Grayson’s Magical Mishaps (Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch #10)

Chapter 1

One

-GRAYSON-

“Aah, aah, ah, choo!”

I jump up in fright, staring at this proverbial thing sitting on my couch.

It’s gazing back, head tilted, checking me out.

It’s small and pink and kind of cute if I’m honest with myself. It’s giving me puppy dog vibes, even though it’s a handbag-sized elephant.

It’s sad at my reaction. But what the hell does it expect me to do? It just appeared after I sneezed.

I’m trembling and taking measured steps backward, keeping an eye on it because I’m not sure what else it might do.

It stands, taking a step toward me but it dips on one leg, trying to balance on my wonky couch.

I stare, partly fascinated, partly questioning my sanity.

Because if this was a dream, I wouldn’t query the sudden appearance of a bubble-gum-coloured beast. I cover my ears as it trumpets at a volume which will wake the newborn in the upstairs flat.

Let’s hope she’s already awake. Now it’s smiling at me.

Out of instinct, I smile back but it’s tilting its head again, so my grin must be showing how I genuinely feel. Confused. Scared. Totally weirded out.

This is more dramatic than that time I sneezed mucous onto my younger sister’s face. I was six years old. She punched me in the arm. I cried.

Or the time I sneezed when cocaine was offered at a party full of way cooler guests than I’m used to. Can you imagine how hard it is to pick white powder from the carpet?

Sorry. I’m rambling. This is beyond reason.

The little beast is raising its trunk again. What if the parents of the baby knock on my door? How do I explain this? I bought your newborn a pet. They’ve found a way to bonsai elephants.

“Grayson.”

I jolt. Nope, the animal didn’t address me. It was a woman who spoke, the one standing in my kitchen.

“Sorry to startle you,” she says.

My head is turning back and forth between her and the elephant. And I’m pointing at both, not sure why. It’s not as if pointing will diminish my disbelief. I lower my arms.

The woman stumbles into my loungeroom, tactfully clutching a cocktail in a long-stemmed glass, not spilling a drop. She adjusts her posture and takes a sip. She’s tipsy.

I look to the elephant, still foolishly thinking it can talk. I have indigestion. I always have indigestion when I’m out of my depth. That burning sensation is erupting upward, into my chest.

“Penelope is here to sort things out.” This woman’s kind tone barely reassures me.

“I have a lot to explain, Grayson, so you should listen carefully.” She adjusts her chunky red glasses several times, never really getting them straight.

She brushes her long hair aside, then picks flint from her lovely short black dress.

Its hem hangs just above her knees. It isn’t a far stretch to believe she’s just come from some fabulous 1960s soiree.

She’s that glamorous. And I’m pretty certain she’s in her early twenties, like me.

The elephant in the room is calmer, as if it knows her. It is making itself comfortable sitting on the sofa, resting its trunk in front of its body.

I reach forward, adjusting Penelope’s glasses in an attempt to have some control over this situation.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, then waves at the elephant. “I see you’ve met Hugo.”

“Hugo? This thing has a name. Does it belong to someone?”

“Nah. He’s a free spirit. No one will ever own him.”

I have an overcompensating grin. I can feel it. The sides of my mouth are forcing themselves into my cheeks.

Penelope eyes me. “The last time anyone was that happy to see me they tried to seduce me.” She shares a cheeky expression. “So, strip if you’re serious. I’m a gifted lover.”

My grin disappears and my heart is racing. I definitely wasn’t expecting her to say that.

“Yeah.” She chuckles. “I know you’re not into women. Now, about Hugo.”

She gazes at the animal, and it waves back with its trunk. She snaps her fingers. A puff of smoke and Hugo becomes a miniscule giraffe. Its neck rises as it studies its new environment.

“Sorry, Matilda. I didn’t mean to summon you.” Penelope snaps her fingers again. It disappears, but the seat it sat on is singed.

“Holy smoke.” She snaps her fingers a third time. My couch bursts into flames. I bolt into the kitchen.

“Yikes.” Another finger snap. The fire is out but the lounge is soaking wet. “That will have to do.”

I’m feeling faint. I’m passing out. I’m passing...

––––––––

Penelope gazes at me like a relative on a hospital visit, concerned for my welfare. The only thing which hinders this illusion is how glamorous she looks. Too dressed up to be near disinfectant and bedpans.

My eyes widen, staring back at her from my bed while snugly tucked in like a five-year-old.

“I have a lot to explain,” she says.

I nod. I’m not on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but my stability is slipping. I think about sitting up and arranging my pillow so my back rests against it, but on second thought, maybe it’s safer not to move.

