What's a Witch to Do?: A Midnight Magic Mystery

by Jennifer Harlow

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “My pleasure.”

  “You did good,” I say, kissing Cora’s cheek.

  Dr. Sutcliffe adds some notes to his chart. “Just keep it dry and bring her back in two weeks for suture removal.”

  “Okay,” I say as I help her off the table.

  As I’m getting their coats on, the doctor whispers to Collins. She tosses the kit in the trash and spins around. “Hey, girls. Let’s go see if we can rustle up a lollipop or two for you being so good.”

  They all but run out of the room in search of candy. Collins raises an eyebrow at me before walking out. And now I’m alone with my fantasy man, who I think wanted to be alone with me. “Will she have a scar?”

  “No,” he says, back still to me. “I see Cora hasn’t had her Hep B vaccination yet.”

  “Yeah, she and Sophie had to get every other kind a year and a half ago. That was a nightmare. I’ve been putting the rest off.”

  “They weren’t vaccinated before?” he asks, turning around.

  “Um, I have no idea. They don’t remember ever getting shots, and I had no documentation. Hell, I don’t even have their birth certificates. It was a fight getting them enrolled in school.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I sigh. “My younger sister Ivy—who I had not seen in over ten years, mind you—showed up on my porch with Sophie and Cora for a visit. I wake up the next day and the kids are there, but Ivy and my emergency cash are gone. A week later a few boxes with toys and clothes arrived. That was the last we’ve heard from her.”

  “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s been a learning experience to say the least.”

  “I can imagine. They’re wonderful girls though. You should be proud.”

  “Well, thank you,” I say, blushing for the nineteenth time today.

  His sharp features soften again. “I’ll, uh, give them the shots when Cora comes in next time.”

  “Okay,” I say, following him out.

  For a girl who just had a medical procedure, Cora is positively giddy, mouth curled into a smile as she sucks on her lollipop. Collins gives Sophie one too as we walk out. “Um, I’ll see you girls in two weeks, okay?” the doctor says, patting Cora’s head. Then those almost black eyes find mine. “Nice to see you again, Mona.”

  “You too, Dr. Sutcliffe.”

  “Please, call me Guy.”

  My new favorite name. “Guy.”

  “Goodbye girls, and thanks Sophie.” What did she do? All four of us females watch as he struts away, off to help ease other’s suffering. And yes, I do check out his heinie. He must feel it because he glances over his shoulder, looking at me with a private smile. Okay, I know it’s been awhile, but either he’s into me or the stress of my life is making me delusional. My past track record says the latter.

  “Dang, Mona,” Collins says, “get a room.”

  Or maybe my good luck’s finally caught up with me.

  Girls’ bedtime/finish potions

  We return home to find Auntie Sara still on her porch, phone pressed to her ear. The three of us wave before running into the house, away from prying eyes. As I am a woman of my word, both girls enjoy ice cream before going up for their baths. This time used to be a massive struggle. If I had to guess, Ivy never made them do a damn thing, including bathing or brushing their teeth. They were almost afraid to get into the tub, as if they’d melt if a drop of water touched them. That damn Wizard of Oz set us witches back centuries in terms of progress. But if I learned anything from all the years I helped take care of my two younger sisters, it’s that kids crave structure. Thanks to a bullwhip and rigid schedule, the girls felt safe for the first time in their lives, and within a month I didn’t even have to ask them to bathe.

  I flop down on the light pink couch in my cozy living room with a sigh as the water runs upstairs. The house is a treasure. Built almost a hundred years ago, it’s held up beautifully. Hardwood floors, stone fireplace, all the original moldings. They don’t make them like this anymore. The furniture is more modern, mostly from IKEA or Pier1. When the house officially became mine, I remodeled. It was far too old-lady chic. I painted the walls light blue but kept the dozens of pressed flowers and herbs in frames on the walls. It was Granny’s hobby, I couldn’t part with them.

