How To Outwit a Wizard (Seven Suitors For Seven Witches #2)

Chapter 1

1

M agic lives in a well—one so deep that you can’t see the bottom for how full it is.

If you drop a bucket into that well and pull it up, it’s overflowing with power—shiny, shimmering magic that sloshes and slurps over the sides and spills onto the ground. Power that’s ready to be harnessed and used.

But what happens if a well doesn’t have a spring to replenish it?

That well goes dry.

Just like my family’s magic is doing now, and there’s only one way to replenish it—for my sisters and I to marry.

It’s antiquated, right? Totally makes no sense. But magic, like life, is always in a state of flux, and in order for it to replenish, a new cycle must be birthed, and for me, that means marriage.

Yes, in the twenty-first century.

Which brings me to today.

Castleview Books is my family’s magical bookshop. Everywhere I look, there are shelves and shelves of books. The spines span the colors of the rainbow, and they’re lined up perfectly, alphabetically, the surfaces dusted and the wood polished to a bright sheen. The whole place smells of paper, glue, leather and magic.

Oh yes, you can’t have a magical bookshop without that, now can you?

Glancing out of the lead-paned windows, I spy the blue witch lights flare, signaling that a customer’s about to enter the store.

I drop my cleaning rag on the counter and ready myself—shoulders back, chin up, slight smile, nothing too bright, nothing forced. Because whenever I force a smile, I look constipated.

Right on cue, the door blows open and in steps a witch wearing a long ebony coat, flowy black slacks, and red stiletto boots. Her eyebrows and lips are penciled to severity with the thanks of makeup, but Mrs. DeWalt is a pussycat—as long as you don’t cross her.

Which can be said for pretty much any witch, I suppose.

“Mrs. DeWalt, are you ready for your monthly visit into a book? I’ve got some great stories for you to choose from,” I say with a knowing pump of my eyebrows. “I know how much you like romance.”

Her sharp gaze sizes me up as if she’s surprised to see me, which of course, she shouldn’t be. I’m here every month. I literally see Mrs. DeWalt all the time. We are best buds. I know what she likes, and I line up a curated selection of books for her every thirty (sometimes thirty-one) days. Today I’ve got some sweet romances for her.

Because you see, in Castleview Books, you can live out whatever story you’d like. Just jump into a book and spend the next several hours becoming your favorite character and living out their story.

But before Mrs. DeWalt says a word, she glances over my shoulder to the back of the store where my sister, Addison, helps another patron. “I’m sorry, Blair, but I was hoping to see Addison today.”

“Oh.” Without a word she slides past me, beelining for my sister, which makes my next words come out as a pathetic whine. “But I can help you.”

The only indication I receive that she hears me is a flick of her hand, a clear sign of dismissal.

Yep. This is how it’s been for the last several months. Ever since word got out that my sister can pick a person’s perfect book to read, most of my regular customers have been ditching me for Addison.

I’m not angry. I’m not jealous.

Okay, maybe I’m a little jealous.

But the truth is—I love Addison and I love watching her succeed.

But even that doesn’t stop my excitement bubble from popping, and it certainly doesn’t stop a little bit of my soul from crumbling into the abyss.

But that’s okay. I’ll nab the next customer. Addison can’t help everyone. She can’t take every single customer who enters the shop.

My wish is granted when the door opens again.

“Mr. Patel, great to see you.” I charge forward, intent on helping him. “What book would you like to enter today?”

His dark eyes do the same thing that Mrs. DeWalt’s did—landing on me before skating to the side and finding my sister.

“Sorry, Blair, but I need to see Addison.”

Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps Addison can take every single customer.

I step aside and gesture for Mr. Patel to take a spot right behind Mrs. DeWalt.

“Traitors, all of them,” my sister Chelsea whispers, sidling up to me.

I bite back a laugh. “Stop it.”

“I don’t really mean it.” She fluffs the ends of her long blonde locks with one hand. “But I sort of mean it.”

