Page 1 of Spice
One
Willow
If I have to hear “The Monster Mash” one more time, I’m going to hex someone.
Thankfully, today is Halloween, so tomorrow, all of the overplayed spooky music will disappear and I won’t have to listen to chains clanking and whiny sneering every forty-five minutes when I’m on shift at The Cauldron.
I glance around the cozy coffee shop, taking in the all of the decorations. Fake cobwebs hang from the corners of the ceiling, mini jack-o’-lanterns glow from the centre of each table, and fake candles flicker up on the shelves among the bottles of syrup and cinnamon powder.
And witches. Lots of basic witches ordering lots of pumpkin spice lattes. Now, don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a PSL as much as the next witch. But after you’ve made a thousand of them in just a few weeks, you start to get sick of the smell of nutmeg.
Plus I’m really sick of hearing “oooooo smash goooood.”Gets old real fast.
I adjust the sleeves of my chunky, oversized cardigan and toy with the pentagram pendant I always wear around my neck. It was a gift from my grandmother, whose grave I visited that morning. She passed three years ago, when I was just twenty, and I miss her like crazy. I still have my mom, but my mom and I have never quite connected the way Gran and I did. It was like we were on the same wavelength. The same frequency. Mom and I try, but her crazy doesn’t really match mine, so we clash often.
I slip a hand into my pocket, fingers brushing against the crystals there. Obsidian, black tourmaline, and smoky quartz for protection from anything that might be lurking around tonight, and hematite for grounding. They might just seem like pretty rocks to the non-magical, but to us witches, they’re sacred, just like every part of nature. When you’re born with magic, you have the innate ability to tap into the energy of every living thing around you.
A customer steps up to the counter, and I stop internally grousing and smile. “Hi, welcome to The Cauldron. What can I get for you?”
The pretty woman in her late twenties returns my smile. “Can I get a pumpkin spice latte, please? I hear you have the best ones in town.”
My smile widens slightly at her compliment. “I can’t argue with that. Coming right up.” I set to work making her drink—brewing the espresso and frothing the milk. I pour a generous amount of our homemade pumpkin spice syrup into the espresso, then fill the mug with the frothy milk. I top it with a massive dollop of whipped cream and sprinkle our house blend of magically blessed spices on top. The magic in the spices tingles slightly against my fingers as I sprinkle them across the whipped cream, and I whisper a tiny spell over the drink.
“May you find peace and prosperity all your days.” The spices shimmer briefly, and then fade back to normal. I set the drink onthe counter, the customer pays and retreats to a table, and I set about pouring myself a coffee. I still have an hour left in my shift before we close for the night, so I might as well enjoy it.
Mug in hand, I pour in some milk and then pick up a spoon, stirring clockwise three times. I sigh, the spell coming to my lips unbidden.
“As above so below
To my higher self, I now know
I am strong, courageous and free
Mighty strength lies within me
So mote it be, times three.”
This time nothing sparkles or fizzles, and I don’t feel the unmistakable tingle of my magic. Figures. It’s hard to summon magic for something I don’t truly believe. Do I want more out of life than working in a coffee shop? Sure. Of course. We all have dreams, don’t we? Do I want a boyfriend? Do I want to step into my magic more fully, even if it scares me? Yeah. I want more.
Do I think I canhavemore? Reply hazy, try again later.
Do I think Ideservemore? Not really. Smallness seems to come naturally to me. Maybe it’s because my mother always sucks up all the energy in the room, and I’ve had to make myself small to function with her. And now I’m so used to making myself small that I don’t know how to step into something bigger, even if I want to.
The chime over the door tinkles as it opens, bringing with it a gust of cold air…and the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on. My spoon clatters to the counter as I stare at him. He’s tall. Really tall. Well over six feet. He’s got long, dark curls that brush the collar of his wool coat, and eyes so blue I can make out their colour from across the coffee shop. His nose is aristocratic, straight and perfect, and his jaw looks as if it was hewn from marble by an artistic master. His full lips are framed by a light coating of stubble. He’s older than me, maybe by twenty years.There’s a slight hint of gray at his temples, which only adds to his distinguished, aristocratic look.
He’s beautiful.
And powerful. I can feel his magic from all the way over here. How have I never seen him before? Bramble Hollow isn’t a big town. I definitely would’ve noticed a gorgeous warlock whose magic practically sparks off of him. He’s broody, and I suck in a breath when I glimpse a flicker of his aura. There’s sadness there. A pervasive, dark loneliness that makes my chest ache.
His eyes snap to mine, and I feel a magnetic pull. My skin tingles and heat pulses down my spine. I’m enthralled. I can’t look away, and I don’t want to. But then he glances away, and I feel both relieved and disappointed. He takes his hand out of his pocket, and a heavy silver ring adorned with a rune catches the light. He’s dressed all in black—black wool coat open over a black sweater, black pants, shiny black shoes.
His eyes once again return to me, and the feelings are even more intense this time. My skin tingles and prickles. My breath catches in my throat. My vision tunnels, narrowing in on him, as though he’s pulling my soul towards him. I feel like I’m being held. Squeezed. My legs are heavy. I move to pick up my coffee, needing something to pull me out of this trance, and I accidentally knock over an empty mug, sending it falling from the counter to the floor. It hits the hard tiles and breaks into several large pieces, the thrall shattering along with the ceramic. I blink rapidly, scrambling to pick up the broken pieces, my cheeks hot.
I dump the broken mug into the garbage and turn just in time to watch Mr. Dangerously Hot slowly approach the counter. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, and for the briefest moment, I have a panicked sensation. But it’s the kind of panic you feel before you do something thrilling and reckless, like jump off thehighest diving board, or get a tattoo. The panic that comes with knowing you’re taking a risk.
I don’t like risks. Which is probably why I still work at a coffee shop and keep my dreams on a shelf, safely stored away for some nebulous future.
“One pumpkin spice latte, please,” he says. Oh, fuck me. He has a British accent. Because what this man needed was a way to be even hotter.
