by Неизвестный
“I hope it's a chef,” Zoey said. “Or maybe a mime. Those are the clowns who don't talk at all, right?”
“Ouch,” I said, pulling my arm away from her shoulders. “Someone's in need of a snack, or a nap, or something.”
“Sorry,” Zoey said. “Excuse me for a minute while I go splash some water on my face.” She got to her feet and left for the washroom.
Once Zinnia and I were alone, she said softly, “You and I must also keep the faith.”
I whispered, “Is it possible Zoey's not a witch after all? You said it skips generations sometimes, and as far as we know, my mother didn't have it.”
Zinnia didn't speak, but her expression told me what I needed to know. Nothing was certain. The future held only blank pages.
I unwound my silk scarf and folded it across my lap. Zoey was still in the washroom with the door closed.
I nodded at the small crystals that served as the sparking point for the smoke plumes. “Do you mind if I try?”
She scoffed, “Knock yourself out. Though I shouldn't say that, because you haven't been doing your assigned readings or drills. You'll probably cast the spell wrong and actually knock yourself out. Back when I was a novice witch, I also thought I was too good for drills and—”
She stopped talking. I couldn't see her face through the thick, sweet, purple fog hanging in the air, but I imagined her jaw had dropped open.
The truth was, I had been doing my drills. I had been practicing, and I was determined to do everything that was prescribed for a novice witch. I should have told my aunt as much, but it was so fun to see her splutter in frustration over what a “natural” I was with magic.
When the purple fog finally dissipated, Zoey was standing behind her aunt's chair with an irritated look on her face.
“Show-off,” Zoey said.
I gave her one of my motherly looks. “Zoey, when you bring home straight A's on your report card do I call you a show-off, or do I take you out for ice cream sundaes?”
Her face contorted as she worked through the logic.
“You've always been very supportive,” she said with a sigh. “I've compared notes with other people my age, and I can say, without irony, that you're basically the best mother in the entire universe.”
“It helps that I have the best daughter,” I said. “I really lucked out with you, kid.”
Aunt Zinnia cleared her throat.
“And we also have a wonderful aunt,” I said.
“We do,” Zoey agreed, smiling. “Should we take her out for ice cream sundaes?”
“Right after we ambush her with a group hug. Quick, Zoey! She's trying to get away! Grab her arms!”
Giggling, we descended upon Aunt Zinnia and squeezed her until she was begging for mercy and laughing as hard as both of us.
We packed away the spell books and casting supplies, opened the curtains to let the sunshine into the room, and left the house in search of ice cream sundaes.
“I know the perfect place,” my aunt said. “It's run by a witch, of course. All the best cafes around the world are run by witches.”
“Of course they are,” I said.
The three of us linked arms as we walked along the sidewalk, laughing and comparing notes on our favorite sundae toppings.
“Don't let me eat more than one,” I told the other Riddles. “I've got a date tonight with Chet, and I need to impress him with how much food I can put away in one sitting.”
Zoey groaned. “And you wonder why you don't have a boyfriend.”
Zinnia covered her mouth with her free hand and giggled. “He's such an interesting man,” she said. “And I think he enjoyed pretending that you two had spontaneously gotten married.”
“That was his idea,” I said. “He didn't think Dorothy would fall for our clever ruse if we didn't make the lie enormous. He says you need to go big or go home. Do you think he's a former con man? He sure knows a lot about tricking people.”
“I'm sure there's more to Chet than meets the eye,” Zinnia said. “In addition to the fur and the claws.”
“He's nice,” Zoey said. “And if he's good to my mother, that's all that matters.”
We reached the end of the street and turned left at Zinnia's guidance. I could almost taste the ice cream already. I was in the mood for caramel syrup, too.
All three of us were quiet as we passed other people out for strolls with their kids and dogs.
Once we were out of hearing distance of regulars—regulars was the word Zinnia used for non-supernaturals—Zinnia asked, “Did Chet ever find out more about the scary bird that attacked you?”
“Not yet,” I said. “And since Dorothy Tibbits didn't turn into anything furry or feathery to get away from the cops, we can now assume it wasn't her.” I looked down at my feet on the sidewalk for a minute. It always fascinated me to focus on my shoes and let the sidewalk be a gray blur, then focus on a spot of concrete and let my shoes be the blurs.
“It might have simply been a large bird,” Zoey said. “I was doing some research on that patch of Pacific Spirit Park, and it's a nesting zone for some large eagles.”
“Good point,” Zinnia said. “We must only look to magic for answers when there are no other alternatives.”
“Sure,” I said lightly. “You know how I exaggerate sometimes. I have a wild imagination. It was probably a mamma bird protecting her nest.”
“We're not far from the ice cream place,” Zinnia said, and she started listing off the flavors they usually served.
A dapper-looking gentleman walking a trio of West Highland White Terriers stopped in his tracks to give us an appreciative look, and could you blame him?
Three generations of redheaded witches out on the prowl will draw that kind of attention.
