Get Witch Quick (Wicked Society Book 1) Read online

  Especially if they’re spells or incantations. Which if you think about it, birthday wishes are both. What could be more powerful than a wish on the anniversary of our birth? My thoughts drift to the Sleeping Beauty story and how a single wish changed the course of her life. Did my grandmother gift me with a wish when I was born?

  Sarah once told me about a prophecy about a brown-haired Bradbury girl. According to her, Andrew and I are fated to be together.

  No pressure there.

  After cake, we spend the rest of the afternoon playing cornhole while my parents politely grill Andrew about his life. Gram meets my eyes a few times and gives me a wink. I’m not sure if it’s in approval or to remind me we share a secret. After her third win in a row, she declares a time-out for a bathroom break. Claiming to need one as well, I follow her into the house so I can corner her.

  Loitering outside of the bathroom, I pace the short hall while I wait for her. I have questions I can’t ask in front of my parents and she’s been avoiding being alone with me all day.

  The bathroom door opens and I stop in front of it. Gram jumps and then presses a hand to her chest. “You about scared me into an early grave!”

  “Sorry, but speaking of graves, I need to talk to you,” I whisper although I’m certain everyone is still outside.

  She peers down the hall. “Let’s go to the kitchen and wash some dishes. The sound of the water will prevent eavesdropping.”

  Trailing behind her, I watch as she fills one of the sinks with soap and water.

  “What do you know about the Wicked Society?” I ask her as the soap turns to suds.

  “There’s always been chatter about a secret group of witches in Boston, but I’ve never been. I prefer to stay on the farm and keep a low profile. As you know, I hadn’t even met the famous Sarah Wildes until December.”

  “Do you think it’s safe?” I question her, dipping a plate into the warm water.

  “Safety is relative.” Her dark eyes spark with amusement at her pun. “At least on the farm.”

  I bump her shoulder with mine. “Jokes about dead people? Morbid.”

  “The dead don’t mind. Unless you steal their bones. That’s plain rude.” She shakes her head while shifting the faucet to fill the other basin with clean water for rinsing. “Any more clues as to who would want the Corey bones?”

  “That’s why we’re working for the society. Combining forces. Like when all of the Avengers end up in the same movie to fight the ultimate enemy.” I hand her a plate to rinse.

  “I have no idea what any of that means.”

  I open my mouth to explain about Thor and Captain America, but she tsks at me.

  “I don’t need to know. Yes, there is safety in numbers, but you have to be able to protect yourself on your own. This is why magic is powerful and seen as a threat. Your powers don’t require an army, or even a coven. Remember this.” Her hushed tone gives a seriousness to her warning.

  “My power is seeing spirits and things from the past. How can those help me if we’re under attack? These ghosts aren’t like the exploding ectoplasm slime monsters in the movies.”

  Gram dips her chin and sighs. “Again with the random movie references.”

  “Okay, joking aside. I’m not sure how my abilities will be of any use now that we located the book.”

  “Never underestimate yourself. Did you open the envelope I gave you?”

  Remembering the thick cream paper, I shake my head. “No, it’s still with the book at the Winthrop mansion.”

  Gram nods once. “When you bring the book to Boston, make sure you bring the envelope, too.”

  “Can you tell me what’s inside of it?” I hand her the last plate.

  “And spoil all of the fun? Never.” She laughs when I flick soapy bubbles at her arm.

  “Then explain how you’re cheating at cornhole.” I open the drain and the water gurgles as it flows down the pipe.

  “Who said I was? Your father? Hmph. He’s a sore loser. Always has been. Maybe I’m naturally gifted when it comes to tossing a bean bag. My secret is that I imagine the bag going through the hole. Self-fulfilling prophecy. You’d be surprised at how well visualization works.” Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she faces me. “My faith in you has never wavered. From the second I met you, I’ve known you’ll do great things. You’ve never disappointed me.”

  “How did you know I was a witch?” I ask softly, drying my hands on the towel.

