Witch Ways

by Tate, Kristy

  I touched it again, loving the necklace, but hating Dylan’s smile.

  “My grandmother gave it to me.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Hey! Evie!”

  I looked up to see Zorro pushing through the crowd. Little Bo Peep and Batman trailed after him.

  “Ryan!” I called out, waving with the hand that Dylan hadn’t taken captive. “Court? Austin?”

  Court looked great as Bo Peep, but Austin’s Batman cape floated around him and the hat made him look a lot like my cat.

  “Bree, these are my friends from Faith Despaign.”

  “I’m Zorro,” Ryan said in a terrible Antonio Banderas accent as he swooped his cape around his shoulder and bowed before Bree.

  She grinned in response. “I’m Bree.”

  “Is that short for Breetiful?” Ryan’s accent wavered between Spanish and British.

  “Hey. I’m Batman.” Austin bumped him with his shoulder, making Ryan stumble.

  “Yeah, but you look more like Cat Woman,” Ryan said, dropping back into his everyday California accent.

  “You guys want to dance?” Court asked, obviously annoyed at being left out.

  “I do,” Dylan said, still holding my hand. He led me through the foyer and out the French doors. The others followed, acting a lot like Court’s sheep.

  Twinkly lights hung from the trees and tea candles burned on all the tables. Cut crystal vases held bouquets of yellow, orange, and red flowers. Everything looked so beautiful, I felt a rush of happiness as I watched my friends. I thought back to just a few weeks ago when I was sad about leaving Hartly, and scared about going to Faith Despaign. I didn’t know I could make new friends until I did.

  I let Dylan pull me into his arms. As the band moved from an oldies number to a Michael Bublé tune, Dylan sang in my ear, his breath tickling my neck.

  “You know this?” I asked, surprised, and liking him a little bit better because he knew the words to a syrupy song.

  He pulled away so he could look me in the face. “Sure, everyone knows this.”

  “I bet they don’t.” I looked over at Ryan. He had Bree wrapped in his arms. “Hey, Ryan, do you know the lyrics?”

  Ryan puffed out his chest. “Heck no. I only listen to WROCK and manly stuff.”

  “See,” I said to Dylan.

  “I bet Batman knows this song,” Dylan said.

  “I think it’s cute that you do.”

  “I don’t want to be cute. Please don’t think of me as cute.”

  “Cute’s nice.”

  “If you’re a puppy.” Dylan tightened his hold on me.

  “Will you ask Bree to dance next?”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I think she’d like that.”

  Dylan looked at Ryan and Bree. On account of Bree’s walking cast, they were barely moving, just swaying in each other’s arms to the music.

  “Are you sure?” Dylan asked.

  “No.” Suddenly I wasn’t terribly sure about anything. It felt good to be up against Dylan. His breath on my skin sent goose bumps down my spine. His hand on my waist pulled me close, and I liked the way I could feel his heart beating against mine. I closed my eyes and rested my head on his chest. Maybe Dylan wasn’t right for me for forever, but he was definitely right for me tonight.

  Hours later when the dance ended, Dylan and I walked through the trellis that led to the parking lot. Away from the twinkly lights and tea candles, we were alone in a secluded shelter of trees.

  “Drive you home?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m spending the night at Bree’s, and her dad is picking us up. You know he’s super strict. And if I said you were driving me home when he was already here, he’d make things awkward.”

  “Don’t want awkward,” Dylan muttered. Turning, he faced me and touched my chin with his thumb.

  I knew he wanted to kiss me, but I wasn’t ready. Not here, not now, and not in front of Bree. Sure, she’d seemed pretty wrapped up in Ryan all night, but . . .

  Dylan leaned in.

  I pushed away. “Don’t ruin it.”

  “How is a kiss going to ruin things?”

  I slipped away from him. “Please Dylan, I—”

  He took both my arms and pulled me against his chest. “I can kiss you, you know.” It was hard to tell if he was joking or not. His tone sounded light, but the look in his eyes was as serious as a heart attack.

  “Dylan, stop it!” I pulled away from him.