  With a sigh, I close my weary eyes. I am not going to make it through the next eight days if I’m this exhausted already. I’m pretty self-sufficient, once again almost to a fault according to everyone, but this week … I shake my head. There are very few times I wish I were married, or at least seeing someone, and this is one of them. Maybe a handsome doctor? No, don’t get on that train of thought. If wishes were horses and all. But it was odd. I’m the first to admit I have no game or mojo. Never have. I’m told I have girl-next-door appeal, whatever that is. He was probably just bored. There is no way in hell he’s interested in me. I’m thirty-five, plump (okay, fat), my hair has a mind of its own, I’m on the cusp of poverty, and I have two small children in my care. Oh yeah, line up, fellas.

  But that last smile …

  The ringing phone snaps me out of my head. I haul my exhausted bones off the couch and pick it up. Crap, I have four messages on the machine. “Hello?”

  “Mona, it’s Brandie,” she says. Judging from the reluctance in her voice, I am not going to enjoy this call. “I’ve been calling for a dang hour!”

  “I was out. What’s the matter?”

  “Okay, well I was trying out that new potion, the one that calms the mind? Well, I gave it to Aaron, and he just crashed to the floor like a ton of bricks. I can’t wake him up! I’ve tried shouting, water, even a slap, but he won’t wake up! He’s in a coma or something. I don’t know what to do!”

  Cue the headache. “Brandie, I told you that you were using too much geranium.”

  “But it gives the potion more power!”

  “Yeah, obviously. Okay, do you have the third lesson from December? The one about cleansing? Find it and follow it word for word. It should counter the other potion. He’ll be fine by tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “What if he isn’t?”

  “Then I’ll pop by and see what I can do, but the cleansing potion should work.”

  “Okay. Thank you so much,” she says, overeager as always.

  “Have a goodnight.” I hang up. Hell’s bells. How hard is it to make a damn potion? There are step-by-step instructions. Yet most nights I get a crisis call from some witch who thinks he or she knows better than centuries of others, and as High Priestess it’s up to me to fix their mistakes.

  High Priestess. I really hate that title. Sounds like an eighties hair band. I inherited the title and the largest coven in North America when Granny died ten years ago. Did I want to? Hell, no. With Granny gone and Daddy dead five years before, I became the sole caretaker of my fourteen-year-old sister Debbie—Ivy had taken off the year before—this house, and the magic shop. I did not also need a hundred and fifty witches looking to me for spiritual guidance and witchcraft instruction. But I’d been training for years, ever since I got my first period and made a sinkhole in our backyard during a fight with Ivy. That’s the mark of a High Priestess—control over earth/air/fire/water. I am the physical embodiment of the fifth element, aether or spirit, which unites the other four. I can’t conjure the elements, but if they’re around I can manipulate them to do my bidding. Think tornados, tsunami, bushfires, and earthquakes. I am literally a walking natural disaster.

  In my own coven there are seven others with this ability, but the last High Priestess names her successor, and if anyone objects, the coven can vote for another replacement. That didn’t happen in my case. I was groomed from age twelve to take over and had already assumed most of Granny’s duties, including the management of Midnight Magic, so no one objected. Had they done so, I would have gladly stepped aside. I’ve found that no number of luck charms can ever change mine.

  I press the button on the an
swering machine. “Hey, it’s Billie,” my assistant manager says. “I just e-mailed you three new orders. I’ll have my twelve tomorrow. Bye.” One of the first things I did when I took over the shop was to set up a website where people can order potions and charms over the Internet. It’s now over a quarter of our revenue.

  “Hi, it’s Debbie,” my baby sister says. “I was just wondering if you talked to Jocasta about the flowers. If not, I can do it tomorrow. Kiss the girls goodnight for me. See you tomorrow. Love you.”

