Charmed Read online

  The man can light fire with his hands. I’ve seen it done. Now I’m thinking he can also cause spontaneous combustion in me. Thankfully, he retreats a few feet and allows me some breathing room.

  “You have questions, I may have answers. Or at least ideas.” He buttons his coat and then opens the door for me.

  Sam and Tate left earlier this morning, giving me zero chance to grill her. Hopefully, no houses will land on any local witches and zero flying monkeys will be unleashed for the rest of the weekend, so I can catch up with my best friend.

  When I step through the doorway, a flash of black near my feet catches my attention. Mistoffelees dashes across the porch and leaps down the steps. I tense expecting him to go on the attack, but instead, he pounces on a leaf.

  “Your mom’s cat is strange.” I keep my eyes on the black fur ball as we walk to the gate.

  “Understatement of the year.” Andrew chuckles, reaching for my hand.

  Distracted by the cat and Andrew’s touch, I momentarily forget to be obsessed by the unanswered questions swirling in my head. We’re already at the corner when I ask, “Dr. Philips talks to his cat and his cat talks back?”

  He squeezes my fingers with his. “Something like that.”

  “Do you think Mildred’s been following us for months?”

  “It would seem likely.” His tone is completely nonplussed about this fact.

  “Doesn’t that bother you? Cat spy reporting back to Philips on our goings-ons and whereabouts.” I turn my head to check his reaction. The more I think about Mildred trailing us and then reporting back to her owner, the more I freak out. “Super creepy.”

  “I never thought about it that way.” He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Cats are everywhere in this town. I haven’t given much thought about them. It’s completely normal to see cats in the streets or shops.”

  “Is anything in Salem truly normal?” I ask, scrunching up my nose.

  “Good point.” He laughs.

  “Are there more familiars beside Mildred?’ I ask, not excited to find out there’s a secret network, a feline FBI, roaming the streets.

  “As far as we know, she’s the only one. Although there was a shifty-eyed seagull near the pier last week. I swear she gave me a dirty look full of disdain.”

  His joke doesn’t reassure me.

  “And Philips?” I ask, dread churning my stomach. “Do you trust him?”

  “He’s my godfather.” His voice is soft, but holds zero doubt. “My mother wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t trust him.”

  “Have you never seen the Godfather movies? Not exactly comforting. And what about Whitey Bulger? Wasn’t he some poor soul’s godfather? I think that person ended up dumped in the harbor or an unmarked shallow grave.”

  Andrew stops abruptly, jerking my arm behind me. “You’re confusing your English professor and his cat with the former Boston mob boss? I’m going out on a ledge here, but I’m confident he’s never ordered a hit on anyone.”

  “As far as you know.” With a smirk, I echo his earlier caveat. “Don’t give me that face.”

  “What face?” He lifts his eyebrows into a neutral expression.

  “The ‘you’re crazy’ face. I recognize it from the night I smudged myself and ended up smelling like a roast chicken.”

  His lips curl into a half smile. “Mmm, I happen to love a delicious roasted chicken. And by chicken, I mean you.” He pauses and his brows draw together. “Wow, that was really horrible.”

  Rolling my lips together, I attempt to not laugh at him. Attempt and fail.

  “Don’t laugh. You find my awkward charms irresistible.” He releases my hand to sling his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.

  “You charmed me with your brooding silence. I had no idea you had a chicken obsession.” My shoulder bumps his side when I laugh. This is nice. Normal. No random threats or strange cats that are super cats. No Lucy Kitty or magic books. Or blue haze of the past. Just us. Two people in love.

  I give myself permission to enjoy the moment instead of trying to solve all the mysteries.

  We walk the rest of the way to campus, not asking questions. Not talking at all.

  * * *

  Our happy bubble lasts the rest of the weekend and through the beginning of the week. Mostly because I intentionally avoid asking questions about anything related to the coven or magic. Andrew keeps giving me openings, but I wave him off. Or distract him with kissing, and if we’re alone, more.

