Fangs and Frenemies

by Cherry Andrews

  The big-screen TV in front of them, which neither appeared to be watching right now, was playing When Harry Met Sally.

  “Jen, you really need to take the time to get a professional massage,” Drew lectured, his voice mild. “Your job keeps you so active, all those spin classes. For Sofie’s sake, you really need to take better care of yourself.”

  “I’m helping Sofie right now, I’ll have you know.”

  “Uh, how?” Drew sounded amused and indulgent. I wanted to know the answer, too.

  “She’ll be able to pay for a great college,” Jenna said proudly. “Thanks to my weekly blood donations.” She eased herself into a sitting position and turned to face Drew. Then she did a duckface pout and tugged on the collar of her simple blue cotton top, baring her slim neck seductively.

  “You are such a dork.” Drew laughed and reached out to tickle her stomach, which made her squeal again. “You know I’d fund whatever you needed, whether or not you ‘donate.’”

  “Yeah, but I like to pretend I’m earning it this way. It’s kinda dark and seedy, kinda hot . . . oh come on, humor me. I have no life anymore, I’m a mom!”

  He chuckled and pecked her cheek. “No, you’re right, it is hot in a certain way.”

  They smiled at each other and for a moment I thought they were finally going to kiss. But instead they held hands and watched the rom com for a few minutes. I really hoped Britt had turned off the car, to save gas.

  When it got close to the movie’s romantic ending, Jenna turned the sound down once more. “So, how’s it going on the home front?” she asked Drew, her face tight with sympathy.

  “Same old.” Drew groaned. “I’m trying to establish myself, but no one takes me seriously. Dad’s losing his mind. Mom’s trying to ‘control the message’ about that, about Ashlee, about everything.”

  Jenna shook her head sadly. “Well, she’s always been like that. Did you talk to her about sending PIs after us? Turns out I was wrong about there being one at the wedding,” she said, cringing. “I wasn’t feeling well that day and got things wrong.” Ok, good to know that she wasn’t normally paranoid. “The person I thought was spying on us? She was just this chick we went to high school with. Kind of a loser. Her name escapes me. Rose? Tulip?” Those aren’t even trees, idiot, I wanted to shout. “Oh well, who cares.”

  Aaaand good to know Jenna and I would not be striking up a friendship anytime soon.

  “I did confront Mom about those PIs she hired,” Drew’s brow was furrowed with concern. “I’ve definitely seen them tailing me other times. But she denied it. No big shock, she still denies trying to break us up in high school. When I press her it’s, ‘I always want what’s best for you, son.’” He rolled his eyes. “No matter what I do she still sees me as a kid. Even getting married didn’t change that.”

  Geez. The more I heard about Estelle, the less she sounded like a protective mom and the more she sounded like a giant control freak. And if she was willing to spy on innocent people to “protect” her son’s interests, it wasn’t that much of a stretch to imagine she would do far worse.

  Tomorrow, I’d—well, not tomorrow. Thanksgiving was fast approaching, but as soon as the festivities were over I was going to make sure Estelle received either a dream visit or a spy session. Or both for good measure.

  “Do you ever wonder if your marriage was, like, cursed?” Jenna asked, not realizing she’d just stabbed an invisible witch in the heart.

  “I don’t know.” Drew sighed. “I guess I didn’t really know her as well as I thought I did? I met her again at such a weird time.”

  “I know.” She squeezed his hand. “You’d just been turned.”

  “That’s part of it, sure. I was scared I’d starve to death without someone at my side all the time. But the other thing is, she was so vivacious and fun and beautiful, she reminded me of a simpler time.”

  A sad look entered Jenna’s eyes. “People used to describe me that way.” Sure, I thought, people always described mean girls that way. “But now . . .” Her shellacked fingers rushed to her cheeks. “Do you think I should have fillers done? At the wedding Ashlee said I should.”

  Drew stroked Jenna’s hair. “Jen, I think you’re even prettier now than you were in high school. And you’re a great mom. Sofie’s the best. Next time I come over we should all watch Mathilda. I think she’d be into that one.” He paused. “I keep hearing a fly buzzing. Where’s your fly swatter?”

