Page 2 of The Trouble With Spells
Thumping the suitcase behind me on each step, because it was ridiculously heavy, I inquired, “How many pairs of shoes do you need in the middle of the woods?”
“Callum!” She huffed, exasperated. “I can’t explain shoe logic to you. I’ve tried and you are just a hopeless lost cause. And I refuse to acknowledge that you are younger than me. If you are going to be the first male born into the family, in like…” she appeared to be trying to work out the math, then gave up with a wave of her hand, “ever, you could have the decency to at least be the older brother.”
Depositing her bag outside next to our mom’s minivan, I wheezed noisily. I still wasn’t convinced there wasn’t an actual dead body in it, but it was probably just my lack of upper body strength that had me huffing and puffing like I’d just tried to run a 5k marathon.
“You’re making my eyes twitch,” I told her, not completely lying, as I took a minute before trying to heft her bag into the back of the vehicle. “Both of them. At the same time.”
Before Daphne could retort with something sure to be sarcastic, our mom and grandmother came around from the side of the house, each carrying their own bags.
“Callum,” my mom, Sarah, said in the tone she used when she was going to say something that might possibly hurt my feelings, “no spells while we're away, okay? You know what happened last time.”
My gran, Abigail, snorted loudly. “Last time? Try every time the boy tries to work a spell.”
“I’m twenty-eight,” I reminded them, crossing my arms over my chest petulantly, and fighting the urge to pout. “Not a boy.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Gran hefted her bag into the van before I could take it from her.
“Gran, I was going to get that for you.”
Just because I gave my sister crap about carrying her bag, I had been raised with some manners. And since our dad had passed, I was technically the man of the house. My eighty-year-old grandmother didn’t need to be lugging around suitcases and tossing them around like they weighed next to nothing. At least I knew there wasn’t a dead body in Gran’s bag, by the way she had tossed itin. Though honestly, her bag probably did weigh next to nothing, since she was a sensible packer, unlike my sister.
“You’re a boy to me. Always will be,” she patted my cheek affectionately, and I couldn’t stay pissy with Gran.
“Seriously, Callum,” Mom’s matching eyes were soft as she searched mine. “We’re going to be gone for two weeks, off the grid. No cell phones, so you won’t be able to reach us if something goes…” she paused, searching for just the right word to describe my spell casting, “off-kilter. So, no spells. Please.”
“Yes, yes, I got it,” Mumbling, I shut the door for her once she was settled in the passenger seat. Because no one would dare take Abigail Spencer’s keys from her. Truthfully, people were better off with Gran behind the wheel than Mom, even with Gran’s failing eyesight. “No spells.”
“It’s just, with us gone…”
“What your mom is trying to say is there won’t be anyone here to supervise. Or to undo what you’ve done. And we all know what happened last time you were left home alone, spell casting.” Gran smiled at me, while Mom nodded her dark hair, with only a few strands of gray sprinkled through the rich inky blackness of it.
Rolling my eyes, I defended what had truly been an unfortunate event. “Turning Sean into a frog was a complete accident.”
“We know, sweetie.” Mom nodded, smiling indulgently.
“Was it, though?” Daphne asked, clearly questioning my motives.
Narrowing my eyes, I shot a glare in her direction, only to be met with her wide grinning face from the backseat.
“He was kind of a dick, is all I’m saying.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “No one blamed you for wanting to turn him into a better version of himself.”
“I didn’t mean to turn him into anything,” I hissed between clenched teeth.
It wasn’t my fault that my magic was, as Mom liked to remind us all, ‘a bit wonky’. My intuition was spot on–when it didn’t pertain to my love life–and I could read a person’s aura better than most witches out there. When it came to reading tarot cards, I was the best in my family. Gran often said I had the second sight, which was a special gift all by itself.
But spell casting?
That was where my powers failed me.
All. The. Time.
In spectacular fashion.
“I was trying to conjure breakfast in bed for us,” I mumbled, digging the toe of my tennis shoe into the gravel of the driveway. The mid-October breeze ruffled my dark hair, and I pushed it out of my eyes.
“Gag,” Daphne made a retching noise. “Why, even? He did not deserve breakfast in bed. I bet he wasn’t even thatgood of a fu–…kisser,” she amended when Mom spun her head and glared at her.
Rolling my eyes, I scratched the side of my nose with my middle finger, because Mom frowned at us flipping each other off. Daphne was right though; Sean hadn’t been good enough in bed to warrant breakfast. But I had been trying to be romantic, hoping the bad sex was just a one-off, nervous, bad night. My turning him into a frog, and subsequently having to get Mom to change him back–Daphne had refused, stating he was better as a frog–had pretty much sealed the deal of meneverseeing him again to find out.