  A hand on Dylan’s shoulder spun him around.

  Josh punched Dylan in the face, bloodying his lip.

  “Josh! No!” I stepped between him and Dylan, putting my hands on both of them. They puffed out their chests and flexed their fists.

  “Get out of the way, Evie,” Dylan said through tight lips.

  “No!” I slapped the front of his shirt.

  “You heard him, Evie,” Josh said, sounding ten times scarier than I’d ever heard him before.

  “Stop this, Josh!” I grabbed both his arms and walked him away. “He wasn’t hurting me.” I looked to make sure Dylan wasn’t following us. “Besides, he’s your best friend.”

  “Was my best friend,” Josh growled.

  I patted him, looked into his dark eyes, and tried to read his expression. He looked furious. Even more furious than when Lincoln had exposed the cache of love letters he’d written to DeeDee Miller, his childhood crush.

  I smiled at the memory.

  “What?”

  “I love that you’re super protective, but seriously, you have to apologize to Dylan. He didn’t deserve this.”

  “Do you like him?”

  I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know how.

  Josh stepped so close his shoes disappeared beneath the frills of my hem. “Did you want him to kiss you?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” My voice faltered.

  “Not a good enough answer, Evie,” Josh said, turning away.

  “Please, Josh, go say you’re sorry. I don’t want to be the reason you and Dylan stop being friends.”

  Josh turned and stormed off.

  I went back to Dylan. “Look, he’s sorry. I know he is. I don’t know why he’s being this way.”

  “I do,” Dylan said, touching his bloody lip. He leaned down. “I’d kiss you, just to prove that you belong with me, but Josh ruined that. I think that was his plan.”

  Standing on my tiptoes, I planted a loud kiss on Dylan’s cheek. “There, now go and tell him no hard feelings.”

  Dylan barked. “The hell I will.”

  Court, Ryan, Austin, and Bree came through the trellis, laughing about something someone had said, but they stopped when Dylan, like a losing prizefighter, stormed past them.

  “Oh! I think we missed something!” Court said.

  “What happened?” Bree asked.

  “What’s with Fox?” Ryan asked.

  “Did you do that? Did you bloody his lip?” Austin asked me, his eyes lit with surprise and admiration. “Will you teach me how to box?” He pumped his fists in the air, sparring with no one.

  “I didn’t hit Dylan,” I said.

  “Someone did,” Bree said, watching his retreating back.

  I nodded and took her hand. “Come on, let’s go home. Josh is here.”

  “Josh?” Bree echoed as comprehension filled her expression.

  “Who’s Josh?” Court asked.

  “My brother,” Bree said.

  “Oh-h-h,” Austin and Ryan both said at the same time.

  “He’s not in a good mood,” I told Bree. “We’d better go.”

  Bree and I walked in silence to the idling van at the curb. We didn’t say anything on the car ride home, either. Josh sat behind the wheel, his jaw tight and his expression hostile.

  “Can you take me home?” I said.

  “Didn’t you want to stay the night?” Bree asked.

  “I just want to go home,” I said.

  #

  Once in my ro
om, I stepped out of my dress and put on a pair of jeans and a Yale sweatshirt. I grabbed the first book of spells I came to and flipped through it. When I found what I was looking for, I headed for the kitchen.

  Uncle Mitch sat at the kitchen table, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, and an open book in front of him. “How was the dance?”

  “Good. It was fun until the end.” I put my spell book on the counter and started pulling out ingredients from the cupboard. Turmeric, cumin, sage, rosemary.

  Uncle Mitch chuckled. “What happened at the end?”

  “It just wasn’t as much fun.” I found a large mixing bowl and a wooden spoon.

  “Because you were hungry?” Uncle Mitch nodded at my mess.

  “Dylan tried to kiss me, and Josh punched him.”

  Uncle Mitch’s coffee mug froze in the air. “Good for Josh,” he said after a moment.

  “No, not good for Josh. Dylan is, or was, his best friend. Besides, it was all stupid. Boys are stupid.”

  Uncle Mitch smiled and raised his coffee mug at me. “Yes, they are. And they have cooties. Remember that.”

