Page 1 of The Witch is Back

CHAPTER 1

Emma hated birthdays. And there were very few things she hated.

She had a long list of things she didn’t like. Public speaking, people making fun of her dog for his (lack of) looks, creating curses, horror movies, being late, witch high society, karaoke...they all held a spot on the list. But birthdays held a special spot on another, shorter list. Underlined, written in red ink and with three exclamation points.

Her human friend insisted that she couldn’t hate birthdays. What was there to hate?

Attention, Emma had always supplied. It was an easy answer, one Leah always laughed off. And it was half true. Emma really did hate the attention. If given the choice between everybody in a room raising a glass, all eyes on her, or letting twenty thousand spiders crawl over her body, it was a no-brainer. Come one, come all arachnids.

Witches didn’t celebrate birthdays. Why celebrate a day you were born? Where was the achievement? Witches celebrated magic. The lineage, the strength, the rarity. And despite the debatable achievement of being born into a respectable family, Emma’s magic was less potent than watered-down vodka. Such was the way of younger siblings. Society—followed closely by her mother—had written her off as useless as far as magical status was concerned. No, her usefulness lay elsewhere.

Her other reason for hating birthdays. The reason that had steered the course of her life ever since her mother had seen her playing with a Higher family’s son and seen a golden ticket. There were, after all, two ways a family could rise to Higher family status. One way was to distinguish themselves with magic.

The other was to marry into it.

But that was the past. And now she was here, in Chicago, surrounded by humans and their human preoccupation with being free to live as they wanted, following hearts and passions and squeezing every drop of the lemons life gave them. Which was how Emma found herself reluctantly taking a shift manning front of house at her bar, after their full-time bartender had thrown caution to the excessive wind that gave the city its nickname and followed her boyfriend to Seattle. Well wishes and all that, but damn her for leaving Emma in this position.

Emma wasn’t good with people. She loved watching them, but shove her into a situation where she had to make small talk and be interesting, and it had the same effect as using a sickening curse on a house plant. The leaves would wither and drop off, just like any conversation she was forced to be part of. The fact that she co-owned a human bar sometimes made her question her own mind.

But this wasn’t really her business. It was theirs. Hers, Leah’s and Tia’s—Tia, her best and only witch friend. Gloria Hightower had sure made an elemental mistake the day she’d forbidden her eight-year-old daughter from playing with the lesser Emmaline Bluewater. Anyone could see that forbidding Tia to do something was the quickest way to get her to jump right in. Both feet, no floaties, a daredevil grin on her face.

And thank the Goddess for her—and for Toil and Trouble, which, while not Emma’s first choice of a career, had indisputable fringe benefits. Like how it really, really ticked off her mother.

The thought invariably brought a half smug, half guilty smile to her face.

She’d spent the past hour crouched behind the polished walnut bar that ran the length of the thirty-foot space, checking wine bottle levels and serving the occasional customer. At least the business crowd didn’t expect banter, and since most came in like they were entering Noah’s Ark—two by two—she was pretty much treated as an extension of the bar’s furniture. No complaints here.

Now, finished with inventory, Emma rose from her crouch and placed her notepad on the counter. Her eyes swept the large space, double-checking all was okay. It seemed to be. Suit jackets had come off, ties loosened, heels slyly kicked off under tables. That had been important to Emma, that Toil and Trouble be a place people could relax. Nothing formal, not somewhere you felt judged.

Aside from that, Tia and Leah had taken the reins, from the gigantic wide-screen on the exposed brick wall at one end that silently played the news headlines, across the tables and booths outfitted in wine leather, to the small stage they used for karaoke nights, live music and other live performances. One man had even rented it to ask his girlfriend to marry him, (Emma’s idea of hell). Fortunately for him, his girlfriend had said yes.

Emma just hoped for his sake she’d gone through with it. The fallout otherwise wasn’t pretty.

“Hey, cutie.” Leah’s voice acted like a sudden beam of light, interrupting that dark path of thought. Emma straightened from where she leaned on the bar as her friend bounced up to her. The street doors rocked from Leah’s usual pace of eighty miles per hour.

A perky blonde human in jeans, a peacoat and a Cubs cap, Leah radiated vitality. If the humans ever wanted to solve the energy crisis, they could hook her up to the grid and have done with it. The woman lived at breakneck speed and figured she had two hands and twenty-four hours in a day for a reason.

Emma adored her. “What are you doing here?”

“What a welcome. All it needs is a party popper and some balloons to be complete.”

“I just meant, I thought you were at the shelter today.”

Leah’s grin was easy as she slid onto a bar stool. “I finished my shift and thought I’d swing by, see how you were doing.”

In addition to co-owning the bar, Leah volunteered at a local animal rescue shelter. It was actually where she and Emma had first met. Emma’s dog, a mixed breed—the polite way of describing Chester, who seemed to take traits from a dozen dogs—had been Leah’s recommendation. They’d been fast friends, with Emma also taking some shifts with Sloane, her half sister, when she had spare time.

“Fine. Good. It’s been slow.” Which had been the idea behind the three of them deciding to stick Emma on afternoons. Less need to banter.

Leah spied her notepad. “You know, it’s amazing.” She pulled the notebook and pen toward her and began to doodle a broomstick. “All that power and you still use a pen and paper.”

The hair on Emma’s neck prickled. “Leah.”

“Please.” Leah waved away her concern, even though she did lower her voice. She began on a cauldron. No matter what Emma and Tia told her, Leah refused to believe cauldrons weren’t a part of witch culture. “Nobody’s going to take me seriously.”

Still, Emma tamped down the urge to check the compact in her stowed purse. You never knew who could be eavesdropping through a mirror. “It’s not good to rely on too much magic.” She mouthed the last word.

Leah leaned in. Her voice, though quiet, brimmed with bottled enthusiasm. “And why is that? If I was a witch, I’d so abuse my powers.”

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