Four Witches and a Funeral (Wicked Society Book 3) Read online

  Andrew ignores his father’s jabs. “What do you want? I’ve made it explicitly clear I don’t want to speak to you.”

  “I assumed you were busy with classes and your studies.” His cold, dark eyes settle on Madison again. “Shall we step outside for privacy?”

  He finds her threatening and now I’m curious as to why.

  Andrew stays put. “Whatever you want to say can be said in front of Tate and Madison.”

  His father makes a disapproving tutting sound. “That’s not acceptable. I’m well aware of your friend’s meddling abilities.” He glances toward the library. “Are you sure you want all your fellow partygoers to listen in on our conversation?”

  “No point in trying to get syrup from an oak tree.” Tate shrugs his shoulders. “Why don’t the four of us step into the dining room? More privacy and not as cold.”

  Tate using our grandfather’s old expression makes me smile.

  Andrew squeezes her hand. “You don’t have to join us.”

  “Yes, I do.” Madison’s chin lifts as she refuses to run and hide.

  Mr. Bradford extends his hand and moves toward the couple when they descend from the stairs. Andrew’s stiff as a board, but Madison manages to plaster on a fake smile to convey she’s not intimidated. I want to give her a high five.

  “You’re as lovely as I’ve heard.” Stanford moves to kiss her hand and I have the sensation of bile rising in my throat.

  The foursome moves into the dining room, but no one sits despite the twelve chairs.

  Tate closes the pocket doors and rests a shoulder against the jamb. Andrew and Madison stand as far away from Stanford as possible. He’s settled at the head of the table.

  Madison takes a long sip of her drink, but otherwise, no one moves.

  I decide to sit on the buffet, letting my feet dangle off the side. Who knows how long this standoff might last? I like to be comfortable when I’m eavesdropping on the living.

  Stanford finally says something. “There is a rumor of a coven gathering a few weeks ago.”

  “Interesting. Is this the word on the street in Boston?” Andrew’s voice drips sarcasm. He’s actually showing more restraint than I would.

  “People talk.” Stanford sweeps his hand over his suit-covered arm.

  “Not the people I know. It surprises me you have any curiosity about what happens in Salem. You’ve made it clear you hate this place.” Andrew glares at his father.

  “My concern lies with my only son’s welfare. If he insists on living here, it’s my parental duty to protect him.”

  “Bullshit,” Andrew says in disgust.

  “Language.” Stanford frowns as he chastises him.

  “Protection?” Andrew grips the back of a chair. “Is that what you call using dark magic on your son?”

  And this evening just became a whole lot more interesting. Dark magic isn’t illegal, but it is strongly frowned upon by anyone who practices witchcraft. The old tenfold rule keeps most people soundly on the side of light and goodness. Whatever energy you put into the world will return tenfold. But every few generations, someone gets power hungry and decides they’re the one to be able control whatever they unleash. It never ends well.

  Stanford pales, but recovers almost instantly, turning his shock into a fake laugh. “Is that what your mother told you? Or is this your doing, Miss Bradbury?”

  “I figured it out,” Andrew speaks up. “All those years of you telling me to be boring. Hide who I am, or else? You poisoned me with your own fear and shame of my mother’s power. Turning me against my true self. Now it’s over.”

  Ooh, this sounds like a soap opera of epic proportions. Things are definitely not going to be boring around here for a while. I knew from the second Mr. Bradford showed up he was a bastard, but didn’t realize he was king of the assholes, too. Any witch knows that you don’t go near the dark stuff unless you’re willing to risk everything, including your soul. There’s no dabbling in the darker elements of magic. As far as I can tell, Stanford doesn’t posses his own magic abilities, which means he’s teamed up with someone, or several someones.

  Stanford dismisses Andrew’s accusations with a shake of his head. “You don’t know what you’re opening yourself up to. The world is bigger than little Salem. Darker, more dangerous.”

  He would know. Now that I have more information about him, the energy I picked up on when he arrived is swirling with darkness. He’s tainted by the darkest elements of magic and doesn’t realize yet he’s doomed. Nor will he until it’s too late to be saved.

