Pawsitively Cursed

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  Angora Threads was a local custom clothing shop run by Letty Rodriquez. She was also heading the internship for the junior designers who would participate in the fashion show later in the month. Amber shot a helpless look at Gretchen.

  Her aunt laughed softly. “We really need to get you out of the house more, dear. Even I knew that.”

  Amber harrumphed. “Did you just get here?” she asked Willow, steering them away from the topic of her abysmal lack of knowledge about pop culture.

  “Mmhmm. Ten minutes before you did.” Willow sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You’ve been to the Catty Melt. Turkey on rye?” She quickly unslung her arm from around Amber and scurried to her other side, attempting to pilfer one of said sandwiches straight out of the purse still on Amber’s shoulder.

  Amber swatted at her and quickly sidestepped her. She rounded the side of the counter, putting a barrier between herself and her family. “I didn’t get you one!”

  “Rude,” Willow said, arms crossed, though she was smiling slightly. When the three of them were together, Amber and Willow often found themselves squabbling like children again. “So what’s the deal?” she asked her aunt, her tone light. “What was so imperative?”

  Dropping her bag onto the countertop, Amber matched Willow’s stance, then focused her attention on Gretchen. “You want to tell her or should I?”

  Sighing, Gretchen told Willow the same thing she’d told Amber that morning: the Penhallows had resurfaced and they had Amber in their sights. Willow paled further and further the more Gretchen talked. Then she followed up with all the same questions, namely, “Why Amber?” and “Why now?”

  Their aunt still didn’t have an answer for them. They went over and around the same small pieces of information, but Amber felt no more enlightened now than she had twenty minutes before.

  It wasn’t long before the shop needed to be open again. Willow helped Gretchen collect her things—and Gretchen’s sandwich, which Amber suspected Willow would eat in its entirety before Gretchen got a chance—and escorted their aunt to the Manx, the hotel key shoved into Willow’s pocket now.

  Amber did her best to scarf her sandwich down before she had to unlock the door for the customers milling around Russian Blue Avenue. The influx of tourists made more sense now, at least. They were here because of this Olaf Betzen character, more than being supporters of young creative talents.

  Willow was back within half an hour and joined Amber in the familiar steady rhythm of running the shop. Whether it was sisterly intuition, familial magic intuition, or some combination of the two, when they were together, they often were able to sense the other’s needs without speaking much at all.

  The sound of Willow’s infectious, tinkling laugh rang throughout the afternoon, bringing a smile to Amber’s face every time. Between being quite busy with tending to customers and Willow’s calming presence, she was able to keep worrying thoughts about the Penhallows and her parents’ deaths out of her head.

  Henrietta Bishop, with her wild mop of red hair, was their last visitor of the day, hurrying in to buy her weekly batch of sleepy tea just before closing. She and Willow squealed when they saw each other and were still deep in conversation well after Amber flipped the open sign over.

  As they talked, Amber tidied up the store. Her curmudgeonly side assured her that Willow and Henrietta were doing just fine without her; her well-adjusted side told her it was terribly rude not to at least say hi. The curmudgeon in her won out.

  A group of young boys had made a mess of the toy display in one corner. Plastic animals of all types and colors were strewn about the floor. As she righted them, placing bears, giraffes, and cows back on their feet, those worrying thoughts she’d been keeping at bay all day started to creep back in.

  What could the Penhallows want with her? What was Gretchen keeping from them? Well, what else was she keeping from them? Amber knew in her gut that Gretchen was holding onto information about her parents’ deaths. Were their deaths connected to the Penhallows? If so, why? Amber had never met—nor seen, as far as she knew—a Penhallow in her life.

  “Earth to Amber!”

  She startled, stumbling back a half step from her awkward squatting position on the floor. A tiny snap sounded from under her foot. Glancing down, she saw that she’d accidently broken the horn off a unicorn’s head under the weight of her heel. “Oh, dang it,” she muttered, picking the creature up. She stood, holding the body in one hand and the severed, twisted white horn between two fingers of the other.

