Page 7 of Bewicched

“I like green,” I said, though he’d stopped listening to me. His delight had me tearing up.

He turned to the door and then stopped himself, spinning back to me. “Sorry.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and laid five hundred dollars on the table. I’d told him on the phone my fee was two-fifty, so it was a nice tip.

“Thank you.”

“No,” he said, “thankyou.” As he left, he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Izzy, honey—” and then the door slammed.

I shook out my hands and jogged in place before bending forward, stretching, palms to the floor. I straightened up and pulled an old-fashioned scrunchie from my pocket. I swear, they were the only things strong enough to take on my hair. I tied my hair up and then headed for the back door. I needed my friends to shake off the melancholy of a beaten little boy who grew up, saw his father in the mirror, and began to fear himself.

The clouds had rolled in, the wind almost knocking me back through the doorway. I went to the edge and knelt, as I had before. Pulling off my gloves, I stuffed them in my pockets and then lay down, my head and shoulders over the edge, my arms hanging down.

Charlie and Herbert were still with me. “Hi, guys! Looks like the tide is coming in. I won’t be seeing you for a while. Is Cecil still here?” A tentacle rose and splashed the water at the surface. I waved back.

I’m only half wicche. My father is water fae. I’m not sure what flavor. I’ve never met him. Mom didn’t want to talk about him and my empathy for her discomfort meant I mostly kept my questions to myself. One of my more assholish cousins questioned if I should really be considered a Corey wicche, given my questionable parentage. My aunt Sylvia shut that shit down fast, smacking him upside the head and making him apologize. While it was nice in the moment, that stuff never works. It just taught him to be sneakier in the future, which he was.

From my father, I inherited an affinity for water, particularly the ocean. I held my hands over the waves and pulled, willing it to rise gently toward me. Much like my octopus friend Cecil, I could direct short bursts at a target. I’d mastered that by the time I was ten. And believe me when I tell you that my little shit cousin Colin got blasts of saltwater in the ear whenever he dared to go near the ocean.

It was slow, measured control that had always been difficult for me. I drew two narrow towers of water up, slowly pulling them to my palms. They were almost there, a foot away, when Wilbur shot up out of the ocean and dove through both lines of seawater, splashing me in the face and flinging the tennis ball onto the deck.

“Wilbur!” I wiped my face on my sleeve. “You little—fine,” I muttered. “You won that round.”

A tennis ball flew over my head, far out into the ocean. I reared back to find a certain dark-haired werewolf sitting on my deck, leaning against the doorframe of the studio. “Oh, it’s you.” I sat up, not liking a potential enemy at my back. “I thought I told you to scram.”

“You did. I came back to apologize. I was out of line.”

Huh. Another unexpected reaction. Interesting.

“Psychics.” There was that look of disgust again. “You seem nice enough and that water trick was cool, but I just don’t believe in psychic abilities.” He shrugged one big shoulder. “My aunt believed in that stuff and got taken by a never-ending chain of frauds, making vague predictions, rephrasing what she’d already told them to make it seem like they’d heard the info in the great beyond. It’s all smoke and mirrors, and then hand over the money. But what you do is none of my business, like you said, and I really want this job. So, I’m sorry for being rude earlier.” He stood, nodded once, and walked around the Sea Wicche to where he had no doubt parked.

When I looked down at the water, I found Wilbur looking back. He gave an exaggerated shake of his head and dove under.

Yeah, right there with you, buddy.

4

Yes, Mom. I Know, Mom

“Arwyn?” My mom’s voice floated through the open door.

What was she doing here? I gave Cecil a last wave, stood up, donned my gloves, and brushed the rotting wood dust from my clothes. Internally sighing, I headed in.

“Really, dear, is that what you’re wearing?” She swatted at the dirt on my knees. “I thought you said you had a reading today.” She gave my grubby gloves a shake of her head and pulled a clean pair from her bag. It was voluminous and carried all manner of things. “Here. Throw those things away.”

“They can be washed, Mom.” I wadded up the dirty ones and stuffed them in my pockets before carefully taking the new ones from her. I already knew that my mom considered a lot of what I did a waste of time. I didn’t need to brush her fingers and hear it again. Don’t get me wrong. She loved me and was proud of my art. She just thought I should prioritize my magic, that I would be using my skills to better advantage if I took my rightful place on the Corey Council.

“You saw a client like that?” The judgment was clear. “Sylvia and the girls are right behind me.”

“Okay.” My aunt Sylvia was great. Mom was the oldest of seven siblings, five girls, two boys. Sylvia was right in the middle of the seven and the one who never looked at me sideways because of my mixed parentage. I mean, it wasn’t like the aunts and uncles ever said anything to me directly, but I knew through the cousins that they took shots at me in private, too scared to take on my mother. As an adult, I can see how younger siblings, even those who were in their thirties and forties, could be resentful of their oldest sister, my mom, who held the Council position, had the strongest skills, and lost no power or privilege after giving birth to a question mark like me.

So, yeah, I understood why there were grumbles as my mom seemed like the perpetual golden child. What I didn’t understand was why any adult would let their annoyance and jealousy for a sister bleed into derision, even momentarily, for a child. Life was tough enough without my cousins feeling justified in any rotten stunt they pulled or cruel remark they made. Whatever. It taught me very early in life who was to be trusted and who was to be avoided. I guess that wasn’t a bad thing.

The front door swung open, and my aunt Sylvia and her daughters Serena and Calliope walked in. Serena, of the dated-Logan-in-high-school fame, was gorgeous, but not a dick about it. She had long black hair, Corey green eyes, pouty lips, and cheekbones for days. She was a stunner, like her mom. And my mom, for that matter.

Coreys had a look, one I didn’t, for the most part, share. Corey green eyes were a dark, mossy color. Mine were a light sea green. Coreys had straight black hair and slim builds. My hair was a wild mix of brown, red, and gold colors that people had been accusing me of dyeing since I was in elementary school. Also, I was more curvy than athletic. Still, no one came close to my power, so they could shove the rest.

Calliope, or Cal as she was often called, was a pale imitation of Serena, not as tall, not as beautiful, not as popular, but she was mostly fine. She wore her hair short in a pixie cut that complemented her waifish looks. I’ll say this much for her, when the cousins were making jokes at my expense, she didn’t join in. I could see the glee in her eyes, but she never said anything, which I appreciated.

“Oh, Arwyn, it’s coming along so nicely!” Sylvia pulled her gaze from the windows to study the floor. “They did an excellent job on these. Sybil, look. Maybe we should do something like this at the teashop.” She glided over the floor. “It’s like walking on water, isn’t it?”

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