  “The tarot cards told me as soon as I found out your mother was pregnant with you. I kept asking the spirits and they always reassured me. Sometimes they’d get annoyed with my doubts, but their answer never changed. You are here for a purpose.” She stares out the window, her eyes soft and full of love. “And that young man out there is part of your purpose. I’m going to tell you one of the secrets of life.”

  I expect her to share some witchy wisdom.

  “Love him and be loved by him.”

  “That’s it?”

  Meeting my eyes, she gives me a small smile. “If only it were as easy as it sounds. No matter what happens, don’t lose your faith in love.”

  “Cornhole and words of wisdom. You’re on a roll today, Gram.” I loop my arm through hers and rest my head on the crown of hers. “I love you.”

  “And I you. Now let’s go rescue Andrew from your parents. I love them, too, but they’re a little boring.”

  Three

  On Monday, Andrew maneuvers his car through the narrow, one-way streets that drape Beacon Hill. Playing navigator, I’m in charge of locating the alley where we’re supposed to park. Unlike our first visit in February, we’re not allowed to use the main door on the street. Because that would be too easy.

  GPS won’t lead us to the rear entrance of the Wicked Society, because according to the internet, the address where we’re going doesn’t exist. Out of curiosity, I tried to look it up using street view. The rest of the street is crystal clear, but the building housing the Society’s headquarters is blurred completely. Gives new meaning to spending the summer off the grid.

  Per the handwritten instructions in my hand, we have to rely on the old-fashioned powers of observation and reading directions to navigate to the alley behind the row houses.

  “Take a right.” I point at a narrow opening up ahead. “Then another right, and the alley should be on your right.”

  Andrew furrows his brow. “Your directions have us going in a square. Are you sure you’re reading them correctly?”

  When he reaches for the piece of paper in my hand, I shoot him a dirty look. “Yes. I’m the navigator and I take my job more serious than Columbus.”

  Squinting, he tries to decipher if this is a good thing or complete nonsense. Whatever he decides, he still makes the series of turns.

  Lined with actual stones worn from centuries of travel, the alley manages to be even more narrow than the street. The sedan isn’t big, but I worry about the mirrors scraping the brick walls on either side of us.

  “Where are we supposed to park?” I study the instructions. “All this says is to stop in front of the black metal door next to the gas lamp. No house number.”

  “Here?” Andrew slows to a stop by the only street lamp on this block.

  “I guess?” Uncertain, my words come out a question. “I don’t see any other lights on this block.”

  “Do we need to let someone know we’re here?” He slides the gear shift into park, but keeps the engine running.

  Leaning forward, I stare through the window at the empty alley and tall brick garden walls on both sides. “I don’t know.”

  The black door opens and a familiar balding head pokes through the gap.

  “Isn’t that Smith who greeted us last time?” I ask, feeling guarded while he approaches the car. I give him a small wave, which he ignores. “Not the friendliest man, is he?”

  Smith stops in front of our bumper.

  When we came here the first time in February, he greeted us at the door and then
served cookies, but there’s nothing warm or fuzzy about the way his dark suit grips his broad shoulders, severe expression, and cold eyes.

  Smith taps on the glass near my head and gestures for me to lower the window. I quickly oblige after recovering from the involuntary jolt at his proximity.

  He leans down so he can make eye contact with us. “Come inside. Someone will collect your bags and park the car.”

  That’s it. No welcome or hello.

  “We can bring in our own bags,” Andrew volunteers as he turns off the engine.

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” Smith steps away from the car and stands next to the black door.

  My eyes shift between Andrew and Smith. “Codename Lurch from The Addams Family,” I whisper under my breath.

  He chuckles and says quietly, “He’d probably take it as a compliment.”

  “True. How about Sunshine instead?” I suggest.

  “Perfect.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and then squeezes my hand. “Ready?”

  “Not even a little.” I wish I were kidding or at least exaggerating. “At least your mother knows our last known whereabouts if we go missing.”

