The Witch’s Assistant (Bitchcraft #1)

Chapter IX Halloween

Chapter IX

Halloween

I t was nine o’clock by the time Clark finished scraping the last of the wax off the Tower’s floor and returned home. Punishment indeed. He would never forget mopping Melissa’s ashy remains from the Tower’s glass floor. There was so much he could not stop thinking about.

Since the night of his birthday, Clark had become hyper-vigilant and on guard, and with more sore throats to show for it. Who was Miss Honey, and what did she know? What was the one thing she was going to mention before she disappeared into thin air?

Mostly, Clark wondered about how to stop Charisma.

Even as Joey showed him one of his favorite cult witch movies—the one about the Italian dance company—Clark could barely stop himself from ruminating.

“If you get past the corny dubbing, it’s a classic! I can’t believe you haven’t seen it yet. You’ll love it! Witch witch witch! ” Joey echoed the narration and giggled, squeezing Clark into his side with his arm over Clark’s shoulder.

That night Clark dreamt himself as the film’s female protagonist, the intuitive uncovering the witches’ murderous plot. One of the instructors with villainous eyes easily became Monica, another Stella, the woman who’d interviewed with Lorena. In the movie’s secret room, Clark discovered the blue-flower mural door. However, instead of delving deeper into the depths of the conservatory to where the queen bee lay, the Mater Witch, the door opened to reveal the Tower’s stairwell—and to Melissa’s piercing screams, rushing down in a mighty wind that rocked him back as if a train blowing past.

He awoke at three in the morning, as per usual.

Clark wrote in his diary by the light of his lava lamp every night while Joey loudly snored, none the wiser:

In every fairy tale, in every story, the witch always has a weakness. The hero always finds the witch’s Achilles’ Heel hiding in plain sight.

The overconfident blind witch is tricked into the oven by Gretel.

Rumpelstiltskin gloatingly reveals his name and the queen gets to keep her baby.

The Wicked Witch melts into a puddle.

But what is Charisma’s weakness . . . ?

Clark spent his commutes and his evenings combing through interviews and articles and videos—anything he could to dig up information on Charisma, in hopes of finding some kind of weak spot.

There was the face of her luxurious life, for one. Her travels, her fashion. For another, she seemed to have a persuasive way of speaking and a lot of “friends,” this and that celebrity and politician; a Potemkin village. A web search showed Charisma was a generous donator to many a charity, and interestingly, an investor in Big Pharma. Another search of the church her gargoyles were supposedly imported from came up empty, until he dug a little more. A single headline emerged, one he had to run through a translator, of a beautiful stained-glass cathedral that had mysteriously burnt down in a village over.

But what would any of this show? Who was this woman and her glamorous web he had become entangled in?

His preoccupation did not help the nightmares either. There were the screams and the terrarium, and the faces hovering over him, maniacally laughing—of Monica, Lorena, Alicia, and then Melissa, charred, bloodied, and staring into him with those menacing wild eyes—shaking him and riding him while Clark could only lie there, powerless and mute. Her voice in the wind shouted, “Witch! Traitor!”

In every dream, he saw that giant eye opening above him, yellow-green and venomous, watching him; every time, he would wake up at three in the morning in a cold sweat; and after every dream, he would wake up with the oddest feeling that he was being watched...

Joey told him he was croaking and moaning in his sleep, and on a couple of occasions, even having to shake Clark awake, Clark coming to in a sweat-drenched shock to the comfort of Joey’s big, teddy-bear-brown eyes.

Clark was barely sleeping, having considered staying awake until three in the morning lest the night terrors come, but he knew that would not do him any good. He was growing apprehensive nonetheless for the hours of the early morning, without much to look forward to in the day let alone at night. His throat was in a perpetual hurt.

Clark was worried he was starting to obsess.

As for work and what had become of Melissa’s position, Monica had gotten her just reward and the promotion she had always wanted: “Now, Monica is fourth assistant with Melissa’s—that is to say, Charisma’s—accounts o n top of her own ,” Emily had confided. Alicia had told her it was part of Monica’s punishment. They had paused their hushed conversation as Monica hurriedly walked past: her hair looked unbrushed and her eyeliner was smudged ever so slightly out of place. She had been on her way to her second house call of the day.

Allegedly, Emily whispered, Melissa had been Charisma’s top producer after Emily, and Monica was oh so jealous of Melissa. “Now, Charisma is holding Monica to both workloads until they find someone new, which could be tomorrow, or months from now, or even years...but I don’t imagine it will be long. Some of the clients just don’t like Monica. Some have heard about Melissa’s passing and are even threatening to revoke their contracts unless Charisma comes in her stead. When they’re yours, they’re yours, you know what I mean...? Never mind. The point is, it’s insane .”

