The Witch’s Assistant (Bitchcraft #1)

Chapter VII A Golden Opportunity

Chapter VII

A Golden Opportunity

S eptember rushed and bled into the sharp air of New York City fall.

The city was quick with transition and the crisping of caramel leaves. The sun went down sooner on those long October workdays: Clark would awake every day that month as it rose, and as the blue RFK Bridge disappeared into the morning sky. In the evenings, he would leave in time to catch the sunset outside the windows of his train rides home. Then, he would rise and do it all over again, his work grind seven to seven, seven days a week. Clark felt as if he was riding his body until the wheels fell off.

His only constant was his morning gardenia-tobacco spritz of Charisma Eau de Parfum , and the soreness in his throat that just wouldn’t go—a consequence, perhaps, of biting his tongue and swallowing his pride as often as he did. Perhaps there was no helping it. Clark had gotten used to putting his needs and his very personhood from his mind when there was work to be done, dreams to chase, a life to upgrade. When he stopped to think for too long, however, he just couldn’t be so sure what he was running towards, what he was leaving behind, or if his dreams were chasing him.

At Charisma’s, pitting Monica and Melissa against each other had been a little too easy when they had already been looking for reasons to be hateful. Clark thought giving them a distraction in one another would lessen their abuse of him, but he was wrong. Nothing changed for the better. Not only were they working him, he was also answering to Melissa’s personal errands on top of Charisma’s, Monica’s, and the rest.

Today at work, Clark had written in his diary, after I ran her dry cleaning and walked in on her sneaking photos of books in the library again, Melissa gave me the rest of her box of cookies she raided from the pantry—only because she was too lazy to return it to the kitchen or throw it out herself. I’ll take that as her way of being sweet. She seems to think I’m her little pet.

I think she’s gotten comfortable with me, to say the least...

Then, later in the day, Monica had an announcement for when the assistants were together.

“Girls,” she said as she returned from the kitchen, “whoever keeps putting the empty fro-yo cartons back in the fridge, please refrain.”

I watched a look of recognition flash across Melissa’s face.

Monica said, “Some people are animals and were just not raised right...”

Monica cut Melissa a look as she sat down but it was too quick for Melissa to catch. Melissa mocked Monica behind her back, miming her words to no one but herself, and I almost laughed out loud.

Monica confronted her, of course. “Are you mocking me?”

Then they started to argue. Alicia had to step in and separate them.

Maybe this was a bad idea, telling Melissa that Monica, a married woman, is inviting a man to Charisma’s during after-work hours, and Monica that Melissa is planning on leaving and taking Charisma’s clients with her. All that means Monica and Melissa are at each other’s necks more than ever. Maybe my pitting them against each other has worked a little too well.

I wonder what it will take to stop what I started...

Monica and Melissa had taken to shamelessly bickering so much that Clark was actually happy to be out of the penthouse and running errands—“Cici’s Delivery Service,” he and Joey had come to call it (“If only I could fly on a broom around town,” Clark mused). Anything to experience the change of season in the city, and keep his mind off his birthday that was fast approaching...

Clark’s only true reprieve in those days was his sleepovers with Joey, who had sorta kinda spent so much time at his that he had practically moved in. It started casually enough, when Joey met Clark the Tuesday after Labor Day to drive him home. Clark invited him up and he never really left. Clark was worried Joey would think his apartment juvenile and poor.

On the contrary: “I love it,” Joey had said.

Slowly, Clark noticed Joey’s work schedule transitioning to morning and afternoon shifts and not his coveted evening shifts, despite Clark’s protests, just so they could spend time together. “Don’t argue with your assistant manager,” he said with a cheeky smile. “It’s just weekdays. I’m keeping weekend nights at the bar. Besides, it’s a chance to let somebody else move up.”

Joey would arrive with “ganja and mangia,” which he said to mean a lot of weed and a lot of food packed from Northlight’s Michelin-star kitchen, or his mother’s home-cooked leftovers, or pizza from around the corner, or takeout, or fast food, whatever they could manage. Joey understood Clark’s limited means. He didn’t even judge the dollar-store taquitos.

Sometimes Joey would even cook for them: chicken parmigiana, salmon with asparagus, tortellini with red sauce, Nonna Margaret’s famous meatballs (the way Joey would talk with his shoulders, bumping them up and down and mocking a Brooklyn accent, was enough to catch a giggle out of Clark).

First, the cabinets were filled with seasonings, then the drawers with changes of clothes, and then, well...Clark didn’t mind any of it though. He loved the company. He loved watching Joey cook. He loved to be with Joey. They’d eat in bed and put on a movie just to kiss to, any excuse to spend their nights in together. Anything to not sleep alone during Clark’s recurring, almost nightly nightmares of the assistants and Charisma and their wicked laughter, waking him at three in the morning every time.

To Clark’s fond delight and appreciation, Joey even let him vent about work.

“The other day, all the assistants and I were together when Monica goes, ‘Whoever smells like garlic and onions should really consider bathing before showing up to work’— looking right at me, of course.” Clark delivered this in Monica’s affected way of speaking as he washed the dishes after Joey’s cooking.

“And was she mistaken?” Joey teased.

“She isn’t wrong!” Clark said. He stepped away to put a saucepan under a leak from the nighttime rain.