  Hell’s bells, I cannot believe my baby sister is getting married in a week. I can’t help it, I’ll always think of her as the wide-eyed baby I used to feed and later walk to the school bus. I’m eleven years older than her. When Mommy died of an infection after having her, Daddy was shattered. He had two other kids to raise, not to mention a law practice, so he moved us down the street into this house with Papa and Granny. The three adults definitely did the brunt of the child rearing, but I aided as much as I was capable. I chased the monsters out from under Debbie’s bed, took her to the park, and helped with schoolwork. But then Daddy was hit by a drunk driver when she was nine, Granny got cancer when she was twelve and died two years later, and Papa faded six months after that. So it was all on me. Teaching her to drive, counseling her on boyfriend problems, and helping her get into college fell on my shoulders. Thank the goddess Debbie has a good nature and a clear head on her shoulders. She not only got into the University of Virginia after two years of community college, but she found every available grant and scholarship to cover tuition. I scrimped and saved for the rest. Now she’s marrying her college boyfriend, Greg, who just passed the Virginia Bar. A lawyer. My sister hit the jackpot.

  The other two messages are from Brandie, as are the three messages on my cell. I delete them and consider taking the phone off the hook, but think better of it. Knowing Brandie, her poor husband will wake up covered in boils. It’s happened before.

  I’m starving and dinner didn’t cut it, but I’ve used up all my Weight Watchers points on that cheeseburger today, so I grab some water and broccoli, lock the doors for the night, and check on the girls upstairs. I find Sophie at the desk cleaning up blood and the bits of paper Cora was cutting. Like her sister, she’s as cute as a button with big blue eyes, straight light brown hair with bangs, and long limbs. As I watch her small body wiping up blood, a pang of regret hits me. She reminds me so much of myself at that age, taking care of everyone. It stinks being a forty-year-old trapped in a ten-year-old’s body. I don’t know if she was forced into it what with being the oldest—probably, based on what little they’ll tell me about life with Ivy—or if she’s just an old soul like me. Both, I’d guess.

  “Hey, you don’t have to do that,” I say as I step in.

  “I don’t mind,” she says, tossing the paper towels into her pink trashcan.

  I pull her into a hug and kiss the top of her head. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Why? I should have been watching her.”

  “No, I should have been watching her. This one’s on me.” I kiss her again before picking up the scissors and clearing off the desk. The collage Cora was making is a goner. “So what do you think for tonight? Ferdinand or start another Encyclopedia Brown?”

  “Can we just watch The Princess and the Frog again?”

  “Again? You can almost quote the whole thing.”

  “I know you have a lot of work to do,” Sophie says as she sits on her bed underneath that Justin Bieber poster. He and Miley Cyrus fill every pink wall. I forbid anything Twilight in the house solely on principle. I personally know vampires, and they do not sparkle.

  Normally I try to keep the TV consumption to a minimum, but I have too much work and not enough energy to protest. “Fine. Go take your shower then you can start the movie. The moment it’s over, lights out okay? I will check.”

  “Okay, Aunt Mona.” I give her one final kiss before beginning to walk out. “Aunt Mona?”

  I spin around. “Yeah, honey?”

  “I like Dr. Sutcliffe. He’s super nice, don’t you think?”

  “I guess. I barely know him.”

  “But you think he’s handsome, right?”

  “I—I suppose.” Oh hell, I’m so obvious a child can pick up my crush.

  “I think he likes you too. You should ask him out.”

  “It’s—it’s not that simple, honey.”

  “I bet he’d say yes.”

  “Well, I will think about it.” And I more or less run away from my niece after those words. Do not think about him. Don’t. Keep busy. Never a problem for me. Cora is in the bathtub when I step in. “You okay? Keeping your hand dry?”

  “Yes, Aunt Mona,” she says, showing it off to me. “It itches.”

  “It will for a couple of days,” I say. “Need help shampooing your hair?” She nods. I set my snack and the scissors on the counter before pouring water on her long, almost white hair and adding shampoo. In a couple of years it’ll be brown like mine and Sophie’s, but for now she can enjoy being a blonde. “And what have we learned today?”

  “Don’t use scissors unless you’re there,” she says in that chipmunk voice.

