A Demon Fix for the Witch

Eva

“No, no, no, no! Not again!” A thick wall of black smoke stands between me and my kitchen.

The caustic smoke burns my eyes as I toss a handful of fresh herbs on the messy counter.

Sludge boils over the edge of the cast iron cauldron, solidifying on the stove with a hiss. Another mess. Another failed attempt.

I yank open drawers in a panic, looking for my potholders. They have to be around here somewhere.

“Where are they?” My eyes bounce around the room finally landing on the stained and singed pair resting peacefully on the seat of a dining room chair. “How did you get all the way over there?” I grab the well-used potholders and cautiously approach the magickal experiment gone awry.

I turn off the burner and peer over the edge. The ingredients that should be runny and clear have fused to the bottom of the pot while I was out in the garden. Smoke billows out of the scorching hot cauldron as I carry it out the back door.

“Here. Now you can be with your friends.” I toss the ruined vessel onto the growing graveyard of burnt cauldrons, cracked teacups, stained mortar and pestles, and stacks of tarot cards fused together from sticky spills. A shrine to my ongoing endeavor to open the leylines surrounding Raincrest.

I sit on the top stair of the porch while the heavy smoke pours out of the open door behind me. At least it’s just smoke. Yesterday's attempt resulted in the purchase of two new aprons and a floor mat. I rest my head against the paint-chipped wood post, deflated.

Another failure.

The face of a furry black and white cat pokes through a loose picket in my fence across the yard, his slinky body following through the narrow opening.

Catrick Swayze rubs his face against a terracotta pot and flops over onto his back in a patch of fading evening sun.

At least someone doesn’t seem bothered by my mishap.

He’s startled by my phone ringing inside my pocket, and darts back through the fence before I can coax him over with some tuna.

It’s the only thing that’s been tempting enough to entice him closer since he showed up a few months ago.

His vigilance is admirable, it’s certainly what has kept him alive out on the streets of Raincrest.

I pull out my phone and turn off the weekly Monday 4:45 p.m. alarm that Aunt Paige set so I’d actually get to class on time. Where did the afternoon go? Time flies when you’re trying to not burn your house down.

I venture back inside, which is now mostly smoke free, grab the hawk feather and circle it over my head.

“Feather in hand, waved here and there. To move the smoke and clear the air.”

The smoke dissipates with the final wave of the long-striped feather. I pat my pockets only to realize they are empty.

“Where the hell did I put my keys? Every damned day!”

They aren’t with my wallet. Not under my hoodie. Not on the entryway table, where I’ve been trying to train myself to put them. I run my hands through the spaces between the couch cushions. Nothing.

“Oh! My coffee!” It’s lukewarm but still tasty. I’d never get any caffeine in my system if I refused to drink room temp coffee—the cups get set down and forgotten too easily.

I pop it in the microwave for a few seconds to heat it up a bit.

What was I doing again? KEYS! I check the fridge. I’d never admit it, but more than one item has been found in there. Good thing TV remotes still work after cooling next to week-old take out.

I shove aside the wonky pile of mail and finally spot the pink ‘Witch, please’ charm between two bronze keys.

“Ah-ha! There you are, you sneaky little bastards.” On my way out the door, I snatch the sweater hanging over the back of the couch.

Sweater weather is fast approaching, and I couldn’t be happier.

I bounce up and down pulling on my Doc Martens, completing my signature end-of-summer look: black lace-up boots, cutoff jeans, T-shirt, and messy bun.

Outside the front door, the fuchsia geraniums catch my eye. The late summer sun has dried up half the blooms. I pause and pull off the dried up flowers with a satisfying snap.

My phone rings again, this time a name and a face appear on the screen.

Oh, shit.

“Hi, Auntie Paige!” I say as brightly as possible. I hold the phone between my ear and my shoulder while I gather up all the stems and faded flowers I trimmed back.

“Don’t ‘Hi, Auntie Paige’ me. Where are you?” she scolds.

“I’m on my way,” I lie. Not yet, but I will be as soon as I drop the trimmings into the green barrel.

“I don’t hear your truck.” Leave it to Paige to call me out.

“Would you believe me if I said I got a new car?” I joke, opening the creaking door as quietly as possible. Paige knows I love this rusted bucket of bolts and will never willingly replace my grandma’s ‘67 Chevy.

“Just get here. We’re waiting for you.”

“Be there in five. Love you!” I say aggressively cheerful, hopefully making it impossible to stay mad at me. Showing up late to class is one thing, but also not bringing a successful spell? Not a good look.

“Eva, I’m not getting off the phone until I hear the engine start.” She pauses, waiting for the telltale rumble.

I turn the key, and the ancient engine roars to life, the radio blaring along with it.

“Love you, too. Hurry,” she says, satisfied. The line goes dead, and I toss my phone across the bench seat, the gears grinding as I put the truck in gear.

The red and orange maple leaves are still stubbornly holding on for now. Two-story brick buildings line Raincrest’s Main Street behind the brilliance of fall.

I pull to a stop at the only stopsign in town in front of the coffeeshop I run, The Bitter End. I’m tempted to pop in and grab a handful of cookies for the class. A tactic I’ve used in the past to make up for being late. I check the clock on the dash, 5:04 p.m.

I continue through the intersection and toward the community center, sans cookies.

The girls and Paige will have to forgive me without the bribery tonight.

Any later than I already am, and there won’t be enough cookies in all of Oregon to make her forget my tardiness.

I turn into the mostly empty parking lot, take the closest spot, and jump out into the crisp air.

I bound up the steps and throw open the door.

The hinges shriek, announcing my late arrival.

I slowly lift my hand and awkwardly wave to the class.

All thirteen of the girls smile and snigger as I hurry to the front of the room and take my place next to Paige.

