“Was your old high priestess this tough?” Mom used to belong to a smaller coven in a coastal town a few hours from Seattle. She moved to Salem for a job at the university, and when she fell in love with my dad, she stayed.
Mom pauses, too long to be telling the truth.
“Never mind. I have to go.” I slip out the front door just as my final alarm rings on my phone.
I drive to work in an angry haze. I’m not oblivious. I get why we need strict laws—exposure would be catastrophic—but I wish my parents could stand up for me once in a while. I wish my grandmother was more like Gemma’s, someone who’d bake me sweets and host sleepovers. A grandma who’d spoil me rotten, let me stay up too late, and make all my favorite foods.
With that particular pang of jealousy souring my hastily eaten breakfast, I arrive at the Fly by Night Cauldron. The lights are on, but the CLOSED sign still faces out.
“Lauren?” I call to my boss as I push through the already unlocked door. Tightness constricts my chest when she doesn’t reply right away. “Are you in here? Should I change the sign?”
A chair scrapes somewhere in the back of the shop. I tense, and my magic flares, reaching for the air around me. I shove the magic down, burying the impulse. “Lauren?”
“I’m with a customer. Go ahead.” Lauren’s voice floats through the shop like incense on a gentle breeze, and the power swirling under my skin finally relaxes.
I flip the sign to OPEN and head for the register to clock in. I punch in my four-digit passcode as a curtain to my left flutters, then rips open. Lauren stands on the other side with a man, his back to me. I can’t hear what he says, but it elicits a blush from my boss. Lauren gestures toward the door, and the man turns.
Shit.
Detective Archer. At my work. What is he doing here? As the detective passes the register, his gaze lands on me. Recognition lights his face, but he merely nods to me and continues out, the bell above the door jingling his departure. When my heart rate returns to normal, I look to Lauren. “What was he doing here?”
“Hmm?” Lauren fusses with her hair, the wide sleeves of her dress falling to her elbows. “Oh, Ryan? He’s new in town. I guess he’s introducing himself to all the local business owners.” She sighs and leans her hip against the counter.
Something doesn’t add up. “What was he doing in the back?”
Lauren’s face flushes even redder. “I offered him a tarot reading. On the house.”
“Anything interesting?” Maybe something came up about the bonfire. Not likely but not impossible either, especially since the detective was investigating it so recently.
“You know I can’t discuss a client’s reading, Hannah.” Lauren may look like a ridiculous cliché—with her old-fashioned black dress, dark hair hanging well past her shoulders, and a pentacle the size of a baseball swinging from her neck—but she’s a professional through and through. She isn’t some Reg playing dress up, either; she’s the real deal.
Well, sorta.
Lauren wasn’t born to the Witch Clans, but she’s a legitimate Third-Degree Wiccan High Priestess. She’s studied Wicca for over a decade, advancing through the stages of initiation, learning all she can about the magical properties of herbs and moon phases and crystals and the rest of the natural world. Providing counsel to her own initiates and those who come to her for guidance.
She’s almost like a Caster Witch, brewing potions and weaving spells. The same thirst to always learn more.
But that’s where the similarities end. Lauren isn’t a Caster. Her magic has nowhere near the reach. The immediacy. The strength. And yet there’s no denying the power she does have.
“I will say this, though,” Lauren continues, glancing toward the door to make sure Detective Archer isn’t lingering on the premises, “that man is going to be good for Salem.” She sighs, a soft, dreamy sound, and then seems to realize I’m still standing next to her. “Why don’t you dust the shelves while we wait for Cal to arrive.”
“Cal?”
Lauren nods. “He interviewed yesterday and was eager to get started. When he gets here, can you teach him the register? I’ve got back-to-back appointments most of the day.”
“Sure,” I say, reaching behind the counter for the dust cloth and Lauren’s homemade cleaning spray, a mixture of water, vinegar, and lemon oil. I’m fairly certain she blesses each batch under a full moon for good measure.
I start with the counter, then move to dusting the tops of the mirrors and picture frames that hang along the back wall. Customers always get a kick out of Lauren’s Shoplifters Will Be Hexed! cross-stitched sign.
The bell above the door jingles, and I turn to herd the day’s first official client back to Lauren’s private reading room. Most of our customers are drawn to the shop by Lauren’s reputation with tarot, and today is no exception. I lead a short man in a crisp black suit to the back of the shop, where Lauren has candles and incense burning to cleanse and prepare the space. When I head back to the counter, there’s someone drumming their fingers along the glass.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I just finished cleaning that.
The drumming stops, and the guy turns with a wide grin that immediately puts me at ease. He’s about my height, his blond hair shaved on the sides and longer on top. He’s wearing dark jeans and one of our Cauldron T-shirts. “I’m Cal. I’m supposed to start work here today.” He gestures at our matching purple T-shirts to illustrate his point.
“Hannah,” I say, shaking his hand. “Lauren’s busy, so she asked me to show you the ropes.” I gesture for him to follow me behind the counter. “Did she give you a code for clocking in?”
Cal nods, reaching into his back pocket for a small moleskin notebook. He flips it open and riffles through a few pages. “Yup. Right here.”
I pull up the clock-in screen on the register and have Cal punch in his code. “Are you new in town?” I ask as he finishes up. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“It depends on how you define ‘new.’ I just finished my first year at Salem State. I’m from Boston initially, but I decided to stick around and earn some extra cash while I get ahead in my courses.” Cal gestures to the register. “Mind if I try?”
“Sure.” I return the ancient register to the cheesy early 2000s home screen and watch as Cal brings up the clock-in function. “Why do you have to get ahead?”
“College isn’t cheap,” Cal says, like it’s an obvious answer. “If I can finish my computer science degree in three years, I’ll save an entire year of tuition and housing costs. What about you?”