  Four

  The door opens into a walled courtyard overgrown with vines and ivy. Moss covers the brick of the patio. Only the narrow, gravel pathway shows any sign of frequent uses. Smith passes quickly through the garden and opens another door with his keycard. We enter a short hallway with several doors and a set of stairs leading up the back of the building. There’s nothing fancy about the worn wood of the railings or stair treads. I’m guessing this is the old servants’ entrance.

  “This staircase will take you to your rooms. Please come and go through this door, using your keycard.” Smith’s voice is a bored monotone, but not unfriendly. “Make sure you’re not followed before you enter the alley. If you are, keep walking and make a loop around the block.”

  “What if we can’t lose them?” Andrew asks, cool as a guy who’s dealt with this sort of thing before.

  Maybe he has. I bet his father has minions and probably some henchman, too. Nervously, I wonder about needing my own backup. Does wanting a flock of flying monkeys make you a bad witch? Asking for a friend.

  “Go to the square at the top of the hill and text me. Don’t return to the row house until you get the all clear.”

  Uh, wow. They really take this secret stuff seriously.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to have a legitimate front, like one of the other social clubs in the area? Easier to explain the comings and goings from the building.” Andrew stops talking when he catches Smith’s glare.

  “We tried that during prohibition and got raided for suspicion of being a speakeasy. Not worth the risk. Other than the four of you and the regular staff, the only other time we have visitors is during the monthly meetings.”

  “And how do you handle their arrivals?” I ask, curious.

  “Mr. Gardener is able to create a shimmering around the building.”

  “Is that—”

  Smith cuts me off before I can finish my question. “He’s expecting you in the library. This door will lead you to the front stairs. You should be able to find your way from there. Your bags will be waiting in your rooms. I believe your friends are already upstairs.”

  Without a goodbye, he backs through the door we entered.

  “Bye, Sunshine,” I whisper.

  Internally, I wonder if a shimmering is similar to the blue haze I see when I peer through the layers of the past. The same glow has materialized right before the ghosts appeared. So far, I’ve only seen the two ghosts, a couple dressed in formal evening clothes. He in a classic tux and her in an elegant black gown.

  At least we think they’re ghosts based on their dress, but we haven’t ruled out other possibilities. They could be projections of past selves by still living and breathing people. However, I like the idea of friendly ghosts. Mostly because I had a crush on Casper. As an only child, I had invisible friends and I honestly miss them. Maybe my friends were ghosts.

  Andrew leads the way up the stairs to the formal library. An involuntary squee of delight escapes me when I see my bestie sitting on one of the leather sofas. It’s only been two days since we last saw each other, but it feels much longer.

  Sam echoes my excitement and meets me halfway. Her blond hair is in loose braids around her head and she’s wearing a chambray sundress.

  We throw our arms around each other and hug like we haven’t seen each other in ages. It’s been two days since Tate and Andrew graduated.

  Sam squeezes me tight. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Me, too.” I return her hug.

  “Have you seen our rooms? They’re amazing. The whole floor is ours, and we have a living room, small kitchen, and two bathrooms. Oh, and skylights.” She sounds genuinely excited.

  “We just got here. Sunshine greeted us in the alley and told us to come to the library.” Andrew greets his best friend, Tate, with a loose hug. “When did you arrive?”

  “Are you talking about Smith? That’s perfect. We showed up about half an hour ago.” Tate has pulled his dreadlocks into a neat but giant ponytail at the nape of his neck. Tall, blond, and thin, he’s the light to Andrew’s dark coloring.

  Looking at Tate in his ripped jeans and rumpled T-shirt, you’d never guess he was a member of one of the most prominent and oldest families in New England. He’s the closest thing to royalty we have in New England. He hates it.

  “Madison. Good to see you.” Tate envelops me in a hug.

  “Is that you?” I ask as a happy warmth spreads through my body.

