You’re just as evil as they are.
Why had it taken that fight with Theresa to see how selfish she was? It wasn’t the way Theresa had meant it, but choosing herself over another human being? Showing up at Rick’s and giving him hope that she’d get back together with him? Using people like they didn’t matter?
What else would someone call that?
She really was a Pritchett.
“Heather.” Her aunt’s tired voice snapped her back to reality in the dimly lit office in the back of their little shop of horrors.
“I understand, Aunt Carol. I will complete the rite, I swear.” Heather sounded hollow, empty, and Carol didn’t seem to care.
“Good. I’ll have the kit ready for you to pick up tomorrow. I’ll make it myself.” She breathed a sigh and then the door opened a few inches. “See if you can get him to go out with you tomorrow night. The moon is waning, and the rite seems to be the strongest with a full moon. You don’t want to be any closer to the new moon.”
“Sure.” Heather didn’t turn around, she just reached for the door handle, waiting to see if Carol would slam the door again. “Can I leave?”
“Of course you can. Go home and get ready. Theresa told us the event is at eight o’clock, we’ll all be thinking of you.” Carol sounded so cheerful, as if she hadn’t just locked her niece in the office using magic and then proceeded to threaten her to make sure she killed someone. For the family.
“You’re right, I’d hate not to look pretty. That would be a catastrophe.” Heather jerked the door open and walked through it before Carol could respond. This time she didn’t stop her. Tisha didn’t even look at her as she grabbed her coat and pulled it on, storming out of the shop.
* * *
Heather was in a gray sweater dress, black tights, and tall boots. The lady hosting the speed dating event had welcomed her at the door in a hot pink shirt that read ‘Love is just 120 seconds away!’ with another fucking chubby cupid, as if the glittery decorations and hearts weren’t enough.
Heather was number nineteen in this sugary hellscape.
The woman sat her down at a table in the restaurant, and walked away when she realized Heather wasn't interested in being chatty. Other women around her were primping their hair and adjusting their breasts for maximum cleavage. Bright red dresses, sleek black ones, short skirts, low cut blouses, jewelry, manicured nails, and a fucking sea of perfume that was making Heather nauseous. So much effort. Way more than she’d put in — maybe no one would even choose her?
Hostess lady started talking again, “Alright, dears, now remember you will all stay seated and the men will rotate tables whenever I jingle my little bell.” She picked it up and posed with it like she was on the Home Shopping Network. “You have sixty seconds to make an impression, so do your best! Ready?”
Nope.
The hostess jingled the bell and then set it down, clapping her hands excitedly. “We’re about to begin, ladies! The gentlemen will walk in soon, they’re with my husband in the other room. We met at an event just like this! Just remember to be your best self, and write down the number of any man you’d like to see again. If he writes your number down too, you may just have a date for Valentine’s!” Her voice was somewhere between hyper Chihuahua and obnoxious late-night infomercial. Delightful.
Heather adjusted the number nametag pinned to her dress, and took a steadying breath, trying to detach from the situation. Maybe she’d just write all their numbers down and the first one to call her would be the one she’d choose. Then it was up to fate. It wouldn’t exactly be her choosing, right?
The bell jingled again and a stream of men came through the double doors from the other dining room. A lot of cute guys, some average ones, and one guy who was way too old to be at this singles event filled with twenty and thirty somethings. Who the fuck cares?
Each of the men sat down across from the woman with the same number. Male number nineteen was a grinning fool when he saw her. He spent the first sixty seconds talking about how he was a Big Brother to a kid in the city and they were going to spend Valentine’s Day surprising the kid’s mom with a home cooked dinner because she worked two jobs. The man actually apologized that he wouldn’t be able to take her out on Valentine’s because of it.