  Finally, on Tuesday, Sam and I reconnect in our dorm room.

  Flopping on my twin bed, I surround myself with pillows and stare at Sam, who refuses to meet my gaze.

  “Ahem,” I say after an awkward few minutes of being ignored.

  “Nothing’s happened.” She sighs with frustration as she sits in her desk chair.

  “Define nothing.” Oh, she’s not getting off that easy. “Something seemed to be going on at Sarah’s.”

  “You’d think so, but if you were paying attention, and not getting freaky with Andrew in the attic, you might’ve picked up on the tension. Of course, Tate kept smoothing out the energy, as he does.”

  I study my best friend until she squirms. “Nope. Not buying it.”

  “I notice you didn’t deny getting freaky with Andrew. About time.” She grins at me.

  Even though I agree, I still throw a pillow at her. “Not nearly enough. We’ve been distracted. There’s a secret book and I can see dead people. Life’s full of cockblocking.”

  “Do you see the past all the time now?” she asks.

  “No, I have to concentrate, or be kissing Andrew, for it to happen.”

  “What about on campus? Have you seen anything here since we’ve been back?”

  “I haven’t tried lately. I’m keeping the ghost light on a low simmer for now.”

  “Aren’t you curious?” Sam leans forward. “Could be fascinating.”

  “Or horrible. I’m not sure of how much I can control. What if I see ghosts of dead students?” Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. Andrew and I have talked about testing my abilities, training myself to move easily between the past and present, but I’ve been resistant, hesitant. And a little afraid.

  “You won’t know unless you try.” She stands and then walks over to her dresser. Pulling out her cards, she takes a seat on her bed. “Let’s see what the cards say. They’ll guide us.”

  When she hands me the tarot deck, I take it, sitting up and crossing my legs.

  “Shuffle,” she instructs. “And think about your questions.”

  I close my eyes and concentrate. Images flash through my mind. The book. Lucy Kitty. Mildred. Andrew. Sarah. Philips. Boston. My grandmother. The farm. The graves. Blue haze. Money. Rope. Bones. Too many bones.

  Whoa. That went dark.

  My hands stop shuffling and I open my eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Sam sounds concerned.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You’re pale and have a wild look in your eyes. Like you’ve seen a ghost.” She swallows visibly. “Have you? Is there a ghost in our room?”

  “No?” My words come out a question.

  “Maddy. You have to be honest with me.” She sets the cards on her comforter.

  “I saw rope and bones when I concentrated on the cards. Piles of bones. No ghosts.” A shudder passes through me.

  “What else?” She flips over the first two cards to reveal the Hanged Man and Death.

  “Money.”

  A knock on the door interrupts us. We both turn our heads toward the sound but don’t move to get up.

  “Expecting Andrew?” she asks, returning the cards to the deck.

  “No. Tate?”

  Shaking her head, she says. “He has an RA meeting.”

  “Maybe it’s Grace?”

  “Madison? Are you here?” Lucy Kitty’s voice carries through the door.

  I hold my finger up to my mouth, silently telling Sam to keep quiet.

&nbs
p; “Sam?” More knocking follows and then the door handle turns. I don’t remember locking the door, but it doesn’t open.

  “I don’t think they’re here.” Lucy Kitty tells someone. “Let’s check the library. If I were a book, I’d be hidden in a library.”

  My eyes bug out, mirroring Sam’s expression. Barely moving, I reach for my phone and text Andrew.

  *Lucy’s here and knows about the book.*

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Andrew and Tate show up in our room.

  “Did you see Lucy?” I scan the hallway.

  “No sign of either her or Hamilton.” Andrew sits next to me on my bed while Tate remains standing.

  “Talking about a book doesn’t mean they know about the book,” Tate says.

  “True.” I try to let his words comfort me.

  “How could she know?” I ask.

  “Mrs. Howe is her grandmother, right?” Sam asks.

  “They’re estranged and don’t speak,” I remind her.

  “Or so we’ve been told.” Andrew stands and paces. “I think we need to check in with Philips and visit the society this week. They might have answers.”