  “Sorry!” Willow reached forward and waved a hand over the creature. Instantly, the horn disappeared from Amber’s fingers and refastened itself to the unicorn’s forehead. “Good as new!”

  Eyes wide, Amber glanced around her sister to make sure Henrietta—or anyone outside—hadn’t seen Willow’s display of magic.

  Willow rolled her eyes and laughed softly. “Don’t worry. Henrietta left over ten minutes ago. She said goodbye, but you were too deep in la-la land to hear her.”

  Amber frowned. “Be careful about your magic,” she whisper-hissed, gaze flicking out onto the currently deserted Russian Blue Avenue. “There are more people around right now and we can’t afford—”

  Willow sighed dramatically, then abruptly turned away from Amber, walking further into the store. “What’s with you? You’re even more tightly wound than usual.”

  Amber clenched her jaw. She placed the unicorn back onto its shelf to keep herself from crushing the toy in her fist. “You mean other than the fact that my closest friend here died two weeks ago?”

  Willow frowned. “I didn’t mean … I know—”

  “And did you miss the whole ‘the Penhallows are after me’ thing? Aunt Gretchen wouldn’t have come all the way here—and lure you here, I might add—if she didn’t think it was important. So, yeah, I’m worried.”

  Willow folded her arms and bit her lip. She looked around the store, an odd, distant look on her face. It took her a while to finally look Amber in the eye. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “So you don’t think she’s just overreacting?”

  So Willow was worried. Amber realized that while Willow’s flitting about and bubbly laughter had been keeping Amber grounded all day, it had been a defense mechanism for Willow. What one could see on the outside with Willow didn’t always match the inside.

  “Gretchen doesn’t overreact,” Amber said, most of the bite in her tone gone now.

  “I know.” Her sister sighed, then started to fuss with the ends of one of her braids. It was a nervous tick she’d had for as long as Amber could remember. “Do you think this is about Mom and Dad?”

  Amber’s shoulders sagged, her chest aching at how much her sister sounded like a scared fourteen-year-old again, not a woman of twenty-eight. “I don’t know, Will. Instinct says yes, but it’s been fourteen years since they died. Since anyone has even seen a Penhallow. Gretchen says the witch—whoever he or she is—is going to be a threat eventually. It’s on the horizon. We still have time.”

  Willow closed the short distance between them and took her sister’s hands in hers. “I won’t survive it if something happens to you.”

  Amber pulled her sister into a hug, and Willow rested her chin on Amber’s shoulder. “Nothing will happen to me, okay? We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

  Willow nodded, her chin still on Amber’s shoulder.

  After a few long moments of this, Amber knew it was her turn to lighten the mood, to pull Willow out of her silent brooding. “Oh, hey, remember Connor Declan?”

  Willow pulled away to look Amber in the eye, then hiked a brow. “This is the second time you’ve mentioned him in only a couple months. Are you finally giving up your ridiculous ban on non-witch men?”

  Amber flushed slightly, unable to stop it.

  “Oh my God! Are you … are you hooking up with him? Is the drought over? Did Connor Declan clear the cobwebs out of your lady cave? It must not be that great if you’re still this stressed out …”


  “Willow!”

  Her tinkling laugh made Amber laugh too.

  “No, you pervert!” Amber said. “Nothing like that. But I did run into him today. It’s his birthday tomorrow so he’s partying it up with a couple friends. He invited me to meet him tonight at the Sippin’ Siamese. Want to come?”

  “Yes!” she said, eyes alight. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? What am I going to wear? I haven’t been to the Sippin’ Siamese in ages.” Willow smiled wistfully. “I went to so many open mic nights there. Kissed so many boys in dark corners of that bar …”

  Then she darted away and toward the stairs leading up to the studio apartment.

  “Wesley Young is going too.” Then Amber winced.

  Willow whirled around. “No.”

  “He’s hot now.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  “I am intrigued. I hope he’s not in costume this time.” Then Willow grinned. “Hurry up, dear sister. We only have three hours to make you presentable.”