Despite all this, Clark’s plan had backfired: Monica had been even more vicious than before, full of resentment, and not attempting to hide it.

The previous day, she had sent Clark for a coffee order, and when he returned, told him, “Did you smack your big, fat head? I didn’t order this.”

Clark was confused and beside himself. He had always double-checked the orders, triple-checked them even. Coffee was his second language, and he knew that what she had relayed, he had delivered. But no: Monica said this with that dangerous smirk of hers, another smiling assassination. She told him, “A typical man you are. Lazy. Go back and do it the right way, or go back to your shoebox in Queens where you belong.”

After the longest week yet, the Friday of Halloween—and the party of the year—had arrived.

By the time Clark headed out from home, the city was brimming with New Yorkers in costume, parade-goers en route, and kids finishing their trick-or-treating. Clark adjusted his tights his entire commute to the venue in Chelsea, to discover there was a mob swarming the entrance, and a line around the block to get in that was equally as stressful.

Clark had never been to So Below. He had heard of the space in Charisma’s orbit of course, well-read by that point. At its grand opening, in a red carpet interview, Charisma had said something about not wanting to mingle with just one person at a party but “all types” of people. That So Below would be the egalitarian party of days gone by, harkening back to the New York City of the ’70s. It seemed to hold up to its reputation.

The glitterati A-list of New York were all in attendance that night. Clark had overheard some of the guest list, having hand-delivered most of the invitations like the flying monkey he was: famous actors and musicians, designers, athletes, entertainers, and drag queens alike, stepping out of their limos and cars and onto the red carpet, dressed in their designer Halloween looks. While Clark reminded himself of the old adage, A friend to all is a friend to none, the guest list was diverse and the kind of cosmopolitan he had come to expect of an NYC event, a feat Clark was somewhat impressed by, owing to Charisma’s monochromatic inner circle and clientele.

Meanwhile, Clark entered at the velvet rope of the VIP line, pulling at his collar, and standing behind someone he was pretty certain was a pop star. He was dressed as a polyester Frog Prince, complete with lily-pad shoulder pads.

“Name?”

“Clark Crane,” he told the promoter. “I’m with Charisma’s team.” Both the bouncer and the promoter sized him and his dime-store costume up and down and up again, but checked the list still, seeing that he was serious. Clark bit his tongue, twiddled his thumbs, and looked around: since the invite, Clark had spent the last few weeks stressing about what to wear until the last possible second. Despite it being his favorite holiday, picking a costume left him frozen in place every time.

I’m nowhere near beefy enough to be something hunky, like a superhero or a gladiator...Nowhere near out of touch enough to be something goofy like a slice of pizza...Nowhere near bold enough to bare my midriff or wear anything skimpier, like a sexy cat or pirate...Nowhere near committed enough to be something dead or grotesque, like a zombie, not after Melissa...What is a boy to do...?

The promoter turned to the security guard and said, “Remember the old days? ‘You’re not getting in tonight, honey, not with those shoes!’” They both laughed riotously. Clark’s ears turned a shade of pink.

“Go ahead, sweetie,” the promoter said to him. “You’ll see her table.”

Reflexively, Clark replied, “Thank you.”

Without warning, the crowd erupted in raucous screams and chaos: Charisma had stepped onto the VIP red carpet with the Queen of Pop herself back from tour, pausing for photos. To the crowd’s delight, Charisma had arrived dressed as Snow White’s Evil Stepmother, complete with the heaving-est of bosoms, and holding a skull-shaped, poison-apple purse, dripping in red glitter. The irony was not lost on him whatsoever.

There she is, lining up for a photo when she just murdered her own assistant . . . Fooling the world . . . ‘ Duper’s delight’ . . . I wonder what they’d think of her if they knew she’s an actual witch and not just playing pretend . . .

Clark looked up at the sign above the marquee: So Below’s name was reflected upside down. The doors opened to the bass of the music below, and he took to descending the stairs.

Inside, the party was well underway, with dancers in cages and bottle girls with sparklers. After a quick look-see, he saw Charisma’s cadre of girls up in the VIP section across from the DJ. The bouncer didn’t believe him when he said he was part of Charisma’s table, and Clark was about to be escorted away when Emily came up and gave Clark admittance. The Coven and Charisma’s management and handlers sized Clark up too, from his shoes to his little frog crown, and then went back to pretending he didn’t exist. He did not hold his breath for a warm welcome, but somebody took notice of him.

“How cute !” Emily shouted over the music, tossing back her long blonde hair. “The Frog Prince? Loves it.”

