Bewitched (2 page)

Sam mimics my eye roll. “Such the skeptic. Where’s your sense of imagination and wonder?”

“I must have lost them when I stopped watching Disney princess movies.”

“My mom never let me watch those.”

“Ah, that explains it all then. More Snow White and less Wicca would have done you good.”

“Speaking of Wicca, will you come with me to The Spelling B after classes? I need to buy a new set of Tarot cards.”

“What’s wrong with the set you have?”

“I think Lucy’s bad energy ruined their mojo.”

“Lucy Lucy?” I stare at my roommate in shock.

“I know, I know. Yes,
that
Lucy, but she paid me twenty bucks for a reading.”

Lucy is Hamilton’s girlfriend. She swims in the same shallow pool he does, and believe me, they deserve each other. I frown at the thought of the two of them procreating and breeding more obnoxious humans.
 

“Her reading was terrible, just so you know.”

“That’s some comfort.”

“Maddy, would you still want to date Hamilton?” She teases.

I shudder. “We never dated. I wouldn’t call what happened freshman year dating. What was I thinking?” I never dated Hamilton, but we did hook up a couple of times before I realized what a toad he really was.

“You weren’t. You were a horny freshman.” Sam’s laughter sounds like delicate wind chimes, until she snorts. “I still can’t believe you kneed him in his crotch in the middle of the dorm lounge.”

“He grabbed my boob in front of everyone.” I cross my arms to protect my chest from the memory.

“I still don’t know what you saw in him. He doesn’t even fill out the front of his jeans.”

“Neither do I. Yuck.” I stick out my tongue. “Let’s chalk it up to hormones. Can we talk about something besides Too Much Tongue Hamilton?”

“Maybe you need some sort of cleansing. We can get you smudged! Or maybe find you a love spell.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Smudged?” My skepticism rears its head.

“With sage. We can buy some downtown.”

“Uh huh.” I furrow my brows. “Won’t I smell like a roasted chicken? I’m sure that will attract all of the boys. At least the stoned or hungry ones.”

“Some of those stoners are kind of cute. At this point, what do you have to lose?”

Nothing. It’s the beginning of junior year and there isn’t an eligible bachelor in sight. I sigh. Pickings are slimmer than a super model these days. Decent guys have girlfriends or are gay. Even the not-so-decent-guys like Hamilton are paired off. Brown eyes behind black frames flash in my mind, and I instantly wonder if Andrew has a girlfriend. She’s probably a theoretical math major, or has some esoteric French poetry focus, which requires imported cigarettes and red lipstick. Maybe he has a boyfriend. I can’t remember ever seeing him with anyone on campus. Then again, I don’t remember really seeing him on campus at all until this semester. Maybe he’s a transfer.

Depressed, but resolved, I say, “You’re right, nothing to lose but my dignity.”
 

“So you’ll come with me? It’s stopped raining. No excuses.”

“The rain wouldn’t stop me. I don’t melt in the rain. Doesn’t that prove I’m not a witch?”

“Only in Oz.” She grabs her bag, and stuffs her books and notes from the table inside, including a random spoon. She catches me seeing the petty theft. “Don’t judge. All of my spoons keep disappearing from our room.”

“Maybe they’re finding their way back to their proper homes.”
 

“Or someone’s been stealing them.”

“Wouldn’t that be ironic?” I nudge her with my elbow as we exit the cafe. Sure enough, the clouds are still heavy, threatening more rain.

* * *

A strand of bells around the door handle jingles as we enter The Spelling B, Sam’s favorite shop for all things witchy. The scent of incense and dried herbs permeates the tiny, dim space. Crooked shelves, dipping with the weight of jars, candles, and books, crowd the walls and form narrow aisles. I tuck my overstuffed bag closer to my body, afraid of the handwritten
You break it, your karma buys it
sign on the door.
 

Sam heads to the back, mumbling about sage and tarot cards.

“Can I help you?”

I turn toward the voice and meet a pair of clear—almost colorless—blue eyes situated in the face of a middle aged woman with an elaborate dark bun held together with red-lacquered chopsticks. Dressed in a flowy, multi-color dress, she looks more earth mother than cartoon witch.