  Amber’s hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, as usual. She looked down at her maroon top, black slacks, and black flats. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  Willow wrinkled her nose. “It’s cute you think I’d let you go out to meet a hot, eligible man while wearing—” she gestured vaguely in Amber’s direction, “that.”

  Amber frowned.

  “Now get your butt up here! I may be a witch, but even my powers are limited. Time is of the essence!”

  Amber grumbled to herself as she followed the tinkling sound of her sister’s laughter up the stairs.

  At half past seven, Amber was showered, had allowed Willow to French braid her mass of wavy brown hair, and had applied a fresh layer of eye makeup and mascara. Normally she went with just lip gloss and called it a day. Her brown eyes looked big and innocent thanks to Willow’s insistence on green eye shadow. Her soft pink gloss had been replaced by a swipe of red lipstick.

  Amber didn’t own very many dresses but had a favorite little black one she wore for nearly all special occasions. Willow, however, kept glamouring the dress into a red just as vibrant as Amber’s lipstick.

  “Willow!” Amber would protest, then painstakingly work her way through a spell to turn it to its original color. With a flick of Willow’s wrist, it would shift back to red.

  This happened three times before Willow retreated into the bathroom. “If you change it back to black one more time, I’m adding a plunging neckline.”

  Amber walked over to stand in the doorway of the bathroom, watching as Willow’s hair cycled through a series of magically crafted hairstyles: stick-straight, swooped up in a messy-chic bun, down around her shoulders in loose ringlets, then shrunk up into tight corkscrews. It happened so quickly, it was as if she were swiping through the styles on her phone. Amber willed herself not to be jealous.

  “It’s so … revealing,” Amber protested, holding her hands out to either side as she looked down at herself. She was almost certain the dress got a little tighter every time Willow shifted the color. At least it hadn’t gotten any shorter; it still hit her at mid-thigh, and the sleeves still came to her elbows.

  Willow turned her attention away from her reflection—her hair currently sporting blonde highlights that hadn’t been there a second ago—to give Amber a quick scan. “You look amazing. You want Connor to come unglued when he sees you. That’s the whole point of dresses like that.”

  Amber honestly wasn’t sure that it was what she wanted. He was two years younger than her, after all. But was that really that big of a deal? Was she coming up with excuses because she was scared to date again?

  And even because he was, as Kimberly Jones said, “a tall, tall drink of water,” Amber really didn’t know him that well. Up until this afternoon, she hadn’t even been sure he’d been remotely interested in her. Unlike Jack Terrence from the Purrcolate coffee shop who had been shamelessly flirting with her for years and had even asked her out once.

  Anxiety had caused her to shoot him down.

  “You wouldn’t have said yes if you didn’t like him, Amber,” Willow said now, swiping mascara onto her lashes, her mouth stretched wide—it seemed impossible to apply mascara without making that face.

  Amber thought of how flustered Connor had been when he’d asked her out earlier. She’d never seen him flustered before. She’d also never seen him tipsy before.

  Willow laughed. “You do like him. It’s written all over that face of yours.”

  Allowing a soft smile, Amber said, “I think he’s cute.”

  “Good enough for me.” Willow gave herself a once-over, smoothing out her dress, hers a deep green. Unlike Amber’s nearly skin-tight dress, Willow’s flared out wide from her thin waist. Her hair was clipped half up and styled in thick waves that came to her midback.

  Connor wouldn’t give Amber a second look once Willow breezed into the room.

  After they’d put in a quick call to their aunt to make sure she didn’t need anything, the pair headed out for the Sippin’ Siamese.

  Edgehill was positioned between Marbleglen to the north and Belhaven to the south. The Sippin’ Siamese, a small hole-in-the-wall, was just on the border between Edgehill and Belhaven, in what most people considered the shadier part of town. Several businesses had folded over the last several years and had never been taken over by new owners. Houses were more rundown, and lawns were surrounded by sagging chain-link fences.

  But the Sippin’ Siamese was always packed. They had the best beer on tap in all of Edgehill, local bands from the surrounding towns played there most weekend nights, and the food was greasy and incredible. At least, it had been the last time Amber visited the place with Melanie a couple years ago, just a few weeks after Melanie first moved to town.