“Thank you!” he exclaimed. “Fairy? Seriously, so gorgeous!”

She waved him an “oh stop!” They air-kissed once on the left and then on their right, their new inside joke, her cheeks shimmering in the light.

“Why the Frog Prince?” she asked over the music.

He felt a small smile break onto his face, amazed that someone like Emily would take interest in him. “Because a princess finally gives a frog a chance, when he’s the only one that knows he’s special all along!”

Emily smiled back. She produced a small locket from her birdcage purse. “Want one?” She unclasped it: inside, there were small crystalline rocks like candy.

“I dunno...” he said, looking at the others. They pretended not to notice or care. Could he, the junior, partake? While at a work function?

“Suit yourself!” She placed one on her tongue, winked, and took a sip of her champagne.

“Wait!” he said. “Okay okay okay!” Clark was not the proudest of this side of his personality, how much he wanted Emily to like him, fully aware of how quick he was to give in to influence, but he gave himself a pass, if just this once. When else will I have a chance to party like this...? Emily dropped the crystal in his hand, a waitress handed him a glass of champagne (“Thank you!”), and he tossed it back. One flute turned into two, and then three, dancing and talking with Emily.

He overheard Alicia talking to Monica, deep in a confab over cosmos in their English accents: “At least this year I had enough time to get ready! Last year, after her house calls, you girls had left and she left me all alone with the junior and our kits—just so she could go off partying!” Monica shook her head.

As the night progressed, Clark noticed something he was not used to: how the raucous crowd on the dance floor watched his every move. Usually, Clark was used to going unnoticed or unwanted and didn’t really enjoy going out. He’d sneak a peek out and see them, staring back with ravenous eyes every time.

“Don’t forget: this is Charisma’s world, and here, everybody wants to be us,” Emily said in his ear over the music. Maybe she was right. Everybody, except the belle of the ball herself. The VIP was MIA. Clark watched her light up cigarette after cigarette (security not blinking an eye, of course) as she was busy entertaining guests at other private sections. Eventually, she slipped away, not to be seen again.

Clark didn’t mind Charisma’s absence though: Clark was in and that’s all that mattered. He was sitting with the in-crowd, hanging with the cool kids for once, and here, his glass never ran empty. To Clark, this was the lap of luxury. He was living high and large.

“Let’s dance!” Emily shouted. “Our princes await!”

“Okay!”

She held Clark by the hand as they deep-dived through the crowd of those covetous onlookers, which was as nerve-racking of an undertaking as he thought it might be. Every pair of eyes was ogling at him. Some people moved out of his way; some touched him; some shoved him; to Clark’s astonishment some even said, “Hi.” Some didn’t even pay him a single glance as he caught a glimpse of a group of handsome, fashionable men. They danced intoxicatedly in their sweat-drenched harnesses, their under-clothed, sculpted bodies catching the light and his envious gaze.

“Don’t worry about them,” she shouted. “Look at me instead.” Clark didn’t notice the tingling in his forehead growing more intense, nor the club spinning around them. He could smell the perfume of her blonde hair as it tossed around her, cotton-candy sweet. Clark felt like a kid again. She laughed, and he laughed back. The world and his worries, everything else melted away in the oceans of her blue-green eyes...

The next thing he knew, Clark came to in the bathroom, hovering over an empty toilet, mouth agape. He groped at his side: his phone and his wallet were still in his pockets (no one’s gonna pickpocket this polyester prince...). The time was two fifty-five in the morning and his forehead tingled so much it itched. He was out way later than he’d planned on being. Where was Emily? Where had the time gone?

Clark stumbled to the sink, bypassing a heavy-petting couple. Clark looked at his dilated pupils in the mirror. I must’ve blacked out... he thought in a haze, having only experienced as much in the movies. It’s okay...Breathe...Just retrace your steps...

I’m at So Below . . .

There was drinking and dancing . . . and a pill . . .

People were pulling at me, trying to touch me, kiss me...

Just find Emily and the Coven . . .

Clark stepped out of the bathroom. So Below was a different world; the music was harder and darker, and he realized he was in a different part of the club. Somewhere adjacent or below the main floor, drowned in red light— a dungeon, he thought.

He walked along the walls, past groping couples and throuples who paid him no mind, until he came upon a lounge. The woman in the middle chair stopped her conversation at the sight of him, dressed as the Big Bad Wolf wearing Little Red Riding Hood’s cloak. She was so impossibly beautiful she made Clark stop short, too. Clustered at her feet, an eclectic posse watched him with curiosity. The red party lights reflected off her high cheekbones and into her honey-colored, almond-shaped eyes, which bored into his. She looked somehow so familiar, like he had seen those eyes before.