Chelsea smells of vanilla and lavender, like she’s fresh from the oven—in a good way. She leans back on the counter and stretches her feet up onto the shelf in front of us.

I smack her leg, and she rolls her eyes before setting her feet back on the floor. I grab my rag and continue wiping down surfaces. If nothing else, it’s a great distraction from my lack of helping customers.

Chelsea, I notice, doesn’t lift a finger to assist me. Instead she bends over and searches the shelf for something. It’s cluttered down there, full of books on hold for people, pens, notepads, balls that children have abandoned and never claimed.

My younger sister comes up for air holding a black slip of paper. I pretend not to notice it. In fact, rubbing a circle into the counter seems an appropriate response.

Chelsea clears her throat dramatically and reads (really thickening up her natural Southern accent in the process):

“You are cordially invited to a witch ball in honor of Blair Thornrose. February 1 st . 112 Castleview Lane. White tie required.”

She drops the invitation onto the counter, and I stare at it, hoping it’ll burst into flames. But it does not. Not that destroying it will change anything.

“So. You excited for tonight?”

“Nope.” Hoping the conversation is over, I turn my attention to the front door. But from the corner of my eye, Chelsea watches me for a ridiculously long moment. “Did you want me to say more?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, then.”

A group of teen girls—probably werewolves if their long, dark hair is any indication—stop to peer into the windows of the store. Please come inside. Save me from this conversation. But to my disappointment, they move on. Our town has all kinds of supernaturals—all are welcome as magic is out in the open. Humans know our kind exist, and they mingle with us. However, they are not allowed to own property in Castleview, and that’s the way things are.

My sister is still waiting for an answer, so I say, “I’d rather hide under a rock for all eternity than walk into another witch ball where people are just going to gossip and whisper about me behind my back.”

Before my family got into this situation, this whole having-to-get-married thing, I thought that I wanted to marry, but when I started meeting eligible supernaturals, old feelings of inadequacy— my inadequacy—got dragged to the surface.

Chelsea shoots me a sympathetic look. “An ‘I’m not ready for the ball,’ or ‘I am ready,’ would’ve been just fine an answer, too.” I scoff as she elbows me. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Maybe our family’s magic will be okay.”

At that very moment, a young woman pops out of a book, her cheeks red, hair tangled. She blinks and looks around, confusion and frustration etched in tiny little lines all over her face. “What? No, no, no. I was supposed to have a full hour. It’s only been…” She glances at her watch. “Forty minutes.”

“Right,” I mumble to Chelsea. “Our magic will be okay, you say?”

It will very much not be okay.

My sister jumps up. “I’ll go smooth things over with her.”

As she walks away to deal with the frustrated customer, I shake my head. No matter how much we may want to believe otherwise, our magic is failing. People being thrown from books before their allotted time’s up isn’t a new occurrence. And it’s only going to get worse until we can’t put people into books at all.

And then we’ll be done for.

I just wish…I just wish that the men at those balls didn’t look at me the way that they do—eyes glittering with hope until the whispers start.

And they always start.

The door opens again, and I plaster a huge smile on my face just so it can drop, because in walks Catherine Farber, aka Chatty Cathy, and her besties.

The three women are dressed in faux fur coats and warm wool hats tugged down to their ears. They’re giggling when they enter, but when Cathy sees me, the laughing stops. She whispers something to her friends, Sadie and Cherie, and the three burst into another, even louder fit of cackles.

Heat floods my cheeks, working all the way down my neck to my hands, which I curl into tight fists.

“Cathy, you here to jump into a book?”

She drags her gaze from Sadie to me. The three stalk forward, looking very much like they never left high school, like they’re ready to terrorize anyone that steps into their path.

Cathy rubs the golden bangles on her left arm. “Jump into a book? I was thinking about it.”

“Great,” I lie. “What’s your favorite genre? I can help you.”

“What’s a genre?” Sadie whispers to Cherie.

Oh gods. It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes.