“You smell like roses to me, baby!” Joey said. He hugged Clark from behind and kissed him on the neck. “No, really. Like flowers and something woodsy-smoky. I like it!”

Clark didn’t tell Joey that he’d started wearing copious amounts of Charisma the Eau de Parfum , hoping to mitigate any criticism and throw her off his tail, or at least avert Monica’s attention. In the way Joey couldn’t keep his hands off of him, however, the perfume seemed to work as advertised.

“Oh—and I finally got to assisting Charisma’s niece, Alicia.”

“The one who was powdering her nose at the party you crashed?” Joey asked. He wiggled his nose and took a seat at Clark’s little drop-leaf table.

“Ha! Yeah, that one. She’s actually a really cool girl! She made a comment about my high-tops. She said, ‘That’s so brave of you,’ that she used to wear the same in middle school. ‘Brave of you.’ Can you believe?”

“I guess with this group, that’s a compliment,” Joey said.

“Yeah, tell me about it! Progress. She’s closer in age to us than to Monica and Melissa. Monica caught her and me chatting and tried to steal me away, and Alicia put her in her place. ‘Leave him alone and do it yourself. He’s mine.’ I mean, who would mess with the boss’s niece, you know what I mean? When Monica left in a huff, Alicia told me about how she knew Monica growing up, as if she was dying to gossip. She said her family is super well known in the wi— their community, and that they ‘quite wrongfully’ think they’re better than everyone else.”

“Whaaat?” Joey remarked sarcastically. “I don’t believe that for a minute.” They both giggled.

Clark couldn’t bring himself to explain everything to Joey—not the part about them thinking that they were witches and running some kind of occult operation. At least not yet anyway... He couldn’t risk losing Joey’s respect or interest. He cared a lot about him... a lot a lot. “I know, right?! Alicia even mentioned something about how growing up, there was an I Hate Monica club . The superintendent practically asked her to switch schools, and not because she was the one being bullied.”

“Wow, that’s crazy,” Joey said. “But how do you know that’s true?”

Clark paused. “I’m not sure. Why would Alicia lie?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Joey asked. “That’s just petty gossip between bored, catty, rich mean girls.”

“Yeah, maybe . . .” Clark said. You’re losing him, Clark . . . he thought. “Still, maybe it’s truer than not. I feel kinda . . . bad for her.”

“You do?” Joey asked in surprise, crossing his arms.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Clark shrugged. “Because maybe if she had been loved the right way, she wouldn’t have turned out to be so vicious.”

Joey shifted in his seat. “I dunno, Clark. Some people are just rotten to the core, no matter how much love you give them. You can’t out-love someone’s shitty personality.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right...Oh! I almost forgot to tell you! The other day, I accidentally forgot to give Monica’s credit card back after a run to some boutique or other, and you should have seen the bitchfit she threw.”

“No . . . !”

“Yep. Words like ‘incompetent’ and ‘useless’ were thrown around.”

Joey put his glass down. “Clark! She can’t say that to you!”

“Yeah, well, she did. No matter how much I tried to reason with her that it wasn’t my fault she never asked for it back and sent me on the next errand super quick, the blame still landed on me. I had to turn right around when I got back home. And then she made me chase her all around the city because by then, she had already left Charisma’s and gone out to some apartment on the West Side Highway. That woman is impossible. By the time I got home, I was totally exhaustles . Ugh! You should see the way they look at me like I’m some poor little bug from Queens! Like some kind of second-class citizen.” Clark looked around his shoebox apartment with an expression he was sure said, Well, maybe they’re not wrong...

Joey stood up. He wrapped his arms around Clark and playfully gave him a tight squeeze. “Hey, baby, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be treated like that,” he said. Joey always had the best reactions. He always knew the right things to say or what not to say, or when to gasp, or when to laugh. Their high-time sleepovers were Clark’s little adventures, a sooty respite from his workdays, innocent and carefree.

The first night Joey slept over after their date on Labor Day, Joey said, “I have a surprise for you.” He held out a small confection for Clark. “ Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” he asked.

Clark gasped in feigned shock. “You devil, you! Is that, a treat? For me?”

“Just for you, baby,” he said. “You know I wouldn’t show up empty-handed.” They each downed a single mini edible brownie. Clark and Joey gorged themselves on pizza and soda that night and laughed until they were unable to stay vertical. They fell back into hand-me-down pillows in an embrace of sweet, deep kisses as the sun set, while swallows flew low and gave chase outside, and butterflies tapped on the windows. That night, they didn’t let go. That night, Joey traced the constellations of Clark’s beauty marks. That night, Clark and Joey flew.

In his dreams, Clark lifted up off his bed as if hooked by the navel, where the butterflies lived. First, he looked down at his body and saw himself sound asleep. Then, he looked to the opened window and flew out of his apartment, over the watchful tower eyes of the RFK Bridge, and into that uninterrupted Astoria night sky.

Friday the 24th of October arrived. It was Clark’s birthday, and he was twenty-four years old.

At Charisma’s, the girls were preparing for something.

“Remind me, babes,” Melissa asked Alicia, “what time is the eclipse at its greatest again?”

“11:42,” Alicia answered.

“She’s crazy,” Melissa said. “What is she thinking, doing this during an eclipse? She knows better than anyone that that kind of chaos magic is unpredictable.”

Alicia shrugged.