“Hello, Clark,” she said.

“Hi! Sorry, do I know you?!” he asked over the music. Guests on the walls nearby peeked their heads up, talking into one another’s ears.

“No,” she said, “but I know you.”

Have I met this woman before...? Clark’s gut was turning but he wrote it off.

“Oh, okay!” he said. “Well—hi!” If the assistants were famous, who was to say the juniors couldn’t be too, he decided. She smiled with a glint in her eyes.

“You can call me Mother,” she said. “I think you could be the answer we’ve all been waiting for.”

One of the group dressed as an ax murderer with a swine mask walked over with a single, small purse in the shape of a picnic basket, and issued him a single business card. Clark took it in hand, and turned it over: it was blank, save for a single phone number.

When you’re ready to join a real Coven, call me . . .

At this, a sudden foreign thought unbelonging to him, Clark’s eyes widened and his stomach flipped. Did she just...? Clark thought. He could have sworn Mother’s lips were pressed together in a smile and yet he had distinctly heard her all the same.

There was a high-pitched scream and laugh, and Clark turned: the partiers and their hungry eyes looked different, an orgy of sweaty, pulsing bodies, undulating and groping. His eyes came to rest upon a group of people who were what he could only refer to as pasty, licking the arms and the necks of those sweaty, harness-clad handsome men. One pulled away, raising his devilish eyebrows and red eyes up at him. He began to laugh at Clark’s shocked face, while a red, dark, and syrupy substance dripped from his mouth.

That’s when Clark made a run for it.

That Saturday, Clark didn’t have the luxury of calling out. He was thankful at least to have scheduled a shift switch with Gloria. He woke up a zombie, still intoxicated and hungover, which no amount of coffee could cure, no sticks of gum or extra spritz of Charisma could cover.

At home he lit a white seven-day candle for the Day of the Dead. He placed it next to the photo by his bed, and whispered, “Miss you, Grandma.” That night, Clark passed out for a long and dreamless sleep. He didn’t feel mostly like himself again until the following morning.

On Monday, Emily was out for a house call and Monica had put him back on the grind, sending out thank-you notes and running party favors to the millions of addresses of attendees. Clark found no answers until days later when he caught her privately.

“What happened?” he asked.

Emily said they were dancing and drinking and he insisted on staying. That Emily had tried to put him into a car but Clark hugged her goodbye. Clark of course did not remember any of this. Emily didn’t have his phone number, but since they were having a good time, she’d assumed that all was well and Clark had gone home. She apologized profusely, “for being a bad friend.” The two exchanged numbers.

It was around that day that Clark noticed one thing that had started to change for the better: the doorpeople, the delivery workers, the mail carriers, all the bees on the fringes of Charisma’s orbit and her well-oiled machine, started to take notice of him.

“Maybe they didn’t think you’d last this long,” Joey had suggested.

“Maybe they’re impressed that I did,” Clark replied. Either way, he ran with it: he had made it a point to introduce himself and get on a first-name basis with everyone possible, or to at least make sure that they knew his. The following week, Clark even brought the coffee shop’s leftover pastries to the front desk of Charisma’s, to the doorwoman with the strong lip liner who had kept him at arm’s length. Miranda was her name, Miranda from the Bronx , she had said in her thick accent . He left more confections with the deliverers, the dry cleaners, and the maids.

Slowly, they started to look him in the eyes. Some even returned his hellos, even remembered his name. None of them, however, would talk business, let alone about Charisma.

A couple of days into November, as Clark dropped by the front to pick up another rattling package, Miranda made a point of thanking him for the treats.

“No problem! Um, hey,” he said in a whisper, “can I ask you something?”

Miranda raised her eyebrows.

“Do you know what’s in these ?” Clark said, motioning to the boxes. “What goes on—”

“Shh!” Miranda snapped. Her little five-foot-two self grabbed him by the arm with a vise grip and dragged him out to the front.

Outside, she looked around before speaking barely above a whisper. “Are you crazy? Yeah, I got some idea, probably like you. I got some stories. I know the guy who does her... cleanups . He’s got some stories too, even more than me, but I can’t talk about it here. Or at all. Whatever it is you want to know, I can’t say. Sorry, man, hope you find what you’re looking for, and hey, take my advice: don’t go talking about her, or any of this for that matter, to no one, ever. You trust nobody around here. Got it?”

Clark nodded. He was almost grateful she told him that much. Clark like Kent saves the day again... he thought.

With Halloween out of the way, Joey had made a date with Clark for a surprise outing that Thursday, and it was all that he looked forward to for days. After work, Joey had picked him up in front of Charisma’s, his car small and old amongst the black SUVs. He drove them down to Brooklyn, to a place Clark had not been to since he was little: Coney Island.