It’s Cherie’s turn to whisper. “I thought we came because of the witch?—”

Cathy snaps her fingers, and Cherie’s lips pin shut. The poor woman tugs at her mouth, but whatever spell Cathy’s cast, sticks. The minion can’t part her lips.

“Going to the ball tonight?” Cathy asks, her voice dripping with poison. Not literally, of course. But if poison could have a sound, it would be Cathy’s Disney villain voice.

“A better question is, are you?” I throw back. Of course I’m going to the ball. She knows that. It’s being held in my honor.

My high school nemesis sneers. “I am. Daddy’s bought me a beautiful new gown. Had Daisy make it.”

Daisy’s the town tailor and is awesome at her job. “How nice for you.”

She bats her lashes innocently. “I’m so looking forward to it, but of course, I’m always worried.”

Chatty Cathy was the biggest mean girl in high school. I hardly ever see her now, but whenever she does rear her ugly head alongside her Doublemint Twins, I don’t back down from the meanness.

Never let the bullies win.

And it’s obvious that she wants to play. Well then, let’s play.

“What do you worry about?” I ask innocently.

“Well”—now she’s twirling a platinum strand of hair around her finger—“I worry that there’s no point in going, that you’ll get there and use your power to steal all the eligible men.”

The heat of anger that had been licking down my skin dissolves into barely restrained fury. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Don’t you remember what happened in high school? With Devlin?”

My jaw tightens so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t cracked. There are a myriad of replies that I can make, from I don’t know what you’re talking about to what do you mean? But all of those vanish from my mind, leaving me with, “I didn’t do anything to him.”

Which is just as good as admitting that I did do something to Devlin.

And of course, this is what Cathy’s been waiting for.

She tsks. “It’s a powerful thing, being able to influence someone into falling in love with you. It’s good that he got away from your freakazoid magic before it was too late.”

Sadie laughs. Cherie tries to but can’t. She taps Cathy’s shoulder, and the bully looks back at her, giving a dramatic eye roll before she snaps her fingers and Cherie’s mouth becomes unglued.

“I never magicked Devlin,” I growl.

“So you say.”

“So you say,” Cherie mocks.

Cathy shoots a nasty look over her shoulder, and Cherie’s gaze drops to the floor. “But what really bothers me,” Cathy continues, “is that you might pull something like this on Storm Grayson.”

Wait. What? “Storm Grayson?”

She fans herself as if it’s hot. It’s freezing outside, being winter and all, and it’s warm in the shop but nowhere near baking.

She tsks. “Haven’t you heard? Storm’s attending the witch ball. The whole town’s talking about it. I guess if you had friends, you’d know.”

She starts to turn away, but I grab her wrist. She twists around and glares at my hand, but I don’t drop it. “You’re sure?”

She scoffs. “Do you think that I’d lie about something like this? A famous magical inventor and billionaire comes to our town to meet the women in it, and I’d lie about that?”

“You might,” Sadie says, thinking it over. Cathy’s jaw drops and Sadie quickly backpedals. “Never mind. You wouldn’t lie about it at all.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I mean, not only is Storm Grayson a crazy rich supernatural, but he’s handsome, and no one, from what I hear, knows what sort of magical he is.”

All of this is true. The man is one of the most famous magical inventors of our time, a celebrity, well-known for being outspoken and extraordinarily handsome. The most intriguing part of all is what Cathy said about his magical status—no one knows what sort of supernatural he is. It’s kept under wraps, with Storm himself claiming that he is what he is and that’s the most important thing.

Which of course has made the rumor mill run wild with theories. Is he a half vampire/werewolf hybrid? Is he a wizard/werewolf? Is he part human?

No one knows.

And Storm Grayson’s coming here.

Cathy blows me a kiss. “Good luck, freak . Oh, and don’t get in my way.”

“Excuse me?”

She tips her head, looking at me as if I’m a sad little puppy who doesn’t understand. “Storm Grayson might be coming to the ball to meet you, but he’s going to be mine.”

Our gazes lock for a long moment. “Get out, Cathy.”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “I didn’t want to jump into a nasty old book anyway. No telling how many times they’ve been used and what diseases they carry. I like my toys brand-new and shiny.”

