Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

P ortia

This gift of remote seeing can get annoying.

I haven't learned to control my ability to pick up on people's energy around me, which sometimes makes me want to retreat from society.

And all that psychic noise makes it extra hard to concentrate on seeing what's happening far away.

Like right now, I don't only see happy couples everywhere—taking selfies, walking hand in hand through the leaves, sharing pumpkin ice cream—as I march back to my dad's truck. I can feel them.

And it's breaking my heart.

Not because I want to fall in love. All I wanted was one single fun date and some hanky panky after the house party. See what a weirdo I am? No wonder no one wants to mess with me—no one calls sex "hanky panky."

A thought occurs to me then. I am a pretty powerful witch, after all. And some witches have gotten up to all sorts of out- of-character shenanigans on Halloween. Acting out is a rite of passage, like sowing wild oats.

If I want to lose my virginity, then maybe I just have to stop waiting for romance and make it happen.

Hmm. It's too late to start a love potion, or even a lust potion.

But maybe I could strike a deal…

I almost have to physically swat away the lovey-dovey energy around me so I can concentrate on peeking at my mom, a mile away on Colony Hill. I need to see if the coast is clear. I don't want any more sympathy, and I especially don't want anyone picking up on what I'm thinking about doing next.

In my mind's eye, the other elder witches are running around, preparing for Samhain. When I zero in on my mom, though, I find her and my dad passionately making out in the garden again. Gross.

See? Annoying.

But hopefully, that will keep her distracted enough to allow me to sneak up to my attic. I need to finish this costume and then get busy finding myself a willing partner. Or, I suppose, a paid partner.

The choice is simple. Spend Halloween night out in nature, honoring the ancestors with our mothers and the other elder witches? Or join the slutty kittens for a night of Jell-O shots, dancing, and making out in a haunted house? If I want sex for the first time to feel good, a paid succubus can make that happen, right?

Ever since I was old enough to procure a convincing fake ID, I always chose slutty kitten costumes and Jell-O shots with my sister Georgia and my friend Esther.

Since my older sister Georgia married her longtime girlfriend Dawn and moved to Salem, Esther and I are among the oldest of the younger generation of witches still in Birchdale. Esther won't be here much longer, so when I think about it, this is my last chance for a real Halloween rager.

Why not take an inter-dimensional demon by the horns?

I arrive back at my parents' house on Colony Hill to find all the elder witches rushing around putting up last-minute decorations in preparation for trick-or-treaters.

I tromp up to my attic and breathe a sigh of relief at the silence and the removal of my bra and jeans. I have the room protected with a silence spell. I can't hear other people's thoughts outside this room, and no one can listen to anything I do in here.

Comfortable in my favorite satin robe and underwear, I'm in the zone as I work, bent over the sewing machine.

I'm adding the golden cord trim to the overdress just as Mom softly knocks on my door. The hinges creak as she peeks inside, looking happy and flushed. Oh, goddess.

"Hi, honey. What time is the big Halloween party?"

I smile through the pins that I hold between my lips. This means she wants to know how long I plan to stick around after the trick-or-treaters are gone. She wants to be prepared so I don't stumble on her and my dad naked, outside, doing what the elder witches love to do on this night.

"Starts at 9," I say, pulling the needle from between my lips and pausing the machine. "But I'm not sure if I'm going."

She blinks. "But you've been planning your costume for a while now. I thought…"

"I don't think he's coming," I say, hedging my bets and hoping to throw her off the scent of what's rolling around in my head.

"I see," Mom says. "Well, you're welcome to stay for the Samhain ceremonies."

Under her arm she carries a basket of blessed apples, ready for the altar.

My stomach growls at the sight of them.

Apples. Didn't I read something recently in Magda's grimoire about apples…

Mom distracts me from this thought with, "Your dad and I would love to have you stay. But you should really get out and meet people."

Translate that to: "We feel sorry for you so we won't push you away but please go."

I look down at my Princess Lily dress which I painstakingly sewed.

"I might go," I say, just to make my mom feel better. She exhales contentedly, then tosses me an apple.

"Here. For good luck," she says.

A blessed apple that's for the altar is not supposed to be a snack. But my mom has always been a little bit of a rebel. I've heard my dad say it's a reaction to being a goody-two-shoes for the first twenty-something years of her life. But I don't buy it. If anything, my dad has kept her feet on the ground.

"Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome. And if you need a disco nap before the party, don't worry about the trick-or-treaters. We've got it handled."

"Disco nap, Mom?" I roll my eyes.

Mom blows me a kiss and heads downstairs.

The apple in my hand is a perfect Honeycrisp. Shiny and tempting, without a single flaw in its tender skin. Ideal for doing a spell.

Before I can question it, I go to my closet and dig out the dark magic supplies I'm technically not trained to use yet. I've collected them over the years, out of curiosity, and I'm just grateful that Maple and Hollis haven't gone through my closet to discover them.