Clark gave him the update on the hour-long car ride, including his errand-hopping tour of Manhattan’s rich and elite, his cawfee runs, and Monica’s ever-changing orders, which had become abusively ridiculous, and always went untouched.

“Ugh, why’s that gabaghoul Monica like that?” Joey said to Clark’s amusement as they walked down the arcade. “I wish she’d just leave you alone.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Clark said.

“Hey,” Joey said. “Why do you say that?” he asked curiously.

“Nothing,” Clark began, “it’s just that . . . that coworker who died, Melissa—”

“Yeah, I remember . . .” Joey began.

“Yeah, her. I sort of made a wish and...I had hoped to take the heat off me but, well...” He looked at Joey, praying that he wouldn’t think any less of him.

“Wait, what’s this about?” Joey furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re not seriously blaming yourself for Melissa’s death, are you?”

Clark sighed. “You’re right,” he said, exasperatedly sweeping his hand through his hair. “Let’s drop it. Sorry I brought it up, I’m being silly.”

“Hey,” Joey said, pulling him in close, “I got you. No need to explain.” He glanced at a blushing Clark, who in turn looked down at their held hands and the ogling passersby as they came up onto the pier. Clark blushed harder, knowing what he was thinking could be read all over his face. It only made Joey hold his hands even tighter. Clark didn’t mind: there was something about his presence that made Clark feel protected.

That November day was unseasonably warm even by the beach, and as the day drew to a close, the chill picked up. After chili dogs and funnel cake, arcade games and funhouses, and a goofy session in the photo booth ending in a kiss they held extra long, Clark and Joey finished the night on the Ferris wheel, looking out at the Atlantic and the sparkling skyline in the distance. Joey leaned in for a love bite and an inhale of Clark’s neck...

“Hey, Clark, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you and getting to know you,” he said.

“Me too, Joey.”

“I’m falling for you real hard, Clark,” he said. “I think . . . I mean, what I wanna say is . . . Well, that I think I . . . I love you . . .”

Clark froze and stared back at him.

“I know it’s early! You don’t have to say it back! I just...” he said, searching for the words, “wanted to tell you. Life’s too short, you know what I mean?”

“Thank you...” Clark said. “I’m not sure what to say.” What can I say...? Finally, here was someone he was really into, someone real and right in front of him, baring his heart, and even if it all felt too fast, Clark was elated. Joey was like a gift from the universe. A wish granted ...The way Joey’s smile dropped slightly at the corners tugged at Clark’s heartstrings.

Clark said, “I think I love you, too.”

Joey turned to look at Clark, and that smile . . .

The breeze was stiff and the cold penetrated their jackets, and the two huddled together for warmth. They looked into one another’s eyes and kissed, so aglow in the carnival-colored lights that he could fly up out of their little cabin. It was fireworks.

As they held hands on their way to the car and talked about plans for the week—of more kisses to steal on Clark’s drive-bys to Northlight when the manager wasn’t looking—Joey did have one thing to ask.

“Clark, why are you so cagey about work?”

Uh oh . . .

“Cagey? What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that you’ve told me about some of the things in your day-to-day at work, but you’ve never really given me the specifics of what you do. I feel like you’re keeping me in the dark about it. You can trust me, you know that, right?”

Clark flushed. “Um, well...I’ve sorta told you as much as I know. I have no idea what’s in the envelopes or the boxes or who a lot of these people are. ‘Fraid that’s above my pay grade! Mostly I just do as I’m told.” He felt bad for lying.

“Maybe you’d better stop doing as you’re told and find out about who and what you’re working for,” Joey said, unlocking the car.

“Yeah, you’re totally right, and I hope to do just that. Monica is meaner than ever and stressed now that she’s picking up Melissa’s slack and I’m just...really confused about what to do about all of it,” Clark confessed.

“Is any of this worth it?” Joey asked. “I know it’s cool to work for her and her name will take you places, but is it worth all this? All this stress? They’re not even paying you!”

Clark replied with a sigh. “A year here and I can go...anywhere.” His eyes trailed away at his words, which sounded empty.

As they sat in the car, Joey paused and looked at Clark. He said, “You know what’s odd, Clark, is one day, I was downstairs handling one of those mystery-box deliveries from some mean intern when the bottom gave out completely. It spilled all over the sidewalk: pills and blank orange pill bottles, everywhere . We spent a long time cleaning it all up before opening, but there must’ve been a hundred or so nine-to-fivers passing by who saw. Crazy, right?”