Her minions cackle as they turn on their heels and walk out the door, releasing a blast of cold winter into the store.

I shiver against it, and when the door is shut firmly behind them, I exhale the breath that I’ve been holding.

Holy cow. Storm Grayson. Coming to the ball. Does my aunt know? She’s the one who always puts the balls together, so of course she knows. Why didn’t she tell me?

I’m irked, but my head’s still spinning. It’s said that Storm Grayson once magicked an entire team of doctors to a South American village because the children were getting sick. I could faint at all that goodness.

If there’s one magical who could make me even remotely excited about the ball, it’s him. Not only is he filthy rich, handsome, totally brilliant and completely eligible, but he’s also the magical rival of one?—

“Devlin Ross,” Addison says.

I blink. “What?”

My older sister, who’s somehow managed to pull herself away from the tentacles of needy customers, places a hand gently on my arm. Auburn hair tumbles over her shoulders, and brown eyes peek out from under a glossy curtain of bangs. When did she escape from her fan club?

Before I get a chance to ask, she says, “Devlin Ross ordered some books. Since you need to get ready for tonight, I thought you could leave early and drop them off on your way home.”

I choke on a gob of saliva and pound my chest until the coughing stops. “Devlin ordered books?”

“Yes. I’d ask Chelsea to take them, but she’s staying until closing.”

My gaze dashes to Chelsea, who’s still talking to the customer who was tossed early from a book.

“Addison, I don’t… I mean, Devlin should come and get them himself.” She knows that just seeing that man makes me want to grab the nearest fork and jab it into his hand. “He’s got two legs and his own flying skillet. He probably owns an army of them. Besides, it takes forever to do my hair?—”

She shoves the books into my arms and grins. “I appreciate it. I’d say we could put it off for another day, but he’s been waiting almost a week. Thank you so much. Oh! I gotta get back.” She clicks her tongue impatiently. “People need me to find books for them.”

Before I can blink, I’m bundled up in a coat with a scarf wound around my neck all the way up to my ears, and I’m standing outside holding a stack of books, my body pointing in the direction of Devlin’s house.

Let’s get this over with.

It’s a short walk to his ridiculously big mansion that’s three stories and topped with a thatched roof like the rest of the homes in Castleview.

The place is so wide that it takes up three lots. It’s also got huge windows which of course don’t have curtains, so that the neighbors can have a front-row seat to whatever debauchery Devlin partakes in with his revolving door of girlfriends.

Not that I care. Why would I care that he dates as many women as he desires while I’m shoved into marrying some guy I may or may not want? Probably won’t want. Perhaps that’s for the best.

In fact, it is for the best. What has love ever gotten me?

Heartache for starters.

Besides, I don’t have to love someone in order to marry them, and I certainly don’t have to fall for Storm Grayson.

I can thank Devlin Ross for ruining all men for me.

I ring the bell and exhale a slash of bangs from my eyes. A lifetime too soon, the door swings open.

My breath lodges in my throat at the sight of him.

Devlin’s full head of dark golden hair is tousled as if he recently rolled out of bed. He cocks his head and sighs, obviously annoyed that I’m here. Well that makes two of us, buddy.

There’s a dark smudge of soot under his right eye, which makes him look like he just finished partaking in some really manly work that involved chopping wood.

As if he can hear my inner thoughts, Devlin lifts an arm and raises it over his head. His bicep strains against his sweater, threatening to tear the wimpy fabric in half.

He wipes a hand down his face, passing those hazel eyes before caressing his strong cheeks and finishing at his chin, where there’s a cleft (as if to prove he’s all masculine energy).

The air crackles (or is it just me?) as his voice rumbles. “Why, Blair. It’s been a while. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

Just hearing his voice stops the drool from falling out of my mouth. Devlin Ross is the worst person in the world, and the last man on earth that I would ever be caught dead with.

And to punctuate that point, I shove the books right into his stomach.