They all think it’s hilarious that they are more responsible than a twenty-three year old adult.

My aunt winks at me, a sign she isn’t mad, and the tightness in my chest releases.

She is such an old school witch. Her salt and pepper wavy hair is pulled up into a messy pile on top of her head, clunky turquoise rings and necklace clang all over the place. Her boho skirt would be a stereotype if it didn’t match her personality so perfectly.

Mom and Paige are nearly identical twins but are opposite when it comes to their expressions of magick. Paige is a ritual witch, her precision and attention to the smallest details amplify any rite for maximum power. Mom’s artistic magick is wild and untamed, a sharp contrast to her sister’s.

“Ladies, let’s see those transfiguration potions,” Paige calls out.

The students pull out their homework. Mason jars filled with liquids of various colors and consistencies plunk down on the tables. Paige wanders the aisles, giving words of praise or encouragement. She’s a patient teacher with these girls, and with me, for that matter.

I was excited when Paige asked me to help her with the class. The girls remind me of when I was nine and started classes to prepare me for when my magick awakened. The entire universe of possibilities was within arm’s reach. An exciting time for all witches.

These young girls are impressive. Their magick isn’t even awakened, yet they can still cast a decent spell. The front row all achieved a clear, runny potion—a simple spell done with precision—which I failed miserably today. Their potions hold no power, until their magick awakens.

“Great job, Callista,” I say with a smile. She blushes so deeply from the compliment, her freckled face nearly matches her fiery red hair.

The next row back struggled with the spell. One looks like lime JELL-O, so neon in color it could pass as a glowstick. Another girl’s somehow solidified into crystals. I pick up the jar and hold it up to the light.

“What happened here?”

Ingrid hangs her head low. “Uh… I forgot about the assignment. I didn’t read the pages, so I threw in some of my brother’s rock candy.

” The girls around her giggle. Ingrid looks up at me, and I quickly recognize the guilty expression on her face.

I did my fair share of winging it in my novice class, so I get it.

I wink at her and tuck the jar into her tightly grasped hands in her lap. Paige doesn’t need to see this one.

“I’m honestly impressed, you played the odds. You might have gotten away with it if the assignment had been Petrifix.”

On her way to the front of the room, Paige hands me bunches of chickweed, the moon herb that drew me away from the boiling cauldron this afternoon.

“One per girl, please.”

I listen closely while Paige explains in great detail the proper way to remove the leaves and separate the tiny white petals of the flower.

My mind wanders to whether it would work in the spell I’ve been trying to perfect.

It’s a popular choice for attracting lunar energy, but I haven’t tried combining it with elder, the boundary herb, yet.

Or maybe it would work well with some clear quartz for amplification.

My methods are simple, equal parts intuition and process of elimination.

Class winds down, and everyone begins packing up for the evening. “Next week, we are covering the fundamentals of palm reading!” Paige announces as the girls file out of the room.

Divination is a fun subject. I briefly worked at the coven’s palm and tarot reading room, but was politely dismissed when it was clear I would get distracted and end up chatting for over an hour without doing the actual reading.

Ingrid is the last to leave, her jar rattling loudly in her bag on her way out, drawing a confused look from my aunt.

Paige narrows her gaze on me, and I can’t help but suspect she has a witchy mind reading power I don’t know about, or maybe she just knows me too well.

Now, not only do I feel guilty about my own failed spell, but I also feel like an accomplice to Ingrid’s deception.

I grab a rag and move to the back of the room, avoiding her stare as I clean the tables and sweep up little bits of leaves as I go. Paige moves in front of me and blocks my way.

“Any progress with the apertus spell?” she asks.

“I was close.”

“I could see the smoke escaping your house from here.” She arches an eyebrow.

“It was a defective cauldron.” It’s a lame excuse, but I’ll try anything at this point.

“I had that cauldron for twenty years, and it was just fine. Don’t tell me you put the whole chickweed stem in.”

“I didn’t even get that far,” I fess up with a grimace. “I guess we can rule out kitchen witch from my possible inclinations.” My specialty should have become apparent years ago, and the fact that it hasn’t is yet another dire warning about the magick problem we are facing.

“Get another cauldron from your mother, and try again tomorrow.” With that, she starts packing up for the night.

The sinking feeling in my stomach turns sour.

It’s not that I don’t want to see my mom.

I dread the lecture that will come with it.

I could just save myself the headache and drive the extra forty minutes to Holloway to buy another one.

“Any inkling with this group?” I ask, hoping she detects a hint of magick with any of the girls.

“I’m afraid not.” Concern settles on her face with a pained look in her eye. “It’s not just the young ones anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s spreading. Witches who have had magick for years are noticing a decline.”

The news makes my legs go weak, and I drop into the seat beside me.

All the witches, other than me, in the coven have their specializations, and their magick has been reliable, until now.

My mind races trying to understand what this means.

The feeling that things have taken a turn for the worse settles heavily on my shoulders.

“We’ll figure it out, my dear.”

We finish cleaning in silence. There isn’t much to say when you’re watching your coven slowly lose its magick.

The moment we step outside, my mom’s electric blue Miata pulls in. She has the top down, and her hair is a tangled mess. The tiny car screeches to a halt before she practically leaps out and runs to us, out of breath.

“Did you hear?” She pants.

“Hear what?” Paige asks, her eyes wide with trepidation.

“There’s a fog.” She pauses to catch her breath. “Between Raincrest and Holloway.”

“Uh, Mom, we live in the Pacific Northwest. There’s always fog.”

“Not regular fog, something supernatural,” Mom says, glaring at me. “Anytime someone from the coven tries to get through, it stops them. It won’t let us pass.”

Oh, shit.