Chapter Twelve-Evie
The cacophony of angry voices in my waiting room told me two things.
First, the townspeople had definitely heard about our new visitors.
Second, they were absolutely, unequivocally pissed off.
“Madam Mayor!”
“Evie!”
“Evelyn Castor, you must get rid of those Shifters!”
Ugh.
The name Evelyn being flung at me like a curse was never a good sign.
“There you are!” Stanley cried, popping his magnificently styled head into the hallway like a glamorous meerkat.
“Okay, folks, you know the drill! Fill out a form, and I will personally deliver your grievances to the mayor!”
My knight in shining purple silk Armani opened my office door and practically body-blocked me inside.
“It’s about time,” he hissed, giving me the once-over.
Then he turned to the crowd and clapped his hands, his tone transforming into that of an exhausted Broadway stage manager.
“Forms in the inbox, people! This is not a Witch hunt—yet!”
“I stopped by the cemetery to check on Miss Spritely’s complaint,” I said, brushing past him.
He gasped—like, hand-to-chest, dramatic gasp. “Ooh! What did you find? Possibly a dinner date with tall, dark, and howly?”
He waggled his brows like a villain in a sexy soap opera.
“Also, I see Donny stopped by, didn’t she? Your hair is giving mid-century siren realness.”
I froze mid-purse-drop. “How do you already know about Jaxson?”
Stanley perched on the corner of my desk with the balance of a dancer and the smug satisfaction of someone who read every gossip thread in town.
“Ooooh, so it is Jaxson, huh? That’s his name? Tell me everything. Every. Sultry. Detail.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said, lying like the worst liar in the history of ever. “Yet,” I added, because I couldn’t help myself—and winked.
My stomach growled in protest, which prompted me to dive for the snack drawer like a woman on a mission.
I bypassed the judgmental bags of kale chips and raw almonds in favor of something that might actually make me happy.
Like chocolate.
Or chocolate-covered chocolate.
Stanley made a noise that sounded like a dying peacock.
“Absolutely not, Evelyn Castor.”
And the rat took my bar!
That was it. If he wanted to play dirty, I could play dirty.
“Really, Stanley Moncrief? Should we inspect your snack drawer? Maybe tell Stephen that someone hasn’t given up peanut butter out of respect for his husband’s food allergies, after all?”
He narrowed his eyes, then handed me a dark chocolate granola bar like it was an offering from the gods.
I squinted at it.
“Ugh. Why am I even fighting for this? It looks like it was made by a sadist who hates joy.”
He pointed dramatically to the framed photo on my desk of my mother and Aunt Edna, both beaming like Witches who had survived a thousand Weight Watchers meetings. Which they had. But I couldn’t say the same for any of the others.
“Fine,” I muttered, unwrapping the bar and taking a bite.
“Also? About damn time,” he said, tapping one perfectly manicured finger on the wood. “After Chief Dick—”
I snorted mid-chew and nearly lost all oxygen.
I couldn’t even pretend not to laugh.
And okay, maybe I’d let it slip one night—after a few glasses of plum wine—that Richard Daniels preferred to be called Chief Dick in bed.
Not that he earned the title.
His firehose? More like a busted sprinkler.
Jaxson, on the other hand—now that man had potential written all over him.
Oh, Gaia. Just thinking about the size of those hands gave me shivers.
“Okay, now let’s be honest,” Stanley continued, completely unbothered. “Shifters? Fun size or full size?”
He raised both index fingers and held them apart until they formed a generous, and frankly alarming, thirteen-inch gap.
I choked.
On the granola bar. Or the proposed inches.
I wasn’t sure.
“Why the fuck is this so dry?” I croaked, eyes watering as I reached for his fancy bottle of imported Japanese spring water.
He let me drink it. Begrudgingly. But I knew it hurt him.
Once I swallowed the desert masquerading as a granola bar, I leaned back in my chair.
“Thanks, Stan. I know it’s not permanent or anything. But I am really attracted to this guy.”
Stanley softened. “Evie, babe, you have the Sight. You can see ghosts. You can ferret out lies. You even predicted Mrs. Wendell’s cat would return—and it did, with kittens.”
“I still think that was a hallucination,” I muttered.
“But you can’t read your own future, and that’s okay,” he said gently. “Don’t overthink it. Don’t worry about it. Worrying gives you wrinkles and gray hairs. Just boink the guy and enjoy it!”
“And hexing the town’s water supply would get me fired,” I added, then gasped. “Boink the guy? Really?”
Stanley just patted my hand.
“Oh! By the way, you had a phone call,” he said casually.
“From who?” I asked, brows shooting up.
He filtered every message like a spellbound gatekeeper. If he was mentioning one? It was serious.
Please don’t be my parents.
Please don’t be my parents.
Please don’t be my parents.
I could not deal with one more honeymoon story.
Seriously, I was seconds away from banishing myself to another realm if my dad said one more thing about seducing my mother under the crescent moon.
Yuck. Gross. Barf.
Apparently, all Castor Witches had overactive gag reflexes.
It was genetic.
“Now, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Stanley said, sweeping into the room with the confidence of a runway model and the sass of a drag queen at brunch. “But I thought you’d want to hear this from me directly.”
He paused just long enough to make me nervous.
