dark hair against the pillows and the vague outline of him beneath the comforter.
“Why so early and why are you tiptoeing around like a thief?” His voice sounds deeper in the morning and sexier.
“If your mother catches me sneaking out of her house again, I’ll die from embarrassment, again, and probably shrivel up into a human raisin and then turn to dust on the spot. A sad raisin size pile of dust will be all that’s left of me.” I check the zipper on my small purse to confirm my underwear isn’t poking out or dangling from the side. “I want to hold onto a tiny scrap of my dignity.”
“It’s my home, too. We’re all adults here.” Andrew rolls to his side and stares at me, sleepily blinking his light blue, iceberg-colored eyes in the dim morning light slanting through the curtains of his attic apartment. A heavy lock of dark hair hangs in his face, a shadow over his pale skin. “You’ve spent the night plenty of times over the past three months. In case you forgot, you have your own key.”
Right. I do. Not that I’ve used it. “I took that as more of a symbolic gesture. Like a ribbon cutting ceremony. Or one of those giant checks lottery winners receive. Not for practical use like coming and going from this house as I please.”
Laughing, he flips to his back and bends his arm behind his head. Because he’s shirtless, my eyes travel over the various muscle groups that make up his chest and arms. “Do you really need to leave now? In the grand scheme of things, will another hour or two matter?”
He makes a good argument, but I’m stubborn. “There might be traffic. I want to get the awkward humiliation of not looking your mother in the eye over and done with before the churchgoers flood the streets with their judgment and uncomfortable shoes.”
His lips twitch as he fights a smile. “But if you wait until closer to ten, all of the church ladies will be attending services and you won’t have to face my mother because she’ll be at the Spelling B. Seems like the best possible plan all around.” The hand not behind his head pats the mattress next to him. “Come back to bed.”
For show, I tap my index finger on my chin, pretending to weigh my options. Pursing my mouth, I lower my brows to give the appearance of debate. As if I can resist him. My draw to Andrew is stronger than any spell or magic could create. Once upon a time, I thought I needed a love spell to make him fall in love with me when all I really had to do was be myself.
While I act out indecision, Andrew peels back the covers, revealing his black sleep pants and defined abs. He crawls to the foot of the bed like a predator, his movements smooth and feline. Like a jaguar and I’m whatever sweet little jungle critter jaguars hunt. Probably sloths. I’m a slow moving, sweet sloth. An apt description if anyone has ever seen me go wogging (walking plus jogging) around Salem.
Mind reading isn’t one of Andrew’s “special” skills, but my face must reveal my thoughts, because he pounces for me.
I squeal in surprise with a shiver of fear coated in excitement when he lifts me up and carries me back to bed.
“What time are the birthday festivities?” He stands at the edge, his thighs between my legs and his naked chest at eye level.
Distracted by the hard planes of his muscles, it takes me a few seconds to comprehend he’s asking me a question. “Two, but I promised I’d help decorate.”
“Your parents only live ninety minutes away.” He ducks his head and lifts my chin with a single finger, a silent question in his eyes. “According to math, you’ve overestimated your travel time by at least three hours.”
With an exaggerated sigh, I flop back on the bed. “I need to pack. Don’t forget that part. I’m nervous and I don’t know what to bring for an internship at a secret witch society. Do I need robes or will all black work? Is there going to be a list of required supplies and a hidden shopping street where I can buy a wand and textbooks?”
With a small burst of laughter, he sits next to me on the bed. “We’re not going to a fictional wizard school in England. There isn’t a required dress code.”
“Will I still be given a pet owl?” I attempt to appear hopeful.
“No one gets an owl,” he says drily.
“What about a cat? Do I pick out my own black cat or will one randomly follow me home and adopt me?” I crawl backward to rest my head on the pillows.
“Do you want a cat? We can go to the shelter and rescue one, but we should check with Geoffrey about their pet policy. You could borrow Mildred from Dr. Philips.” His voice is teasing, but I’m certain he’d help me get a cat and probably smuggle it into the headquarters if that would be my heart’s desire. Because Andrew loves me and I love him right back.
“Thanks, but wouldn’t it be strange to borrow another witch’s familiar? I’d think it would be forbidden, or at least socially unacceptable. And wouldn’t Mildred just spy on us and report back to him?”
“You’re right on the spying part. That cat cannot be trusted. As far as the rules, you’d have to ask the coven. No one else I know has a familiar,” Andrew explains.
“Why not?” Now I’m wanting an animal sidekick who is so bonded to me we can communicate without word. So cool.
“Too old school.” He traces a swirling line over the skin of my arm. “Or something. You’d have to ask my mother. Or Philips, if he hasn’t already left for his annual summer stint on the Cape at his family’s beach house.”
Imagining our stuffy English professor wandering the dunes of the Cape in one of his old-fashioned tweed jackets makes me laugh. An idea hits me and I sit up. “Do you want to come to my parents’ today? You haven’t met them yet. Dad will squeeze your hand too tight and try to peer into your mind to make sure you have honorable intentions with his only daughter. Mom will ask too many questions and tell embarrassing stories about all of my awkward phases growing up.”
