Girl's Guide To Witchcraft Page 8

  "My best friend. Melissa White." I sent her a glare and a vehement shake of the head behind Montrose's back. "She's a baker," I added, as if that could erase Melissa's come-hither glance. "Almond Lust is her specialty. Look, I had a really crappy day, and she brought the bars over, and we decided to make some drinks, and she asked about the library down­stairs, and Neko brought up one of the books."

  I realized that I was rambling, and I forced myself to take a deep breath. Montrose nodded, as if he accepted my ex­planation of what had happened, but then he turned to glare at Neko. The cat-man was suddenly fascinated by his empty glass. "Whoops!" he said. "Time for a refill!" He dashed back into the kitchen, leaving Melissa alone in the doorway.

  I crossed over and took the pottery plate from her, placing it on the coffee table and waving everyone toward the hunter-green couches. It was obvious that Montrose wasn't leaving any time soon, and I decided I'd rather sit on an overstuffed cushion than stand to face an angry warder, es­pecially on a mojito-filled belly, without any dinner to speak of.

  Montrose followed my lead, sitting beside me with a casual sense of command. Melissa was forced to settle on the other couch with Neko, who joined us with a full glass. Montrose waited for both of them to grow still before he turned to me.

  "This has got to stop," he said. There was no room for argument, not even the protest that threatened to laugh past the lime taste at the back of my throat. "You don't under­stand. Witchcraft is powerful. The surges that you released from the house tonight could be felt for miles."

  "Felt?" My stomach did a flip-flop.

  "By warders. And other witches." Montrose waved toward the door, toward the darkened colonial gardens that sur­rounded my home. "And by the creatures that seek them out."

  I rubbed away goose bumps from my arms as I raised my chin defiantly. "Now you're just trying to frighten me."

  "I hope that's what I'm doing." Montrose reached for my glass and set it on the table. One part of my mind noticed that his hand was warmer than I expected it to be. His fingers were smoother, too, not the rough flesh that I an­ticipated, given his gruff tone. Another part of me noted that he took care to place the glass on a slate coaster, pro­tecting my coffee table from the evils of water rings.

  "Listen," he said. "We can end all this right now. The Covenants grant priority to any witch who actually pos­sesses the materials—books, runes, crystals. You don't have to take advantage of that presumption, though. If you'd like, you can give back everything in your basement."

  "Give it back?" Even saying the words felt wrong.

  "The Coven would gladly accept the return. As it is, they will likely contest your ownership, but things move slowly in Hecate's Court."

  Hecate's Court. He made it sound like traffic or small-claims court. I laughed uneasily, overwhelmed by the strangeness of all this.

  "Jane," he said. "This is serious."

  Jane. He'd called me by name.

  And all of a sudden, I was looking at Mr. David Mont­rose, Hecate's warder, a little differently. He wasn't a bully who'd come into my home to make me feel bad for fiddling with another person's property. Instead, he was a protector. He was a teacher. He was one of the good guys.

  Neko snorted, and the moment was ruined. Montrose turned to glare at my familiar. "Laugh all you want," he said to Neko. "But will you report to Hecate's Court when the dispute over ownership begins?"

  Neko squirmed for a moment before looking away. I glanced back at Montrose, only to find that I couldn't break his gaze. His eyes were brown, the color of dark chocolate. They were flecked with green, though, specks of color that gave them depth. All of a sudden, I was aware of the small creases around those eyes, the lines beside his mouth. He had a shallow cleft in his chin—-just a hint of a flaw to balance a face that might have been too pretty otherwise. I could tell that he had shaved that morning, but chestnut whiskers pricked his skin.

  And for just a moment I imagined kissing him. I envi­sioned the feel of those whiskers against my cheek, and then the soft touch of his lips. I thought about his hands, those marvelously warm, smooth hands, moving down my arms, then one palm cupping the back of my head as he pulled me closer. I imagined my own fingers grabbing at his hair, closing around his curls.

  "So," Montrose said, and the spell was broken. I was back in my living room, sitting rigidly on my couch. I stared at the mojito glass on the table, wondering just how drunk I must be. After all, I didn't know the first thing about Montrose. I certainly didn't know him like I did Jason Tem­pleton—how could I even think of letting the warder supplant my Imaginary Boyfriend?