“There’s an eclipse tonight?” Clark asked. Neither Alicia nor Melissa answered. Clark pulled his phone up to confirm.

“Um, excuse me,” Monica snapped, “what do you think you’re doing?” She looked down at the phone in Clark’s hand and back at him, and so did Melissa and Alicia. “Don’t you have something better to do besides be on your phone? Your job, perhaps?”

“I was looking up...Never mind.” It’s not worth it, Clark...Play nice and don’t let her win on your birthday... he thought. Besides, the sun was out. Clark was wearing his favorite, baby-blue button-down. There was nothing that could ruin his day.

When he was done helping Monica and Melissa pack their kits of crystals and sage and other trinkets, seeing them off to their respective house calls, Emily handed an ancient tome to Clark and let him into the Closet. In front of the almost wall-length, gold-framed mirror opposite the door, they stopped. Emily held her open left hand towards her, flipped it out towards her reflection, and then pushed her palm up into the air. The mirror clicked, and it swung open to reveal yet another secret door. Clark’s body erupted into a sweat. Surely it was a high-tech mirror? Facial recognition technology?

It revealed a landing of an iron and glass staircase, containing hanging broomsticks like a billiards hall. She sent him up that winding staircase to a circular room. It was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, their shades shuttered down to diffuse the sunlight outside. There was a decal under the floor’s glass surface, of a large, faint white ring that paralleled its perimeter. Enclosed within that circle was an opening in the floor, under the glassy surface. Clark drew nearer to it and looked down onto the top of the terrarium in the Closet. Clark felt as if it was staring back up at him.

“She calls this the Tower,” Emily said. “It’s Charisma’s own private practice space. Witches have been relegated to practicing underground and in hiding for so long; here we work out in the open. The Coven will be meeting tonight for a ritual ceremony—and you are going to help prepare our circle.” She held up a piece of chalk.

Clark asked, “I am . . . ?”

“You want to be more involved with the Coven, right?” She gave him a teasing nudge and plopped the chalk into his hand. “Don’t be scared.”

“But I’m not a, you know...one of you,” he said. “I wouldn’t know how.”

“Oh, please,” Emily said. “It’s all about intention. All you have to do is focus on us having a successful ceremony, and draw steady lines. Easy.”

Clark looked at the floor and then at the chalk, rolling it over in his hands, and then at her.

“I’ll show you,” she said with a glint in her eyes.

First, Emily had him trace the circle already inlaid under the translucent floor. Then, she held a roll of twine and extended it at different angles, which Clark used to trace straight lines. While they squatted and drew, they chatted excitedly about Halloween and what they would wear, and what parties from previous years were like.

“This was before I worked for her, but one year, they had a Halloween party so big it didn’t stop until the second of November.”

“Oh, wow,” Clark said. “Thank you for suggesting I come,” he added.

“Of course. You’ve made it this long, and that’s an accomplishment on its own. You’re one of us now.”

Clark couldn’t be so sure about that.

“So,” Emily continued, “how are you liking it here so far?”

There it was . . . that question again . . .

Then, in a lowered voice, she added, “We’re all so full of shit, aren’t we? At dinner with the Coven once, I heard Alicia say, ‘This steak is absolutely gorgeous .’” Emily said this in a most mocking English accent. “I mean—‘gorgeous’? Really? It’s a steak. Like, shut the fuck up.”

Clark unwittingly laughed.

“And Monica—man, can she be a real mean girl, huh . . . ?”

Clark looked at her, not wanting to say a thing. Where was all of this going and what was she asking of him? Was it appropriate? Was it a setup? This was his first time alone with Emily, and she was, after all, another one in Charisma’s ranks. Clark couldn’t help but look around for cameras or eavesdropping ears in that furniture-less, resonant room, and down where the floor dipped into the opening to the Closet, and the terrarium below them.

“No cameras here, babe,” she said. “No one can hear you, don’t worry. But, it’s cool, it means you’re a good person for not wanting to talk shit. I understand...”

Clark surprised them both when he replied anyway. “Yeah, she’s a total frigid bitch.”

Emily gasped at what he had just said aloud, and Clark felt like a kid cursing for the first time. They laughed. Maybe he had been waiting to say that.

“No one really likes her here. Her family is well-connected, and she is good at what she does, but I mean, none of us are actually friends. Just coworkers. Two witches don’t make a right, I guess. Maybe it’s for the best, boundaries being healthy and stuff.” A sad smile registered on Emily’s face. Clark nodded and met her eyes, which were a twinkling blue-green. “Welcome to Girl World!”

“I, uh,” he said, “kinda get the feeling I’m always being watched and listened to when I’m here...”

“That’s because you are,” she said. Clark’s stomach did a flip, and he instantly thought about his chance encounter with Miss Honey, and his lean-in in the elevator with Melissa just a couple of weeks prior. “But not here. Not by Monica, not by Lorena, and not by Charisma.” She mocked, “ It’s so good to see you, sweetie darling .” To Clark’s delight, he and Emily stood up and feigned an air kiss cheek to cheek, first on the left, and then on the right. They smiled.

Emily showed him how to draw sigils and runes around the circle from the book they took up, and when completed, they both stepped back to admire their handiwork. Within the pentacle were smaller circles and crescents: they had drawn phases of the moon.

“Good job, babe,” Emily said, holding out her hand for the chalk.

