No. That was my first thought. Just no.
What did the World Council of Witches want with me? Their bylaws made it very clear that I didn’t qualify for membership—not that I cared to join their ultra-exclusionary club.
And choosing clothes for women that made them feel sexy and confident couldn’t possibly count as a violation of using magic without—
“Jessica Gold?” Doorway Guy said, in such a deep voice that nearly every customer in the shop spun around curiously to look at him, and then—the ones who knew me, at least—at me.
And though the expression on his face was carefully neutral, my heart started banging in my chest.
Run, I thought. Run.
But where? Earlier that morning I’d propped open the shop’s front door to welcome in not only the crisp autumn breeze, but the many out-of-towners who’d come from the city to look at the leaves, which had recently peaked in color, setting the forested hillsides around Connecticut’s Gold Coast ablaze in brilliant swathes of red, gold, and orange.
But now as tourists strolled down the Post Road past Enchantments’ open front door and peeked inside, all they could see was this guy’s broad-shouldered back as he stared at me, refusing to budge until I spoke with him—and blocking my only path of escape.
Great. So not only was I being held hostage by a member of the WCW, I was losing potential sales, as well.
It’s really no wonder witches have such a bad reputation.
Fine. I wasn’t going to run. Even if I had somewhere to go, that would be undignified.
“Uh, Becca,” I said to my trusty sales assistant. “Could you ring up Mrs. Dunleavy’s purchases after she’s changed? I have to meet with this, er, gentleman here for a few moments.”
Gentleman. Yeah, right.
“Of course.” Becca’s dark eyes were wide with curiosity and concern as she watched the tall stranger follow me into my small, cluttered office in the back of the shop—curiosity because she’d never seen this man before, and concern because . . . well, my office was a well-known disaster area, and I’d never allowed anyone in there before—anyone except Enchantments employees and Pye, my cat and our official shop mascot.
“Sorry,” I muttered as I lifted a pile of unpriced bralettes in order to make room for him on the office’s only visitor’s chair.
Since there was no place to put the lacy bralettes, however, due to the piles of other merchandise, not to mention the bags of candy I’d bought (and already begun snacking on) to give out during the Post Road’s Halloween Trick-or-Treating, I could only set them on the desk in front of me . . .
Which meant that I was now going to have to have a meeting with a member of an association that billed itself as “the world’s largest professional organization meant to advance the common interests of witches” over a pile of ladies undergarments.
But then I reminded myself that I didn’t care. There was nothing for me to be embarrassed about or ashamed of. Women needed stylish, comfortable bras, and there wasn’t anything about his organization that advanced my interests.
“Look, Mr., er,” I began.
“It’s Derrick,” Hot Doorway Guy said. “Derrick Winters.”
That threw me. Whoever heard of a WCW member named Derrick? Most of them were proud that they could trace their “magick” lineage back to Colonial times, or even earlier. They all had names like Elizabeth Carrington or John Ayres or, in the case of West Harbor’s local rep, Rosalie Hopkins.
Hot Doorway Guy didn’t even look like a member of the World Council of Witches, except for the amulet. He looked . . . well, more like someone who hunted witches: tall, dressed all in black, lanky as a cowboy, but wearing biker boots—a rarity in this affluent part of Connecticut—with long blond hair tied back into a low messy knot at the nape of his neck, several days’ growth of whiskers, and angular features. His slate-gray eyes seemed to be judging all my sins at once: the disorganized office, open bags of Halloween candy, the yawning window behind me (for Pye to leap in and out of as he conducted his patrols between my house and the shop), and of course, the jumpsuit.
Still, the amulet didn’t lie. It was a slim crescent moon attached to a full moon, a design worn by all members of the WCW (which I’d never be), representing Gaia, the Greek goddess of creation.
I decided my best defense was to take the offense.
“Well, look, Derrick,” I said. “I don’t know what they’ve told you about me. And I don’t know what you thought you saw out there, either. But I can assure you, it wasn’t magic.”
He raised both golden blond eyebrows. “What wasn’t?”
“What you saw. First of all, I would never, ever cast a spell on someone without their consent. At least, not anymore. Spells cast as a juvenile shouldn’t count, in my opinion.”
The eyebrows went up even more, but before he had a chance to say anything, I barreled on.
“I ordered that dress with Margo Dunleavy in mind, and the shawl, too.” I rubbed my knuckles, remembering how I’d been up sewing on the crystals until well after midnight, knowing Mrs. Dunleavy would be coming in today. My joints were still a little sore. “She’s the mayor’s wife. This town is having a ball to celebrate its Tricentennial—”
“Yes, I noticed. The banners hanging from every single streetlamp were hard to miss.”
But he didn’t say it in an admiring way. He deadpanned it, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smirk.
I thought I knew what he was thinking—or what a rational person would be thinking, anyway. I forgot for a moment that WCW members aren’t rational.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. And, for the record, I, too, am against celebrating the three hundredth anniversary of the theft of land from its indigenous people.”
When his eyebrows only furrowed at this, I went on, quickly, “But the town council decided that if we threw a Tricentennial Festival the weekend of Halloween, complete with a ball in the village square, people would show up, and we’d make a lot of money. And it turns out they were right—tickets for the ball are two hundred dollars a pop, and they’re selling fast. Mrs. Dunleavy out there is the one who proposed that the sales go to West Harbor schools’ arts and music departments instead of beautifying the beach near the Yacht Club.” I tried to keep the self-satisfaction out of my voice over this turn of events, since Rosalie Hopkins was the one who’d made the Yacht Club beach proposal. “But that’s how Margo Dunleavy is—she goes out of her way to do kind things for people. She doesn’t even have kids! That’s why I thought it would be nice if she had something really spectacular to wear to the ball. But I don’t cast glamours on my customers. Ever. So you can go back and tell the Council they’re wasting their time. I haven’t broken their rules.”
Satisfied I’d put him in his place, I leaned back in my chair and thought about rewarding myself with a miniature Snickers bar, but decided it wouldn’t be dignified.
“Well,” Derrick replied, slowly. “That’s all good to know. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Really?” I was shocked. From what I’d read on the various spellworking message boards I belonged to, the WCW was always sticking its nose where it wasn’t needed, much less wanted. “Why are you here, then?” Suddenly realization hit, and I slammed both my hands down on either side of the pile of bras and pushed myself up to my feet. “Wait a minute. You can’t be telling me I’m on the Council’s shit list for something I did more than a decade ago, when I was only a teenager?”