The ramshackle front of Brunick Manor towered above me as I made my way home from work, Kat wheezing next to my ankles from the mile and a half jaunt. Twisting my fingers into a good luck sign, I threw a prayer out to the elements that my mother, whom I’d called Momma Tula since before I could remember, would be up and about this evening.
It was four weeks ago today that we showed up on Grammy Jo’s doorstep, two stray dogs looking for sanctuary. She’d taken one hard look at us and stepped aside, making room for the proverbial lost children. No questions about Arizona or why we hadn’t called. Just a hot cup of herbal tea and vanilla wafer cookies shoved in our hands.
Not ten minutes after we arrived, Momma Tula had buried herself in her old bed and refused to move, unless coerced by me or one of her two older sisters, Aunt Piper and Aunt Viv. And that was how she remained, a hollow and empty shell of the mother I used to love.
Returning to school was out of the question. She needed me now, more than ever. For the time being, Uriville was my home. As much as it killed me to stay in this one-horse town, leaving her was worse. I could suck it up for her.
A deafening roar sounded behind me. Kat and I both turned to watch my cousin, Raven, ride in on her sleek black Buell motorcycle – her mom, Aunt Viv, called it a modern day broomstick. She tore off her helmet, revealing a headful of straight dark brown hair that stopped at the middle of her back. Her thick black lashes didn’t need an ounce of mascara, so she didn’t wear much makeup, except for her customary dark brown-red lipstick. Standing at 6’1” in a tight-fitting black tee and jeans with matching killer heels, she was something fierce to behold.
Not two seconds later, my other cousin rolled into the drive in her vintage baby blue VW beetle. If Raven was dark and menacing, Blythe was the exact opposite. Petite and girly, with a Dolly Parton figure and the clothes to show it off. Popping out of the vehicle, she practically tap danced her way toward me, a big grin plastered on her face.
“What’s for dinner? Lasagna? Eggplant parmesan? No, wait, is that enchiladas I smell?”
She didn’t give me the chance to answer. Flying pas
t me in a cloud of an annoyingly girly perfume, she followed the scent straight into Grammy Jo’s kitchen.
“Hey,” I said to Raven.
“Hmph,” she returned with a slight nod of her head. Not a big talker, this one.
We followed our cousin into the dining room, where my aunts and Grammy Jo already bustled around a crowded table. A giant cauldron bubbled and stewed over an open flame on the stove. Could you say stereotypical?
I took one glance around the room and headed up the stairs, into the bedroom I shared with Momma Tula. Everything was bathed in darkness. I snapped my fingers and a small flame appeared above my hand. It was one of the few witchy tricks I could do without a wand and an intricate spell. The flickering light chased the dark away, revealing the contents of our bedroom. Sure enough, a small bundle lay hidden beneath the faded paisley comforter. I yanked it back, revealing her thin frame that used to be athletic and strong, like mine.
“Dinner time.” My voice was abnormally loud. “You need to eat. Let’s go.”
It took nearly 10 minutes to drag her out of bed, into something that didn’t resemble flannel PJs, and run a brush through her wild blonde hair. By the time we made it to the dining room, everyone else was seated and an argument had already started.
“They’re not getting into your castor bean plants, Grammy Jo. I asked them myself.” Raven splayed her fingers in front of her face as if to hide behind them. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“All I know is, some critter’s been digging in them plants.” Grammy Jo motioned toward the cauldron boiling on the stove. “I need them to create my castor oil potions. If I catch a raccoon in there, you can be sure it’ll be turned into a hat before I can snap my fingers.”
A pocket of hot air caught in my throat. For as harmless as Grammy Jo looked in her loose blouse and eccentrically patterned leggings that clung to her chicken legs, the old lady could pack a wallop. I set a mental reminder to make sure Kat never ended up on her bad side. Grammy didn’t mind a side of bacon with her morning coffee.
Momma Tula sat down at a plate and I took the place next to her. Sure enough, a tray of enchiladas sat dead center of the rickety old table. Surrounding it was a variety of side dishes, some recognizable and others that looked slightly questionable.
Living in a house full of witches came with its perks and its drawbacks. For one, Grammy Jo had been gifted with the talent of potion making and cooking. It meant a hot supper on the table every night and no need to cook, something I was only too glad to give up. Yet, in her old age, Grammy Jo had become slightly unhinged, and it showed up in her cooking.
Last week, she’d passed around an innocent looking peach pie with homemade whipped cream dolloped on top. It wasn’t until two bites in that I’d discovered the trace remains of a piece of willow tree bark. Grammy Jo had claimed it lent a husky flavor to the pie, but I worried sometimes about her process. Anyone that thought tree bark made a good addition to pie was missing a few screws upstairs.
Throwing a scrap of mystery food to Kat under the table, I helped myself to a plateful of food as Blythe rambled on across from me about her upcoming wedding this weekend. Not her wedding, exactly. It was actually her job.
“So, what exactly does a wedding planner do?” I asked between bites. It was a question I’d asked several times, but it still made me giggle to hear her reply.
“Not a wedding planner, my dear cousin Hazel.” Her voice was practically dripping with sugary condescension. “My official title is Specialized Event Organizer. It says so on my cards and everything.”
I hid my smile and nodded along.
“I organize the flowers, the order of affairs, the entertainment, and the gown. Everything, dear Hazel.” Her hands flapped with unbridled enthusiasm. “I’m a very essential part of the wedding. I mean, without me, there practically wouldn’t be a wedding!”
Of course not. What’s a wedding without a Specialized Event Organizer?
“I don’t suppose those witchy powers of yours ever come in handy during one of your events?” I asked, shoveling another bite into my mouth.
Her sky blue eyes darted across the table, before settling back on me. She swept her bottle blonde hair out of her face, settling it back into its perfect A-line cut. “Well, I’m very good at my job, but yes, occasionally it helps to be able to freeze time for a few seconds. I might’ve saved a photo opportunity or two with some witchy magical assistance.”
I smiled into my water glass. Raven, Blythe and I couldn’t be any different. I had my mystical art powers. Blythe could freeze time and occasionally had visions of the future. Raven could throw out magical force fields and had a way of communicating with animals. And yet, we’d all been born on the exact same day with the exact same half-moon birthmark above our collarbones. Momma Tula used to tell me we were special, a once in a millennia kind of occurrence. But it didn’t feel that special to me.