“Thanks!” Clark said. He couldn’t remember receiving praise or recognition for a single thing he had done there, not a one, and he couldn’t help but smile up at her. It was her birthday gift to him if there ever was one. Somehow, Clark’s sore throat felt a little bit better that day. He plopped the chalk into her open palm.

The moment their hands touched, Emily inhaled a sharp breath and looked at him with wide eyes. Clark didn’t make anything of it.

It was half past seven and the sun had already set by the time Clark raced out of Charisma’s building, already late for his birthday dinner. Monica had kept him longer than usual, having him unpack her kit while she and the others headed to the kitchen for a “family meal.” It was almost as if she knew she would be keeping him from plans. At the coffee shop, there was always a tray of cupcakes with a candle and a card.

Clark so wondered what it would be like to sit with the Coven, what they talked about over food, what it would be like to have a seat at that table...

Clark’s social media was decidedly quiet that day, and there had been almost no birthday messages. He checked his texts on the walk up, pausing at stoplights:

(11:11 a.m. Patricia Hartford): Happy birthday, Clarkykins! I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight, Ma’s sick and I’m taking care of the doc’s cat while he’s out of town for work. I send my love with Nancy and Paul. Come over soon, I’ll cook you something! Love you! It’s 11:11 make a wish!

(1:10 p.m. Maria): Happy birthday, pumpkin! It’s officially your birth time...I’m sending you some money. Buy yourself something nice. Love you— Mom

(4:42 p.m. Katie Bredford): Happy birthday to my beautiful friend with an even more beautiful soul 3 I can’t make it out tonight, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Love you xo

(5:30 p.m. Krystal Johnson): Happy birthday, boo! I’m headed into a dance class and then I’ll be right there! 3

(5:59 p.m. Justin Trinh): Hey ghourl, I can’t make it tonight. Let’s meet for drinks this week or after Halloween. First round’s on me. Happy birthday!

(6:45 p.m. Alexander Watkins): Hey cutie, happy bday! I can’t make it for din after all but lmk if you’re out and about tn.

Clark made a mental note to take Patricia up on her delicious cooking. She had been suspiciously absent since that summer when she last spoke with him about the interview. His mother, on the other hand—while he was grateful for the text and the money that would go straight to bills—he would get back to...

Clark’s friend Krystal, whom he had known since middle school, was always out to a party, on a date or two, or out to dance class, so he expected nothing less of her. Justin, Clark would catch later. They’d met at a gay bar and would go out now and again, Clark’s ventures being infrequent. Their nights would always end in Justin leaving him for a guy, a pattern Clark had come to accept. Alex, he’d met on a dating app, and after the first kiss asked to be friends (although Clark could see the dismay register on his face, Alex agreed, better to have him than to not). While Clark was a little sad but understanding to hear Justin and Alex wouldn’t be joining, he was the most disappointed to hear about his college friend Katie. She was the closest thing he had to a best friend, one who was always down for a walk, a movie night, a pedicure (and a picture), and one whom he rarely saw, so Clark was used to this from her too.

By the time Clark arrived, the rooftop restaurant of Northlight was electric and alive with patrons dressed in their Friday night best—the nouveau riche and old money, young and old alike, on their pregame before hitting the town. Northlight was loud and raucous with the sound of feverish conversations and stemware clinking on tabletops and the drone of waitstaff and bussers darting in between tables. It was most certainly the night of a full moon, he thought. Clark gave his name at the stand, and the hostess gave him a knowing smile.

“Happy birthday!” she told him. “Right this way.”

As they walked past the bar, Joey flashed him a smirk and a wink, mouthing, “Hey!” The hostess informed him that—surprise—he was booked at the best section of the restaurant, at a table with the best view. Clark knew he had Joey to thank for it; he had admitted as much to Clark, having surprised him with a reservation made over a month prior. The gesture was so thoughtful that Clark could not recall another one quite like it.

Already seated and awaiting his arrival was Patricia’s daughter Nancy, her husband, Paul, and their four-year-old, Eva. “There he is!” they chimed in unison.

Clark gave them each a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late! I got caught up at work.”

“It’s okay, Mistuh Big Shot ,” Nancy ragged in her thick, nasal Queens accent. “It’s all good. Happy birthday! How’s work going?”

Clark smiled and sighed. “I’ll tell ya about it.”

Joey came up to the table. “Happy birthday, Clark!”

“Thank you, Joey!” They shared a hug, chest to chest, much to the envy of a few of the women sitting at the bar, judging by the looks on their faces over Joey’s shoulder. There were a few other looks from the neighboring tables, particularly at Nancy and Paul and their bridge-and-tunnel, sneakers-jeans-and-jerseys manner, out of place in a restaurant like Northlight. Clark admired that Joey didn’t seem to care either way.

He introduced himself with his overeager and firm handshake, and with a slap on the back, asked Clark, “What can I get you to drink? First round’s on me, anything you like!”

“Anything?” Clark asked coyly. “Why don’t you surprise me?”

Joey smiled. “One birthday surprise for the cutest boy around, coming right up!” After taking Nancy and Paul’s orders, he took his leave––and both of them watched the back of him as he walked away. They turned to look at one another, and then at Clark, whose face was deepening into a blush. Paul whistled.

“Oh, so now we know why you wanted to meet here,” Paul teased, smoothing his goatee and nodding. “Who’s the guy, Clark?”

