Witches Protection Program

by Michael Phillip Cash

  Talk about getting weirder. “Who’s they?” Wes inquired without looking up. He was busy writing.

  “My boss, Dominic Cerillo. The thing is, it’s gonna take me weeks to complete, but they said I can’t have any help. It’s almost impossible.”

  “Did they ask you to use magic?” Alastair asked.

  “No, that’s the odd part. They’re giving the impression they are using legitimate channels.” She paused, her protuberant eyes thoughtful. “But that’s what it is—an illusion. Something is not right. Something stinks, and it starts with that Pendragon Glow face cream.” She paused, remembering something else. “Oh, yeah. They want all the catering loaded by the end of this week. I finished that entire work order today. Very peculiar, if you ask me.” Junie opened a cabinet, causing a waterfall of faded plastic containers to cascade onto her head. Wes automatically bent to help pick them up. Junie smiled, purring, “Nice boy.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, what?” Junie asked distractedly.

  “Why is that peculiar?”

  “It means they want those cargo ships ready to leave on their schedule. They’re leaving nothing to chance,” Alastair said thoughtfully. “Something does smell funny.”

  Wes wrinkled his nose, thinking something indeed smelled, and he was pretty sure it started with whatever she was cooking in that battered pot.

  “What are you preparing there?” Wes pointed to the bubbling concoction, now bathing the room with oily steam.

  Junie raised the spoon to her pursed mouth and sampled the green liquid, making great slurping sounds as she tried it. “Protection. I’m brewing protection. Want some?” She held out a spoon dripping with a boiling, slimy mess. She poured some into the canister, handing it to Alastair. “For later,” she said with a wink. She smiled, revealing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth.

  Wes recoiled, but Alastair said calmly, taking the package, “That’s what we’re here for.”

  Junie nodded, her gaze moving to the window. She wiped her hands down her filthy apron. She thought briefly about sharing what she saw in her brew, but she wasn’t sure—she just wasn’t sure. “I always trusted you, Alastair, but I think we have to move fast.” She scuttled back to the stove and made an identical canister for Wes.

  “I couldn’t.” He backed away, shaking his head.

  “You can, and you will,” Alastair said, plucking the container and handing it to Wes. “Very gracious, Junie. It will do him good.” He smiled benignly at the old crone. “have a place where I can put you, my dear. Someone will be by to collect you in”—he looked at his watch—“in about forty-five minutes. Take the minimum, travel light.”

  Junie nodded, staring out the window worriedly. Wes wondered why she was so nervous. If this was all believable, wasn’t she a witch too?

  Alastair spoke as though he could read Wes’s thought. “Every witch has different powers. The good ones are predictable. They dabble with helpful spells, medicine—you know, things to enrich one’s life.”

  “That’s the thing,” Junie said, turning to look at Wes. “I would never hurt a fly—not a fly! You can’t trust a Willa. They dance to their own drum. They don’t care about anything!”

  “Do you have any contacts at Pendragon?” Wes asked.

  Baby Fat shook her head. “I smell a Willa spell brewing. Check out the girl.”

  “What girl?” Wes asked, noticing their exchange.

  The older woman looked at Alastair, who shrugged.

  “You know, the one in all the tabloids.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Junie didn’t answer. A raven cawed, and the old crone hissed. Hunching over, she peered outside, the full moon painting her face with an evil yellow glow. Her eyes narrowed; her wrinkled lips twitched, turning her face into a macabre mask. Wes shuddered, wondering, If she is a good witch, what does a bad one look like?

  “Let’s go,” Alastair said.

  Wes spun, catching the reflection of a beautiful girl in the mirror in the parlor. He swiveled, looking for another person, only to see Junie “Baby Fat” Meadows’s gaunt face gazing into the mirror intently, her wand clutched in her shaking grasp.

  * * *

  “Who’s the girl?” Wes asked as soon as they got into the car.

  Alastair turned the ignition without answering.

  “I asked, ‘Who’s the girl?’” Wes demanded hotly, forcing Alastair to look at him.

  “Morgan. Morgan Pendragon.”

  The rest of the ride was eerily silent.

