Chapter 1
Portia Mullins - Present Day
I thought I was the typical teenager—a normal fifteen year old, eagerly awaiting my sixteenth birthday, which was in three days. Mostly I was excited because I could finally get my driver’s license and, of course, the dating thing.
My family had a strict no dating policy until I turned sixteen. It didn’t bother me too much since I’d seen some sad results from other girls who were allowed to date before then—not that those stories were always their fault. It just seemed like guys who didn’t respect girls had an easier time taking advantage of them when they were younger.
Even though I hadn’t hit the official dating scene, it wasn’t like I didn’t have guy friends. I’d always been a happy-go-lucky girl—cute too, in a sort of Goth way. The funny thing is, I wasn’t Goth at all. I happened to have naturally straight black hair, which flowed down past my shoulder blades. My sweet, dainty upturned nose matched perfectly with my bow-shaped lips. But it was my big, nearly-black eyes with thick, dark lashes against translucently pale skin that set off the entire look. I tried tanning, but somehow only turned a beautiful shade of lobster-red before my skin puckered, peeled off, and revealed a lovely, new, white skin beneath.
My best friend, Shelly, whom I happen to call Barbie behind her back, tried to make me over many times without success. My hair wouldn’t hold a curl, and the extra makeup made me look a bit like a hooker. Since I’m so style challenged, I religiously tried to avoid wearing too much black, sticking to jewel tones and that shabby chic kind of look I adore. That, perhaps, made me resemble a gypsy of sorts, which is a taste in fashion I inherited from my grandma, of all people.
Grandma Mullins is my most favorite relative in the world. She’s an eccentric, sixty-something, free-spirited individual—the kind of lady who’s always smiling, but you feel like you might be missing the big secret behind it. I loved her tall, slim, graceful figure and straight hair like mine, but it’s a beautiful chestnut brown that looks like it was purposely streaked with gray highlights. Her sense of style is fabulous, I think—light, flowing clothes with way too many layers and styles of jewelry on at the same time, but somehow it works. I was super excited that she was throwing my birthday party for me this week.
“Portia!” my mom called from downstairs. “It’s time for breakfast!”
I groaned, hearing my name. I didn’t hate it exactly, but my dad goes on and on about it. He’s the one who chose it. It was sort of a joke, using a play on words.
My dad and his buddies were really big into cars in high school, and according to the many stories I’ve been told, they used to have some heated, verbal disputes about whether their favorite car was called a “Porsche” or a “Porscha” in their pronunciation. My dad promised his buddies someday he would “own a Porscha.” After college, though, he had a hard time finding work in his field of expertise. He eventually became an encyclopedia salesman and was promoted to district sales leader in the company, but he quickly began to see his dream car fade. Then I was born, and he suddenly found a way he could own a “Porscha” once again. He even wanted to spell my name like the car but, thankfully, my mom put her foot down.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, dropping my backpack at the foot of the stairs.
I gave her a quick peck on the cheek before grabbing a piece of toast from the stack and slathering it with jelly.
“I have to work the swing shift again, so I won’t be here when you get home from school,” she said.
My mom was a nurse at the Verde Valley Medical Center. I figured she was most likely the reason our family stayed afloat financially, since I didn’t think there were very many people buying encyclopedias in mass quantities.
“That’s okay,” I said, looking at the cartoon-covered scrubs she often wore to work for her pediatric patients. “I’ll go hang at Grandma’s after I get my jobs done.”
“That’s fine. Just remember to empty the trash this time before you go.”
I sighed heavily. I’d only ever forgotten to take out the trash once, and that was over a year ago. She’d never forgotten it. I quickly finished my scrambled eggs and carried my dishes to the sink. “I need to go, Mom. Shelly will be here any second.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Have a nice day,” she replied as I grabbed my backpack.
“You too.” I sent her a quick smile before turning to leave.
I ran out the door to see Shelly pulling up in her pink Mustang convertible. Every time I saw it, I shook my head at her color choice. Her parents bought it for her sixteenth birthday. It totally set off her Barbie doll persona—big blond hair, bright-blue eyes, perfect figure, dressed in the latest fashions. Not to mention she’s dating Brad, the captain of the football team. The two of us were complete opposites, but we’d been friends since kindergarten.