  “Can we trust him?” Sam asks the question that’s been weighing on my mind. I know what Andrew said, but I’m in a “trust no one” kind of mood lately. Except of course the people in this room.

  “You and Madison with your doubts. I’ll tell you what I told her. My mother trusted him with my soul. I think that’s enough reason we don’t have to worry about him.” Andrew pauses. “He helped us when the curse was activated, he’s on our side.”

  I meet Sam’s eyes.

  “I trust him too,” Tate confirms. “Mrs. Howe and her granddaughter on the other hand …”

  He doesn’t need to finish his sentence.

  Andrew taps away on his phone. “Texting Sarah. We need to go to Boston as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  On the following afternoon, the most unlikely of road trip crew ever gathers at the train station in Salem. Sarah and Dr. Philips arrived together and have been speaking in hushed voices. I keep trying to eavesdrop, but haven’t heard anything of interest.

  “What can you tell us?” I ask, once again impatient for answers.

  “The Wicked Society is located in a brownstone off of Charles Street. We’ll be meeting with the current director, Geoffrey Gardner. He’s been briefed about recent events.” Sarah gives me a warm smile. “I’m optimistic we’ll have their full support.”

  “Can you back up? What or who is the Wicked Society?” Sam asks. “I searched online and nothing. Not a single mention or address.”

  “Of course, there won’t be anything online. The building is registered under another name.” Philips gives Tate a pointed look.

  Tate gives us a single nod. “It’s a Winthrop property. One of the less important nineteenth century acquisitions. Too small to be of much interest to my greedy cousins if they bothered to check the family records and discover it.”

  “A secret society of witches housed in a forgotten brownstone?” I can’t hide my trepidation.

  “Most covens prefer to stay off the public radar. This is really no different. They’re not the only ones who keep a low profile. Whoever Stanford is working with, or for, would be known to the Wicked Society.”

  “Why don’t you know already?” I ask. “Aren’t you the most powerful witch in Salem? Shouldn’t you know what’s going on in Boston?”

  “I never pretend to know everything.” After my accusations, her tone is defensive. “Because I prefer to focus on the light, I only know the local gossip about the darker corners of witchcraft. I have my suspicions, but no confirmation. This afternoon should provide you with more of the answers you seek.”

  The train rushes into the station, cutting off all conversation.

  We board and find seats close together. Andrew and I sit across the aisle from Tate and Sam while Philips and Sarah sit in the seats facing each other at the back of the train car.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask Andrew.

  “A little. I’ve never been inside the Society’s headquarters before. This should be interesting.” He gives my hand a comforting squeeze that fails to reassure me.

  “Interesting is one way to put it,” I mumble, staring out the window.

  Seven

  Our motley group troops up a steep sidewalk climbing up a slim Beacon Hill street. Other than window shopping along Charles Street, I’ve never spent time on the narrow, cobbled streets that make up one of Boston’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Glancing at Sam to see if she’s freaking out, I trip on an uneven brick in the sidewalk. Thankfully, Andrew’s holding my hand and prevents me from kissing the ground.

  “Here we are.” Tate stops in front of a Victorian brownstone.

  The only unique thing about the four-story brownstone is a small bay window jutting off of the second floor like a Tardis stuck to the exterior.

  “Do you see the Tardis?” I ask Andrew, whispering for no reason.

  Nodding, he squeezes my hand. “Maybe the Doctor will be able to help us.”

  It’s silly, but I love him a little more for playing along with my Doctor Who obsession. “Do you still have your Halloween costume?”

  His lips curl a fraction, forming a tiny, but wicked smile. “Maybe. Do you still have that tiny skirt?”

  For a few seconds, I forget where we are and who we’re with as I stare into his clear, aquamarine eyes. Halloween feels like it was a million years ago.

  The muffled sound of chimes pops the bubble between Andrew and me, reminding me of our location and mission.

  “Are they expecting us?” Sam asks from behind Tate, who stands closest to the door.

