Bewitched Read online

  “What?” I lurch away from the counter. My bag hits a bowl of small stones, which plunk loudly on the uneven wood floor as they fall. I bend to pick them up.

  A gentle shove pushes me out of the way. “Stop. Let me read them for you.” She leans over to study the stones. “Interesting, very interesting.” Her elegant finger taps her chin. “Oh, look at that. I haven’t seen that in years.”

  I gaze down at the pebbles on the floor—some have markings on them that looked like the runes Sam keeps in a velvet bag in her desk. I stand there, unsure of what to do with my hands, as she continues her examination, softly exclaiming to herself. Finally, she stands up and stares at me.

  For a long time.

  At least an hour.

  Or what feels like an hour of intense scrutiny.

  My face grows hot and my forehead itches. I glance around, unable to continue to meet her steadfast gaze, and scratch a nonexistent itch above my eyebrow.

  She finally snaps out of her one woman staring contest. “Your tea is getting cold.”

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, I made you a cup of mint tea. What did you think it was?”

  “Um, well.” I let my gaze flit around the store and shrug my shoulders.

  Her laughter echoes the chimes on the door, light and ethereal. “You thought it was a potion?”

  I nod, feeling stupid. I take a sip and let the heat soothe my nerves.

  “Oh, my dear. No. I’d never give you a potion unless you asked for one.” She studies me again. “Do you want one? Perhaps something for concentration for better grades? Although, I doubt you need that. Hmm … maybe love?”

  I meet her eyes briefly and blush.

  “Ah, love it is.”

  “No, not really. There isn’t anyone at the moment.”

  Her eyes flick back to the floor before she kneels to pick up the stones. “Are you sure?”

  I think of my complete lack of a love life. I’m not desperate enough to date someone like Hamilton again, but things are grim. Grimmer than grim. Saturday nights alone, or standing awkwardly at a campus party, nursing a red cup of cheap beer grim. Hell, I let Paul Uccello kiss me two weeks ago. His last name is Italian slang for penis. I could never marry a man and end up with penis as my last name. Oddly enough, he smelled like roasted chicken himself. Maybe his roommate had smudged him before the party. Or he eats a lot of herbs and spices on a frequent basis.

  “See the rune nearest your foot?” She picks it up and places it on my palm.

  “It looks like a B.” I hold it in my hand and trace the lines with my finger.

  “It’s the symbol for new beginnings and love.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Perhaps you have a secret admirer.”

  I shake my head. “He must be imaginary as well as secret.”

  Studying my face, she frowns. “So full of doubt.”

  Sam bounds up to the counter with a box of tarot cards and a bunch of sage bundles. “Hey, did you do a reading? That’s so cool!”

  “Not really. I knocked over the bowl of stones with my bag.”

  “There are no accidents,” both of them say at the same time.

  I roll my eyes.

  “She’s not a believer, is she?” the shop lady/witch/earth mother asks.

  Sam exhales an exaggerated sigh. “No, and her ancestors are from Salem. Like seventeenth century Salem.”

  “Sam, I’ve told you, that means nothing. Ten generations and not a witch in the bunch.” I glare at my best friend.

  “What’s your last name?” Glacier Eyes asks me.

  “It’s Bradbury.”

  “Is it? Well, that explains the reading.”

  I glance at the rune still in my hand.

  Sam’s eyes settle on my palm. “See? I told you things were changing for you. And with Mabon right around the corner!” She practically bounces on her heels with excitement.

  “Mabon?” I ask.

  “The fall equinox to you,” Sam explains. “Equal day and night. Balance of light and dark. It’s a week from Saturday.”

  Our hostess nods her head. “Time to embrace the darkness.”

  Her words send a chill down my spine, and I shiver although the room remains the same temperature.

  “We’ll definitely need to smudge you soon. The sooner the better. And definitely before Samhain.” At my confused expression, Sam explains, “Halloween to you. Oh, we should do it this weekend.” She nods away in agreement with herself.

  I rub my arms in an attempt to get warm. A familiar sensation tingles on my skin, and I turn my head to meet colorless eyes.

  “When you’re ready, come back and see me again. I’m Sarah by the way.” She extends her hand.