Clark explained how they met on the job about a month prior, and how Joey was the one to suggest hosting his birthday there.

“Not too shabby,” Paul replied, holding up his thumb and index finger to sign “nice.”

“I’m just happy you guys could make it. Thanks for being here,” Clark said. “A couple of my friends aren’t coming after all.”

“That’s okay! We’re happy to be out,” Nancy said. “We don’t get out to many fancy places with Eva—isn’t that right, sweetie,” she said, tickling Eva. Eva didn’t flinch, too deep in her coloring on her children’s menu to acknowledge her mother. She drew a princess in a tall tower being struck by lightning. “Besides, we’re better than friends, aren’t we, Clarky? We’re family. You and I, we’ve known each other our entire lives. Remember when I used to babysit you? Wasn’t that fun?!”

Clark grinned. His phone buzzed; Krystal had texted him back:

(8:05 p.m. Krystal Johnson): My love! I’m finishing up a drink real quick with the crew. I’ll leave for you right after, promise!

Joey returned soon after with their drinks. “Bartender’s special: a midnight margarita for the birthday boy.” Clark’s margarita was a dark periwinkle over vaporous, smoking dry ice, with red chili-pepper salt and a star-shaped flower tucked in. “A circle of salt for protection, a lime for purification, a blue-borage flower for courage, joy, and a spicy rim––salty and sweet with a bite. Cheers!” Joey gave a wink to Clark and smiled as he left them. Clark blushed even harder.

When the pleasantries were over and the meal underway, Nancy and Paul reached for his gift: a black button-down one size too big, from one of those department stores that resold clothing at heavily discounted prices.

“You didn’t have to get me anything! Thanks, guys!” Clark said. “I can wear it to work. They like wearing black. A lot .”

Nancy asked, “How are you liking this new job? It’s an internship with Charisma Saintly’s personal team, right? Ma told us.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Clark began. “Except, well . . . it kinda sucks!”

Clark unloaded it all on them, speaking fervently with his hands, how he had quickly become the errand-boy-lackey he had never imagined being, working from seven to seven, sometimes out in the city all day. He explained how juggling his time there with weekends at the coffee shop to get by meant he was not only exhausted but depleted in every way; how Monica had been bullying him, reprimanding him, and had even gone as far as to “accidentally” lock him in a closet. “Not even the doorwomen will look me in the eyes,” he confessed. The note he ended on was that through everything, he hadn’t even personally met Charisma yet.

At first, Nancy looked at him and then Paul with crinkled eyebrows in disbelief, and then, her face softened with understanding. “Aw, I’m sorry, Clark. But, you know what you gotta do, right...?” she asked. “Suck it up and stick it out, or quit.”

Clark was taken aback. “What? What do you mean?”

Paul leaned in. “How old are you, today, twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four.” Clark pulled his hands under the table.

“That’s right. Twenty-four...” Paul said. “Listen, this is the problem with your generation: entitlement—”

“Paul, lemme do this,” Nancy said, putting her hand up. “You twenty-somethings put in the bare minimum and fail to develop the work ethic necessary to get the job done. Then you call it a ‘toxic’ workplace, and you quit! I’ve seen it firsthand: you learn it in movies and on TV, see it on social media, how to get rich quick without putting any real work in, but you can’t get something from nothing.”

Clark had to remind himself that Nancy was only older than him by seven or eight years, and Paul a little over ten.

“You are lucky to be in a workplace like that, let alone employed, especially without a college degree.”

At this, his ears blushed red.

“You’re lucky to be in their presence, Clark. You could learn a thing or two from them. You know, your generation is so impatient, jumping from one job to the next, that if I see a résumé like that at the doctor’s office, I throw it out! I don’t even waste my time! No sense in entertaining someone lazy who can’t stick it out. Ma’s been at the doc for over thirty years. How long have you been there? A month? Maybe two?”

“Yeah, but...” Clark began, “this feels, like, weirdly exploitive and—”

“Clark,” she said. “It’s a competitive internship. You gotta get your head in the game. The common denominator is you. Change it up. Do something different. If they don’t respect you, make ’em! Take this golden opportunity for what it is, make the best of it, and if you feel any differently, then leave. Honestly though, if it were me, I would march right up to that Charisma and introduce myself to her personally. Show her who I am and what I’m made of. Otherwise, if you can’t run with the big dogs, you better stay on the porch. Sorry, but it’s the truth...”

Make them respect me, and march right up to her... he mused. Clark had not forgotten about how Charisma had looked at him at her birthday party. He wasn’t so convinced Nancy’s old-school, working-class approach applied, but something about her words remained. Still, Clark wondered: could he resign himself to the fact that maybe this was the price he would have to pay for success? For his dreams to come true?

Is this as good as it gets . . . ?

As the plates were taken and the table was cleared, Clark couldn’t help but notice how many times he had looked to the door, half expecting a friend to surprise him and show up. He reached for his phone to text Krystal.

(9:19 p.m. Clark Crane): Hey boo, you coming?