I grab the volcanic sand, then the black candle. A vial of pig's blood is next. I pick up the black magic spell book and, finally, Magda's grimoire. I set the rest of the things on my spellwork table, then sit cross-legged on my bed. I open the grimoire to the part about the apple.

"There is an old legend," it reads, "that a mate can be summoned when a maiden eats an apple in front of a mirror. But we are cautioned against this type of gray magic, as it is only a whitewashed version of darker spells. The Accord of 1859 can only hold against demonic forces if we white witches use our powers for unselfish reasons."

Sounds like gobbledygook to me. Sounds like someone doesn't want us to have any fun.

Maybe I'm feeling some kind of way after misreading my vision. But I'm tired of being a good little witch; I'm ready for a little devilish fun.

I take a deep breath and fidget with the loose knot at the front of my robe. Then, I open the black magic spell book and look for the entry on apples. What I read there makes my eyes go wide—and a particular need stirs in my panties.

This is the solution to my problem, right here in these pages.

What could possibly be more fun than a succubus-for-hire?

"A contractually obligated demon fulfills your deepest desires for one night. Dream escapades are an optional add-on. Price to be negotiated upon delivery."

I swallow and read on, scanning the long, dense columns of text for an explanation of the price. Of course, as a witch, I know perfectly well that every spell, every curse, comes with a price. White magic simply requires balance. For every positive, there's a negative. It's up to the witch to decide if the trade-off is worth it. Want to magically have your taxes done? The other side of that coin is you might have a slightly smaller refund. Want to raise someone from the dead? Someone else in the world of equal impact has to die. No one is dumb enough to choose that, especially not white witches.

So, we must always be careful.

That's the thing about black magic. When you deal with dark spirits, you never know what the price might be. It's always a gamble.

Am I ready for that?

What if the price is I'm dragged to hell to be an underworld bride for eternity? That probably won't happen. A succubus-for-hire is in the business simply to get a vacation from hell. I get what I want, and he gets a break from his prison.

Surely, that's all there is to it.

I climb off my bed, go to my spellwork table, and grab the bag of volcanic sand.

On the floor, I pour the sand carefully in the shape of a pentagram inside a summoning circle. Then, I carefully open the vial and pour the pig's blood inside the circle. For fun, I also toss the resin costume demon horns I made for my would-be date into the circle. It can't hurt to be extra specific.

Seated at my table, I set up my mirror and light the black candle in front of it.

I shut off the lights, then sit down in front of the mirror and say the words written in the black magic book.

"Dearest darkness, veil of night, hear me through space and light, be he far or be he near, bring the demon I desire here."

I eat the apple, then count out the seeds one by one.

One…two…three.

Three?

How in the heck can there be only three seeds in an apple?

Did I do the spell wrong?

I place the three seeds on the table in front of the mirror and finish eating as I stare at the darkness in the mirror's reflection.

I watch for a presence to appear. Or for anything at all to happen.

Well, this sucks.

That's it. I suck at visions. I suck at magic. I should tell Mom and Dad that I'm a normie and move to town with my normie friends. Maybe relocate to Boston and get a real office job with my business degree. Marry a virgin accountant. Have two kids and take vacations to Martha's Vineyard. Drive a Volvo. That might be nice. Or forget all of that and convert to another religion. Become a nun.

Sigh.

I plop my chin in my hand and stare at the princess dress at the sewing machine. Such a bummer. I would look so pretty in my costume. Too bad it was a complete and utter waste of time.

Something moves. I see it out of the corner of my eye.

My heart in my throat, my eyes catch on the mirror. Someone, or something, is behind me.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I slowly, inch by dreadful inch, turn around.

I gulp as black smoke rises from the circle. Is the room warmer than it was a minute ago?

The pentagram starts to crackle and glow like burning embers. I shriek and stand up, knocking over my mirror in the process. The black candle topples to the floor and rolls into the sand circle, its flame combining with the circle of fire. I shriek as the fire rises, higher and higher, licking the wood beams in my attic ceiling.

The curtains catch fire. The glass in my window shatters.

I am in so much trouble with Maple and Hollis.

My blood feels like it's literally boiling.

I scream, but my voice is gone.

What have I done?

This was a bad idea.

I feel dizzy. Nauseous. And terrified.

The shapes of two monstrous, horned creatures appear within the flames. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

One man is big, and the second shape is enormous. The red flames transform into an impossible, eerie black, pushing out more heat than before. Two sets of glowing, lizard-ish eyes stare back at me from the black fire, one set blue and the other black and gold.

My knees give out and I catch myself on the table's edge. The mirror breaks.

The flames extinguish instantly, snuffed out by some inexplicable force.

There's no smoke, no more sand circle, and no more glass in my window. The curtains have disintegrated, and matching circles of burned black wood are on my ceiling and floor.

And there, on the blackened wood floor, stand two demons—the most hideously menacing creatures I could have ever imagined. Their taloned claws, snaking tails, and carnivorous fangs are beyond anything I bargained for.

Finally, the scream bubbling up inside me finds my vocal cords.

I scream, and I scream, and I may never stop.