Page 98 of The Secret Life of a Witch

EVALEE

Dude, clowns are so creepy. I mean, I already knew they were sketchy as hell, but this … this is beyond weird.

I’ve been tailing the giggling clown for over half an hour, and for the entire journey, she’s been giggling like a sprite doped up on helium. The really shitty part: I can’t even cover my own ears! My hands just slip through my head!

Gah! Being a ghost sucks almost as much as tailing a clown. A clown that acts like she has all the time in the damn world, bouncing up sidewalks and skipping across streets in all sorts of directions with seemingly no end destination.

After another ten minutes of following her, I’m about to say, “broomsticks out,” and go track down my body, Hunter, and Peyton, and hopefully the Ghost Breather, when she suddenly veers into my fake parents’ neighborhood.

“Where in the crazy clowns is she going?” I mumble as I float after her.

She skips down the sidewalk, passing the two-story homes until she arrives at my fake parents’, where she pauses at the fence to pluck a tulip from the garden, tucks it into her pink hair, and adjusts her overly large polka dot bowtie.

“You can do this,” she says as she giggles to herself. “No more talking in riddles. You need to make them understand. Understand the puzzle to the riddle that you speak.” Grimacing, she shakes her head and bounds up the paved driveway to the front porch.

I slink after her, floating up the driveway, over the railing, and onto the deck. “Why is she here? My fake parents hate clowns.”

Summoning a deep breath, she knocks on the front door while chanting under her breath, “No more giggling. No more giggling. Giggling is for sprites. You’re not a sprite. You’re a clown. No! You’re not a clown. You’re a creature of magic dust, glittery wings, and portals. You can glamour yourself when you’re in your true form. You are powerful.”

Almost every word she’s uttering is evasive or mixed in with a riddle, but as I replay her words, I have to wonder … “Are you a faerie?—”

The front door swings open, and my mom steps into the doorway. She’s dressed in a floral dress, topped off with a string of pearls and high heels. Her hair is in a bun, not a hair out of place.

For as long as I can remember, she’s always been very put-together. My fake dad is the same way, and so is Ryleigh. Or, well, alive, witch Ryleigh was. The zombie-witch Ryleigh seems about as far from put-together as a creature can get.

Anyway, as I stand here, observing my fake mom, I question how I didn’t see it. That she isn’t really my mother. Same with my father. Honestly, as twisted as this is going to sound, now that Ryleigh is a zombie-witch, she seems more like my sister than ever. Sure, we got along before she started craving the gooey taste of brains, but like my fake parents, she was always so perfect. Too perfect at times. Meanwhile, I was about as far from perfect as a witch could get.

Sighing, I lean against the railing and wait for my mom to rip the clown to bits, due to our shared mutual hatred for clowns.

Disdain flickers in my fake mom’s eyes as she eyeballs the clown over. “No clowns allowed.” She points to a sign beside the door where the words she just uttered are printed, then moves to shut the door.

The clown sticks her foot out and wedges the tip of her huge-ass shoe into the doorway, stopping the door from shutting. “The sign is a misunderstanding. I don’t come from the land of giggles and animal balloons. I come from the land of magic dust and portals.”

My mom crooks a brow, unimpressed. “Are you trying to convince me in riddles that you’re a faerie and not a clown? You should know that, if there’s anything that I trust less in this world than a demon, it’s a creature that paints their smiles on and has eyes big enough to swallow up my soul.”

When a giggle slips from the clown’s lips, she hastily slaps her hand across her mouth. “I didn’t mean to laugh. The noise just controls me.” She lowers her hand.

Shaking her head, my fake mom nudges the clown’s foot out of the way. “Leave before I call the police.”

The clown stomps her foot, panic flaring in her eyes. “Please, just one more riddle, and then I’ll go. This riddle, it’s the key to my name. My real name, which is important.”

My fake mom mutters incoherently under her breath then says, “You have thirty seconds before I call the cops.”

Nodding, the clown smooths her hair into place. “My real name is after a stone that comes in various sorts of colors, depending on the conditions of how the stone was formed. But a lot of the stones in Mystic Willow Bay have an iridescent coloring to them. And these rocks are everywhere up in the hills, particularly in the cave where the Mystic Willow Bay Society holds their secret meetings.”

“How do you know about the secret …?” My fake mom trails off, her eyes enlarging. “Opal?”

I stare at the clown in shock. Holy insane magic! Is it really Opal?

The clown eagerly nods, bouncing on her toes. “It’s me! It’s me! It’s me!” She makes ata-dapose, raising her hands.

My fake mom gapes at her. “What in the cursed witches happened to you?”

The clown—Opal—claps her hands. “What lives in a lair and curses those who roam the town whenever he pleases? And has an obsession with rainbow trout?”

“Oh, for the love of all annoying sprites,” my mom grumbles. “You’re stuck talking in riddles, aren’t you?”

Opal nods, her painted on smile growing. “I like to dance. I like to?—”

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