“You’re really selling this interrogation followed by birthday cake.” He smirks and drags a finger up the inside of my calf. “I doubt you’ve had a string of awkward phases. You’re beautiful and unique.”
“Unique could be code for awkward. You missed my brief but intense One Direction fangirl phase. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I was too young to get a tattoo.” I freeze my face into a serious expression, complete with intense stare to warn him off asking follow up questions.
“Is there photographic evidence?” Shifting to his side, he props himself up on an elbow.
“Not if I can help it.” We need to move away from this topic. “Gram will be there, too. I know she’d love to see you again.”
His finger stills. “I’d love to go with you. How is Celeste?”
“She’s doing well. The spells of protection at the farm appear to be holding. No more intruders or grave robberies.”
Less than a year ago, fainting spells were the only kind of spells I’d experienced. Grave robbers existed only in books or the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World. Simpler times, or at least more naïve to the magic all around me.
My dad’s mother is a direct descendant from two families caught in the Salem witch hysteria. Not only does she make the best cookies, she’s a witch and the keeper of the Corey and Bradbury family secrets, including protecting the hidde
n graves of my ancestors on the family farm.
As her granddaughter, I’ve inherited the family genes. I’m a witch, too, but a baby witch learning her powers. Definitely in the wobbly toddler stage of controlling my magic. If I had a broom, it would have a “student driver” sticker on the back.
Sadly, we’re not the kind of witches who fly around on brooms. Unless no one has revealed that fun fact yet. There’s so much I don’t know.
“Good. I’d love to see her again. I should bring a gift for your father. What does he like?” A genuine earnestness brightens Andrew’s question.
“You don’t have to get him anything,” I reassure him. “He’ll protest over each gift, saying it’s too much and he doesn’t need it.”
“I don’t want to show up empty handed.” Growing serious, he lowers his voice. “It’s important to me to make a good impression.”
He melts my heart. Thinking for a moment, I come up with a short list. “He likes golf, the Red Sox, and the Bruins. Although, he oddly hates Tom Brady. Loves Dunkin’ Donuts. He’s your basic New England dad.”
Andrew nods. “Should be easy to pick up something today. How about tickets to a game at Fenway?”
“Those are impossible to get. Unless you’re willing to spend a chunk of money. Tickets would be too much, way too much,” I protest, but he silences me with a finger pressed to my lips.
“Not impossible. My father’s secretary has connections. I’ll give her a call and it’ll be done. I think there’s a series with Yankees mid-summer. Those are always a fun time.”
My mouth pops open as I gawk at him.
“What?” He stares back, mirroring my open mouth gaping.
“Your father. Do you really want to contact him?” My skin pebbles with alarm.
Andrew strokes his warm hand down my arm. “No. And I’m not going to. His secretary likes me. She’ll happily help me out and, if I ask, won’t mention it to my dad.”
“Are you sure?” Doubtful involving his father in anything is ever a good idea, I have to ask again. “We can swing by Dunks and buy my dad a Red Sox travel mug and a gift card. He’d be thrilled.”
“Why not both? Please let me do this. Seeing my father at graduation yesterday was unpleasant, but keeping up appearances of the status quo will keep him off our trail. Cutting off contact completely will only create suspicion. We don’t need him discovering our summer plans in Boston.”
He makes a good point. “Does he know about the Society?”
A small crease appears between his dark brows. “Not that I know of. It’s possible. He knew my mother was a witch when he fell in love with her and he’s not completely ignorant about the existence of the coven. If witches are in Salem, logically they must be in other places, too. Even if he’s heard rumor, I doubt he knows details like location or who is a member. Ironic given he lives less than a mile away from the headquarters.”
“Don’t underestimate him. No offense, but your father’s picture is in the dictionary next to dastardly.” I scowl at the memory of the strange sensation of someone pressing on my brain from inside my skull whenever Stanford Bradford stared at me yesterday.
I’m not, not saying he’s evil, but there’s a reason Andrew changed his last name to his mother’s name, Wildes, and dropped Bradford. Stanford is obsessed with money and status and society—the blue blood, stuffy kind. Oh, and he’s probably behind the curse on Andrew last year that had him acting like a toad boy, aka a complete asshole.
“I agree with you, one-hundred percent. Can we stop talking about that half of my DNA? There are other, much more enjoyable things we could be doing instead.” He kisses my shoulder while slowly sliding his hand up my thigh toward my hip. “Hey, why aren’t you wearing underwear?”
Bonus Chapter of Bewitched
If you missed the beginning in Bewitched, keep going!
★★★
“Hester Pryne was a slut.”
“She was not. You’re a Neanderthal asshat!” My chair scrapes across the worn wood floor as I stand and shout. Yep. Shout. I am shouting in my New England Fiction seminar led by a man in a tweed jacket with elbow patches. What is wrong with me?
“Miss Bradbury, please sit down,” Professor Philips scolds me from the head of the long, polished mahogany table.
I cross my arms and try to control my temper as I stare down the tree troll known as Luke Hamilton, aka self-proclaimed “Big Man on Campus” and golden-boy. “Professor Philips, how can you just let him spout off all that bull— nonsense about Hester Pryne being a slut? She didn’t take a religious vow or have sex with herself.”