Joey turned on the ignition and said, “I think Northlight is a total drug front.” Clark’s eyes doubled in size as they pulled out of the parking lot and drove away.

“Clarky!” Patricia chirped in her nasal Queens accent. “Hi, sweetie!”

“I’ve missed you!” Clark said to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek and a hug.

“Oh my goodness, I’ve missed you too!”

It was Thanksgiving and Patricia had invited Clark to dinner, along with—for the first time ever—a plus-one.

“Come in, come in...And this must be the handsome Joey you’ve told me all about—except, you didn’t tell me he’s even more handsome in person!”

Joey gave her a hug. “Thank you for having us,” he said, his hand creeping up to hold the small of Clark’s back.

Patricia squealed, “Oh my gawd, what a gentleman!” When Joey was out of earshot, she mouthed to Clark, “Such a hottie, too!”

When Patricia had originally invited them, Clark had jumped at the opportunity: he had been dying to get some answers from her, like what she knew about the Coven. Maybe she hadn’t known completely herself. Whatever the reason, Clark was on a mission.

“Patricia, can I talk to you about something?” he asked quietly when Joey disappeared to the kitchen to drop off the bottles of wine they had brought.

“To me? Sure...what about?” she said. Was that reluctance he sensed?

“It’s about—”

“Hi, Clark!” Nancy said, coming up for a hug. “It’s nice to see you, hun.”

Nancy, Paul, and Eva were all there, as well as Patricia’s ninety-nine-year-old mother. Even Patricia’s new boyfriend, Neil, deep in conversation about football with Paul. The next thing he knew, Clark was exchanging pleasantries and hugs and introducing Joey to his adopted family, the business of the holiday taking over. His question would have to wait.

Soon they were all settled in at the table around Patricia’s many “Live, Laugh, Love” plaques and trinkets, in her comforting home that smelled like apples and cinnamon, for buckets of red wine and Patricia’s delicious cooking, of honey-roasted turkey and ham, holiday stuffing with cranberry sauce, candied yams and mashed potatoes, corn and casseroles, and salads and biscuits. Clark engorged himself, of course, as much as was politely possible.

Round and short, unlike her mother, Nancy insisted she load up his plate to second and third helpings. “Don’t be shy,” Nancy said. Clark caught out of the corner of his eye a crayon drawing of Eva’s hanging on Patricia’s wall: it was of Hansel and Gretel, chomping into the side of the witch’s candy home.

“I’d like to make an announcement,” Patricia said. “I am happy to say that for the fifteenth year in a row I am being recognized as Employee of the Year at work—with a bonus! It took many an overtime, and many a sacrifice, but I did it!”

Nancy gasped. “Of course you are! That’s my ma!” Nancy said, raising her glass. “Not only did she provide us with this beautiful meal and her lovely home this evening, she raised this family single-handedly when Pa died, she has kicked ass at her job, and she has gotten yet another accolade for all her hard work. Incredible! We know how hard you work. Congratulations, Ma! We’re all so proud of you. Love you!”

“Aww, I love you too, sweetie! Thank you,” Patricia croaked through teary eyes.

That’s when the conversation came around.

“How’s the job been since we last talked?” Nancy asked Clark. Conversations around the table paused as everyone turned quiet to listen.

What do I tell them . . . ? That my boss is a murderous witch who owns the city . . . ?

“Things have been, um...Well, my...manager, one of the assistants, likes to move the goalposts.” Then he was off, telling the table about how Monica had tricked him into an empty promise of going along on a house call, how she had been jerking him around with coffee orders and errands and deliveries since his first day. The stories came up like word vomit. “Her behavior is so cruel it’s like she hates me, and I have no idea why,” he relayed.

He revealed how Melissa had confided in him that she was going to steal clients, how she “mysteriously turned up dead” the night of his birthday, and how the “company” had commenced interviews for her replacement the Monday morning right after the funeral. Patricia and her family looked at one another, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Reel it back, Clark, you’re losing them...

“And our booker—our HR—she’s so neurotic, there’s no reporting anything to her because nothing good will come of it, and...Ugh! Yeah. I can’t even call out when I’m sick or I’ll lose my job for sure. I’m just the lackey intern at the bottom of the food chain. You guys won’t even believe what happened to the intern before me...”

Nancy sighed and wiped her mouth before speaking. “That’s right, Clark: nothing good will come of it because no one likes a complainer .”

Joey cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he took a sip of wine.

“Clark,” Nancy began, “you gotta change your perspective. Not everyone thinks like you. Change your attitude and your life will follow,” Nancy said, tapping the side of her head with her finger.

“Yeah, sure, okay, but—”

“It’s not that your manager is jerking you around, it’s that things change in business.”