How could she choose a guy like him? How could she be the one to rip him away from that kid, and from all the good he was doing in the world? When the bell rang and it was her turn to talk, Heather mumbled something about being a college drop-out and working at her aunt’s store because she didn’t know what she wanted with her life. Pathetic, but true. Number 19 gave her a weird look as he stood, and she didn’t see him write anything down when the bell rang. Heather’s pen was poised over her sheet to write down his number, trying to follow through with her plan, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t write down number nineteen. She wouldn't.
Number twenty was a fucking doctor. Seriously? He had spent the summer volunteering in Portugal and traveling between villages providing care to women and children, giving immunizations, and teaching basic first aid and healthcare. He talked a little over his sixty seconds, sharing incredible details of his wonderful life, but Heather didn’t care. She wasn’t going to write down number twenty either.
Was this a sign? A sign from the world that she should just let herself die?
Heather had her head in her hands when she saw number twenty writing her number down. Idiot. The clang of the bell made her want to throw up. The urge to run into traffic was back with a vengeance. She could just end all of the insanity right now with a quick run in with a bus. She didn’t have to wait for the Pritchetts to take her out.
“Hey.” Number 21 was talking to her. He had sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and dimples. Actual dimples. With her luck he’d be a missionary in Africa, or be working on the cure for cancer, or be an actual anointed saint.
“Hi.” Heather sounded beaten down, and he tilted his head and chuckled.
“Do you hate this as much as I do?”
Great, his smile was charming. She sat up straighter and fought the urge to fix her hair. She was not primping for this guy. “Yes.”
“My co-worker made me come. He said my life is depressing enough that it’s starting to bother him.” Number 21 laughed again, and she found herself laughing with him. The uncomfortable ache in her chest fading a bit.
“My cousin is always trying to make me date.” Not exactly a lie. “She saw the flyer for this and insisted I go. She said she’d kill me if I didn’t.” Heather laughed bitterly at her own dark joke, but, of course, number 21 didn’t get it.
“Well, at least they’re trying?” He pushed a hand through his hair and she couldn’t stop herself from noticing the way his suit jacket pulled across his broad shoulders, the fabric revealing strong arms.
“Right. At least there’s that.” Heather smiled politely, and he leaned forward on his elbows.
“Oh, I’m supposed to be talking about me. Looks like I’ve only got twenty seconds, so here goes. I was in the army for a few years; I just got back about six months ago. I have a decent job, but a shitty apartment. I’ve never lived in Massachusetts before so I’m kind of pathetically alone, but bonus, if you date me there’s no awkward meeting the parents! I was in foster care. No weird family issues to deal with.” The bell rang as he finished and he laughed, pushing out a breath like he’d been running. “Whew, what about you?”
Heather was stunned. Shocked. Number 21 was staring at her, the smile on his face fading until his forehead crinkled with concern.
“Hey, you okay?” He reached across the table and took her hand, and she wanted to bolt. She didn’t want him to be across from her. She didn’t want to have heard anything he'd just said, to know that he had literally been a warrior, that he had no family, no friends around to miss him. Theresa had joked about the perfect man falling into her lap. Aunt Carol had said they’d all be thinking of her — and here he was. Unlucky number 21. She didn’t want to fucking know him, or
be attracted to him, or his dimples, or his gentle touch on her fingers. “Yoo-hoo, number 19? Earth to number 19?”
She snapped out of her daze and took her hand from his to brush her hair behind her ears. What the fuck was she going to do? What could she say, what could she— “I’m a witch.”
The words fell out of her mouth and his eyes went wide. Then he started laughing. “Seriously?”
“Actually, yes.” Heather stared at him, tense as she waited to see what he’d do.
“So — what? Are you in, like, a tribe of witches?” He was still grinning at her, and he wasn’t running.
“You mean a coven?” she corrected.
“I don’t know. Do I mean coven?” His smile was intoxicating. Dammit, why did he have to be so cute?
“I think so.” Heather found herself smiling back.
“Is a coven like a tribe of witches?”
“…yes. It’s like a tribe of witches.” She laughed. Who hadn’t watched enough Hollywood movies to know the term coven?