“That’d be hot.” Hamilton snorts from a few seats away. His golden-boy blond hair droops over his forehead as he doodles boobs with A’s on them in the margins of his book.
Disgusting. I can’t figure out why he’s even in this class. Reading doesn’t seem to be his thing. The only things that appear to interest him are boobs, keg parties, and himself.
I continue my rant. “It takes two people. Two. Hamilton and his hand don’t count as two people. Argh!” I toss my pen down on my notepad. “He’s missing the point. Hawthorne wasn’t slut shaming Hester.” I flail my arms around in some sort of awkward orangutan mating dance.
A pen tapping at the opposite end of the long table draws my attention, and the spell of my frustration dissolves. The sound comes from Andrew Wildes, resident brooding, quiet, serious, handsome, slightly dangerous man of mystery. Or maybe he’s just quiet. There is something about him I find fascinating, like the dark hero in one of the Brontë sisters’ novels. Blushing, I sit down in my chair, straightening a stack of note cards and my post-it note filled copy of The Scarlett Letter. Dr. Phillips has banned laptops from the class, encouraging us to take handwritten notes because of some brain study he read about memory.
“Do you have something to add to the discussion, Mr. Wildes?” Dr. Philips asks focusing his attention on the other end of the table.
Andrew stares at his fingers, which tap on the table in a patch of dust dancing in the mid-September sun. The rest of him remains in the shadows, making his thick dark hair and pale skin stand out in contrast even more. His faded black T-shirt only adds to the brooding vibe surrounding him. He never speaks in class unless Dr. Philips calls on him, and his answers are often so odd, the majority of students ignore him. This should be interesting.
“Madison is right. Hawthorne wasn’t shaming Hester. The Puritans were. Hawthorne was more interested in sin and knowledge, exclusion, and fear of the unknown. It’d be like us writing about the Victorians. The Puritans were ancient history for him. If anything, I think he’s mocking them.”
My mouth drops open. Andrew is defending me. He clarifies my entire argument in two sentences. I’ve assumed he doesn’t know I exist even though it’s only a class of twelve students.
“Well said, Andrew,” Philips praises him. “You and Miss Bradbury are on the right track with your thinking.”
Hamilton scoffs and leans back in his chair, letting the front legs rise a few inches above the floor. Under his breath he mutters, “Slut.”
Andrew’s head jerks in our direction. Behind his glasses, his brown eyes flash to mine before they settle on Luke’s smug expression.
I want to wipe the stupid frat-boy grin off Hamilton’s face. My fingers twitch as I concentrate on resisting the urge to hurl my book at him. For once I would love to see him fall flat on his smugness. I scrunch up my nose and narrow my eyes as I imagine him crashing to the floor. Clouds cover the sun, darkening the room’s only source of light. Luke’s chair tips further back, past the point of balance, but he doesn’t seem to notice until it’s too late. His arms flail, struggling to stop the inevitable. With a loud clatter, Luke and his chair smash to the floor.
“Ha!” I glance around to see who heard my outburst. Most of my classmates are failing to stifle their own laughter as everyone stares at the empty spot at the table where Luke had been sitting. My eyes once again meet Andrew’s. He dips
his head and pushes his glasses up his nose with his long, slender finger, but his lips curl and a faint dimple creases his cheek.
“Ouch, I think I hurt my head.” Luke moans from the floor.
“Mr. Hamilton, remove yourself from the floor, please, so we can continue class.” Dr. Philips’ salty gray beard twitches with his annoyance.
Luke grumbles and exhales a few creative expletives as he regains his seat at the table. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling with glee.
Class continues with other students piping in with their thoughts on Puritans and sex. I zone out, remembering Luke’s fall and wondering if I’d wished it to happen hard enough to make it so. If I can make Luke fall over, what else could I do if I wish hard enough?
After all, we are in Salem. Accused witches were killed here, but today the streets are filled with shops selling magical potions, cauldrons, and books on Wicca to modern witches and tourists. Not that I believe in witches. Or magic. That’s all hocus-pocus and not real. I might love romantic heroes, but I know fiction when I see it. Even when everyone was waiting for their letter from Hogwarts, I knew without a doubt, I was a muggle.
Philips stands and gathers his things. “Next week we’ll be discussing The Crucible, Arthur Miller’s take on the witch trials that made Salem famous, or infamous as it were.”
I’ve really spaced and missed the rest of the class.
“Great, more prudes and bitches,” Luke mumbles.
I shoot him a look. “Seriously?”
He meets my eyes, and a slow, sinister smile spreads across his beer bloated face.
“What are you smiling about?” I sneer.
“Prudes and bitches. This class could be about you.”
“Shut up, Hamilton.” I move around him toward the door.
“If the names fit.”
I flip him my middle finger over my shoulder without turning around.
“Aww, don’t be Mad. Oh wait, I guess you don’t have a choice,” he calls after me, laughing at his stupid joke about my name.
Four Witches and a Funeral (Wicked Society Book 3) Page 10