  On second thought, I hoped that getaway car was ready to go.

  Chapter 16

  By 10 PM on the night before Bryson and I would be hosting our first Thanksgiving, I was a nervous wreck.

  Cooking up a storm under time pressure was something I was used to doing . . . but I’d always used magic to speed up tasks and add finesse to the finished product.

  With Bryson in the house, though, busily rushing around fluffing couch pillows, giving me back rubs, and reading funny Buzzfeed listicles aloud to me, I couldn’t exactly sneak off and whip up a brew or incantation.

  Supposedly he’d come over to help me. And he was being his usual sweet self. But—maybe because I was under so much stress?—it felt like he was just hanging around, doing stuff I didn’t especially need or want.

  When he started playing relaxing music on his phone and tenderly handfeeding me sliced strawberries, straight from the bowl I’d just prepped for tomorrow’s salad, I began to crack under the pressure. “Hey. Do you think you could mince this garlic? Or prep these mushrooms for the stuffing?”

  “You sound stressed, Haze.” Bryson smiled his perfect, warm smile. Which looked a little goofy since he was wearing a chocolate mustache from having licked a batter bowl, from the chocolate-squash tea bread baking in the oven. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help you feel better.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I said, feeling relieved. There was a part of me that had been freaking out internally about Gran’s whole “demons don’t cook” standard test thing. Bryson’s willingness to cook proved he was human.

  Well, basically human.

  Nobody’s perfect, right?

  “Here you go.” To my surprise, Bryson set a wine glass in front of me and filled it with yummy-looking red wine. “I could tell from your tone of voice that you needed some pampering while you cook.” Instead of picking up a knife and cutting board, he began to knead my shoulders from behind.

  “Mmm . . . that does feel good,” I said almost grudgingly. Even though I was a bit annoyed, his touch made me instantly relaxed. As always.

  “Of course it feels good, Haze.” At the hypnotic cadence of his voice, my shoulders dropped lower. “I know what you need, like you know what I need. We belong together, like caramel and— “

  “What is your fixation with caramel?” I snapped. Whoa, where had that tone come from? Maybe I was more than a bit annoyed at how he wasn’t helping, when us hosting this dinner was all his idea? “Sorry,” I said, mostly because it seemed like someone should say it. “I’m just worried I won’t get all the cooking done,” I said, trying to explain. “Plus I’m getting super tired. Do you think you could— “

  “Be understanding? Of course. Everyone’s entitled to a bad mood now and then.” He gave me a look of loving indulgence. “And if you prefer, I’ll say we fit together like peanut butter and chicken.” Lazily, his tongue darted out to lick off his chocolate mustache, and I stared. “What?” he said. “Like Swimming Rama. Come on, it’s a flavor combo we both love.”

  His tongue. How had I never noticed he how extremely long it was? It was downright flickable. Lizardlike.

  Would our future children also sport gecko tongues?

  Now I was being ridiculous; I needed to stop letting Gran get to me.

  Bryson was not a demon. Couldn’t be. No, damn it. Bryson was perfect for me.

  “Yes, he’s too perfect.”

  Get out of my head, Gran.

  But even as my little house began to smell like sage and thyme, fried onions and green bean cassero
le and candied yams, like Thanksgiving, I couldn’t help but notice that Bryson never lifted a spoon, spatula, or tongs to help.

  It was sometime after midnight. Bryson had biked home and I was in the kitchen area again, obsessively checking every dish and mentally comparing it to my planned menu. Double-checking that everything was as ready for tomorrow as it could be.

  A worried feeling dogged me. I was missing something obvious, but what?

  Then I realized all the foil and Saran Wrapped platters in my fridge were filled with nothing but caramel.

  A knock on the wall roused me from my mounting panic.

  “Yoo-hoo?” called a sonorous voice. It was the Sandman demon, Three Hundred and Six. “I hate to be a bother, but you owe me a few more minutes of your presence. I emailed my invoice but . . . whoa.” Her perfectly smooth blue face furrowed into a rare frown. “Never mind, I’ll collect later. You’re dangerously low on energy.”