  “Who helped you? Give me the name of the witch.”

  Yes, say it out loud so we can all hear.

  “I can’t.” Stanford refuses with a shake of his head.

  “Can’t or won’t?” Andrew asks.

  His father’s jaw clenches. “Doesn’t matter, you won’t get the answer from me.”

  That’s a load of crap. What’s he hiding? Or who? My attention slips to Tate, who is also glaring at Stanford with an intensity that could burn a hole in the wall. Then I remember that Tate’s an empath and a damn good one. Maybe he can tell if people are lying.

  Jumping down from my perch, I move closer to the head of the table to see if I can get a better read on our unwanted guest.

  “Did you use Curses.com? Bad idea, Mr. Bradford.” Tate uses humor to defuse the situation.

  “Are you ever serious?” Stanford snips at him. “Doesn’t it get tedious going through life playing the fool?”

  Tate stares up at the ceiling. “Better than being a bitter ass.”

  I snort and it’s very unladylike. Luckily, no one can hear me. Madison stifles her own giggle.

  Andrew’s expression sobers. “If you’re not willing to give us the name of the witch using dark magic, then our conversation here is done.”

  “Well, that concludes another awkward family meeting in this dining room. The streak is unbroken.” Tate slides open both pocket doors. Laughter carries across the foyer from the library.

  Stanford crosses the room to stand in front of Andrew and Madison. My spine straightens at his threatening posture and I feel a snap of electricity skitter over my hands. That’s new. I glance down, expecting to see flashes of light zapping from my fingertips.

  “Don’t do anything rash.” Stanford reaches for his son’s hand, but Andrew evades his touch. Focusing on Madison, he continues. “I don’t approve of you dating my son. I’d ask you to rethink your romantic notions about witches and magic. Before it’s too late.”

  Epic eye roll. He’s so melodramatic. Before it’s too late for what?

  Madison suddenly slumps into Andrew’s shoulder. Her eyes have gone glassy and she looks drunk. Or drugged. Or under a spell.

  “Don’t you dare threaten her,” Andrew shouts, his voice cold as ice and as menacing as the bark of an angry dog “Get out. Now.”

  If I could, I’d shove Stanford to get him out of the house quicker. As my thoughts wander to violence, the electric pulses surround my hands. I wonder if the old adage of thoughts being energy is true. Could I focus my intentions enough to cross through whatever spirit barrier separates me from the physical world?

  “And on that note, I’ll see you out.” Tate escorts him to the door. “You’re no longer welcome here, Mr. Bradford.”

  Stanford stumbles when he reaches the threshold. I want to think it was a push from me rather than he tripped over nothing. Energy hums around me.

  Once his father is gone, Andrew wraps his arms around Madison and leads her over to the steps. “Are you okay? Sit. Tate, get her some water. Please.”

  My attention shifts from the front door to Madison on the stairs. Sitting on the step next to her, I study her face. She’s paler than earlier and looks like she might faint.

  However, she puts on a brave act when she replies. “I’m fine. I think. I got a little woozy. Probably drank Sam’s concoction too quickly.”

  Tate eventually returns with a glass of water.

 
; Sam exits the library. “Where have the three of you been? We found a set of Cards Against Humanity. You want to play?”

  “Didn’t you hear us?” Madison asks her.

  Of course the group in the library couldn’t know what was happening in the foyer or dining room. The protection enchantments around the house also work to ensure privacy. We Winthrops love our secrets. I swear the walls are lined with black tourmaline. Wouldn’t put it past old man Winthrop to have hidden crystals throughout the structure of the house during construction.

  “Andrew and I gave Madison a tour of the house,” Tate says, like we’ve been having the best time ever.

  Madison lies to her friend. “I wanted to see the secret passages and hidden doors.”

  I swear this house breeds secrets and deception in everyone who enters.

  Sam pouts. “You’re not the only one.”

  “Another time, I promise,” Tate tells her with a flirty smile.