  “I’m making these . . . scones for Josh to take to Dylan so they can make up and be friends again.”

  Uncle Mitch sipped his drink. “Not sure that’s going to happen, Petunia. Scones don’t have that kind of power.”

  “These will.”

  “You sound pretty sure of your scones.”

  I shrugged and attacked my batter with the wooden spoon. I got the frying pan out, and by the time the oil was popping hot, Uncle Mitch had already squeezed my shoulder on his way to bed.

  I glanced at the Hendersons’ house through the window. Despite the fact that it was past midnight, all of their lights were still on. I knew if I walked over there, Josh would be furious and insist on walking me home. And I was done with Josh for the night. I also knew scones were better piping hot. Oh well. They’d have to wait for the morning.

  While they cooked, I murmured the incantation.

  “Oh Mother Earth and Father Sun,

  Set me free of this beloved one,

  Remove his power and crippling hold,

  That I may dwell in peace alone.

  Plague me none with thoughts of him,

  Remove from him thoughts of me.

  That we each complete may be.”

  Right before I went to bed, I checked the book Birdie gave me. I didn’t know if I was happy or sad that the words of the spell didn’t magically appear as Birdie had predicted. But then I noticed the strange lettering running along the edges of the pages, and I realized I’d seen similar lettering before in Tabitha Fox’s scrapbooks. I pulled them up beside me.

  I loved looking at the 1980s hairstyles and crazy clothes. And it was especially interesting to look at Tabitha Fox and Lauren Silver—they were both runway model perfect, but Lauren had a fragile, almost eerie beauty. With every page I turned, she caught my eye first. What had happened? What steps had led the 1980s Lauren to become the drunken woman in the orange parka?

  I stared at the strange lettering at the bottom of the page. As far as I knew, it wasn’t Russian or Greek, and definitely not Asian. It seemed familiar, and tugged at a distant memory that I couldn’t place. I looked at it closer, and realized the lettering was, in fact, Western, but just really ornately drawn with lots of curlicues and swirls. I went to a translation page on my computer and typed the words in. The translation told me the words were in Gallic.

  Rainbows, wildflowers, silent stars and musical winds

  Let peace settle your soul for the magic begins.

  And then suddenly I knew where I’d seen the same lettering before. They were in Lauren Silver’ scrapbooks. I closed my eyes, remembering the cold wet afternoon I had spent in Lauren Silver’s house, waiting for Josh and looking at her scrapbook.

  Why would all three books have the same lettering? Because three women believed they were witches?

  Glancing out the window at the dark night sky, I debated. I didn’t want to walk to Lauren Silver’s in the dark, but I really wanted another look at her scrapbooks. If I could tie a link between Lauren’s murder and the theater, and write about it—I’d get a spot on the newspaper for sure. It would be a way more interesting article than the history of the Thornhill Theater, and somehow I knew there was a connection.

  I tapped my pencil on the desk. If Bree’s leg wasn’t broken, I’d make her go with me. Dylan would come with me, but I quickly dismissed him. I thought about Josh, but I panned him as soon as I heard his voice in my head repeat, “Is your memory really so short?”

  I lay back against my pillows and squeezed my eyes shut. If only I could remember what Lauren had said, maybe then I wouldn’t need to go there, sneak into the house, and steal a look at her scrapbooks.

  What would happen to them now? What would become of all her things? Did she have any family?

  I bounced off my bed and went back to my computer. It didn’t take me long to pull up her obituary in the Woodinville Observer.

  Lauren Silver, a 48-year-old woman, died in her home at 67 Old Barn Road, Woodinville, Ct.

  Ms. Silver starred in numerous Broadway productions, such as Paint Your Wagon, Mousetrap, and A Lady in Red. Silver also had minor roles in Bold and Beautiful and Days of Our Existence. Before her Broadway career, Ms. Silver was a leading lady at our very own Thornhill Theater.

  I read through a few more obituaries. All of them said so and so is survived by and then listed family members still living. I glanced over at Amber asleep near my feet. Wishing she could talk and answer my questions, I nudged her with my foot.