  “Madison.” When my palm touches hers, I have the distinct feeling of being read or analyzed.

  We say our goodbyes and leave, me practically shoving Sam out the door. She’s mid-sentence about her intuition when the door closes.

  As we walk down the crooked streets toward our dorm, Sam chatters on about how wicked cool it is Sarah did a reading for me and how she is a powerful witch, head of the local coven, and famous for her spells and intuition.

  I stuff my hands in my hoodie pockets while I pretend to listen. My fingers wrap around a smooth object.

  “Oh crap.” I pull the pebble from my pocket. “I stole her rune.”

  Sam laughs and shakes her head. “Flying monkeys! That’s five years bad luck for stealing from a witch.”

  My eyes bug out. Me and my karma are doomed.

  “I’m kidding.” Her shoulder bumps mine. “Come on, we’ll take it back and explain you weren’t intending to shoplift, beg for mercy, and all that.”

  Declining her offer, I send Sam back to campus, and return to the shop alone. A slight breeze ominously rattles a few dried leaves along the street when I pass the bronze statue of Roger Conant. Founder of Salem or not, the statue makes him look like a witch with his buckled-hat and billowing cape. He’s creepy. I always think his eyes follow me when I walk down this street.

  The bells chime again when I open the door of Sarah’s shop.

  “Back so soon?” Sarah asks without lifting her head.

  I hold out the rune in explanation.

  At my silence, she raises her eyes to my hand. “I didn’t peg you for a thief.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep it.” I stare down at my scuffed ballet flats.

  “Maybe it meant something to you? Struck a chord?” She returns the rune to its bowl.

  “I wish. Thank you for your optimism, but I think it’s lost on me.” I shrug in an attempt to pass off my depression over my nonexistent love life as nothing major.

  “You never know. Love always happens when you least expect it, and with the last guy you’d imagine.” Her icy eyes thaw with her kind expression. She walks around the counter and grabs something off the end of one of the aisles. “Since you aren’t a believer, this can’t hurt. Consider it a gift.”

  I study the package she hands me. The label reads Love Spell in a fancy cursive on a pink label. Inside are a candle, a vial of liquid, a tiny heart charm, ribbon, and what looked like pink peppercorns. I wonder if the vial contains the tears of dateless, single women. Sheesh, how pathetic.

  “Really?” I ask, incredulous. “Pepper?”

  She gently lifts one shoulder. “Couldn’t hurt. Right?” She winks at me.

  “Okay.” I tuck the package into my bag, already planning to throw it away later. “Thank you.”

  “Let me know if it works, Madison Bradbury.”

  The use of my full name strikes me as odd. The whole past hour has been strange. I nod in response, but don’t meet her eyes. A hush falls over the store, amplifying the sound of the creaking floorboards as I walk to the door.

  “A brown-haired Bradbury girl walking into my shop. After all this time, I’d given up hope,” Sarah mumbles when I cross the threshold. At least I think she says that. The words are lost beneath the sound
of bells.

  Three

  “Can’t you use your magical powers for something useful? Or fun? Like frozen margaritas?” I give our broken blender a dirty look.

  Sam sighs. “No, this isn’t Practical Magic.” She scowls as she rifles through her desk for matches. A bundle of sage lies on my bed, awaiting fire.

  “Can’t you set it on fire with your mind?”

  “Sadly, no.” She shoves a drawer closed and opens another one.

  “Won’t we set off the smoke alarm?” I sniff the herb. “Or get busted for smoking weed in our room? Maybe we should open the window.”

  “Good idea.” She pushes up the bottom of our window.

  “Great. Now the whole quad will think we’re potheads.”

  “Stop your complaining. That’s the whole reason we’re doing this to remove the dark cloud of negativity surrounding you.” She holds up a book of matches. “Ready?”

  “No. I’m not looking forward to smelling like a Thanksgiving turkey for the rest of the night.”

  “You can shower before we go to the party.”

  It’s Saturday night and that means bad beer in a Solo cup.

  “Another party? Haven’t we tortured ourselves enough this semester?” I scoot further back on my rumpled bed to rest my back against the wall.