  By the time Alastair dropped him off home, it was past eleven. Wes opened the fridge, deciding it was too late to eat anything. He left the plastic container on his Formica counter, the greenish glow illuminating his darkened kitchen. He picked it up, feeling the lingering warmth. It hummed and throbbed, the liquid inexplicably churning. He looked longingly at the trash, but for a reason he couldn’t explain, he decided not to chuck it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The sun loved the Avenue of Americas. Halal vendors lined the street. The smell of roasting meat clashed with the fumes of hundreds of cars. A cart filled with fruits and nuts parked itself by the entrance. There was never any space in front of the building. It was always packed with mail trucks, car services, and the ubiquitous food wagons. Morgan Pendragon directed the driver to stop so she could jump out before the green awning of her family’s building. The gunmetal Escalade inched closer, but traffic was at a standstill. The driver turned around, a look of apology on his face.

  “Never mind. It’s just a few feet, Van. I’ll get out here.”

  She heard the driver calling for her to wait as she opened the door, descending to the pavement. She was little, just over five feet tall, and wondered why she didn’t insist they buy a smaller, more fuel-efficient car for the company. Her aunt loved this big monster; Morgan guessed it made her feel powerful. She tapped the door, letting him know she was outside already. Van lowered the window. Morgan jumped onto the curb, stretching so she could see him.

  “Don’t wait for me. I’ll call if I need a ride home.” She heard him yelling something to her, but his words were lost in the daytime racket of city life. Hugging her hobo bag close to her body, Morgan passed the engraved stone slab identifying Pendragon Global Headquarters, entering the building through the revolving doors. Gleaming marble floors that reflected the first of many banks of elevators greeted her. The lobby was five stories high with soaring ceilings all framed by steel beams. A large marble console ten feet long was in the center, staffed with a row of uniformed receptionists to greet newcomers. Huge television screens hung suspended from the tall ceilings, all of them playing commercials for the new face cream her aunt was launching. Morgan shuddered as she watched the model slather white paste onto her creamy complexion. The girl glowed with vitality. The next scene showed how the cream enhanced lives, rapidly flashing women in power suits, commanding naval ships, getting awards. Morgan muttered the tag line: “Pendragon: for the glow of success.” Unholy crap, she thought.

  Two security guards nodded as she hurried past the line waiting to be given passes to enter the building. She weaved through the crowds, sprinting along three corridors, and arrived at a final elevator that went exclusively to the eighty-fifth-floor penthouse.

  The doors opened with a soft hiss to purple carpet and black marble walls. The Pendragon logo was both in the center of the floor and on the wall, a metal plaque of an impressionistic cauldron, a wisp of steam rising above it.

  She smiled at the receptionist, walking briskly to the inner office. Jasmine, her aunt’s personal assistant, rose from her sleek desk. Morgan admired Jasmine’s beautiful skin, smooth as caramel. Her black hair was in a neat ponytail at the base of her slender neck.

  “Great skirt.” Morgan smiled, knowing Bernadette insisted her staff dress in designer clothes. It drove her aunt nuts that she chose vintag
e thrift-store finds.

  She watched the secretary’s brown eyes travel up her Doc Martens to her ripped black pants and oversize, washed-out, midnight Black Sabbath shirt. She loved how Ozzy’s eyes followed everyone. Her dark hair was disheveled; she knew she needed to brush the wild locks back into place.

  Jasmine looked at the double door and turned to the younger girl. “I keep an extra pair of shoes here. Do you want to borrow them?” she asked kindly.

  Morgan lowered her heavy bag onto the desk with a thud. “You don’t like my boots?”

  “A little Mad Max for me.”

  “Yeah, Bea’s going to hate them.”

  “I’ll buzz her. She’s on the phone.”

  “No need.” She hefted her purse onto her shoulder and walked with deliberation into her aunt’s inner sanctum.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows greeted her, sunlight drenching the steel-colored carpet. There was a polished quartz table that could seat thirty people to the left and a black leather couch shaped in a half circle to the right. Crystals from an oversize chandelier hung overhead, looking like suspended icicles. Morgan knew the light fixture had cost almost a million dollars. A huge branch from a willow tree was tacked to the wall, green buds inexplicably sprouting on the disconnected limb. On opposite walls, there was original artwork—giant canvases with black slashes giving the impression of swirling movement.