  The bar sat on a street with an empty field on one side, and a row of businesses on the other. Willow pulled into a gravel lot a few doors down from the bar, and Amber did her best to scoot out of the car without having a wardrobe malfunction. Thankfully, Willow hadn’t put up a fuss when Amber pulled on her low kitten heels; Willow, being so tall, was often forced to wear flats so she wouldn’t intimidate men more than she already did. Despite the chilly February evening, they left their jackets in the car—it would be too hot inside to wear them, and there would be nowhere to keep them once they took them off.

  They walked up the sidewalk, the empty field to their right left giving off a mildly creepy vibe in the waning light. Amber imagined a cursed Penhallow witch lurking out there in the shadows behind an overgrown bush, watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

  Stop being paranoid, Amber! she chastised herself.

  Once they passed a boarded-up diner and a tattoo parlor—open only by appointment—Amber could hear music. The glow from inside cast large boxes of yellow onto the sidewalk. From the sound of it, it was country night. Not her favorite.

  The Sippin’ Siamese was a squat wooden building with an attached open patio. Several people were outside, smoking, drinking, and laughing. The sign for the bar rested on top of a long wooden pole. In the middle of the rectangular glowing sign, a svelte, human-like Siamese cat sat in a black wrought-iron chair, thin legs crossed, a martini glass hoisted in the air. It winked one blue eye. The name of the bar was written in swirling cursive below the seductive-looking cat.

  A wooden kiosk stood just outside the front doors, a rotund, balding man sitting behind it. He’d been engrossed with his phone screen until they were standing right in front of him. He glanced up, opened his mouth, then immediately shut it. His gaze shifted from Amber to Willow and back again.

  “Well, if it’s isn’t the Blackwood sisters,” he managed. “I haven’t seen you here in ages, Willow!”

  “Hey, Jake,” Willow said, moving around the kiosk to give Jake a side hug and an air kiss.

  He looked ready to pass out, face flushed. “You girls go on inside,” he said. “Cover’s on me.”

  “You’
re a doll,” Willow said.

  Jake blushed further.

  Willow pulled the door open and music tumbled out at three times the volume. People milled about near the doorway, forming a semi-circle around the karaoke area where a girl belted out a song Amber had never heard before. When she hit a particularly long, high note, the crowd around her cheered and whistled their approval.

  Amber and Willow squeezed past the small herd of people near the door, only to get crushed in a mass crowding around the bar. Amber suspected nearly half of the patrons were tourists. She tried to push her way through people, saying “excuse me” often, but was having a hard time being heard over the din of music and shouts and laughter. Willow was several people ahead of Amber and suddenly let out an excited squeal. She and a blonde woman pulled each other into a tight hug, then they backed away long enough to flail and jump around. The woman then pulled Willow farther into the room, presumably to where her friends were.

  Amber felt impossibly out of place now. What did she think, strolling into a bar in this insanely tight red dress with her red lipstick and no clue what she was doing here? Her ethereal, social butterfly of a sister belonged here. Amber belonged at home with her cats.

  She realized then she didn’t have Connor’s number, so she wasn’t sure how to find him in this crowd. Not that he’d be able to hear his phone. What if they weren’t even here? Or running late?

  Pull it together, she told herself. You’re a grown woman. You can handle this.

  “Excuse me,” she said, louder now, and started to push her way through the crowd, black clutch purse held firmly in her hand. She hoped she wouldn’t step on anyone’s toes. Something brushed against her backside and she really hoped someone hadn’t purposely tried to grope her.

  Just beyond this room was a second. That one had an additional bar, a dance floor, and a few pool tables. Willow reached the second door then and turned to wave a long arm in the air to get Amber’s attention. Willow only had enough time to point at the door, then to the dance floor, before the blonde had dragged her into the next room. Amber followed, desperate to get out of this smaller, stuffier room, hung heavy with the smell of old beer and warm bodies.