  Wait. No one was supplanting anyone. Montrose was here as a warder. He was here to teach me about my magic, to make sure that I didn't break any bizarre astral laws, to help me keep the strange possessions that appeared to be mine. I might think that I was attracted to him, but that was probably just my old habit of developing crushes on men in power. I'd had my first crush on my fourth-grade social studies teacher, Mr. Solomon. And a monstrous one on my freshman literature professor. And a killer infatuation with my first boss for a summer job, at the Springfield Public Library.

  Whew. That was a close call. My entire career as a witch might be ruined if I let myself have a crush on my warder.

  My warder? My career as a witch? What was I thinking?

  Apparently, I had made a decision. I was going to learn about this witchcraft stuff. I was going to find out what powers I had, and I was going to explore how to use them.

  "So, what now?" I asked. I watched Melissa lean closer. I recognized the expression on her face as one of confusion. She couldn't know all the thoughts that had just careered through my head. Besides, I probably looked pretty dazed myself.

  Neko, though, was bouncing up and down on the couch. He looked like a little boy who had just been told that he was going to celebrate his birthday, the Fourth of July and Christmas, all in one day. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "We are going to have so much fun!"

  "What?" Melissa asked. "What's going on?"

  David looked at her, then at me. "Are you going to tell her, or shall I?"

  I swallowed, surprised to find my throat so dry. "I'm going to learn about this." I ran the next sentence through my head before I said it aloud. "I'm going to learn how to be a witch."

  David nodded, and I watched Melissa swallow a dozen questions. "First things first," he said. "No more alcohol."

  "For tonight?"

  "For good."

  Melissa laughed and said, "Well that's not going to happen."

  I glared at her. After all, I wasn't exactly a lush. I always knew exactly how much I was drinking, and I made a decision for every separate glass. I looked over Melissa's shoulder into the kitchen. Toward the empty bottle of rum. Toward the wand sitting on the counter. Well, I usually make a decision. When my familiar isn't pouring with a heavy hand.

  "It will," David said evenly. "If she wants to learn more."

  All of a sudden, it seemed important for me to stake a claim here. I mean, I'd spent eight years with Scott, with him telling me what to do and when to do it. I wasn't about to let some new man, some stranger, take charge of my life without putting up a fight. Even if he did know more about witchcraft than I did.

  "I won't drink when I'm working with you. I won't drink when I'm being a witch."

  Neko's guffaw sounded like it was from a sitcom laugh track. "As if you're the one setting the rules!"

  I scowled at him and turned to David. "I'm serious," I said. "It's not like Melissa and I get drunk every night. But I can't let this witchcraft thing take over my entire life."

  "This witchcraft thing," David repeated, and he shook his head. "You don't understand—"

  "And I'm not going to, if you set rules that change who I am." I was arguing with him like a Shakespeare comic heroine, hoping to match my Beatrice wit to his Benedick scorn. "I won't let you lock me up in a convent."

  A convent? Where did that come from. No one had said anything
about a convent, about sex, about any other re­strictions. We were talking about a few drinks. My face reddened as I continued to stare at David.

  I don't know what it was. Maybe it was my struggle to cool my burning cheeks. Maybe it was my sudden de­termination. Maybe it was just that the hour was getting late, and David was ready to go back home, or wherever it was that he stayed when he wasn't waiting for me to work some errant spell. But he nodded and said, "Very well."

  "Very well?" Neko squeaked, which was a good thing, because I wasn't certain what David had just agreed to.

  "Very well. You may have a drink, or two. But not when you're working magic. And not when we work together."

  I extended my hand, as if we had just negotiated some major business deal. My lips curled into a wide smile, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the mojitos talking, but I thought that it was something more. I thought that I was proud of myself, proud that I'd said what I wanted and stuck to my guns until I got it.

  David took my hand and pumped it three times in a classic business handshake. I couldn't help but look down at our fingers, and when I tried to glance back at his face, I couldn't meet his eyes. "We'll start tomorrow, then," he said. "After dinner."