“I know that, but—”

“It’s not that your manager hates you, it’s that you are there to serve a role and do your job.”

“Of course, but Nancy—”

“Toughen up, Clark. If you want to grow up, you’ll have to put in the work and learn. Stop being so entitled and don’t take things so personally.”

Joey furrowed his brow.

Clark looked around the table, at their wide-eyed stares and Nancy’s face of smirked satisfaction. He wished that someone would come to his rescue. But who would believe him, when he hadn’t even told them the full truth? “Maybe you’re right. I dunno...”

“Joey,” Patricia squeaked as she lifted her glass to her lips, “this wine is delicious!”

“Thank you,” he politely replied. “We serve it at Northlight. One of Charisma’s favorites.” He shot a glance at Clark like he wanted to say something. Clark was just grateful that somebody had changed the subject.

“Well, thank you for bringing it and for coming,” she said. “I think we’re all ready for something sweet! Who wants dessert?”

She and Paul passed out Patricia’s infamous homemade baking that Clark grew up on, of pumpkin, pecan, and apple pies, peach cobbler, and an assortment of Italian cookies with coffee. When the table was cleared and everybody had all but unbuttoned, Patricia disappeared into the kitchen with a handful of plates, and as Nancy began to follow her, Clark insisted on taking the task off her hands. He wasn’t about to let Patricia get off that easily.

He helped Patricia load the dishwasher while she rinsed the plates. Clark made sure he and Patricia were alone before breaking the unusual silence.

“Hey, um, Patricia?” He double-checked: Joey and Paul were chatting away in the living room while Neil was passed out, snoring on the recliner. Nancy and Eva were watching the television.

“Ye-es?”

Clark spoke in a low voice. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something...”

“Oh, haha, what about, sweetie?” she croaked, extra nasal and squeaky.

“Nothing, it’s just that...I don’t even know where to begin. Patricia, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, Clarky?”

“That Charisma and her assistants . . . are a coven.”

She almost dropped a plate in the sink (“Oopsies!”). For a split second, Patricia stole a look at him. “Clarky, what are you talking about?”

“You knew what she is all along, didn’t you? Why didn’t you warn me about what I was getting into?” Clark asked. “That Charisma and her assistants are witches?”

Patricia stopped mid-rinse.

“Witches? What? Sweetie, I’m not sure what you’re going on about.” But Clark didn’t buy it.

“C’mon, Patricia. Did you know they only hire women? Monica sure was shocked as hell when I turned up for the interview.”

“Oh, this is about your first name, isn’t it?” she asked with a smile and a nod. “Hey, you know what, Clarky, I know it’s your father’s, and your father’s father’s. Say what you want, but it landed you a meet—”

“No, it’s not about that,” Clark said hastily. “C’mon, Patricia!”

“Charisma Saintly? Don’t be silly...” Patricia walked around him to load the last plate. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Clark could tell, she was definitely avoiding looking him in the eyes.

“You know what I’m talking about. She’s the witch-queen of the world and you didn’t tell me? That her assistants are part of her coven, that she’s running an empire from her home, right here in New York. Only I didn’t think she was serious about it, not at first. You have to have had some idea. Please tell me the truth.”

She turned to face him.

“Please,” Clark said. Patricia saw the despondency in his eyes, and broke.

“Oh, Clarky...I’m sorry! Really I am,” she said. “I didn’t think it would be this hard on you. I feel so bad! I thought this would be a good opportunity. The coffee shop is great and all, but I thought it would be good for you to, you know, spread your wings a little. To be in a real work environment. To see how someone important like Charisma does business.”

So she has been avoiding me...That’s why I haven’t seen her since this summer, before she suggested I meet Monica... “Patricia, you don’t have to apologize, I’m grateful for the opportunity, seriously, I am! It’s just that, you know, could you have prepared a guy? Just a little?!”

Patricia paused, placing her pressed hands to her lips and taking a deep breath before speaking softly above a whisper. “I was worried that if I had told you what you were getting into, you would never have gone through with it.”

“Yeah,” Clark said, “maybe you’re right. Maybe I should have taken out a few student loans. Stayed at the coffee shop. Gone back to college part-time. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. I’ve never been an assistant before. What do I know? Now I’m failing at it with nowhere else to go, and no way to leave...”

Patricia grabbed him by the shoulders. “Hey, sweetie, look at me. What’s meant for you won’t pass you by.” Clark was immediately reminded of C Café where he first met Monica, and walking past it two or three times before finally landing on it.

“That’s only the fear talking,” Patricia said. “But what you fear isn’t failing at the job—which you’re not—nor is it the fear of not being enough—which you are! Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Not really,” Clark said skeptically, looking up at her.