“She called to check in today. Mentioned a few things. Oh, and it seems our fabulous town Witch Trifecta has been criminally lax about selecting familiars. She’s sending three—immediately.
They’ve read your files. And she casually mentioned a few Shifters might’ve wandered into the area and with her full approval. ”
Wait.
What? Who?
The fuck?
My heart hiccupped. My magic stirred.
Stanley kept talking, oblivious to the existential spiral forming in my brain.
“She called about eight seconds before Dick Daniels barged in here, foaming at the mouth, ranting about a ‘Shifter menace threatening our supernatural way of life.’ You know. Typical Dick behavior.”
“Ugh. Screw Dick,” I muttered, my pulse ticking upward. “But Stanley—you keep saying she. Who is she?”
There was only one she that could make my stomach plummet and my mouth go dry like I’d swallowed a sand dune.
Stanley just smiled. That smile. The evil one he reserved for when he was about to drop a bomb and then leave me to clean up the magical fallout.
“Stanley,” I warned.
“Yep,” he sang.
I took a sip of water just as he added, “Magdelena called.”
Cue spit-take.
Right onto his custom Armani.
Oops.
Sorry not sorry.
“Evelyn!” he shrieked, magicking away the stain.
“You mean Magdelena?” I gasped. “Like the Magdelena? La Befana? The Witch Whisperer?!”
“She prefers Witch Wheedler, but yes.” Stanley plucked a lint roller from his drawer and cleaned a speck that wasn’t there, more offended by my manners than my spit.
“I am not calling her that,” I said.
Then, I jumped up, then sat back down, then stood again before remembering how knees work.
“Holy crap. Why would she call me?!”
“I just told you why,” Stanley repeated, rolling his eyes.
“Number,” I barked. “Give me her number!”
He sauntered—yes, sauntered—across the room like he had all the time in the world.
Finally, his neon green notepad floated into my hand.
“Stanley, what even is this handwriting? It looks like magical hieroglyphics.”
“It’s calligraphy, and it’s elevated,” he sniffed. “That’s a five, not an S, you philistine.”
“Sorry. Thank you. I love your art. Culture is life. Okay, I got this. Let me call this, um, legend before I explode.”
He rolled his eyes but gave me a thumbs up.
I dialed with shaking fingers and prayed to the goddess I wouldn’t puke. When the line clicked, a raspy voice that could only belong to a thousand-year-old badass came through.
“Hello! You’ve reached the mighty Shifter Wheedler! Hello? Is this thing on? Hurry up, sister, I ain’t got all day!”
Oh my gods, it’s her.
“Magdelena?!” I squeaked like a baby squirrel with a megaphone.
“Speaking. Hang on.” She covered the phone, I think, because I heard something that sounded like whispering, a scuffle, a chair squeak, and possibly someone being smacked on the ass.
I stared at Stanley, who was now pacing, gesturing wildly for updates like I was giving a TED Talk instead of peeing my pants mid-call.
Then she was back.
“Alright. So. What can I do you for?” she said, now sounding like a twenty year-old, and acting like she hadn’t just had a whole three-ring circus going on wherever she was.
“This is Evie Castor of Castor’s Corner, just returning your call,” I said, trying not to squeak again.
“Castor’s what now? Wait—Efraim?” she shouted.
“It’s Evie,” I corrected.
“Sure it is,” she replied distractedly. I heard more shuffling, maybe a thud.
Definitely a moan. Was she working right now or filming a porno?
Finally, she returned, clear as a bell.
“Of course, Evie, doll. So, it’s come to my attention, via the holy offices of the Mystical Magical Morrigan herself, that the Witch Trifecta of your adorable little hamlet has been without familiars for some time now.”
“Uh, yeah. The last Trifecta lost their familiars in that unfortunate incident involving those rogue warlocks, a bonfire, and half of Main Street, so we just thought it would be better,” I winced, trying to explain.
“Well, sweetheart, that dog won’t hunt anymore,” she snapped. “I’ve got three familiars incoming to your sweet little town of Cassius Clay—wait, is that in Joizy?”
“No one says Joizy,” I muttered.
“Whatevah,” she replied, nailing the accent in a way that both enraged and impressed me.
I grinned despite myself. “So these familiars, are they mandatory?”
“Mandatory. Obligatory. Call it whatevah you want. But, uh, so yeah, don’t freak out, but they’re a little unconventional. Oh, and I let them read your files and choose their own Witches themselves. Sounded fair.”
“Wait, our files?”
“Yep. The Mighty Morphin Power Morrigan has files on everybody. Let’s see—Evelyn Castor, Maribella Strega, and Donatella Andrews. Your girl squad is about to get a triple dose of magical companionship.”
Familiars. Shifters.
La Befana sending us backup in three tiny, fragile, furry forms.
Well, crap.
My brain short-circuited.
My hormones were still trying to get over Jaxson’s smile.
“Every Witch needs a familiar, even Witches in Catsup Cottage.”
“Castor’s Corner,” I mumbled.
“You know your tiny town is prophesied to do big things for the magical world! Big things.”
I had an actual legend on speed dial and a prophecy unfolding before breakfast?
I reached for Stanley’s water again.
Yep. I was gonna need a real snack—the buttery, warm from the oven, gooey-filled kind.
And possibly a nap.
And definitely some wine.