Page 1 of Sigils & Spells

FOR SHIFT’S SAKE

A SCARED SHIFTLESS PREQUEL

CHAPTER1

EVIE BALFOUR

“Evie!”Josiah, my boss, calls from the front room of the coffee shop. “Break’s over. We need you out front.”

I glance at my watch.

I haven’t had my full fifteen minutes yet.

But if I don’t head out to the front now, Josiah will spend the next five minutes shouting for me.

I try to rub my headache away, but it doesn’t help.

I can hear my grandmother’s voice echoing through my memory. “Never use your magic on yourself. It’s likely to rebound and cause problems later.”

But Granny Balfour didn’t suffer from migraines.

I’ve tried everything else. Even the medication the doctor had given me isn’t helping anymore.

I whisper a quiet incantation to myself and tap my forehead twice.

The pain lifts and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Granny Balfour was probably right. I’m guessing that using magic to eliminate the headaches is why the medicine doesn’t work any longer.

“Whatever,” I mutter to myself. I will go back to working on an anti-migraine potion soon—that will be less likely to cause problems than a direct spell.

Or maybe I can find another witch and we can trade healing spells, each of us helping the other get rid of some physical ailment.

With another sigh, I stand, my feet aching.

But they aren’t bad enough for me to want to use a spell to kill the pain. It isn’t excruciating and debilitating the way my headaches are.

In the front of the coffee shop, I slip behind the counter, already feeling more able to function. “Welcome to Déjà Brew,” I say to the woman waiting in line. “What can I get for you today?”

“It’s about time,” she says, her irritation threading through her voice.

I manage to keep a pleasant expression on my face, but only barely.

The woman huffs. “I’ll take a large, half-fat, sugar-free, double-shot vanilla latte.”

“You got it.” I give her the total and she runs her card through the credit machine.

No tip, I notice.

Of course.

Ruby is working the drink machines, so I simply write the order on the outside of a cup and hand it to her. Then I turn to take the next customer’s order and barely manage to suppress a gasp.

I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision, but what I’m seeing in front of me persists.

On one level—the one I suspect everyone else can see—he’s fairly normal-looking. I mean, he’s huge, but so are many other men. And he has the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Again, though, that’s not totally out of the range of what could be considered normal.

But there’s another image of him floating around his body, ghostly and wavering, almost like an aura—and yet not.

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