“Hey, girl!” she called while leaning to pop open the passenger door. “Hop in!”
“Morning,” I said absently, climbing into the car as I licked jelly off one of my fingers.
Shelly immediately launched into the fabulous date Brad had taken her on over the weekend. I “ooh-ed” and “aah-ed” in all the appropriate places as I watched the scenery rush by.
The air, which had almost turned fall-like, gusted across my face, blowing my hair behind me. I loved the feel of it. It wasn’t cold yet in Sedona, but the weather had started getting a little of that nice, crisp feel to it, and I stuck my hand out the side of the car letting it rush through my fingers. That was one of the things I enjoyed about the Arizona climate, the warm seasons hung around for a lot longer than most places. Of course, a nice snow in the winter was always fun too, just to break the monotony a bit. It could get very hot in the summer, but that’s usually when a group of us would take the short drive into Oak Creek Canyon for a swim at Slide Rock State Park.
This year’s excursion had been especially fun, since the water was high from a good snow runoff. When the water is low, you tend to get a lot more bumps and bruises on the rocks. There is always the occasional swimsuit blowout from those tourists who don’t know they should wear cutoffs or boardshorts to prevent that from happening. That’s always a good laugh.
My attention drifted back to the present when the car turned into the campus parking lot. Sedona Red Rock High School isn’t a large school by any means. It only has about five hundred students. Its red-brick buildings were designed to blend in with the giant, red rock cliffs that surround the area. The whole town has a strict color code ordinance. Everything has to blend in. Even the lampposts are brown instead of silver or green like anywhere else. The color thing can sometimes be a source of controversy. People either love it or hate it, but it does lend the town a nice sense of ambience, I guess.
Shelly parked her car in the closest space she could find and pushing the button to lift the top. We grabbed our books and walked into school.
Eyeing the giant scorpions on posters plastered along the hallway, I remembered the first football game of the season was this weekend. It was a non-conference game against the Snowflake Lobos. Their team had creamed us last year, and everyone was determined to get hyped so it wouldn’t happen again.
The game also happened to coincide with my sixteenth birthday. Since everyone on this mountain is freakishly insane about football, my party was being held after the game at Grandma’s, so more friends could come.
I coasted through the school day. The only exciting thing that happened was when Mrs. Skipper lost her glasses and couldn’t read our English lesson to us. The glasses were actually on top of her head, which I thought she should’ve realized immediately, since the whole class was snickering under their breath.
Shelly met me in the hallway after last hour, and we headed to her car. She rambled on about all the unfortunate kids who had to ride the bus home. I wanted to remind her that most kids around here don’t have parents who own a multi-million-dollar spa resort like hers. Her family’s resort, named after them, was located on top of one of the town’s big, red rock cl
iffs. It was called The Fountains at Fontane and was a really nice place. I’d dubbed it my third “home away from home,” Grandma Mullins’s being the second.
Shelly pulled in front of my house, which was situated at the bottom of the red rock cliff in a Spanish style neighborhood. It was a small but pretty adobe-looking home, complete with wooden beams and an interior courtyard, graced with a bubbling fountain. It wasn’t anywhere near as fancy as Shelly’s, but I loved it.
“You want to come over later?” Shelly asked as I exited the car.
“Thanks, but I’m going to my grandma’s this afternoon,” I said, shaking my head.
“Oh. Well, tell Grandma Milly I said hi.”
“I will. She’ll be sad you didn’t come with me.” I smiled at her.
“I would, but I have a ton of homework.” She gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Apparently, my teachers feel I have way too much free time on my hands.”
“Yeah, I have some I need to do too. I’ll call you later.” I stepped away from the vehicle.
“Okay. Talk to you then!” She drove off, waving her hand in the air behind her as she sped up the hill.
I turned and went inside, dumping my books on the kitchen table before I began my list of after-school chores. I was done quickly and a short time later polished off the minimal amount of homework I had to do. Grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, I left, and walked down the street toward the highway, where my grandma’s shop was located. Grandma owns one of those metaphysical shops that are popular in this area. It’s called, Milly’s Lotions, Potions, and Notions. It’s a fun place to hang, with books on all sorts of subjects, as well as an assortment of crystals and candles for purchase.