  “Yes, another one. School has barely started. You need to snap out of your dating funk. Find a cute guy. Make out in the corner. Let him touch your boobs. Maybe grab his ass.”

  “Reminds me of all of sophomore year. Yet, strange guy ass sounds delightful.” I scrunch up my nose. “Can we go right this minute?”

  “Enough with the sarcasm. Shut up and hold still.” Sam lights the sage, and then blows on the flame to let it smolder.

  I cough and wave my hand in front of my face. “Now what?”

  “Stand up.”

  I shoot her a look, but stand while she waves the sage around me. The smoke stings my eyes, so I close them.

  “Think good thoughts. Or maybe conjure up your perfect guy. That’ll help.”

  I remember the love spell package in my bag. Sarah said true love comes when you least expect it, so does that mean I shouldn’t focus on it to make it happen? Or should I conjure up my perfect guy? All of this magic stuff is confusing.

  Inhaling a deep breath and coughing again, I try to list all of the things I want in a guy.

  Smart.

  Funny.

  Chivalrous.

  What? Mr. Darcy is hot.

  Great, now I’m thinking about Colin Firth and he’s like my dad’s age. So wrong. Okay, Madison, focus.

  Sam mutters something under her breath and spins me around to do my backside.

  Where was I? Right …

  Cute, but not a narcissist. A guy who doesn’t think he’s God’s gift to females, but gorgeous in his own way.

  Am I superficial? Do I care?

  Kind.

  Kind to animals, too. Always a good sign.

  I inhale, and cough again.

  Fit, but not a jock or super gym rat guy. Maybe a lacrosse or soccer player. Or a rower. Do we even have a crew team here?

  More of a lone wolf than part of a pack—aka frat—but not a loner with no friends because he’s too weird and anti-social to have friends.

  Mysterious.

  Gasping, I open my eyes. “I have a crush on Andrew Wildes.” I realize I described him perfectly. Well, not the athletic part. Maybe he hates cats. Or kittens. He has to have some flaws. Like a girlfriend.

  “You do?”

  Crap. I’d said it out loud.

  “The weird guy from your sem class?”

  “He’s not weird, just not super normal.”

  Sam rolls her eyes and walks over to our sink to extinguish the sage. “You’re cleansed.”

  “I don’t feel any different.” I sniff my ponytail. “I do smell different, though.”

  “It might take a while to—”

  Four quick, loud knocks interrupt her.

  Our eyes meet.

  “Who is it?” I mouth at her.

  She lifts her shoulders and mouths she has no idea. “Yeah?” she asks, stepping closer to the door, but not opening it.

  “Can you open the door?” a familiar male voice asks.

  I jump on my bed and grab my pillow, waving it around the room, hoping to clear any remaining smoke.

  Sam opens the door and Andrew Wildes stands on our threshold in all of his dark, brooding glory. I am on my bed waving a pink floral pillow around my head like a crazy person. Embarrassed, I quickly hop to the floor and throw the pillow behind me.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I was passing by and smelled smoke.” His eyes flash to mine. “Hi, Madison.”

  “Hi, Andrew.” I give him an embarrassed wave.

  Sam grins at me and then plasters on her best innocent expression to face him. “You did? How strange. Maybe we were making microwave popcorn and burned it.”

  “Maybe?” Andrew’s focus sweeps over our room and lands on mine again. “No microwave.”

  “Oh. Right. Funny that.” She giggles.

  He takes a step into the room and crosses his arms. “It smells like a roasted chicken in here.”

  I laugh, but stop myself mid-ha.

  “Are you a narc?” she asks.

  “No, but I am an RA.”

  “In this dorm?” I ask. I’ve never seen him in the building.

  “I’m in Emerson.”

  “So your powers don’t work here?” Sam jokes.

  His focus flicks to hers for a second before returning to me. “My powers work everywhere. Unlike illegal microwaves, cigarettes and other smoking, I’m not sure there are any rules banning sage smudging.” He steps to the sink and picks up the singed bundle of sage.

  “If you knew it was sage, why did you ask?” Sam asks.