* * *
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I hope you enjoyed WISTERIA WITCHES, the story of how my daughter and I moved to Wisteria and discovered our witch heritage. Are you wondering what will happen next?
Will my date with Chet end in kissing, or disaster? Will my sarcastic (yet adorable) daughter Zoey get her witch powers? What's Aunt Zinnia been busy with? And how the heck did I end up in Wisteria? Does magic really have a mind of its own?
Trust me, I'm as anxious as you to find out what happens next! I hope you'll sign up for the email newsletter so we can stay in touch!
Love, Zara Riddle
a.k.a. formerly Zara the Camgirl
a.k.a. Zara the Witch (shhhh, don't tell anyone!)
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* Table of Contents *
Love Singer
A NOVELLA
Can a young witch find love?
DESCRIPTION: A struggling musician discovers she's a witch who can cast spells with her songs. Or at least that's what the sexy professor trying to seduce her says.
GENRE: Paranormal romance with outrageous humor and mild sexual content.
LENGTH: 11,000 words, stand-alone short story!
Turn the page to begin reading Love Singer or click here to return to this anthology’s Table of Contents.
Love Singer
1.
Growing up, nobody told me I was a song witch, but they did say my singing was magical. My great-grandmother told me the “gift” had skipped several generations before resurfacing in me. I thought the “gift” she spoke of meant my ability
to turn insults into compliments and make any situation more hilarious.
She promised to tell me more on my eighteenth birthday, but she didn’t live long enough. What she did do, bless her heart, was leave me Piglet, her Volkswagen van, freshly painted a custom shade of hot pink. She paired that gift with enough money so I could travel for a year after high school, playing my music around the country.
Life is your school, her letter read.
After a year of traveling, I got another letter from her lawyer.
Now school is your school, the new letter read, in my great-grandmother’s beautiful handwriting. You’ve experienced life on the road, and now it’s time to develop your fundamentals. It won’t be easy, but this is the best school in the country for someone with your talent.
She signed the letter with her usual lipstick smudge of a kiss. Once I dried away my tears, I packed up the van and headed west, to the music school, where I was already enrolled. Her letter had arrived late, so I arrived on campus two days late for the semester, but fifteen minutes early for that day’s first class.
The van was in dire need of a tune-up, and making blat-blat noises as I pulled into the school’s parking lot. People turned and stared at the hot-pink Volkswagen, but not for long, because it was far from the most unusual vehicle there. The parking lot was full of art cars, decked out in jewels and doll heads, plus not one, but three hearses.
Unfortunately, the parking lot was truly full. With no spot for me to park near the school, I would be late for my first class. I was steering toward the exit when I noticed one of the hearses leaving. Obeying the painted direction lines on the pavement, I circled around for the spot.
Before I could pull in, some jerk in a convertible raced in from the opposite direction and stole my spot. I rolled down my window and said sweetly, “Excuse me, but I was parking there.”
He stepped out of the convertible and took off his sunglasses. I got a pang of envy. Not only was he wealthy, by the look of the car, but he was also very attractive, with glossy black hair and ocean-blue eyes.
“Sorry, but I don’t want to be late for class,” he said with fake sincerity.
“Don’t say you’re sorry if you’re not. That’s my spot, and you know it. Back your jalopy up before I step out of this van and make you.”
Yes, it should be noted here that when I first met Arturo, whose name I would find out shortly, I really did call his pricey convertible a jalopy, and I did threaten him with physical violence. You should also know that I’m a girl, and a petite one at that, so it was one of those empty threats one makes after being on the road for fifteen hours straight, surviving on a gas-station-supplied diet of caffeinated liquids and barbecue meat sticks.
Arturo, however, didn’t yet know about my hilarious sense of humor, and took me at my word. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and raised his fists like a boxer.
“Come get some,” he said. “I’ll let you have two shots at me before I make a move.”
He was grinning, but I wasn’t laughing.
The guy was lucky I didn’t yet know I was a witch, or I might have lobbed a day-ruining, pants-soiling spell at him.
Time was ticking by, so I slammed the gas pedal and attempted to whip the van around him, letting my tires squeal with my contempt.
The Volkswagen had its own style, though. Her name was Piglet, and true to her name, she guzzled greedily at the fuel as she slowly circumvented Arturo, making an undignified blat-blat karputta-putta-blorp-blorp noise. Piglet’s engine was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the rich jerk’s laughter.
2.
I parked five blocks from the school and sprinted all the way to the building where I had my first class. I was already two days late for the semester, and another ten minutes wouldn’t have killed me, but I’d driven all night, and it was the principle of the thing.
Or maybe it was my stubbornness.
Like my soon-to-be-discovered magical powers, stubbornness was another trait I inherited from my great-grandmother.
So, I got to the classroom, breathing heavily, and scanned the room for a free chair. There were a few available at the back, but the one I wanted was in the front row. I’m not really a front-row student, but this chair was irresistible, because it had been staked out by Mr. Rich Jerk.