  "After dinner." I sounded as if I accepted invitations for witchcraft training all the time.

  David nodded and stood up. He had almost opened the front door—his hand was on the latch—but then he turned back. He moved quickly, like a shepherd dog closing in on a rambling, errant sheep. I watched in surprise as he lifted one of Melissa's confections from the pottery plate on the coffee table. He took a bite, and his teeth flashed white against the shortbread and chocolate.

  "Mmm," he said, chewing carefully and swallowing. "Lust, indeed." I glanced at Melissa and saw her jaw drop, but it was my face that flamed with embarrassment. David's eyes met mine. "Until tomorrow."

  "Until tomorrow," I echoed, and I closed the door after him. I took a moment to compose myself before collaps­ing into Melissa and Neko's arms. Surrounded by their excited squeals, I wondered why they were cheering. Was it for me, because I was a witch? Or for me, a friend who had outwitted a demanding guest? Or for me, a completely exhausted and more than a little intoxicated homeowner and librarian and friend?

  What did it matter? They were my friends, and they were happy for me. Almost happy enough not to complain that we were out of mojitos.

  Someone had emptied an ashtray into my mouth. Probably the same someone who had pounded my forehead with a ball-peen hammer. The same someone who had placed ten-thousand-kilowatt lightbulbs outside my bedroom window.

  I moaned and rolled over, pulling my pillow on top of my head. My comforter slipped onto the floor (who had tangled it into such a massive knot while I slept?) and the chilly air immediately raised gooseflesh on my arms and legs. I swore and reached down for the quilt. My hand closed on empty air. I stretched farther, but found nothing. Resigning myself to do battle with the evil someone who had sabotaged my sleep—if only to regain my comforter—I sat up in bed.

  The clock screamed eight forty-five in angry red numbers.

  Eight forty-five.

  I needed to be at work in fifteen minutes.

  I swore again and threw myself into the hallway. One glance into the living room brought back all my memories of the night before. Had we really mixed another pitcher of drinks? Had we substituted vodka for rum? And frozen orange juice concentrate for lime juice? Screwdrivers, with mint, washing down two remaining Lust bars and not much else for supper? My belly trembled at the thought.

  No time to rue the damage.

  I splashed icy water on my face and began to attack my furry mouth with a generous swoop of Colgate. I made a face as I scraped the bristles across my tongue.

  "I wondered when you were going to wake up," Neko said, and I swallowed half of my toothpaste in surprise.

  "Eye i'nt oo ake ee?"

  "What? Sweetheart, are you still drunk from last night? I can't understand a word you're saying."

  I spat into the sink and whirled to shake my toothbrush in his general direction. "Why didn't you wake me?"

  "You needed your beauty sleep. After all, you're going to be working with David Montrose from here on out, and I'd hardly be a good familiar if I didn't make sure that you presented at your very best." He smiled slyly and gave me an appraising look. I could only imagine the glamour that he beheld, with my hair standing out at all angles and tooth­paste foaming at the corners of my mouth.

  "I have to be at work in fifteen minutes!"

  He glanced at his sleek wristwatch. "Ten, now."

  "Arrrr!" I grabbed for a hand towel and wiped my face dry. My hairbrush caught in my tangles and I forced it through the knots as I pushed past Neko into my room. I slammed the door and offered up a silent thank-you to Evelyn's foresight in establishing our latest get-out-the-patrons effort. At least I wouldn't have to figure out what to wear. My colonial costume beckoned from my closet. Fashion Central, here I come.

  I tugged open a dresser drawer and fumbled around for underwear. One clean pair remaining. I cast a dagger glance toward the hallway.

  "Neko!"

  "Yes?" He was clearly standing just the other side of the door. I jumped at the sound of his voice so near and cast a re­flexive eye toward Stupid Fish. The tetra was swimming in his tank, oblivious as ever. I sprinkled in a pinch of fish food and reminded myself that I needed to change his water. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes to nine. No fresh water today.

  "Neko, you're supposed to help me, right?" The question came out through clenched teeth as I pulled my panties into place and struggled with the hooks on my bra. Honestly, my clothes fit me better last fall. Last fall, when I was still engaged to Scott. Last fall, before I'd taken solace with my best friends, Ben and Jerry. And about a million pitchers of mojitos. And another one, last night, of minty screwdrivers. Don't think about it, I told myself, swallowing hard.