He didn’t have to wait long for the reply:

(9:24 p.m. Krystal Johnson): Hey my love, I’m sorry, I’m super tired. I’m gonna head home. Lemme catch up with you another night this week 3

Clark put his phone away, and when he looked up, a small chocolate cake was floating from the kitchen to the table, held aloft by a crooning Joey DiMuccio, with a single birthday candle alight in its center. As Clark looked across the table at the busy restaurant, where Friday-night guests corralled around friends and plates looking so unburdened and carefree, Clark couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, even a little envious. That Ideal Self from his dreams, so actualized, so tangible, and yet so out of reach, frowned in disdain and disappointment across his mind’s eye. But then, as he looked up at Nancy, Paul, and Eva, Joey, and the neighboring tables smilingly watching, he thought, so what if he was young and poor and figuring it all out? So what if none of his friends showed up? He was just happy to be surrounded by people who gave a damn, at a table he’d probably never have gotten on his own, drinking something other than tap water.

“Make a wish, Clark!” Joey said. As he looked into that candle, he wondered what it was that he really wanted. He thought, I wish...that something amazing would happen...That this year will be magical, my best yet...That this is the year all my dreams finally come true...Security, purpose, and love...I’m gonna have it all... He blew the candle out to the congratulatory clapping of those around him.

The plates were dispensed, the stations returned, and life resumed, all so fast: Nancy and Paul to entertain Eva and her slice of cake, Joey the handsome spectacle shaking drinks behind the bar, and the guests in neighboring tables back to their lives.

Hard part’s over . . . Clark thought to himself.

When the waiter arrived with the check, Paul snatched the bill from Clark’s hands before he could even read it. “We got this,” Paul said sternly. “Put your money away. Our treat.”

“Yeah, don’t get goofy ,” Nancy said. “ You deserve it, Clarky. Happy birthday.”

By eleven o’clock, Nancy, Paul, and Eva had long since bid Clark farewell. Dinner was ending, the night was underway, and Clark had found a single seat at the end of the bar. The DJ looked oddly similar to the one at Charisma’s birthday...

“Birthday shots!” Joey said over the music, sliding up to him. The smell of the tequila alone was enough to send Clark reeling. “Cheers, baby!”

“Cheers!” They shot it back. Was this his Fifth? Sixth? Joey kept refilling his midnight margaritas and Clark had lost count.

“I’m here for another couple more hours,” Joey told him. Clark knew that when a native New Yorker told you they were a “couple” of anything away, not to believe them. “Please stay! You’re more than welcome to hang!”

But Clark could barely get a word in between all of Joey’s orders and the hubbub. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I think I’m gonna go home.” Despite Joey’s protests— “It’s a full moon. The weirdos are out,” he said with a wink. “Don’t go home alone without this weirdo”—Clark told Joey not to worry about him; that he would be fine. Clark even refused a cab ride, stating that Joey had done enough for him and he couldn’t accept. Then Joey’s manager, Louis, called him over, and Clark didn’t even get a chance to get a goodbye kiss before departing.

Maybe it was instinct leading the way, or maybe it was just the tequila ( definitely the tequila, Clark thought): as he exited Northlight, he walked the electric streets of NYC, not in the direction of the train, but retraced his steps instead, and found himself in no time standing outside of the employee entrance of Charisma’s building. If he could just catch a glimpse of their ritual, he thought, he could see what kind of witches they were and what they were up to. Clark was just taking Nancy’s advice and being an opportunist, after all, and this opportunity had come to Clark a-knockin’.

“Hello?” he said up to the camera, ringing the doorbell and giving a dithering wave. “It’s me, Clark, the new junior.” The red security camera light stared back, unmoved.

“Remember me? From...every morning at seven?” A thought occurred to him: What if it’s a different security guard this late at night...? How will you be let up now, Clark...?

“They’re expecting my help upstairs at Charisma’s—something about a, uh, meeting. A small party, but—please don’t ring them. That would be very bad.”

Clark looked up at the camera. Please let me up, please let me up ...he thought.

“Yep! Very bad!” he said to the camera. “Oh, you know them! They wouldn’t want to be interrupted by anyone, not around this time of night, let alone because of silly ol’ me.”

The camera blinked back at him.

“Nah, you wouldn’t want to make Monica angry. Or worse: Charisma. You know what happens when they get angry...”

A second later, and the light flashed from red to green and the door clicked open with a sustained buzz, granting him entry to the elevator up to Hell’s Entrance. “Thank you!” he said. He withheld his surprise.

Clark had never seen the penthouse like it was that night: a home once abuzz with servants and assistants was now deserted and still, the help seemingly having been dismissed long before. Clark crept slowly through, around shadowed corners and statues that had taken on a new life of their own, cast in subdued relief by the city out the windows and the trail of candles that guided the way. All was quiet save for his deft footsteps, controlled breaths, and the thin, shrill ringing in his ears. In the dark of night, the penthouse had a completely different feeling: a large home with too much dead air.

With nimble, tiptoeing steps, Clark deftly crept up the stairs so as not to be heard, up to the fourth floor and to the Closet. He crouched low in that dark room, peering up through the window in the ceiling to the floor above. Sure enough, there was movement in the shadows of the Tower.

Clark approached the secret door from earlier that day, and in the mirror, held his hand as Emily did, first palm open and towards him, then away, then up.

The door opened with a small click.

He checked his watch: 11:33 p.m. He was just in time.

Without a sound, and slowly, Clark crept up the iron banister, step by step, and at the top, raised himself up ever so carefully, and peeked over the Tower’s glass floor.