Penelope’s glass refills itself to the brim which she carefully sips to avoid spillage. “Thank the gods this is one spell I always get right.” Yet her cocktail drips on my pillow, leaving a reddish stain. “Oops.” She raises an arm, ready to snap her fingers.

“Please don’t.” My voice is hardly audible.

“But...”

I sit up, pushing the damp pillow aside.

“But I’m a cottage witch. One snap and the pillow will be laundered.”

“I saw what happened to my couch. I don’t need third degree burns.”

She grumbles. “What’s your poison?”

“Huh?”

“Are you a vodka guy?”

“Nah.”

“You don’t look like a beer guy.”

I shake my head.

She points at her glass. “Raspberry Martini?”

“Gin,” I murmur.

“Tonic? Soda water?”

“Tonic.”

The drink instantly appears within reach on my bedside drawers. I jolt. My heart is racing at a techno beat.

“That’s one advantage of being a cottage witch,” Penelope utters.

“All housework should be done drunk, so my bartending spells have been mastered to perfection.” She peers directly into my eyes.

“But as we all know, once motherhood comes along, Valium is the vice of choice. Would you prefer Valium, Grayson?”

“Your expertise is in conjuring drugs and alcohol?” My full voice has returned.

“Bartending is secondary. As is conjuring household drugs. My real talent is housework. I snap my fingers and I’m like Cinderella surrounded by her forest friends, helping her sweep and mop and all that other boring domestic stuff.

” Her bottom lip slips sideways. “Except there are no forest friends. The chores just do themselves.” She shares a wicked grin.

“Although a subservient demon pops in from time to time, with a rag and some chemical-grade cleaner in hand.”

“Is my couch still soaked? Can you get a demon to steam clean it?”

“Maybe I should. I’m relieved we didn’t startle either of the mini zoo folk. They may be small but they can still leave an awfully smelly mess.”

She puts down her glass and waves her arm randomly in the air. A silver stream of stars and sparkles accompanies this movement.

I feel nauseous. The room is spinning and, ah...

––––––––

I gradually open my eyes, feeling dazed.

I gaze at the window with the crescent-moon-patterned curtains my sister had specially made as a housewarming gift. She hated the red felt ones which came with this rental. I agreed they had to go. There was just too much red.

Okay, I’m rambling again. But I’m just taking in everything that I’m used to, keeping insanity at bay.

Why am I lying on my sofa?

“Are you okay, Grayson?”

Oh, Penelope is still here. She’s on the single-seater couch behind me. I turn and beam at her briefly, then sit up and peer over the back of my sofa. I need to keep her out of my line of sight.

Now, what else is familiar?

The sky is grey outside. It was a sunny day when I woke up this weekend. The weatherman didn’t mention rain last night when I caught the seven o’clock bulletin after coming home from office drinks. I only ever stay for one glass of wine because I’m not close to anyone at work.

In fact, I’m not really close to anyone in general. The people I know best are the characters in the shows I stream.

I rub my eyes and look at Penelope. There’s no use pretending she isn’t there.

But I must get a grip.

Yet how do I stay sane when the rules of reality have changed?

Keep your focus on the material world, Grayson, and not on her.

Keep your focus, Grayson.

Keep your focus...

––––––––

The scent of garlic wafts up my nostrils. My eyes spring open.

“Yuck. Penelope!”

She’s forcing a clove against my nose, her hand in a pink rubber glove.

“Stop that.” I feel a sneeze coming on.

“No!” she yells and wraps her fingers around the garlic. Once she opens her palm, it’s gone.

We are still in my living room. I’m still lying on my sofa and she’s crouching near me, but I sit up, placing my feet on the floor. My hand reaches for the armrest and my fingers dig in. She seats herself next to me as I slow my breathing.

A cup of black coffee is on the coffee table, next to a little white pill and a glass of some other spirit on ice. And Penelope seems less inebriated.

“Say ah.” She pulls off the glove and reaches for the tablet.

“What is that? Is that Valium?”

She nods, and I have second thoughts about being drugged by a stranger. I place my hand on my chest. Despite my slow breathing, my heartbeat is pounding at thrash-metal pace. Perhaps I should take my medicine.

There’s no time to second guess. The pill is forced to the back of my tongue.

“And ya shaaaw thith ith Vayium?”

“Of course, I’m sure,” she says. “I’m sober now. I can’t run the risk of poisoning you.”

A glass appears at my lips, coercing me to drink. It’s gin and tonic. And good gin and tonic. The kind I relished at my sister’s wedding.

I cough.

“Perfect,” Penelope tells me. “Coughing is okay, but for the moment, don’t sneeze.”

“What is all this hocus-pocus about?”