  “Just checking to be sure you knew.” He spins the bundle between his long fingers before placing it back on the small counter. “Who was the smudger and who was the smudgee?”

  Apparently my brain has lost the ability to form words while Andrew stares at me, because I stand here mute.

  “I smudged Madison.” Sam confesses, shoving me in front of her.

  His deep brown eyes sweep over me, settling on a spot on my cheek. I realize he isn’t wearing his glasses, and his long lashes brush his cheek when he blinks. I’ve never noticed before how long they are. Ridiculously long. Ridiculously unfair. Andrew is the kind of guy you wouldn’t look twice at, until you do, and realize how handsome he is beyond the glasses and brooding.

  “Looks like you got a little close.” When he touches my cheek, I feel the heat of his fingertip ignite a trail of fire beneath my skin. He holds his finger in front of my eyes where I see a dark smear of charcoal.

  I brush my skin, hoping to remove any further smudges. Embarrassment heats my face. My recently admitted crush is standing in my room while I sport face-paint and smell like Thanksgiving dinner. Obviously, the smudging isn’t working to clear my mojo.

  His hand lifts as if he wants to touch my cheek again. I hold my breath and brace for impact. Instead, he subtly shakes his head and stuffs his hand in the pocket of his black hoodie.

  “Sorry to barge in. Lots of students are curious about witchcraft. Allison, on the first floor, almost set her comforter on fire with an enchanted candle.” He scoffs. “Probably best to avoid open flames in the dorms.”

  His eyes never leave mine as he speaks. I feel like I am being studied and categorized, but I’m not sure if the verdict is positive or more along the lines of stupid college girls and witchcraft. He’s impossible to read.

  While Andrew and I stare at each other, Sam clears her throat. “What are you doing tonight, Andrew?”

  Without breaking our bubble, he says, “Not really sure. I was headed upstairs when I smelled the smoke. To see a friend.”

  Girl friend or guy friend?

  “You know Tate? The RA on the third floor?” he asks.

  Sam a
nd I nod. Everyone knows Tate Winthrop. Even if he wasn’t a gazillionth generation Winthrop, everyone would still know him. There aren’t many six-foot-something white guys with dreadlocks down their back on our little college campus. Sam’s had a crush on Tate since the beginning of last year. He’s a pretty big reason why we still live in a double room as juniors. I can’t imagine Tate and Andrew being friends. Andrew seems too quiet, and more than a little uptight.

  A glimmer of a plan twinkles in Sam’s eyes. “You and Tate should come to the party on Elm Court tonight. Unless RAs aren’t allowed to go to off campus parties.”

  “We can if there isn’t alcohol. Or if everyone there is over twenty-one, it’s not a problem.” He smiles at Sam. “Are you legal?” he asks me.

  “She is. We both are.” Sam is lying. My birthday isn’t until late November; hers is in January.

  It would be easy for him to bust us by asking for IDs, but he doesn’t.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll see you there. No more smudging, ladies.” He doesn’t make a move to leave. Instead, we stand awkwardly in silence. At least I’m awkward. Sam looks delighted at her newfound connection to Tate.

  Torn between wanting him to get out of my room and throwing him down on my bed, I once again become mute. I’m so charming it’s amazing I’m single.

  “Okay,” I manage to say, finally. Parrots have more interesting contributions to conversations. “I’ll be in a corner with a Solo cup.”

  “Bring Tate!” Sam calls out as the door shuts behind him.

  Yep. Awkward.

  Four

  If Andrew bothered to show up at the party tonight, he’d find me in a corner with a bottle of cider. So shocking, I doubt he’d recognize me without the red cup.

  Sam covers up her disappointment about Tate’s no-show by chatting up every guy there who isn’t mashing his body or lips against a girl. Or guy. An endless parade of toads marches over to my corner with her encouragement. Not actual toads. Or frogs. Although one of them has buggy eyes and smells like a pond, so he might be a real toad in disguise. My grandmother’s words of dating wisdom come to mind.

  “You have to kiss a lot of toads to find your Prince Charming.”

  This from a woman who met and married a boy at seventeen. How many toads could she have kissed in western Massachusetts? Her town didn’t even have a stop sign.