  Oh, there’s something brewing between them. I put a pin in that to return to later. While I have Madison here, I need to focus on reestablishing our connection. Her questions about ghosts and haunted houses show an interest in the afterlife, but not necessarily a belief. Curious, I gently press against the boundaries of her energy.

  Madison? It’s Alice. From the park. Do you remember me? Your imaginary friend?

  “I’m not feeling well. I think I should go home and go to bed.” Madison presses her fingers against her temples.

  Andrew’s brows lower as he frowns. “What did you put in the drinks, Sam?”

  “I found some brandy in the liquor cabinet. Mixed it with hard cider and a splash of Fireball. Wasn’t it yummy?”

  “Maybe the brandy had turned,” Tate suggests.

  “I drank it and feel fine. In fact, I was about to make another round,” Sam sniffs her empty glass. “Anyone else want one? Not you, Madison. You don’t look so good.”

  “I’ll be fine after some sleep,” Madison says weakly as she continues to rub her forehead.

  Madison, can you hear me? Please concentrate. This isn’t a headache. This is me knocking on your subconscious. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  I mentally poke her again. Pay attention to me. Hello?

  Nothing. She leaves and I remain behind in the house.

  The certainty this isn’t the last I’ll see of her gives me some comfort.

  Four

  The Past

  Because I’m nothing if not fascinated by death and mortality, I ask him for a lock of his hair one morning while we’re in bed. Without explanation.

  “Are you working on a spell? You’re not going to use it to enslave my heart, are you?” He pretends to be alarmed, but his lips curl with amusement.

  “Perhaps. I could wait until you’re asleep and snip a small section from the back. You’d never miss it.” With my fingers, I make the motion of scissors opening and closing.

  “Am I going to have to tie you up while you sleep?” His voice lowers to a sexy growl.

  My eyes bug with surprise and my pulse quickens. “Is that something you want to do? Are you into that?”

  “No, no. Definitely not. Unless you are. Are you? I can’t tell if you’re horrified or excited.” He dances around several responses at once.

  I shrug. “Probably not on a Sunday morning, but I wouldn’t rule it out. A lock of hair for some light bondage seems like a fair trade.”

  This time his eyes are the ones to widen. “Okay.”

  I clamor off of the bed and dash into our bathroom to retrieve the scissors in his grooming kit. If they’re good enough to trim eyebrow and nose hairs, they’ll work on the other hair on his head.

  “Don’t run with scissors,” he reminds me.

  “Has anyone died from doing that?” I slowly cross the room with extra caution.

  “People die all of the time from inconsequential actions and poor decisions.” He shifts so he’s sitting upright against the headboard.

  I turn the conversation back to my mission. “This is probably why Victorians liked to save a lock of their beloved’s hair in a piece of mourning jewelry. I thought it would be cool to do something similar with both of our hair tied together. Too much?”

  “A momento mori, a reminder we’ll both die someday?” he asks, twisting the end of my long hair.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Not as depressing. More of a together forever and ever. You belong to me and I belong to you. Not even death shall us part.”

  Squinting at him, I make sure I haven’t gone too far into the deep end of my feelings, enough to scare him away.

  I’m worried he’s going to bolt but will break up with me in his typical overly polite, well-bred way. His manners are unflappable. I should know. I’ve tried for two years to ruffle his decorum.

  He stares back at me with a blank expression. “At least you’re not asking for a vial of my blood to wear around your neck.”

  I stick out my tongue. “Gross. No bodily fluids, thank you.”

  Reluctantly, he eventually agrees as long I keep the origin of my weird hair jewelry to myself. I give him a kiss of thanks before snipping off a thin curl near the back of his ear. I trim a similar size piece from my own hair.

  Twisting my hair with his, I tie them together with a white ribbon before coiling the combined lock beneath the glass. “Wow. You can’t tell the difference between mine and yours.”

  “I love when the line between you and me is blurred.” He studies the locket before closing it and releasing the chain. The gold is cool against my skin where it rests just above my breasts. “I never want to exist without you.”