  Her aunt’s desk was at center stage, made from some sort of colorless, polished stone. Morgan knew it never showed her aunt’s fingerprints. Witches didn’t have them. Three smooth rocks of various sizes were piled on the corner of the desk. They were different shades of red, from rust to a pale pink. Morgan’s eyes were always drawn to them.

  Bernadette Pendragon ignored the intrusion. Her gaze was focused on a sheaf of papers on the desk while she listened to someone talking on the phone. Morgan could hear that the speaker was distressed by the urgency and the rapid conversation she heard through the receiver. Bernadette’s beautiful face was mildly bored. She had straight black hair, shaped like a cap, cut close to her skull. High cheekbones, slashes for brows, and a tight line painted with her signature red lipstick made her as unapproachable as her cold smile did. She was reed thin, bordering on emaciation, Morgan always thought. Everything about her screamed power, from her economy of movement to her equally spare way of speaking. She glanced up, her cold gray eyes flicking over Morgan’s outfit, then turned her attention to the folder Scarlett, her other assistant, held out for approval.

  “Juliet,” Bernadette said briskly into the phone. “I told you not to worry. You do your job, and I’ll handle the rest.” There was a heavy pause on the other end, then a spate of words. Clearly, Juliet was not happy. Bernadette wrote something on a pad and moved aside for Scarlett to read it. She underscored the words. Scarlett nodded, her toady smile reassuring her boss. “Juliet,” Bernadette said sharply. “Start behaving like the leader you were born to be!” There was a pause.

  “I understand.” Bernadette examined her pen. “I will take care of that.”

  “Who’s that?” Morgan asked.

  Bernadette hung up, her faraway gaze directed to the full-size window. “She’s out of control,” she said, more to herself than anyone else in the room. Turning to Scarlett, she continued, “Contact Reeva in Washington and tell her to keep an eye on…” Bernadette paused, staring at her niece, her face unreadable.

  “Yes, of course. I know what to do, Bernadette,” Scarlett responded.

  Lush and curvy, Scarlett was squeezed into a tight black dress. Her blond hair framed her round, artfully made-up face. Scarlett sneered at Morgan. Morgan felt her skin redden—oh, the curse of fair skin, she thought. Scarlett hated her, and for the life of her, Morgan couldn’t figure out why.

  Morgan cleared her throat. “Morning, Aunt Bea.”

  Pointedly ignored, Morgan tried again. “Morning, Aunt Bernadette.”

  Bernadette placed her pen down carefully, resting her spider hands on the face of the desk. “Get a latte for my niece,” she said, dismissing the assistant. Scarlett’s eyes narrowed to slits that appeared to steam, but this was apparently unnoticed by the mogul. Morgan swallowed convulsively.

  “Why are you here? Don’t you have”—Bernadette consulted her BlackBerry—“a political science class now?” She looked at the leather chair, then at her niece, who took the invitation to slide into it. “Sit up straight, Morgan.”

  Morgan straightened. “The professor got sick.”

  Scarlett returned with a clear glass of coffee, a precise amount of foam floating on the top.

  “Cast a spell?” Scarlett asked snidely.

  “Thanks.” Morgan took the steaming cup, sipping it cautiously. “You know I don’t like to use witchcraft.”

  “Pity.” Scarlett enjoyed a certain amount of freedom being Bernadette’s assistant. She was a few years older than Morgan, and her family had known the Pendragons for eons. She was an intern and had gotten the job when Bernadette’s former assistant had broken her hip in a terrible fall.

  “She’ll grow into it.” Bernadette’s eyes glowed, but her smile was brittle. “I didn’t waste my time teaching you to use our craft for cleaning your room or playing tricks with your little friends.” She eyed her niece’s chipped purple nails with disgust. “The least you could do is change your polish. I mean it—do it now, Morgan.”

  Morgan looked out the window, sighing with resignation when her aunt added, “If you don’t, I will, and I promise you won’t like the color.”