  I yawned reflexively. “You can read people’s energy levels? Wait . . . are you saying you get paid in energy?”

  “Of course, I’m a demon.” She looked amused that I didn’t know. “We live on it, and witch energy is far more potent than that of ordinal humans. But it’d be unethical to collect from you now, Hazel. Goodness me, you appear to be running on sheer adrenaline! Even in your sleeping state you’re exhausted.”

  Sleeping state? “This is a dream?” As I asked the question, the foil and Saran Wrapped platters began to levitate, then one by one poofed out of existence.

  “Oh, ha, you didn’t know that either?” I was getting sick of her amusement at my unevolved condition. “Yeah, absolutely, I’m just projecting in—it’d be illegal for me to show up in your dimension without being summoned. Plus, this is way easier, since I don’t have to go through customs. Such a bother. I don’t suppose you travel much?”

  “Not the way you do. In fact, not at all.” I yawned again. “How could I be so tired even in my sleep?”

  “I’m no doctor, but it’s probably not a good sign.” She hesitated. “There was something odd about that last job you had me do. The beach wedding.”

  A warm feeling spread through me at the memory. “That’s where I realized how much my fiancé loves me . . . also I fought other gulls for a Cheeto.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about the bird thing, I was having a hard time getting a grip on the landscape. It felt like someone else was driving.”

  A chill ran through me. “What do you mean? Who?”

  She sighed. “Hate to be a bummer, but I’ve been around long enough to see this checks all the boxes, so . . . ” She threw open her right hand and with a sparkle of magic a scroll appeared in it. “Here you go.”

  I unrolled what appeared be some kind of public service brochure.

  The heading read: “Are you a witch being preyed on by a rogue Sandman demon who’s stealing all your energy?”

  Underneath was this sensitively written paragraph:

  It can be hard to admit you’ve allowed a thief into your magical life, but such criminals are charming by nature and you’re not the first or last witch to get tricked into exhaustion. At this stage, many victims become lulled into complacency and trapped in a state of denial even as the perpetrator leaches them dry of energy. But your future wellbeing, and perhaps even your life itself, will depend on you finding the strength to face reality. You must cast the demon out.

  Below that, were the lines of a spell called Good Riddance.

  I skimmed them, then burst into tears. “Why did you have to do that, Sandman Three Oh Six?”

  “Do what?”

  “Force me to see it. I didn’t want to see it. I was trying so hard to stay in my state of denial!”

  She nodded. “You had that look about you. Your friends are probably tearing their hair out from how stupid you’ve been acting lately. Assuming you still have friends. To be frank, I’d have muted your texts.”

  “Um, thanks . . . ?”

  “But it’s not your fault. Your species overvalues romance, and witches have a harder time than most finding a mate. Your desperation makes you vulnerable to con men. Including those from my dimension.”

  “Hex my life.” I sniffed.

  “It’ll be ok, probably.” She handed me a dream-handkerchief to wipe my eyes. “You know, living in denial can chew up one’s energy in and of itself. Hopefully you’ll start to feel better right away . . . ”

  “Thank you.” I dabbed at my tear-soaked face. The handkerchief was softer than a spun cloud. “No, really, thanks for every—”

  “So that I can get paid,” she finished. “Otherwise I’ll add late fees and interest charges to your bill. My credit rate is 24 percent APR. Measured in Standard Witch Vitality Units, of course.”

  I decided on second thought not to give her a hug.

  At 3 PM the next day, my whole family—plus Britt and Max—sat at a crowded Thanksgiving table composed of several card tables jammed together with a giant tablecloth of Gran’s over them.

  My sister Bea sat between my mom and the high chair containing Maren, Bea’s cute eighteen-month-old daughter. My mom cut up all the food I gave her into tiny chunks which she eagerly fed her granddaughter, and chatted happily with Bea as if they were the only ones in the room. Listening to their fluent discussion of curtain shades and dryer sheets while Bryson carved the bird, I felt the same frustration I’d felt my whole life. Bea and my mom got each other. They didn’t get me.