  “No, don’t use adult scissors period. You ask me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  After the bath, I detangle and brush her hair before leading her into my office so Sophie can shower. It’s the smallest room, with sage-colored walls, bookcases along a whole wall, my oak table covered with herbs, an iron cauldron, and other altar items. Cora likes watching me mix potions. She and my fat old Russian Blue cat, Captain Wentworth (named after the hero from my favorite Jane Austen book, Persuasion), keep me company as I mix a fertility potion and anoint a gambler’s charm before it’s time for the frog and princess. I tuck the girls into their beds, switch on the electronic babysitter, and shut off the light. They’ll be asleep before the happy ending.

  The majority of our orders come from non-practitioners who stumbled onto the site looking for a love or luck charm. Love potions and charms are strictly forbidden per Wiccan law, so I just use a luck spell in its place. I can spot the real, genetic witches from their orders. A regular person would never want a “creating a familiar” spell or “opening new worlds” potion. I usually send those people a note inviting them to check out the coven website. Another one of my brain children. There are about fifty official covens in America, and we’re linked to forty of them. We all share spells, concerns, or we just chat. It’s hard to make friends when you have to pretend not to exist.

  I finish eight of the thirteen orders before the smell of burning herbs and exhaustion get to me, and I can barely see. I’ll finish the rest tomorrow. I clean up before picking up the Captain and checking on the girls a second time. Both have caught the train to the land of Nod. They really are good girls. We had some growing pains in the beginning but dealt with them soon enough. Once they realized I wasn’t going to beat or abandon them, we got along great. From the little I could get out of them, I know they were dragged around Europe. Sophie speaks fluent French and Cora once mentioned the Piazza Navona in Rome. Goddess knows what my sister was involved with and with whom. I don’t even know if the girls have the same father. I’ve tried to draw more out of them, but it’s like they’re scared to tell me. When Ivy showed up she seemed skittish, emaciated, and pale as a junkie. We didn’t get a chance to talk before she vanished, leaving me with two shy, frightened children. Now I hope she stays gone.

  I toss the Captain on my white fluffy bed, peel off my reeking clothes, and jump in the shower. I have a special scrub of my own making to remove the stench of potions. That bat guano for the banishment spell really gets into my pores. By the time I shower, exfoliate, put on my pajamas, and do my final check of the house, it’s almost eleven. I climb into bed with a sigh. If I fall asleep this instant I can get seven hours before the Captain wakes me for breakfast. He curls up in his spot next to me on the other pillow. Always nice to have a male in bed. On a normal night I would plan
for tomorrow, but tonight I close my eyes and pass out …

  But not for long.

  I don’t even have time to start a dream when the doorbell downstairs jolts me awake. It rings continuously, with a pound or two against the door thrown in for good measure. I sit up, my brain instantly booting up. This can’t be good. The Captain meows as I hurl off the covers. I glance at the clock. 11:59. Who on earth would come at this hour?

  That instinct single women living alone have takes over. Rushing over to my closet, I pull out my gun safe and punch in the code. My .38 special comes out. This is a safe town, but a gal can never be too careful. I sprint out of the bedroom into the hallway toward the girls’ room. Sophie holds Cora in bed, petting her hair in an attempt to be brave for her sister. “You two stay here and lock the door.”

  “Okay,” Sophie says as she leaps out of bed.

  As I glide down the stairs, I hear their door shut and lock. The pounding starts again, weaker this time. My heart is racing as I approach the door, my grip on the gun tightening. I really need to install a peephole. “Who is it?” I ask.

  “A—Adam Blue,” the man says through the door.

  Adam Blue? Who the … the name’s familiar. Come on, brain. Adam … oh, Jason Dahl’s Adam Blue. “Adam?” I ask, unlocking the door. When it opens, I gasp. I wouldn’t recognize him. His face is a swollen mess of bruises and cuts. His clothes are torn, smudged with dirt and blood, and he has no shoes on. He holds his right arm against his chest. I think it’s broken. “What … ”

  “Help me.” And with that, the werewolf collapses to my foyer floor.

  Hell’s bells.

  SUNDAY TO DO:

  Deal with bleeding werewolf on my doorstep

  Transmogrification potion

  Find our unexpected visitor clothes

  Drop-off/pick up Adam and send him on his way

  Send girls off with Debbie

  Go to work