  Morgan reached into her bag, pulling out a bent-looking twig. She regarded it fondly. It was her mother’s. Bernandette’s lips turned down when she spotted it. Morgan whispered a few words, twirling it in the air, and a fresh coat of purple polish covered her nails. Her aunt nodded with approval.

  Bernadette stood, languidly walking around the desk. She perched herself on the corner, swinging a long, black-clad leg. Picking up the smallest of the rocks, she held it in her hand, then rubbed the pink surface with her thumb. Her eyes sharpened as she stared at her niece. The room took on a warm-and-fuzzy glow. “Anyway, you should be spending your time practicing how to fly.”

  “I don’t want to fly, thank you very much,” Morgan replied, a mutinous pout on her lips. Much as she wanted to be rebellious, she felt forced to relax, the lambent light making her drowsy.

  “Every witch flies,” Scarlett told her condescendingly.

  Morgan shrugged. “I don’t like talking about…”

  Bernadette pinned her niece with an amused stare. “What?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” Bernadette let the pink rock roll on the desk, then picked up the next largest. The room buzzed with electricity, pushing Morgan from her slight stupor.

  “Yes, you do, Bea,” Morgan said impatiently. “I don’t like to talk about…spells. Or witching. I don’t want to fly, and I don’t like to cast spells. Well, not many.”

  Bernadette’s thin lips shaped into a slight smile. “What we are is not just for fun, Morgan. You use magic when it suits your needs. Don’t shake your head. I know you do.” She cut off Morgan’s protest, her hand gripping the rock.

  Morgan knew her aunt was correct. Magic was entertainment, nothing more. She had a wand, of course; it was her mother’s. She only used it with her friend, Gabby, when they really, really needed to.

  Magic was a responsibility that she didn’t want. Morgan looked warily at the three rocks, now moved to the center of her desk.

  Bernadette smiled as if reading her thoughts. “Come now, you know they are decoration. They don’t have any magic.” She reached into her bottom drawer and took out an ancient book. “This does. One day, this will be yours.”

  It was old, at least five hundred years, with a rusted metal clasp, the vellum pages rippled with age. The cover had faded lettering in a language Morgan could only gue
ss at. She swore she could smell the decayed tome from where she sat. Morgan shook her head. “I don’t want it.”

  “Practicing magic is your birthright. You will have to accept that one day. You can’t pick and choose what you like about it. I have collected spells for over thirty years.” She rested her hand on the book. “This is the culmination of them.”

  Morgan shrugged indifferently. “Maybe I’ll give the whole thing up.”

  “Don’t talk blasphemy. Once you are born with the gift, it is yours forever. Be that as it may, as long as you are here, I’ll have Jasmine bring in the papers.” Bernadette pressed the buzzer.

  “What papers?” Morgan rose.

  “The ones you were supposed to sign last week.” Bernadette picked up the stone again, her hand squeezing it gently. Morgan’s gaze narrowed to her aunt’s hand and the light-colored rock.

  Morgan looked at Scarlett, then back at her aunt. “Can’t we talk about this in private?”

  Bernadette motioned for Scarlett to leave. Scarlett huffed off, clearly annoyed at the dismissal.

  “I don’t understand why you are insisting I sign them.”

  “As both CEO of this company and your parental guardian, it is my duty to ensure that you are protected.”

  “I am turning twenty-one. I don’t need to be protected.” Morgan got up to pace the room but felt defeated already. “It’s my company too,” she complained.

  “Sit down, Morgan,” Bernadette said softly. She patted the seat of the chair. “I said, sit down.” There was a note of steel in her voice that could not be ignored.

  “You’re asking me to sign away the company.”

  “That’s not true. Just your voting rights. You are too young to vote.”

  “I am the same age as you and my mother were when you created this company,” Morgan retorted.

  “You are a child, Morgan,” Bernadette said dismissively.

  “And you’re controlling.”

  “Yes.” Bernadette put down the stone in its proper place with a click, then went back to her chair. “It gets the job done. If I was a man, everybody would marvel at my aggression. I’d be called a go-getter, ambitious. People would respect me. However, I am a woman, so I am controlling and bossy and dictatorial. I have to be; otherwise Pendragon would be a two-bit makeup company. It’s the only way to be taken seriously. I can see by your face that you understand that.”