  "Yes?" He made his answer sound like a question, and I could picture his head turned to the side as he measured out what I was asking.

  "What about with things other than spells? I mean, if I don't have time to study the books downstairs and do things around the house, could you help me with chores?" Chores? I sounded like Gran. I tugged my hoops over my head and jerked them into place around my hips.

  "What did you have in mind?"

  The quilted petticoat settled over the hoops with a few brisk tugs. I jerked on my jacket, momentarily flustered by its fitted back and shortened flare around my hips. The cotton chintz was smooth under my fingers, but I didn't waste time admiring the floral design. "Laundry!" I called out to Neko as I grabbed my neckerchief.

  "Laundry?" His skeptical tone made it sound like a foreign word.

  "You know, washing machine, dryer? Little fabric softener sheets that smell like mountain meadows?" I whirled back to my bureau. My dress might be colonial, but I was still wearing contemporary shoes and panty hose. I could see the run in the first pair before I even pulled them out of the drawer. I couldn't risk Jason glimpsing any slovenly behavior on my part. After all, he might drop by the library any time.

  "You want me to do laundry?" Neko sounded scandal­ized.

  "I want you to help me so that I have time to study the books downstairs." I tried to sound reasonable. "Time to be the best witch that I can be." That sounded like an army slogan. Was there an army of witches? The uniform had to be better than the one I was wearing now.

  The second pair of hose looked fine until I worked my fingers down to the right toes. There were three little scabs of nail polish, each blocking a run. As I tried to maneuver my toes around the polish, I managed to tear open the entire leg.

  "Where?" The cat-man was no fool. He was wary of ac­cepting this new responsibility. I didn't blame him.

  "Up by Dupont Circle. There's a laundromat on P Street. You can take a cab there and back. My treat." Third time was the charm—my last pair of panty hose actually made it onto both feet. I tugged at th
e waistband, trying to stretch the hose higher, and I sighed when I realized that I might need to graduate to the dread "Q" size. I grabbed my mobcap and plopped it onto my unruly hair before I opened my bedroom door.

  "You'll throw in coffee?" Neko bargained. "I have to have something to sustain me while I wait for the clothes."

  I lugged my hamper into the hallway before closing my door and locking it behind me. I turned back in time to catch Neko's blatant disappointment that Stupid Fish would be beyond his reach. "Fine. One venti coffee. Or latte. Or steamed milk. Whatever you want." I dug in my purse for a crumpled five-dollar bill. "Here. And there are quarters in the pottery bowl, for the washing machine." I gestured to the kitchen counter. I was about to open the front door when a thought occurred to me. "You have done laundry before, haven't you?"

  "I'll check with the Coven," he said.

  "Neko—"

  "They knew how to make a mojito, didn't they?"

  Well, I couldn't argue with that.

  The Presbyterian church on the next block began to toll the hour, and I rushed around to the front of the Peabridge. I was digging around in my purse as I climbed the three stone steps. I had to have a lipstick in there somewhere. It was too late to do full makeup, but Gran always said that lipstick made a woman look put together.

  Gran. I hadn't spoken to her since leaving the Four Seasons. Her name had come up on caller ID both at home and at the office, and I'd heard four of her messages: "Jane Madison's grandmother," but I hadn't called her back yet. I still wasn't sure what I was going to say. I didn't know what I wanted to do about Clara. I had enough going on in my crazy, mixed-up life without that problem to solve.

  My fingers closed on a tube of Cover Girl. I squinted at the bottom of the barrel. Pick-Me-Up Pink. Was that an offer to put out? Or a plea for someone to brighten this already hideous day?

  "Good morning, Jane!" I looked up to find myself face-to-face with Harold Weems, our all-purpose janitor, main­tenance man, security guard and—apparently—greeter. Usually, Harold was too shy to mumble a hello. This morning, though, he was holding the door open for me. I was more than a little surprised as he looked me over, studying my outfit from head to toe. After all, we'd both been dressed to the colonial nines for a week now.