Page 8 of Spell Ya Later

“I’ll be back for you,” I whisper to the book and grab my jacket.

Turnsout there is adynamitesandwich shop on the corner that I have somehow never set foot in. I don’t know what is in this marinade, but I want to bathe in it, or eat it every day for the rest of my life.

Or both.

I return to the shop holding my chocolate chip cookie with five minutes to spare. The household spells book beckons from where I left it on the counter, contents just waiting to be discovered.

Grandma would be pissed if I got chocolate fingerprints on it—so cookie first, book second.

“Ah, you went to You’re Great in Bread,” Grandma says from the stacks of potion ingredients, where she is probably fixing my clumsy attempt at cleaning. It seems her friend left during my lunch break.

“You should’ve warned me about this place. I may be addicted now.”

“They do make a very good sandwich. You know, they buy their herbs from here.” With a saucy wink, she waltzes off to her room.

Why am I entirely unsurprised she put some of her witchy woo-woo on it? I should’ve known there was no way this sauce was anything but magic.

I wipe off my hands and sit down behind the cash register. I’m ready to dig into this damn spellbook as if my life depends on it.

Hell, maybe it does.

I crack the cover and...oh. Warmth spreads from the tips of my fingers to my toes. Thunderstorm crackles scent the air and a smile breaks across my face. I’m supposed to be here, in this moment. I’m supposed to be learning magic. God knows how I know that, but I do.

The first page says “Cleaning Spells.” I could’ve used this a couple hours ago. Maybe someday I’ll get to the point where I can do these spells nonverbally, but for now it looks like I’m learning Latin.

“Grandma, you got any dust I can borrow?” I yell across the store.

Her snort, and an equally sassy meow, rings through the shop. “You do realize you’re in a magic shop with a plentiful offering of old books?”

I walk over and grab the oldest looking book I can find—um, heavy much?—and lug it back to my counter. It smells ofold, and has a layer of dust so thick I could write messages.

I turn toHousehold Spellsand read through the page. According to this, I just recite the words and then poof—magic happens. Seems a little too easy, but let’s give it a try.

“Purgomundus Purus,” I whisper. I’m not sure what I expected to happen, but it wasn’t a whole heaping pile of nothing. One speck of dust could’ve wiggled.

“Purgomundus Purus,” I repeat, louder this time. Okay, there’s the wiggling. Still not clean.

“Purgomundus Purus.” Did a few specks disappear? “Purgomundus Purus!”

“If it were just reading and repeating, witchcraft would be much easier,” Grandma says as she emerges from her Grandma-cave.

I sigh. She’s right, of course. “Practice makes perfect?”

“Exactly. All skills take time to master, including witchcraft. You may have been born a witch, but you aren’t a spellcaster yet. It’ll come with time.”

“How much time?”

“Patience is a virtue, sweetheart.” She settles her bangle-clad hand on mine, giving it a squeeze. “Try deep breathing, emptying your mind completely, and then try the spell again.”

It’s not like I’ve ever been known for my patience. Granted, I’ve never been known for anything.

I close my eyes, inhaling as deeply as I can. The smells of the shop fill my nose—herbs, dust, and a light layer of cat—and I allow the warmth and pull of the magic to fill my lungs. I exhale.

“Purgomundus Purus.” The magic, the warmth, flows through me and into the world like a wave.

“You’re a natural after all. Open your eyes.”

I open to find the entire store, not just my book, has been wiped clean.