  “Of course. We’d never show up unannounced,” Philips scoffs. “Not only rude, but when it comes to the Society, surprises can be dangerous.”

  My eyes widen and I’m about to ask for more of an explanation, but the sound of locks opening draws my attention to the entrance. I half expect the door to creak on its hinges when it swings open.

  What I don’t anticipate is who answers it. At first I think it must be a strange similarity, because there’s no way the man standing across the threshold is the same man who showed up at the Winthrop mansion.

  “Officer Smith,” Tate says in the same bored monotone he used before when greeting the middle-aged man. A neatly tailored suit replaces the Marblehead police uniform he wore during our first encounter in December. His light brown hair is trimmed short and he sports square, metal-framed glasses over his brown eyes.

  “Mr. Winthrop. Nice to see you again.” Smith extends his hand to Tate. “Apologies about the last time we met. Sometimes I get a little carried away, like a kid with a new toy.”

  Accepting his hand with a friendly shake, Tate grins at Smith. “Your surliness puts the real Marblehead police to shame. You should consider giving training seminars in your free time.”

  “Right. When I find some, I’ll be sure to get right on that.” Smith’s focus drifts over Tate’s shoulder. When our eyes meet, I feel the building pressure of a headache for a second before it fades. His tone is formal yet friendly when he speaks again. “Welcome to the Wicked Society. Please come in.”

  After glancing behind us to scan the narrow street, he steps back, allowing the door to fully swing open. A large brass chandelier reflects light around a foyer lined in dark wood paneling—the understated style typical of Boston wealth.

  Sarah and Dr. Philips step through the door, offering warm greetings to Smith while Sam and I exchange wide-eyed looks of “what the eff is going on right now.”

  “Andrew?” I finally find my voice.

  He gives my hand a squeeze. “It’s okay. We’ll explain more once we’re inside.”

  “No.” The word comes out before I realize I’m the one speaking.

  “It’s better if you don’t linger outside,” Smith says, his voice kind, but slightly impatient. “You’re safe here.”


  I still don’t trust him. The pressure behind my eyes has faded, but I’m on edge. Something deep inside me is warning that once I go inside, nothing will ever be the same again.

  “Sure you’re not a cop?” I ask like I’m a drug dealer on an episode of Law and Order.

  “Not exactly.” Smith gives me a warm smile. “But I do love a car with its own flashing lights.”

  His chuckle should reassure me, but it doesn’t.

  Andrew’s hand presses against my lower back, encouraging me forward.

  We follow Smith, if that’s his real name, inside and across the black and white marble floor of the foyer. He leads us up the turned staircase into a parlor room filled with leather couches and velvet wingback chairs arranged around various tables anchored on large, burgundy antique rugs. The space is straight out of a classic private club and the only thing missing is a crowd of aging white men, snapping their newspapers while smoking cigars.

  “Have a seat. Geoffrey will be down in a few minutes. Can I get anyone some tea? Cookies?” Smith offers, sounding like a thoughtful host.

  “Both sound wonderful.” Philips settles into a deep, hunter green wingback chair.

  I remain standing until Smith leaves us.

  “What is going on?” I whisper to Sarah, who sits in the corner of the sofa opposite Philips.

  “You’ll need to be more specific.” She pats the cushion next to her, silently indicating I should sit down.

  “Why is the police officer here?” I ask.

  “I may have lied on the solstice,” Tate confesses, claiming a chair next to Philips. “There wasn’t a silent alarm that night, at least not one a security company would respond about. I picked up on a new energy in the room after Mrs. Howe explained about Lucy being her granddaughter. There was an abrupt shift in her field once she shared that information.”

  “I called him, creating an excuse for him to leave the room.” Sarah interrupts. “We needed to end the meeting before more information was shared.”

  “Are you saying Mrs. Howe is a spy?” I take a seat on the couch, feeling overwhelmed with each new revelation today.

  “Do you remember her knitting?” Sarah asks. “At first I thought it was a seed pattern, but as the evening wore on, I realized it was more a series of dots and dashes.”