Spell Ya Later (The Pruitt Witches #1)

1. Four Witches Walk Into A Dinner

Chapter 1

Four Witches Walk Into A Dinner

M y lungs scream as I fight the overwhelming urge to take a breath. My little sister’s eyes are like saucers as she stares at me, cutting off the circulation in my hands with her death grip. We have our orders.

Don’t breathe.

Don’t move.

Don’t make a sound.

Or you will die. We will all die.

The edges of my vision are dark; a gray veil lies over everything else.

My mother’s back is to us, shielding us, so I can’t see her face. I can only make out the tension in her shoulders as she holds herself still. Still as a tree in the dead of night. My unanswered question rings in my head...

Where is Daddy?

She didn’t answer me — just told me to protect Laura and stay quiet.

Shuffling draws my attention, the slow drag of an injured leg along a wooden floor. The echo reverberates against the walls. I don’t even know where we are.

“Where are they?” a scratchy voice asks from only a few feet away.

“They must have escaped while you were...preoccupied.” That’s a voice I haven’t heard before. Has this man been here the whole time?

“You’re blaming me?”

“There’s no one else here to blame, is there? Come. They can’t hide forever.”

Are they gone? There is no sound, but the heaviness in the air has somehow lightened. I open my mouth to speak, to question, but my mother’s hand lands on my forehead.

“Forget.”

My eyes close.

“It’s almost five at night, Hazel. Are you seriously napping?”

My eyes blink open to find my sister, Laura, staring at me. If the hardness of her gaze is any indication, waking me up was a chore.

I’ve had the same nightmare almost every night for the past thirteen years. Ever since my dad died, I’ve been plagued by a memory that doesn’t exist. A memory that never happened. My sister and I were at home the night my father died. I can still smell the buttery popcorn Grandma made for us as we watched some silly cartoon. I can feel the slip of the freshly washed sheets that Laura and I shared because she didn’t want to sleep alone after such a fun night.

But tell all that to my subconscious.

That part of my brain apparently hasn’t gotten the message.

“How can I help you?”

Laura opens her mouth and closes it as her eyes snap to the open sketchbook I fell asleep next to. I hastily close the book on a pair of eyes that have captivated my attention for the past few weeks. I can draw them despite not knowing their owner. Eyes of the darkest brown, almost black. With a little fleck of green in the corner of the right one in the shape of a star.

“Homework from class?” she asks, a half grin lifting the side of her mouth.

I narrow my eyes. “No. I’m the instructor, I don’t have homework.” Granted, I’m an unpaid volunteer, but the access to decent supplies and fresh inspiration is too good to pass up on. Plus, it’s pretty much the only time Mom lets me out of the house. It’s also the only time she leaves the house. Sunday morning brunch with the few friends she has left.

She scoffs, allowing me to move on from the subject for now. “I’ve come to brainstorm ideas on how to get out of dinner tonight. I don’t know about you, but I really don’t feel like dealing with Mom and Grandma.” She flops on my bed beside me. The vintage wooden frame groans under the added weight. The only thing holding it together is magic and my mother’s determination.

“Good luck with that. You don’t show up and Grandma will hex your hair puke green. Again.”

Laura cringes, running her hand through her hair as if to check it’s still blonde. “We could go out after?”

“When have I ever, and I mean ever , wanted to go out?”

“Please?”

Oh no. Not the puppy dog eyes. Why am I never able to say no to the puppy dog eyes?

“Maybe.”

“You’ll have so much fun, Hazel, I promise!”

Yes, Laura, being your designated driver while men fall over themselves just to be noticed by you is my idea of a fun time. Sign me up!

The best part is the constant reminder that I’m practically a spinster at the ripe old age of twenty-five. But it’s pretty hard to find a boyfriend when you’re simultaneously parenting your sister and being smothered by your mother.

“GIRLS!” Mom calls from downstairs. “Come down and help me finish setting up!”