  She flicked open one eye, glared at me, and with a twitch of her whiskers, went back to sleep.

  Staring at the ceiling, I debated some more. Part of me knew returning to Lauren’s house in the dead of the night was stupid. A murderer was on the loose. I had been attacked in the woods just a few days ago.

  I could take the dog.

  No. Scratch didn’t like to walk downstairs, let alone across town.

  I’d have to go alone.

  I looked out the window again at the dark night.

  No. Going to Lauren’s house would be dumb with a capital D.

  I could drop off the scones at Dylan’s house.

  Bouncing up, I changed into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

  Seven hours later, an hour before dawn, I pulled off my pajamas and stepped into a pair of black pants, tugged a black hoodie over my head, shoved my feet into my black boots, and slipped out the back door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The cold early morning air filled my lungs and drove any thoughts of sleep from my mind. The fading moon hung low over the trees. A breeze teased clouds across the sky. When a truck roared past, I pulled my hoodie a little lower, and tucked in my chin to hide my face. Once I got to the railroad tracks and followed them into the woods, I breathed easier.

  Lauren’s house looked exactly as I’d last seen it—same yellow police tape, same blue tarp covering the porch—but this time, I needed to go inside. I jogged across the spotty lawn to the back. Using my sweatshirt like a glove, I tried the door. Of course it would be locked. I glanced at all the windows, and then noticed stairs to a cellar. I followed them.

  A rusty chain and lock bolted the wide, double doors, but when I picked up the chain, it broke in my hands. It seemed like an omen and invitation, as if the house wanted me to know Lauren’s real story—who she had loved and why she had died. The doors creaked when I pulled them open, and complained when I let them close behind me.

  I followed the cement steps that led to complete darkness. When I reached the bottom, I paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I inhaled, trying to ease the knot of nerves in my belly. I listened for human noises—anything that would tell me if I was or wasn’t alone, but I didn’t even hear the sounds of an empty house—the buzz of a refrigerator, the tick of a clock, or a rumbling furnace—making me wonder if the electricity had been
shut off. Not that I would turn on a light and send out a smoke signal to tell people I was breaking and entering a crime scene.

  Two thoughts ran through my mind. The first had been planted by Josh, “Is your memory really so short?” The second was all my own, “Dumb with a capital D.” What was I doing here? Looking for the scrapbooks. Why? Was I trying to write a killer newspaper article, or was I trying to find a killer? Or, was it a lot more personal than either of those things?

  Maybe I was trying to understand who and what I really was. Was I a witch? An incendiary, as Birdie claimed? Or could I choose who and what I really wanted to be? And if so—what did I want? Who did I want to be?

  My thoughts went back to my English class. No one, especially Mr. Krook, would choose to be Mr. Krook. No one wanted to spontaneously combust. But what if you could control it?

  But wasn’t that what learning how to be a grownup was all about—learning to control yourself, not giving into impulses and passions, and thinking for yourself—not following every crazy and insane idea like breaking into a murder victim’s home at dawn?

  So coming here wasn’t a good idea, but since I was already here, I might as well find what I came for. Across the room, weak natural light came from an open door that led to the stairs. I fumbled through the dark basement, tripping over boxes and towers of magazines and books until I reached the stairwell.

  As I climbed out of the basement, the faint light told me dawn couldn’t be too far away. I had to hurry, find the scrapbooks, and get home before Uncle Mitch noticed I was missing. But once I got to the main floor, I knew finding anything would be almost impossible.

  All the kitchen cupboards had been opened and the contents spilled out onto the floor. The bedroom, with the dresser drawers open and emptied, and the closet doors gaping, looked about the same—except instead of canned goods and boxes of prepackaged food, there were clothes and cosmetics strewn everywhere. My throat tightened when I spotted the orange parka discarded in the corner. I sat down on the stripped mattress, feeling sick.

  Lauren, I decided, didn’t deserve this. Of course, no one did. No one deserved to be murdered and then have their house be torn apart in this awful way. My heart beat faster with a steady resolve. I had to help Lauren, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know how to find the scrapbooks.