“Oh, um, no. I’m not a witch.” I stumble over my words. “Not a witch, I mean Wicca. Not that there is anything wrong with being a witch. Unless it’s the seventeenth century. And here.” I babble on and on until a soft hand curls around my wrist.

“Are you sure?” Her smile is kind, almost familiar, but somehow piercing, as if she can see straight through me and realizes what a mess I am.
 

“Sorry. No. I just had a class about early New England. It got pretty heated over Hester Pryne, and we’re studying the witch trials next week.” I’m babbling again.

“Ah, you go to Hawthorne College?” she asks, leading me over to a counter where an assortment of mortars, pestles, and clear glass jars clutter the flat surface.

“I do.” I peer at the label on one jar:
Evening primrose
. Seems innocent enough.

“Are you taking Professor Philips class? That one was popular when I went there.”

“You went to Hawthorne, too?” My voice sounds more incredulous than I intend.

“He was old then. That was ancient history, I know. He somehow never ages. Still wearing the elbow patches?”

I laugh and shake off the unease I felt upon entering the store. “He does!”

She opens jars and adds various herbs into a strainer over a blue pottery mug with a pentagram on its side. When she pours hot water over the mix, the smell of mint and something earthy hits my nose.

“Here, drink this.”

“What?” I lurch away from the counter. My bag hits a bowl of small stones, which plunk loudly on the uneven wood floor as they fall. I bend to pick them up.

A gentle shove pushes me out of the way. “Stop. Let me read them for you.” She leans over to study the stones. “Interesting, very interesting.” Her elegant finger taps her chin. “Oh, look at that. I haven’t seen that in years.”
 

I gaze down at the pebbles on the floor—some have markings on them that looked like the runes Sam keeps in a velvet bag in her desk. I stand there, unsure of what to do with my hands, as she continues her examination, softly exclaiming to herself. Finally, she stands up and stares at me.
 

For a long time.

At least an hour.

Or what feels like an hour of intense scrutiny.

My face grows hot and my forehead itches. I glance around, unable to continue to meet her steadfast gaze, and scratch a nonexistent itch above my eyebrow.

She finally snaps out of her one woman staring contest. “Your tea is getting cold.”
 

“Tea?”

“Yes, I made you a cup of mint tea. What did you think it was?”

“Um, well.” I let my gaze flit around the store and shrug my shoulders.

Her laughter echoes the chimes on the door, light and ethereal. “You thought it was a potion?”

I nod, feeling stupid. I take a sip and let the heat soothe my nerves.

“Oh, my dear. No. I’d never give you a potion unless you asked for one.” She studies me again. “Do you want one? Perhaps something for concentration for better grades? Although, I doubt you need that. Hmm … maybe love?”
 

I meet her eyes briefly and blush.

“Ah, love it is.”

“No, not really. There isn’t anyone at the moment.”

Her eyes flick back to the floor before she kneels to pick up the stones. “Are you sure?”

I think of my complete lack of a love life. I’m not desperate enough to date someone like Hamilton again, but things are grim. Grimmer than grim. Saturday nights alone, or standing awkwardly at a campus party, nursing a red cup of cheap beer grim. Hell, I let Paul Uccello kiss me two weeks ago. His last name is Italian slang for penis. I could never marry a man and end up with penis as my last name. Oddly enough, he smelled like roasted chicken himself. Maybe his roommate had smudged him before the party. Or he eats a lot of herbs and spices on a frequent basis.

“See the rune nearest your foot?” She picks it up and places it on my palm.
 

“It looks like a B.” I hold it in my hand and trace the lines with my finger.

“It’s the symbol for new beginnings and love.”

I raise an eyebrow.
 

“Perhaps you have a secret admirer.”

I shake my head. “He must be imaginary as well as secret.”

Studying my face, she frowns. “So full of doubt.”
 

Sam bounds up to the counter with a box of tarot cards and a bunch of sage bundles. “Hey, did you do a reading? That’s so cool!”
 

“Not really. I knocked over the bowl of stones with my bag.”

“There are no accidents,” both of them say at the same time.

I roll my eyes.

“She’s not a believer, is she?” the shop lady/witch/earth mother asks.

Sam exhales an exaggerated sigh. “No, and her ancestors are from Salem. Like seventeenth century Salem.”

“Sam, I’ve told you, that means nothing. Ten generations and not a witch in the bunch.” I glare at my best friend.