“Open the shutters,” Charisma instructed.

The hushed voices of the Coven came to a sudden silence, storing their phones away and taking their places about two feet apart atop the circle he and Emily had drawn earlier that day. Except, it wasn’t just Lorena, Alicia, Monica, Melissa, and Emily. There were six more women, twelve in total, of a mix of ages, all dressed in black. Some he did not recognize, a couple that he did from his errands. All had the same hollow eyes. He had a clear view of Charisma, who stood on the circle’s northernmost edge, and the tip of the pentacle’s star. As he crouched low at the lip of the floor, Clark prayed with all his being that he would go by undetected.

Monica was the only one to produce her phone, and with the push of a button, the shutters on the windows retreated into the floor to reveal a three-sixty-degree view of the city all around. Opening, too, to the night above them was a skylight that Clark had missed earlier. The October air nipped at their heels. The flickering candles around the room’s floor were the only source of illumination—that and the streets and buildings far below them, a gentle nightlight. All was eerily quiet as high as they were. The coven stood reflected in that glassy floor that fell away at its perimeter to an edgeless infinity. Clark thought how they might as well be suspended in midair.

How not one of the Coven could see Clark hiding was beyond him. Maybe it was because he had practically stopped breathing. Clark did not dare move a muscle or make a sound, lest he be discovered.

“Alicia, what time is it?”

“Eleven thirty-eight.”

“The eclipse is at its peak. It’s time.” The Coven watched Charisma with their undivided attention. She said, “Let us begin the Drawing Down of the Blood Moon.”

She spoke evenly, without raising her voice. The Coven repeated after her. It was if even the walls and every building of New York City were leaning in, listening intently to her every word:

“On this, the Night of the Divine Feminine, under your Eclipsed Glory, we stand. Mother Moon, by the Maiden, Maid, and Crone, we invoke thee, Harbinger of Fruitfulness, by seed and by root. We invoke thee, by stem and by bud. We invoke thee, by life and by love. We call upon thee to descend upon us, thy Body, of this thy Priestess, of this thy Coven, of these thy Assistants, and of this thy circle, to ask that you may bless us with your light...”

Clark became aware of two realities happening simultaneously before him, without seeing either of them clearly or at all, and yet all the while knowing both to be true:

In the first reality was the spectacle he bore witness to. The ladies stood encircled, with Charisma leading the ritual under a glass ceiling and clear night sky above. In the second, he only caught flickering glimpses until he was certain, until he understood it to be so true he knew it in his bones, in the knowing of his being, until it was as if it was happening before his very eyes: a bright red light descended from the sky above, like a stream of sunlight through a parting of clouds or a canopy of trees, through the windowed ceiling and into the middle of the witches’ circle, imbuing its chalk drawings with its energy.

That red light traveled down to the in-between of the Tower and the glass window in the room’s center, into the floor below, and Clark understood too, knew without evidence, that there was yet another member present of Charisma’s circle: her terrarium was alive with the moon’s light, feeling, responding, answering back and reaching skywards.

“Mother Moon, Great Illuminator of Truth, Energy of the Feminine, attend our rite. By Love and by Light, enlighten what is dark, strengthen what is weak, mend what is broken, lift up what is fallen. Guide us tonight. We beseech thee...”

Quiet at first, from a few inches beyond their bodies, to a roaring fortissimo reaching to the windows and beyond, the witches were bathed in shimmering, waving halos of celestial light, of earthy evergreen, cold navy, sisterly rose, blood-red crimson, and royal nightshade. The auras undulated and danced bright and big to every word of Charisma’s voice, soaring into the open air and night sky above, and merged into one vibrating, humming chorus of fiery light. The ringing in Clark’s ears crescendoed to a shrill pitch, and the middle of his forehead prickled so intensely, he winced, and reached up to scratch it. All was aglow in the Tower.

Charisma raised her arms skywards, and so too did the Coven.

“No longer is it the Time of Man, the Time of Penumbra, the Time of Great Tempering. No longer is it the time of War, of Loss, of Chaos.

“Tonight, we beckon the new. Tonight, we call forth the Era of Woman. No longer will we hide in the shadows. No longer will we be silenced. As the eclipse wanes, our power reveals, grows, and strengthens, casting all into the Light of Our Love.

May our power reign supreme . . .”

Clark looked down and could See too, both in that double vision of his eyes and the eyes within his mind, that the aura of his own hands, arms, and body was also aglow as theirs was, his a lilac-indigo and periwinkle blue. A serene sense of calmness descended upon him, of peace and of safety, as if he were a child again in the presence of a guardian that had always been there just beside him, or always within him, one filled with unconditional love and joy. It filled him with a connectedness to everything, one he had never felt before. So, too, were the dark corners of his being called upwards, forwards, all of the pain in his heart, all the shadowed parts of himself unknown to him and buried deep inside him, illuminated and made clear, and then made light. He felt like everything would be okay.

His aura radiated outwards and upwards, lifting up and taking flight, until it merged with the Coven’s, powerful like theirs—stronger even, brighter, dancing with childlike wonder. Clark was an unwitting part of the ceremony.

Charisma lowered her arms and smiled. Gazing at her handiwork, however, she caught something out of the corner of her eye and raised an eyebrow. Still, she brought the ceremony to a close:

“We honor thee, O Glorious Oneness. We thank thee . . .