She grabbed his hands and held them in hers. “The only real failure is what might have come if you hadn’t taken the job, and who you’d face when you’d look in the mirror. The real failure would have been not trying. That’s all, Clarky! What you fear is you! Meeting yourself at the finish line on the other side of your dreams, the you you haven’t even met yet.” She petted his hands, and said, “You know I love you like family, Clarky, don’t you?”

Her eyes were glassy and so were Clark’s. Here she was, the woman he had known all of his life, now a few inches shorter than him, admitting her failure and asking for his grace. Clark decided he could give her that. He’d be ridiculous not to. She had given him so much, after all. He thought about that Dream Him he met, that Perfect Him that seemed so tangible and yet so out of reach. What would that Clark do in his shoes?

They leaned in for a warm hug. She smelled like Charisma’s perfume.

As they broke away and chuckled at their own glistening eyes, one deep, dark, ugly thing nagged at Clark, something brewing in him that he hadn’t been able to voice until then and there. “Patricia...?” he began slowly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Don’t get goofy!” she said, wiping her eyes. “Of course, Clarky, you can ask me anything.”

Clark searched for the words: “What do you do if . . . when . . . you know someone is hurting other people?”

Patricia’s smile fell instantly. “Who’s hurting other people? What’s going on, Clark? Are you okay? Is someone hurting you?!” The concern in her voice made Clark almost regret asking.

“No, it’s nothing! I mean, no one. It’s not me—yes, I’m fine,” he said. She gave him the side-eye. “Actually, alright: I don’t know. It’s just that...someone...told me— showed me, rather—that they’re hurting other people. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”

“Who is hurting people, Clark?”

He said, “You know who I’m talking about.”

At this, Patricia did something that took Clark by surprise: swiftly, she closed her kitchen curtains and peered over the kitchen counter to make sure they were not being overheard. Then, in a hushed voice, she leaned in, and spoke very slowly, just above a whisper.

“Sometimes, Clark, in life, it’s best to mind our own business.”

“But,” Clark began, taken aback, “if you know better, shouldn’t you do better?”

Patricia shook her head. “I know you want to be a good person, but sometimes, doing the right thing isn’t the right thing to do. Remember that, Clark. Take it from me, it’ll keep you out of trouble. Just drop it and do your job. Keep your nose down, and ask no questions. Do you hear me?”

“But––” he began.

“No, Clark. There’s nothing you can do,” she said. “Drop it.”

By the time Clark and Joey got back to the car, a few pounds heavier and carrying Tupperware of leftovers, Clark was bursting to relay what Patricia had disclosed.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked of Joey first. “What did you think of them? They’re great, right?”

Joey was quiet. “Yeah they’re great, Clark, I had a great time . . . except . . .”

“Except...?” They paused outside the doors. With the press of his keychain, the doors unlocked.

“Except,” Joey began again as they sat inside. He put his key into the ignition and then removed it. “I dunno how to explain it. It’s like they all seem to keep you under their thumb? They’re denying your experience and answering for you like they have all the answers, and you totally let them!”

“What . . . ?” Clark said, flabbergasted. “I don’t let them do anything.”

“Look at how Nancy reacts to you being jerked around at work.”

Clark furrowed his brow. “No way, they’re not like that. They care, they just...have a funny way of showing it. They just—they just see things differently. It’s the Queens in them, they’re old school. They just don’t get it...Right?”

“I’m not sure,” Joey said with a sigh. “Maybe. Yeah, they care...But Clark, why didn’t you stand up for yourself?”

“Stand up for myself?” Clark wasn’t sure how to answer. “I didn’t want to come across as ungrateful for the opportunity. I am, I really am grateful to be at Charisma’s. I have Patricia to thank for it.”

“Clark,” Joey said, “Patricia got you the interview but you got the job. And just because you stand up for yourself doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. You don’t have to be grateful for everything: not for the abuse, and not for the way Nancy talked to you tonight. After the conversation you told me about at your birthday dinner, you’re only making it okay for her to keep doing it.”

“You’re right...” Clark said, looking at his hands. “Thank you,” he added. He started to pick at his nails.

“I just want what’s best for you,” Joey said, grabbing Clark’s hand with his free one. They looked at one another. “To see you happy. You know that, right?”

Abuse . . . Is that what’s happening . . . ?

Joey put the key in the ignition and started the car.

Clark bit his lip in thought as they drove on those quiet suburban streets back to Astoria, the New York City skyline looming into view.

When it came to Charisma and the others, Clark knew one thing to be true:

He was going to have to stop playing by their rules.

Charisma and her coven had to be stopped—and he would have to be the one to do it.