  His words melt my cynical heart. “Careful what you wish for. When I’m one hundred and two, with my boobs tucked into the waistband of my comfort trousers, you may want to trade me in for a perkier model.”

  He laughs in that way that means he’s indulging me. “As long as you promise not to make fun of the way I walk to avoid my balls hitting my knees, we’ll still be my favorite couple.”

  “We can have scooter races in the old folks’ home and cheat at corn hole.” I climb into his lap and straddle his thighs. “Demand Wednesday lunch be clothing optional.”

  “Old people are always cold. Not sure that idea will fly with our fellow octogenarians.” He peppers my mouth with soft kisses.

  “We’ll demand the heat be cranked up to a hundred and provide blanket-sized bibs to avoid soup burns.” I scrape his scalp with my nails, earning the Geoffrey version of a purr.

  He stares into my eyes. “I love that you’ve planned out every detail of our future.”

  “I can’t wait to be old and saggy with you. Did I mention I think we’ll be one of those couples who wears matching outfits, too? We’ll be adorable.” I kiss him and feel him laugh against my lips.

  “Why wait until then? Why should only the old get to be eccentric?”

  “It’s impossible not to love you.” It’s not an exaggeration. My heart was made to hold his.

  “However, it is impossible to kiss you while you’re talking.” He presses his index finger to my mouth.

  I nip the tip with my teeth before sucking softly. Geoffrey’s eyes dilate and become hooded.

  Ah, the best way to flap the unflappable is also my favorite. I pull my shirt over my head and drop it to the floor behind me.

  “Should I get one of your ties from the closet?” I whisper against his ear.

  ★★★

  The Present

  Those bastard grave robbers stole my locket and sold it to an unsuspecting antiques dealer on Charles Street.

  I don’t blame the shop owner for buying my necklace and displaying it in the front window. Beyond the purely sentimental reasons, the locket is gorgeous with the floral engraving and sweeping A on the front. Timeless and elegant. At least someone bought it and kept it safe all these years.

  At least I assume I was buried with my favorite locket. It’s possible one of my family members sold it off with the rest of my belongings. I can
’t imagine Geoffrey selling it, but the early days of life after death aren’t clear in my memory.

  Too much sadness and pain.

  I couldn’t bear to be anywhere where he might be or where our shared memories dwelled.

  My beautiful Geoffrey.

  He’s turned into a handsome man, but at twenty-one he was perfection with his angular cheekbones, rower’s body, and a jaw you could cut steak with if suddenly all steak knives disappeared and you were too proper to gnaw meat off of the bone.

  Watching him grow up, transforming from teenage boy to man has been fascinating. Fascinating and heartbreaking all over again.

  It’s not fair that my heart still aches. It’s not fair he’s alone. It’s not fair he doesn’t know I’m still here with him.

  This is the cruelest twist of fate.

  He thinks I’ve been gone for over a decade when every day I’m right here.

  Invisibility blows.

  Five

  Fat snowflakes fall from the dense gray clouds, turning the lawns white and settling on the rocky shore like powdered sugar.

  I hate the snow.

  Snow always reminds me of Geoffrey and our last Christmas together. The first snow in Boston was always my favorite. The gaslights on Beacon Hill flicker with their golden flames, casting warm shadows on the white powder coating the cobblestones. At some point in history, a decision was made that it would be cheaper to keep the gas lamps of Boston lit continually than to pay some guy to light them every evening. When the skies darken with heavy clouds, the lights from the old street lamps brighten.

  And nothing is prettier than fresh snow falling in the glow of the old street lamps.

  This is why I avoid Beacon Hill and the Wicked Society. Makes me too melancholy.

  The crunch of gravel on the driveway alerts me to the arrival of visitors. It’s only been two days since Tate and his friends were at the house. I’ve been lingering here as I’ve mulled over the events of that night and testing my new found abilities to move physical objects. The only thing I’ve been able to lift has been a piece of paper, but I’m feeling optimistic. Like with any new skill, practice will make perfect.