  Bea’s husband, Grant, was parked in front of the TV watching football along with his twin three-year-old sons, my nephews Connor and Cameron.

  Meanwhile, Cindra, though in London—as far we knew anyway—enjoyed her own place at the table in the form of a video screen on my dad’s laptop. Dad enthusiastically interacted with her rather than striking up conversations with other people at the table. “You look amazing, Star.” His nickname for her. What was his nickname for me, you ask? Slowby. Because apparently I’d moved slower on my tricycle than Bea had. “Your glasses look dope. See, Dad’s not too old to be hip. Keep on inspiring us, baby. Namaste.” I’m pretty sure she had the call on mute much of the time, though she waved to us occasionally from a trendy-looking flat party.

  I sat between Bryson, who I could barely stand to look at, and Max, who’d already scarfed down so many appetizers I couldn’t believe she had room for the turkey she was piling on her plate.

  “Was it always like this with your family?” Max said quietly, and I nodded. “I guess I’d forgotten how weird they act toward you.”

  “It’s the magic,” I murmured. “Gran’s the only one who gets me.”

  At my insistence, Gran sat at the head of the table and Britt sat at the foot, partly because she was tiny enough she could scoot her chair forward easily so people could get through her to the fridge. Also so she could easily slip out and intercept Grant for a bite, when he finally had to pee after drinking all that beer.

  Gran cleared her throat, then spoke. “Hazel dear, the food is scrumptious. But I cannot bring myself to celebrate or be grateful for the company you choose to keep. Not you two girls, you’re lovely,” she added to Britt and Max. “Just him.” I didn’t need to look at Bryson to know his eyes would be wide with feigned innocence and confusion. “Welp, I’d better be off.”

  “Wait, Gran.” Well, shoot, I was going to wait till after the party, but here goes nothing. I stood. “I have an announcement to make.”

  Bea gasped and grabbed my hand holding up my ring for all to see. “Is that what I think it is—a garish, yellow-gold estate ring with no stone setting?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I took my hand back. “I am not marrying this man. Or should I say, this rogue demon.”

  “Haze?” Bryson tossed me a hurt look. “What’s with the name calling?”

  “Don’t give her that kicked-puppy expression. You know what you did.” Britt turned to me. “Actually, I don’t know what he did. But I can’t wait to find out!”

  Bryson appealed to the rest of the ta
ble. “Whoa, guess I’m really in the doghouse, huh? Whatever I did, though, I’ll do anything to make it up to her. I love her so darn much.”

  “Lies,” I said calmly. “All you ever loved was leaching my energy. My vitality.” Standard Witch Vitality Units. “Being with you was slowly killing me. But no more.” I yanked the ring off my finger, but it got stuck for a minute which was a bit anticlimactic. Still, point made.

  Bryson no longer looked innocent or confused. He looked halfway between grimly annoyed and homicidal. “So this is the thanks I get. For being the ideal boyfriend. Putting up with all your quirks. Listening to your inane stories. And don’t get me started on the endless foot rubs I’ve given.”

  My mother looked peeved, and I dared to dream that it could be on my behalf. “Well, I’m embarrassed for you Hazel.” Nope. “At this point, I wasn’t expecting you to marry anyone. But couldn’t you at least wait for the young man to break things off as usual, instead of rushing it? And why make a big thing in front of the family?”

  “Leora.” My dad patted Mom’s knee. “We agreed to stay positive no matter what disappointing things Slowby did today.”

  “I know Herb, but this is over-the-top even for her.”

  “Wait, what just happened?” Tinny Cindra yelled from the video screen. “Did Hazel do something Hazelicious?”

  “She’s breaking up with her boyfriend at the Thanksgiving table,” Bea called, the righteous outrage in her voice barely containing her glee. “It’s super awkward. Don’t worry, I’ll share the deets later in text!”

  I ignored them and turned to Bryson. “You almost had me. I wanted so badly for you to be a good man, like your name says. Did you pick that name just for me, or have you pulled this same scam on countless other young witches?”

  At the word witches, my horrified parents and sisters shook their heads sadly and made “she’s crazy” gestures to each other.