Laura practically dances out of my room like a little wood nymph or some shit. Standing up, I collect my colored pencils and put them away in the antique desk in the corner. It’s not my style in the least, but mom insists I keep it since it matches the bed and dresser. And whatever she wants, she gets. Was I allowed to go to college? No, Hazel, you’re not ready. You can’t leave Laura. Was I allowed to get a job? No, Hazel, what if someone finds out you’re a witch? Was I allowed to move out? Well, at that point I didn’t have anywhere to go and no money to my name. My mother weaponized the hell out of my father’s death and she did a damn good job of it. I’m lucky she lets me volunteer for the art class.

I turn off the light and walk down the worn wooden staircase. The old Victorian house groans and creaks beneath my feet. Not even carpets muffle the noises of the home. At this point, I swear it’s sentient.

“Set the table, please.” Mom pushes the silver into my hands. We only bring out the fancy stuff once a month when Grandma comes for dinner. Not that Grandma is impressed by that sort of thing. She’s not impressed by bullshit, and for that I am thankful.

Despite knowing it’s bullshit, I follow orders like the obedient daughter I am. The obedient soldier. I place the silverware on the delicate lace place settings and light the candles in the middle of the dark wood table. According to Grandma, this table has been in our family for generations. I swear I saw a furniture store sticker underneath it.

The family portrait stares at me from above the fireplace. It’s an imposing beast of a painting, commissioned by some old friend of my grandmother’s when I was a child. My grandmother sits in a regal high-backed armchair of royal purple, reveling in her place as matriarch of the family. My mother and I stand behind her on opposite sides...symbolic in its own way. Laura, only six or seven at the time, sits on the floor. Despite it being a painting, Laura’s eyes almost dance as if she’s begging to be allowed to go play.

My father insisted the portrait should feature the women of the family when my mother tried to include him. Looking at it now, I wish she’d fought harder.

I wish she’d done a lot of things differently.

“Where are my girls?” Grandma’s voice travels through the home as if magically amplified. Knowing her, it is.

I double-check the table before making my way to the kitchen. It’s a partially renovated chef’s dream. Admittedly one of the largest rooms in the old house, the cabinets and island are a rich mahogany wood. The countertops are a smooth complementary marble that my father personally installed right before...

. . . before.

With my first step, I’m immediately smacked in the nose by the scent of butternut squash, garlic, and rosemary. And bread. Delicious, flaky, made-from-scratch bread. My mother is a lot of things—not all good—but an excellent cook is top of that list.

“Grandma!” Laura is wrapped immediately in a belly-crushing hug. Laura’s always been Grandma’s favorite, probably because Laura is everyone’s favorite. She’s bubbly, sweet, just a smidge sarcastically spicy, and gorgeous—who wouldn’t love her?

Mom’s standing at the stove, stirring the soup. I note her silence and her tense shoulders. If it were up to her, we’d never speak to Grandma again. I have no idea what happened between them, but it was around the same time my father died. The same time my mother stopped using magic.

The same time my sister and I were forbidden from using our powers.

“Where are your thoughts, dear?” Grandma lays a hand on my shoulder, dragging me back to reality. I turn to her, her bright blue eyes pulling me in first as they always do. They’re like two liquid pools, bright and unblinking as she stares into each and every thought I’ve ever had.

“Hi, Grandma,” I reply, avoiding her question. I hug her, her curly silver hair brushing against my face with her familiar scent. I always think of her when I smell lavender and smoke.

As we pull away, her gaze roams me with a sympathetic touch. She knows something is wrong. Joke’s on her though, something has been wrong for years.

“Mother,” Mom says from where she remains at the stove. Not a muscle has moved.

“Sarah,” Grandma replies.

Lovely, so the icy one-word conversations are starting early tonight. Maybe going out with Laura is a good idea. If anything, it gives us an excuse to leave early.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Mom says.