“What’s your last name?” Glacier Eyes asks me.

“It’s Bradbury.”

“Is it? Well, that explains the reading.”

I glance at the rune still in my hand.
 

Sam’s eyes settle on my palm. “See? I told you things were changing for you. And with Mabon right around the corner!” She practically bounces on her heels with excitement.

“Mabon?” I ask.

“The fall equinox to you,” Sam explains. “Equal day and night. Balance of light and dark. It’s a week from Saturday.”

Our hostess nods her head. “Time to embrace the darkness.”

Her words send a chill down my spine, and I shiver although the room remains the same temperature.

“We’ll definitely need to smudge you soon. The sooner the better. And definitely before Samhain.” At my confused expression, Sam explains, “Halloween to you. Oh, we should do it this weekend.” She nods away in agreement with herself.
 

I rub my arms in an attempt to get warm. A familiar sensation tingles on my skin, and I turn my head to meet colorless eyes.

“When you’re ready, come back and see me again. I’m Sarah by the way.” She extends her hand.

“Madison.” When my palm touches hers, I have the distinct feeling of being read or analyzed.
 

We say our goodbyes and leave, me practically shoving Sam out the door. She’s mid-sentence about her intuition when the door closes.
 

As we walk down the crooked streets toward our dorm, Sam chatters on about how wicked cool it is Sarah did a reading for me and how she is a powerful witch, head of the local coven, and famous for her spells and intuition.
 

I stuff my hands in my hoodie pockets while I pretend to listen. My fingers wrap around a smooth object.
 

“Oh crap.” I pull the pebble from my pocket. “I stole her rune.”

Sam laughs and shakes her head. “Flying monkeys! That’s five years bad luck for stealing from a witch.”

My eyes bug out. Me and my karma are doomed.

“I’m kidding.” Her shoulder bumps mine. “Come on, we’ll take it back and explain you weren’t intending to shoplift, beg for mercy, and all that.”

Declining her offer, I send Sam back to campus, and return to the shop alone. A slight breeze ominously rattles a few dried leaves along the street when I pass the bronze statue of Roger Conant. Founder of Salem or not, the statue makes him look like a witch with his buckled-hat and billowing cape. He’s creepy. I always think his eyes follow me when I walk down this street.

The bells chime again when I open the door of Sarah’s shop.

“Back so soon?” Sarah asks without lifting her head.

I hold out the rune in explanation.
 

At my silence, she raises her eyes to my hand. “I didn’t peg you for a thief.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep it.” I stare down at my scuffed ballet flats.

“Maybe it meant something to you? Struck a chord?” She returns the rune to its bowl.

“I wish. Thank you for your optimism, but I think it’s lost on me.” I shrug in an attempt to pass off my depression over my nonexistent love life as nothing major.

“You never know. Love always happens when you least expect it, and with the last guy you’d imagine.” Her icy eyes thaw with her kind expression. She walks around the counter and grabs something off the end of one of the aisles. “Since you aren’t a believer, this can’t hurt. Consider it a gift.”

I study the package she hands me. The label reads
Love Spell
in a fancy cursive on a pink label. Inside are a candle, a vial of liquid, a tiny heart charm, ribbon, and what looked like pink peppercorns. I wonder if the vial contains the tears of dateless, single women. Sheesh, how pathetic.

“Really?” I ask, incredulous. “Pepper?”

She gently lifts one shoulder. “Couldn’t hurt. Right?” She winks at me.
 

“Okay.” I tuck the package into my bag, already planning to throw it away later. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if it works, Madison Bradbury.”

The use of my full name strikes me as odd. The whole past hour has been strange. I nod in response, but don’t meet her eyes. A hush falls over the store, amplifying the sound of the creaking floorboards as I walk to the door.
 

“A brown-haired Bradbury girl walking into my shop. After all this time, I’d given up hope,” Sarah mumbles when I cross the threshold. At least I think she says that. The words are lost beneath the sound of bells.

Three

“Can’t you use your magical powers for something useful? Or fun? Like frozen margaritas?” I give our broken blender a dirty look.

Sam sighs. “No, this isn’t
Practical Magic
.” She scowls as she rifles through her desk for matches. A bundle of sage lies on my bed, awaiting fire.