  “Sorry. I’m happy you and Andrew are here. Ignore me.” With a sheepish shrug, he steps away. “Life hanging around an empath.”

  A powerful water witch like Tate is good to have on our side, but tricky to be around sometimes. He is feeling personified.

  If Tate is water, then Andrew is fire. We’re not sure yet about Sam, but the best guess is an air witch given her talent reading cards and intuition.

  Which kind of witch am I?

  Spirit. Of course.

  Although, why can’t I use my magic for something useful like making calorie-free donuts?

  “Welcome, welcome.” Greeting us warmly, Geoffrey Gardener strolls into the room. “I’m so happy you’re here. Make yourselves comfortable and we’ll talk.”

  Andrew and I sit on one of the leather sofas, facing Tate and Sam. Geoffrey chooses a wingback chair. His dark hair curls right above the collar of his crisp, blue shirt, and gray pants cover his long legs. He’s wearing black framed glasses, giving him a serious, professor look.

  “What’s new?” he asks, tenting his index fingers and resting them on his chin. “All’s well in Salem. No mayhem?”

  Tate groans at the rhyme.

  Sam giggles. “Funny, Mr. Gardener. Are you a poet?”

  The way she’s blinking her eyes at him it’s almost like she’s batting her lashes. Hold on a hot minute, Sam’s had a crush on Tate for longer than I crushed on Andrew from afar. We’re talking years of pining. Now she’s flirting with our host and boss? It doesn’t make sense.

  “Everything’s been fine,” Andrew speaks for all of us, “Strangely boring. Uneventful, even. Was that your doing?”

  Geoffrey nods. “Smith and several of our members have been working on strengthening the boundaries around you. With the residue of ancient magic in and around Salem, we tapped into that energy. It’s like plugging directly into a bolt of lightning versus power outlet. Always impresses me.”

  “What’s the plan for the summer?” Tate asks.

  “While you’re here, we’ll work on strengthening your powers, including yours, Samantha. In between trainings, you’ll work in the archives, doing research on our current threat.”

  “My father.” Andrew sits up straighter, his spine rigid. “Have you discovered anything new?

  “Unfortunately, we have limited information. He does appear to be heavily involved in his private clu
b, which we believe is a front for more nefarious purposes than prime rib dinners and patriarchy.” Geoffrey gives us a wry smirk.

  “A front for what?” Sam asks.

  “That is the question. We know they want the black book hidden in the Winthrop mansion in Marblehead. Assuming Bradford and the Putnams are behind the curse on Andrew last year and the theft of the Corey bones from Madison’s family farm, they’re working with dark magic.”

  “The book should be safe,” Tate confirms. “The house and grounds are protected by boundary spells. No one can perform magic outside of the Sabbats.”

  “True, but if our enemies are interested, we need to know why.” Geoffrey stands and moves to the bookshelves lining the wall behind his chair. “Other histories mention the origins of the New England families on the Puritan side. For the magic, we only have the Salem trials, and those are misleading at best, heresy at worst. Until we can open the book, we don’t know for certain what is fact and what is misinformation.”

  “Wouldn’t genealogists be able to recreate the lineages?” I ask, disbelieving so much is being made over something as simple as a family tree. “In my limited research last fall, I found patterns of the Wildes and Bradford family lines intermarrying over and over again throughout the centuries. Sarah and Stanford weren’t the first or the only family trees to be interwoven. That must mean something. Why does the pattern repeat?”

  Geoffrey indulges me with a smile that says he approves of my research. “Excellent connections. But we’re dealing with thousands of people and very little information. The dates of someone’s birth and death, marriage and birth of their children won’t reveal the presence of magic. Magic is passed down through matriarchal lines and can skip siblings or entire generations. Take your family for example, Madison. Your grandmother is a witch, but neither of your parents have magical gifts. Yet, here you are.”

  Tate continues the thread. “Census data is unreliable and superficial. Even within a well-documented family such as mine, information is omitted or falsified.”