Grandma’s very good with herbs too, so she makes her own lotions, soaps, shampoos, and other ointments. They are packaged for sale in trendy brown bottles with green labels. She also likes to read auras for people with this cool camera she has. It takes pictures of people and shows the colors surrounding them. Then she reads the image and tells her customers what the colors in their auras mean.
Meditation classes are held once a week, where she teaches people how to achieve a deep state of relaxation. These classes are conducted in a very calming room in the back of the store. I used to go to them with her, but she started paying me to run the register on those nights instead.
She had another small room added on to the rear of the store after she met Babs, a local massage therapist, and they decided to form a partnership. Babs is a wonderful person, and she and Grandma fast became best friends.
The soft lighting and mellow music, along with the pleasant herbal smells, greeted me as I stepped inside the store. It always felt serene to me.
“Hey, Lollipop!” Grandma called from behind the counter where she was rearranging merchandise. Lollipop had been her nickname for me as long as I could remember. I asked her once how she came up with the name, and she told me sometimes kids are sweet, and sometimes they need a good lickin’. I thought that was funny. “You want to help me stack these new lotions I made today? I’ve cleared a spot for them on the shelf in the corner.” She nodded in the general direction of a large box filled with bottles.
“Sure,” I said. I hefted the heavy box onto my hip and hobbled over to the shelves.
“I also got a new batch of antique jewelry I thought you’d be interested in looking at.”
Grandma often purchased antique crystal jewelry that caught her fancy and sold it in her store. She also collected several beautiful pieces for herself. I’d always been fascinated by them.
“That sounds great!” I replied enthusiastically, excited to see what she had acquired.
“I thought maybe you’d like to select a piece for your sixteenth birthday.”
“I’d love to!” I replied with a grin.
I hurried and continued my shelving until all the bottles were neatly arranged in perfect rows. When I was done, I grabbed the box and headed toward the storeroom.
“I’ll meet you in there as soon as this customer is finished,” she whispered as I passed by, tipping her head toward a woman who had entered the shop.
Nodding, I stepped through the funky beaded curtain separating the backroom from the rest of the store. I broke the box down and stacked it in the corner where we stored them for recycling then went to sit at the table in the middle of the room. It was large and had bowls and bottles of different sizes used for grinding and mixing herbs scattered across it. I studied some of the containers for a few moments before Grandma breezed in.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, moving to a counter against one wall. She picked up a large, flat, wooden case.
“No problem.”
She brought the case to the table, popped open the latch, and lifted the lid.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, as the beautiful pieces came into sight. There were pendants, rings, and bracelets of all sizes and colors. I greedily took it all in, my eyes flitting over the beautiful craftsmanship of an era gone by.
“See anything in particular you like?” Grandma asked, the same light of excitement in her eyes.
“There are so many choices.” I ran my fingers across piece after piece, taking in each design.
The chime on the door in the front of the store jingled, alerting us to the arrival of another customer.
“Keep looking. I’ll be right back,” Grandma said, heading out of the room.
I continued my perusal of the gems until my eyes rested on a lovely violet pendant. Gently, I lifted it from the box, letting the heavily tarnished chain fall through my fingers as I held the scrolling silver filigree surrounding the purple crystal. I slowly ran one finger against the smooth and rounded oval stone. It sparkled in the light so beautifully it was almost hypnotic. I turned the piece to examine the back and noticed a small symbol etched into the bottom. It was the letter P in the middle of a tiny heart.
Well, that’s convenient, I thought. It was as if it were engraved just for me.
Grandma broke the silence when she entered the room again.
“Did you find something that speaks to you?” She smiled, her eyes flashing.
I held up the purple pendant, and Grandma laughed.
“You have good taste. This is the most expensive one in the bunch.”
“Oh,” I replied, downhearted. “I can pick another one.”
“Nonsense,” Grandma said, patting my shoulder gently. “I’ll let you in on a secret. You don’t choose the jewelry. The jewelry chooses you.” She reached out and took the pendant from me. “You may have it on your birthday,” she added with a smile.
I stood and gave her a big hug.
“Thanks, Grandma. This is more than I could’ve imagined.”
Grandma laughed again. “It’s only part of your present.” Her eyes twinkling in secret delight, and I looked at her with anticipation. “No more hints!” she said, shaking her finger at me. “I’ve said too much already.”
Of Witches and Warlocks: The Trouble with Spells Page 2