Page 8 of Obsession

“B.S. in Cambion BS,” I reply sweetly, and he laughs.

As we’re exiting the building, my stomach growls, letting me know I should have eaten a bigger breakfast. Damion stops at a coffee cart. “My beautiful girlfriend will have a chocolate chip muffin,” he announces to the worker.

“PhD in witch seduction.” He winks at me.

Chapter 4

Florence enters the shop carrying a bowl, and Amelia’s hot on her heels lugging a small cauldron. “Here, let me help you with that,” I tell Amelia, taking the cauldron from her and placing it on the counter.

“Really, I told her not to bring that old clunky thing,” Florence sighs, smoothing the jacket of her expensive pantsuit. I can’t help but be blinded by her diamond rings as they catch the overhead light.

“You have no flair for the dramatic. I mean, really, a mixing bowl!” Amelia laments.

“My cakes turn out so moist and yours turn out so dry for a reason,” Florence smiles sweetly. Oh no, I thought I’d already put to bed the southern caramel cake feud. It’s a long story involving pettiness and a church bake sale. I hate to be the one to say this, but Florence is right—Amelia’s cakes are a tad on the dry side. And by dry side, I mean Sahara Desert.

“Hey, everyone,” Charlotte says, joining us, and I give her a hug. My best friend and I are around the same age, but she’s a bit curvier than I am, and much shorter, with big brown eyes and beautiful honey-colored skin. Glasses frame her pretty face nicely.

“Charlotte, how are your baking skills, dear?” Amelia asks.

“The more important question—how are her bedroom skills?” Grandma asks, her timing impeccable as always.

“Vivian, don’t be so tacky,” Amelia chides.

“That reminds me, guess who has a new gentleman friend?” Florence stage-whispers.

“Florence, don’t you be tacky, either. He’s a nice, retired banker, who happens to also be a master gardener,” Amelia says primly.

“Someone who can appreciate the majesty of a hundred-year-old magnolia tree?” Florence fires back.

“I can certainly appreciate your magnolia tree up close and personal seeing that it’s still encroaching on my property,” Amelia returns. And here we go. It’s the magnolia tree feud, round two.

“I don’t have a bowl for scrying. Aubry, any suggestions?” Charlotte asks, defusing the situation.

“You came to the right shop,” I say, leading her to the small selection of black marble and soapstone bowls.

“This one,” she says, grabbing a soapstone bowl. “Put it on my tab, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sorry I’m late.” The last member of our circle, Julia Stafford, joins us. Julia’s what you’d envision when you think of a modern witch, with her edgy look, tattoo sleeves, and nose ring. She has an affinity for black, and tonight’s no exception; she’s wearing a black T-shirt and black leather pants with silver chains. Having changed up her asymmetrical bob, she's now growing her hair out and has added some purple streaks to her jet-black do.

“You and your new sub get tied up?” Grandma asks hopefully. Julia’s a Domme in the BDSM world, much to Vivian’s voyeuristic delight.

“Sorry to disappoint. I haven’t found a new sub,” Julia informs us.

“Amy safe worded too much,” Grandma explains with too much enthusiasm.

“Anyway, one of my clients arrived a few minutes late for her cut and color, and that put me behind schedule. Where’s Callie?” Julia asks.

“Don’t tell me she’s already taken off with a new man.” Florence sighs heavily.

“She’s at a women’s-only meditation retreat,” I jump in to say before the discussion veers to my aunt’s horrible judgment in men. “Let’s head upstairs, shall we?”

We walk upstairs to the rooftop patio that’s already ceremonially cleansed and set up for the ritual. Earlier, Grandma and I swept the patio with brooms, which has a twofold purpose—to actually clean the area, and also to symbolically clean away any stagnant energy to make room for the new energy of tonight’s magic. I’m not really sure how the myth of witches flying on brooms came about. One theory claims witches used flying ointments—a hallucinogenic salve that was placed on a staff, such as a broom handle. And they then, ahem, “rode” the broom. I’ve never asked Grandma about her take on the broomstick masturbation theory, for too many reasons to count. Needless to say, I just sweep with my broom.

We cast our circle and hold our bowls, or cauldron in the case of Amelia, filled with sunshine-charged water. I’ve selected my lucky wheat penny I’ve had since childhood and a ceramic bowl I painted black several years ago with Maddie.

Grandma leads our chant.

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