With his back to the classroom door, he sat on the edge of the desk, talking casually to another person. A stack of music books and sheet music sat next to his butt cheek on the desk. It was clearly the desk he planned to sit at when class began.
My competitive streak kicked in. This is the same personality trait that made my seven brothers and sisters draw straws to determine who had to be my partner for games of charades. The funny thing is, for the longest time, I thought the person with the short straw was the winner, and got to be my partner. The day I found out the truth, life became a little less sweet.
Stealing Mr. Rich Jerk’s chair would be sweet, though.
I slid into place just as the bell rang.
He got to his feet, turned around, fixed his dreamy, ocean-blue eyes on me, and said, “I believe that’s someone else’s spot.”
I shrugged. “Someone else’s spot?” I pushed the chair back and patted my thighs. “Sorry, but I didn’t want to be late, so I took the first empty chair I saw. There’s always room right here on my lap, big boy.”
He smirked, then looked up at someone standing behind me, and said, “You heard the lady. Take your seat. Class is about to begin.”
He went to the board at the front of the room and began writing his name: Professor Arturo J—
I didn’t catch his last name, because a shaggy-haired young man in a plaid shirt took his rightful seat in his chair. On top of me. Like I was nothing more than one of those wood-beaded seat covers retirees install on the bucket seats of their motorhomes.
A normal girl wouldn’t find herself in such a situation, but if she did, she would probably excuse herself and take another seat at the back of the room.
Not me.
I decided to sit through the entire class that way. I even managed to wedge my notebook between my face and the seat-owner’s back to take notes.
The class was about composition, which is the fancy music-school term for the part of songwriting that isn’t the words. And it was a great class. I would never have admitted it to Arturo’s face, of course, but he was a magnificent instructor.
All of his parking-lot jerkiness translated into confidence and passion when he spoke about music. He kept talking about how songs are the most powerful form of magical spells in the modern world, connecting hearts and minds in a way nothing else can.
“Are you getting all this?” he asked. “You. Yes, you. Underneath the gentleman in plaid.”
I leaned around the student using me as a chair cozy. “Magical spells… connecting hearts and minds… blah, blah. Hey, Mr. J, will all your deep thoughts be on the exam? Or will there also be some questions about actual composition?”
The students around me giggled. Arturo’s blue eyes grew wide and his eyebrows rose out of respect for my honesty and insightfulness, or so I like to think.
He crossed over to his desk and ran his finger down a sheet of paper there. “Your name is… Zebrina?”
I cocked my free hand into an imaginary pistol and fired bullets of awesomeness his way.
“You got it, Mr. J! My friends all call me Zeb, or Zebbie, or even Little Zebbie, on account of how I’m so little and sweet.”
He frowned, failing to enjoy the additional entertainment value I brought to his composition class.
I kept going, “You can call me anything, just don’t call me late for curtain.” I fired two more imaginary bullets of awesomeness his way. “Just some showbiz humor. Sorry. I’ve been touring the last year. It’s a lifestyle. I’ll just stop talking now and let you teach your class, Mr. J.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly, then he flicked on the projection screen and got back to the heavy stuff.
I took
notes at a furious pace, trying to keep up.
The rest of the class flew by quickly, and when it was done, the professor gave us a stack of homework, then packed up his things and left without a word.
The shaggy-haired young man in plaid who’d been sitting on me got up, glanced back at me, then did a double-take.
“You’re real!” he exclaimed.
“Of course I’m real. Did you think you were hallucinating me? Are you high?”
He grinned wide enough to let me know his answers to those two questions were yes and extremely, yes.
That was how I first met Kenny, who later became my best friend and roommate.
He actually became my roommate that first night, when I confessed to him I had nowhere to sleep except inside Piglet.
Kenny upgraded to being my best friend five weeks later, when he held my hair and soothingly patted my back while I chucked up half a batch of his experimental mushroom brownies, which I had mistakenly assumed were drug-free. We share the blame for that particular debacle equally, because while I did ask Kenny if they were pot brownies, he denied it and forbade me to eat them. But he should have known I can’t resist chocolate, and I should have known that Kenny doesn’t bake anything drug-free.
All of that may seem like it has nothing to do with what happened between me and Arturo, but it actually does. You’ll see.
3.
The way I saw it, Arturo and I were arch-nemeses, like Batman and the Joker. Or like someone else and Catwoman. I don’t really know comic book stuff, but please picture me as Catwoman in this metaphor.
He would try to teach music composition, and I’d offer him constructive feedback during class. I would always raise my hand and wait until I was called on, of course. I’m not an animal.
I thought he was enjoying our witty repartee, honestly. Some days I’d be tired from staying up all night studying or working through a new song, and I’d sub-contract out some of my material to Kenny. He’d scrunch his forehead and stick out his tongue, the way he always does when he’s in deep thought, and write down interesting questions for me to ask Mr. J.