Laura dutifully grabs the plates and bowls, and I follow her back into the dining room. Anything to get away from them and their tense vibes. I love Grandma, she’s a serious badass, but I don’t understand why she and Mom can’t get along.

“Give me an update, sweetheart. What’s going on in your life?” Grandma asks me once we’re all settled around the table with our food. Her signature bangles clack on her wrists, just beneath the black cat tattoo of her familiar, Rosie, whom I haven’t seen in years.

“Nothing, really. Same old, same old.” I shrug. It’s the same reply I have for her each month. I’ve been stuck in mud ever since I graduated high school. Seven years later and what do I have to show for it?

For the last thirteen years, from the moment my father died, my life has been one giant ball of nothing. I’m not human. I’m not a witch. I’m this thing in the middle. No friends, no social life, no professional life. I have nothing.

Her eyes are kind, however. No judgment, no disappointment, only a quiet understanding. “You are such a beautiful, creative, intelligent witch, Hazel. Never forget that.”

Mom’s teeth grind together the moment Grandma says witch. Is Grandma sincere in her words? Absolutely. Did Grandma use that word specifically to piss off Mom? Also absolutely.

“She’s a beautiful, creative, intelligent human ,” Mom says.

Laura flops back in her chair with a groan. “Here we go! Only took two minutes tonight.”

“I realize she’s a human,” Grandma continues as if Laura never spoke. “I also realize that Hazel is a grown woman and pretending she’s not a witch is neither productive nor useful. I’m happy to support both of my granddaughters should they ever wish to explore that part of themselves. Is that truly so threatening to you, Sarah?”

The rickety chandelier flickers above us as Mom and Grandma stare at each other—waiting for the other to flinch first. Laura eats as if this happens all the time, but that’s because it does. This bullshit happens every single month. Each time Grandma steps into this house, Mom ramps up her controlling monster persona and Grandma acts like the only joy she gets in life is from poking our mother until she breaks.

“My daughters will have nothing to do with that life,” Mom says. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Crack!

One of the light bulbs shatters in the chandelier in a swirling haze of...is that water? Laura and I gape at the splattered mess of glass and water all over the once perfectly set table.

And it’s as if something breaks in me, too. What is the rest of my life going to look like? Am I going to live with my mother until I’m old, regretful, resentful, and cruel?

Until I become her?

My gaze lifts to the woman herself, watching her as she stares at Grandma. The anger in her eyes, the anger in her heart...I’m already so angry. I can’t become her. I don’t want the anger to eat me alive.

“And what if I do want something to do with that life?” My voice is steadier than I expected.

My mother’s head turns toward me cinematically slowly, like something from a horror film. I ignore the “Ooooh” from Laura.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The house—full of noises, always talking and creaking—goes eerily quiet with Mom’s words.

“For the first time, what if I do?” I pause, practically shaking in my chair. “God, Mom, for the first time I know exactly what I’m talking about. I need this. I need to be able to explore every part of who I am without fear of you burning me at the stake!”

“At the stake? Do you think that’s cute, Hazel?”

“To be fair, it’s pretty funny.” Laura shrugs as she pops another piece of bread into her mouth. While the backup is appreciated, I want to do this on my own.

I stand slowly, rage boiling underneath my skin until it’s practically tumbling out of me alongside my words. “I want the ability to choose the path my life will take. I can’t know if magic is that path unless I try.”

“Fine.” Mom’s eyes narrow. “Make your choice. But no daughter of mine will practice the craft while living under my roof.”

Her response stops me, cooling the heat burning my blood. I knew I was letting her control me for far too long, but this?

“You’d kick out your own daughter?” My voice wavers.

She nods once. “I’d do anything to protect you.”

My hands smooth over the white tablecloth, the slight embossed flower texture rippling under my fingers. Do I want to practice magic so badly that I’d risk homelessness? I have some money saved, but I’m an unemployed loser with no friends and no college degree. Homelessness is a real worry here.

Is it worth it?

I nod.

“I’ll be out in an hour.”