Page 40 of Spell Ya Later

Abigail went on to have three children—Christopher, James, and Annabelle. Annabelle was the only child to inherit the craft.

Abigail died of disease in 1756 at sixty-five years old, her husband having died a few years prior. Abigail lived to see her line continued, to mentor her own daughter, and to see the first of her grandchildren.

Chapter 16

Streemz and Chill

Iclose the book on Abigail Pruitt and sit back on my stool.

Scrying.

That’s how I can track Botis, and that’s how I can face whoever—or whatever—killed my father. Once I learn some offensive spells, so I know how to actually defeat those things. But that’s details.

I have the beginnings of a plan, and that’s enough.

And it’s all the mental energy I can devote to it right now, because I get to see Noah in an hour and my heart is beating a million miles per second.

Just the thought of him—of ourspark. The way his hand tightens in my hair and pulls just this side of pleasurable. I suppress a shiver.

I shift on the stool, a gentle ache settling low in my belly. I can hardly wait.

My phone buzzes on the counter, practically jumping across the glass.

Laura: Are you seeing Noah tonight?

It’s the first time she’s reached out since I watched her walk out of my car—even though she promised to text me the next day—and toward her house. What used to be our house. What’s now their house.

Hazel: I am. But if you need me, I can reschedule with him.

The ache doesn’t like that plan, but the ache can wait a day.

Laura: It’s not an emergency. Enjoy a night with your guy. Can I see you tomorrow before your classes? Maybe we can get breakfast?

Hazel: Absolutely. Pick me up at nine?

Laura: I’ll see you then.

She’s too formal. Something has been wrong ever since our tense discussion in the car. Even mentioning Mom briefly caused a shift in the dynamic. I’m glad she’s at least willing to talk, willing to reach out and try to mend this. Mend whateverthisis. It’s like she’s on one end of a giant chasm and I’m on the other, and the chasm is our mother and our magic.

My head swims. It’s too many emotions for one person to contend with at a time.

I can’t focus on the shit with Laura until I see her tomorrow. There’s no way to plan for where her head is at, and focusing on it will only freak me out.

For now, Noah. Noah is my focus.

The toeof my black knee-high boot taps against the sidewalk as I wait outside the apartment for Noah to arrive. I pull my red leather jacket closer around me. I’m ten minutes early, as usual. Grandma left over an hour ago so there should be no awkward run-ins. At least not today.

The village is alive. No one can resist Chagrin Falls on a gorgeous fall evening. Children run after their dogs and couples lean close as they sit at the outdoor tables of their favorite restaurants. Teenagers huddle together giggling as they move in packs eating ice cream cones.

Despite never joining in, I find something oddly peaceful about observing the world around me. Watching people live their lives, seeing the everyday moments. At this point I’ve turned people-watching into an Olympic sport.

My head turns as Noah’s car pulls up and comes to a stop in the parking space in front of me. The grin on his face is blinding, raising the hairs on my arms. My fingers itch to reacquaint themselves with his deceptively soft brown locks, to have him wrapped around me in every way possible.

“Baby,” he says, exiting the car. He’s directly in front of me with two steps of his long legs, and soon has me in his arms, nose buried in my hair.

Thank God he’s holding me up becausebabymixed with the electric current surging through my body at his touch has my knees weakening. Legs are jelly. I’m someone’s baby.

I’m Noah’s baby.