“As we will it, so mote it be...”

The twelve women looked at one another’s auras, and the giant light surrounding them, with soft satisfaction. After some time, the light waned and returned to whence it came, though its intensity remained, humming, hanging thick in the air of the Tower. The terrarium below hummed too, like a cat purring after being fed.

The Connectedness remained, along with a self-assuredness, a feeling he couldn’t quite remember the last he had known; not since he was little. Clark felt like he could do anything. For the first time in a long time, Clark had hope.

“Darlings...” Charisma began carefully with venomous ease. “There is one other part of tonight. Something in need of your attention. Something of principle, of great importance. Something...or someone...”

The Coven looked at one another, confused. Their auras flickered and hid away, out of sight, and Charisma spoke with a venomous ease that was as soft as it was menacing. “There is a spoiled, rotten apple in our bunch.”

The Coven held onto her every word with bated breath .

“We have a traitor in our midst.”

Behind the banister, Clark broke into a cold sweat and shrank. All good feelings had exited the room, including his own, dissipating like the moonlit auras.

Charisma spoke quieter still. “In this life, you are my inner circle. I consider myself to be a patient leader—a generous leader—wouldst thou not agree? I hold my life’s work to the utmost importance, to the utmost respect, and I demand absolutely nothing less in return...

“For Emily, I had allowed grievance leave on her beloved mother’s passing, for months. For Monica, I had introduced her beloved husband, who gave you the wedding of the century and two beautiful daughters as I had predicted. Melissa, I had allowed connection to the very best of my clientele, did I not? The presidents, the politicians, the lawyers, the financial officers, the capitalists...For the rest of you, Claudia, Beatrice, Lara, Victoria, Corrina, Gabrielle: I share my many Gifts, and bestow upon you opportunity. Connections. Riches. Worship. Babies.”

Slowly, the Coven followed her forbidding gaze, until all came to rest upon a single member: “Melissa.”

Her face fell from smug satisfaction to sheer and utter terror.

“No...!” she cried out, her eyes wide with fear. “I—I didn’t do it! I swear! It wasn’t me!”

“One of our own, ladies,” Charisma said slowly, “has been courting and collecting my clients. This pathetic witch has planned to take my clients and go rogue, to start a coven of her own and usurp my throne, seemingly right from under my nose...

“This witch,” she continued, “is a traitor to us all. Wouldn’t you agree, my darlings?”

No one dared speak a word.

“It’s not me!” Melissa cried. “I swear!”

With that double vision in his mind’s eye, that ringing in his ears, a prickling of his forehead, and the uncanny feeling of déjà vu, Clark watched in awe and in terror as Charisma’s charged aura surged and radiated outwards. Her lip curled as she uttered that single merciless word: “Liar.”

“No! I would never! I love you! I’ve always loved you!” Melissa exclaimed. “You’ve got it all wrong!”

“When one bad apple spoils and rots, the others will surely follow,” Charisma said without raising her voice. Her words were even, steeped in menace and finality. “That apple must be disposed of.”

“No! I’ll do anything! Anything you want! I promise! Please!” She began to tremble uncontrollably, as mascaraed tears lined her cheeks in black.

Charisma only stared down at her from atop her nose. Unmoved, she said, “One does not suffer a traitor witch to live.”

“No, please!” cried Melissa. “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry! Please don’t! Please! ” Her desperation echoed, hanging in the air in that dark, round glass tower. The women of the circle merely watched, for they all knew what was to come, what none of them could stop.

“And what does a witch do to her traitor sister, my darlings?”

Sparks like lightning discharged from her pulsating aura, a glowing crimson halo that grew black and tall around her, electric with rage. Step by step, shaking her tear-streaked face, an overwrought Melissa broke the circle and carefully backed away, shaking her hands.

“Please, leave me alone! Leave me alone! ”

At this, Charisma’s face broke into that peculiar and dangerous smile, stopping just short of the apples of her cheeks, failing to reach her cunning green eyes that burned with danger. Her answer was simple: “She fires her.”

“No! Stop! Leave me alone! LEAVE ME ALONE! PLEASE! NO! NO! NOOO! ”

First came the smoke billowing from her nose, ears, and quivering mouth. In a flashing instant, Melissa erupted into screaming flames, a human bonfire from head to toe. Her shrill cries filled the air, reverberating against the curved Tower windows and licking the tall, open glass ceiling. Clark understood, without a doubt, then and there, that Charisma was a real, actual witch, with real, actual power, and she didn’t just “fire” Melissa: she set her on fire. The women flinched back, their cold eyes illuminated by the light of that great golden blaze.

“Do not break the circle,” Charisma demanded of them.

Wailing, Melissa hobbled away on high heels. After only a few steps, she came down hard to her knees. Melissa fell forward onto the glass floor, and crawled towards the iron banister staircase. Smoking, smoldering, and hairless, the fire died to embers as suddenly as it had started. Gasping for air with shaking, rasping, heaving breaths, her blackened arm outstretched, she opened her encrusted eyes—and stared right at Clark, hiding behind the banister.

“You,” Melissa seemed to be mouthing.

Then, her head slumped over, her whimpers subsided, and a single bloodstained tear escaped her eyes, menacingly affixed to his. The smoke escaped the opening in the ceiling, and Melissa lay silent and still.