“Okay… so — what? Are you in a coven?” He reached for her hand again, running his thumb over her palm like he wasn’t concerned at all. He wasn’t acting like she was crazy, or demanding the weird, peppy hostess lady switch them early.
“Yeah. I’m in a coven. With my family.” It was weird to say the truth out loud, and she intently stared at him, waiting for a reaction other than this casual acceptance.
He smiled at her. “Well, number 19 the witch, I’m writing your number down because I’m pretty sure you are the only girl here who is both interesting and pretty.” Then he did, black pen scrawling the numbers one and nine on the first line of his paper.
The bell clanged, and he looked over at the hostess and rolled his eyes. “Write my number down. Come on, do it.” He stood up but he didn’t move away from the seat, his hands braced on the tabletop. Number 22 was glaring at him. “Come on, 19. Write it down.” He grinned at her, all cocky bravado, and — she did. Her pen carefully marking out the numbers two and one next to each other on the first line. He put his hands together like he was praying and mouthed a ‘thank you’ before he dropped into the chair at the next table.
Why was he thanking her? She winced, guilt racking her already.
Number 22 made some grumbling comment as he sat down, but Heather didn’t even hear it. She wasn’t writing any other numbers down. What was the point? Number 21 was perfect. A perfectly alone, perfectly unattached warrior. A perfect choice. She swallowed, trying to look interested in 22, but she couldn’t focus.
She had chosen, and if number 21 called and asked her out, she was going to say yes because he was everything she had ever hoped for in someone to complete the rite with.
Heather stared down at her paper where the numbers stood out stark in dark ink against the white paper. It was a veritable death warrant.
Why did he have to be perfect?
Why had he been here?
Why did she have to be a Pritchett?
* * *
When Heather got home she freaked out. Not a little freak out. A big one.
She tore picture frames off shelves, flipping them over to rip out the photos of her and her sisters, her and Theresa, her and Aunt Carol. The picture she’d never taken down from her short stint at college of her and a bunch of classmates at a local bar. She’d never told anyone that Isaiah’s face was the second from the left, the first man she’d attempted the rite with. There was the painting her sister Bonnie had done using her magic to push the watercolors around with her thoughts. She’d given it to her for her birthday two years ago. It was probably one of the only paintings on the planet made without the artist touching the fucking canvas.
Heather threw it into the back of her closet. The crumpled pictures went back there too, along with their empty frames.
She ended up on the balcony of her small apartment, breathing harshly into the frigid air, clouds of her breath puffing out as she tried to calm down. She was sobbing. The keening cry she was making finally made it past the pounding heartbeat in her ears and she dropped to her knees on the freezing concrete. The only picture she hadn’t ripped out of its frame was one of her and her mom, and she held it in her hands like it could somehow help her. In it Patrice Pritchett was smiling, their arms wrapped around each other under the bowing limbs of a tree. It was like the tree was trying to hug them too, and since her mom was there that was completely possible.
Everything was so fucked up. Heather’s entire life was one giant clusterfuck nightmare.
She didn’t want to do the rite, but her aunts were going to kill her if she didn’t. Her mom might kill herself, or the eastern seaboard, if she lost the only daughter she had who wasn’t power hungry or outright evil. And then there was number 21. Completely unaware that just by trying to find a date he’d signed up to die.
Drops fell onto the glass and Heather tried to wipe them away with her thumb, but more fell until their faces in the photograph were blurred and distorted. Too many tears. Too many thoughts. Too much to deal with.
She was shivering. She had to go inside.
Heather stood up, tore the door open and slammed it behind her. Her hands were shaking and the frame thumped to the floor. She had to do something. She couldn’t just sit in her apartment, turn on the TV and pretend she wasn’t going to kill someone. Even if he didn’t die in front of her, even if it was never printed in the paper. She would know. She would know.
