Page 2 of The Accidental Witch

The handle of the broom leaned back now, too, mirroring her in an almost indignant stance—which was curious, considering he was basically a stick. “How dare you? Zere is only one Hervé!”

Oh hell.

She gripped the handle, pulling it close to her face, giving it a thorough eyeballing. “Okay,Hervé, as I said, I’m going to tell you one last time, back the hell off!”

“Mon dieu!” he spat in surprise. “Touchy witch is touchy!” He pushed away from her, using his bristles to dance backward.“Bah! Fine-fine. I will back away, but you will regret zis request.”

Herve skittered away to rest against the far wall from where she sat, waiting for these women from OOPS to make an appearance in some under-construction room that led to what looked like a medieval basement.

From where she sat, it looked like a waiting room. There was a small old-looking table with a vase of flowers, the chair she sat in, and a bunch of plastic separating a much larger, almost cavernous room, where the sounds of hammers and drills rang out.

The archway leading to the under-construction room was dark, though. Curious for this time of night, especially when you were using power tools.

Tottington had found this group of women on the Internet, after diligently searching all manner of keywords for her…predicament. Their website made the claim they could help solve all your accidental paranormal needs.

Ridiculous. The words flashing on that website with sparkly bursts of stars were ridiculous. What kind of world did they live in where they needed paranormal accident experts?

But what choice did she have? Who did you call when you had a talking broom and you’d set your hair on fire with your fingertips? Herfingertips.

It had happened so fast, Robbie almost couldn’t believe she was the one who’d done it, but Tottington confirmed it. She’d set fire to her own hair with her fingers.

Robbie clung to her left hand, shoving the deviant offender under her armpit as if that might prevent another inferno. She used her other hand to push the frayed ends of her hair away from her face.

Tottington stared at her from his place next to the puffy chair and cleared his throat.

Robbie sighed in exasperation. “What, T? Does it look that bad?”

He cocked his head in that haughty way one does when they’re British, but also riddled with good manners and years of rich-people protocol. “Certainly, it isn’t ideal for you to meet new people looking as though you’ve recently escaped a house fire. Alas, as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers. However, a good brushing before leaving that hellscape we call home wouldn’t have hurt.”

Rolling her eyes, Robbie made a face at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t change into something more appropriate before I came to find out how I managed to set my hair on fire with my fingers from these quacks. Next time, I’ll wear my good heels.”

He scoffed, running a long, slender finger down his shiny black tie, giving it a flick. “You don’t have any good heels left, Miss. You left them all behind at the residence where the matriarch of your bloodline with the fat keister full of wads of cash dwells, remember?”

Robbie fought a giggle. She’d really said that. Right in front of all of her mother’s fancy guests at one of her elite parties, where they ate caviar on water crackers and suckled at the mouths of dozens of bottles of Robert Mondavi.

“I’m not ever going to regret that night, Tottington. Not as long as I live. My mother’s a bad person and you know it. You’ve always known it. She can keep her expensive shoes and designer clothes. We’re doing just fine.”

And she was. Mostly. Maybe she worked in a Dollar General now because no one would hire her anywhere in the greater Tri-State area. Her mother had made sure of that. No one talked to Agatha Tisdale the way Robbie had. Not even her only daughter, apparently.

But so the heck what? She wasfree.

To think, but a year ago, she’d had an office in Manhattan in a high-rise building with a view—working for her mother as their head of public relations, of course. Until she wasn’t…

Stocking shelves at the DG wasn’t the worst thing in the world, and she’d made a couple of really nice friends. It was an honest living. Sort of.

Though, if she were truthful, it was a small living at best. Thankfully, Robbie’d socked away some money her mother had no idea existed. If she continued to live off that, she and Tottington might make it another four years before she collapsed in financial ruin and was forced to live on the streets.

But she’d do it all again in order to be able to sleep at night—so her skin wouldn’t crawl.

Tottington’s gray-blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Fine? Are we fine, Miss? We live in a ramshackle apartment building built somewhere in the age of paper-thin walls, with electrical wiring done in the days when they paid electricians in bags of beans. It smells alternately of two-week-old fried fish and despair, and there’s a spore of some sort growing in a decidedly monstrous pattern along the side of the shower tiles. It’s unspeakable.”

She winked at him, refusing to give in to the idea they lived in some sort of hell. “And it’s only eight hundred bucks a month—inLong Island, Tottington. That’s unheard of. We were lucky to find it. Plus, Mrs. Campisi brings us a free meal once a week when it’s fish day. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

He made a face, a rare departure from his normal placid glare—which meant he hotly disapproved. “Fish she buys from a gentleman named Momo Battaglio, Miss. Fish that tastes reminiscent of leather and sweat.”

Robbie shifted in her chair, using her right hand for leverage. “Have you eaten a lot of leather, Tottington?”

Now he gave her the disapproving glare. “I see you have quips this eve. Isn’t that lovely, considering you’ve fried half of your hair to a crisp, leaving it rather resembling a plate of the lovely Mrs. Campisi’s fish and lest we forget, you have a talking broom.”

---