She grabbed a pillow from the couch, pressed her face into it and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
When she ripped air back into her lungs she choked and ended up coughing as she dropped onto the edge of the couch. Her phone dinged and lit up next to her, the screen slowly dimming to black again as she watched. Grabbing it she lay back on the couch and wrapped herself in the blanket she kept there to try and warm up.
It was Rick.
Of course it was. That’s the way her luck was going at the moment.
Unlocking her phone she opened the text message and read: It was nice seeing u. Any time ur bored at 2am drop by.
Number 21 was perfect for everything she needed to do, everything her family needed her to do. Rick was perfect in a completely different, really good way. Rick wasn’t needy, or pushy. Rick was incredible in bed. He made her breakfast. When they’d been dating he’d laughed with her, watched bad sci-fi movies with her, and bought her a small stuffed octopus because he’d said they were cooler than dogs. The octopus was buried in the back of her closet somewhere with the rest of the evidence of her fucked up life.
But the best part about him? Rick had nothing to do with her family. He’d never even met one of them, which meant she couldn’t have him. She could never have him. Not even after the rite, because then it would be her job to get knocked up, to have more daughters for Herja to demand the rite from. A daughter, because a son hadn’t been born to a Pritchett woman since Esther Pritchett had lost hers. If her family found out she was sleeping with Rick that would be the end of normalcy with him.
Who was she kidding? Normal was already over.
Heather let the phone slip between her fingers and heard it thud to the carpet. The tears had stopped. Her breathing was oddly calm. She was going numb. She was hollow, because she had no one. No one she could call who would understand, who could make this better.
There was no better for someone like her.
Chapter Four
February 13th
The crashing music of her ringtone blasted out and Heather groaned as she pulled out of a restless sleep. It was OK Go’s ‘Hello My Treacherous Friends’, which was awkwardly appropriate for her life at the moment:
Hello, my treacherous friends,
and thank you for joining me here tonight.
I brought you all here to discuss, as I must,
how grateful I am for your insights.
It was a strange coincidence that she had found the song again, fallen in love with it, and made it her ringtone a few weeks before h
er entire family decided to betray her. She was definitely not grateful for any of their insights though, since all of them circled around committing murder. Leaning down to grab the phone Heather saw a number she didn’t know, but with a sigh she swiped to answer.
“Hello?” Heather draped her arm over her eyes to block out the light.
“Hey, number 19. Or do I get to call you Heather now that I got the email confirming we picked each other?” A low laugh rumbled across the line and Heather sat bolt upright. It was number 21.
“Uh, hey, sure?” She rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye, trying not to think of his blond hair, the way his dimples appeared when he smiled, or the way her name sounded in his voice. “And what do I call you, number 21?”
“Neil.” She heard him exhale across the line. “So, I know there’s probably some rule about waiting to call, but I wasn’t sure if you might have written another number down and I wanted to be the first. Is that weird?”
“I didn’t write anyone else’s number down.” The confession slipped from her lips before she’d really thought about how that would come across. There was a beat of silence on the line, and then his cocky voice returned.
“Oh, really?” He laughed again. “Well, since we’re being honest, I didn’t write down anyone else’s either.” Silence returned. Heather was blushing and she didn’t know why. She shouldn’t feel the excited flutter in her stomach, the stupid smile moving across her mouth, the giddy feeling that came from someone admitting that they liked you, that they were attracted to you.
But it was there.
“Well, then. I guess we—” She started talking, but number 21, Neil, cut her off.
“Go on a date with me.” It wasn’t a question. He hadn’t actually asked her. Instead, it was the same tone he’d used when he’d told her to write down his number. That cocky bravado, that playful tone that challenged her to defy him.
She didn’t want to say yes, and at the same time she did. He was the solution to her problem. He was exactly who she had been looking for when she’d gone to that stupid speed-dating event. And he had called her. That had been her agreement with herself, right? First one to call? Even if he was the only one she’d given the opportunity to call?
Deviant Attraction: A Dark and Dirty Boxset Page 24