Page 4 of Enchanted to Meet You

Which meant that I was now going to have to have a meeting with a member of an association that billed itself as “the world’s largest professional organization meant to advance the common interests of witches” over a pile of ladies undergarments.

But then I reminded myself that I didn’t care. There was nothing for me to be embarrassed about or ashamed of. Women needed stylish, comfortable bras, and there wasn’t anything about his organization that advancedmyinterests.

“Look, Mr., er,” I began.

“It’s Derrick,” Hot Doorway Guy said. “Derrick Winters.”

That threw me. Whoever heard of a WCW member namedDerrick? Most of them were proud that they could trace their “magick” lineage back to Colonial times, or even earlier. They all had names like Elizabeth Carrington or John Ayres or, in the case of West Harbor’s local rep, Rosalie Hopkins.

Hot Doorway Guy didn’t even look like a member of the World Council of Witches, except for the amulet. He looked... well, more like someone whohuntedwitches: tall, dressed all in black, lanky as a cowboy, but wearing biker boots—a rarityin this affluent part of Connecticut—with long blond hair tied back into a low messy knot at the nape of his neck, several days’ growth of whiskers, and angular features. His slate-gray eyes seemed to be judging all my sins at once: the disorganized office, open bags of Halloween candy, the yawning window behind me (for Pye to leap in and out of as he conducted his patrols between my house and the shop), and of course, the jumpsuit.

Still, the amulet didn’t lie. It was a slim crescent moon attached to a full moon, a design worn by all members of the WCW (which I’d never be), representing Gaia, the Greek goddess of creation.

I decided my best defense was to take the offense.

“Well, look,Derrick,” I said. “I don’t know what they’ve told you about me. And I don’t know what you thought you saw out there, either. But I can assure you, it wasn’t magic.”

He raised both golden blond eyebrows. “What wasn’t?”

“What you saw. First of all, I would never,evercast a spell on someone without their consent. At least, not anymore. Spells cast as a juvenile shouldn’t count, in my opinion.”

The eyebrows went up even more, but before he had a chance to say anything, I barreled on.

“I ordered that dress with Margo Dunleavy in mind, and the shawl, too.” I rubbed my knuckles, remembering how I’d been up sewing on the crystals until well after midnight, knowing Mrs. Dunleavy would be coming in today. My joints were still a little sore. “She’s the mayor’s wife. This town is having a ball to celebrate its Tricentennial—”

“Yes, I noticed. The banners hanging from every single streetlamp were hard to miss.”

But he didn’t say it in an admiring way. He deadpanned it, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smirk.

I thought I knew what he was thinking—or what a rationalperson would be thinking, anyway. I forgot for a moment that WCW members aren’t rational.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know. And, for the record, I, too, am against celebrating the three hundredth anniversary of the theft of land from its indigenous people.”

When his eyebrows only furrowed at this, I went on, quickly, “But the town council decided that if we threw a Tricentennial Festival the weekend of Halloween, complete with a ball in the village square, people would show up, and we’d make a lot of money. And it turns out they were right—tickets for the ball are two hundred dollars a pop, and they’re selling fast. Mrs. Dunleavy out there is the one who proposed that the sales go to West Harbor schools’ arts and music departments instead of beautifying the beach near the Yacht Club.” I tried to keep the self-satisfaction out of my voice over this turn of events, since Rosalie Hopkins was the one who’d made the Yacht Club beach proposal. “But that’s how Margo Dunleavy is—she goes out of her way to do kind things for people. She doesn’t even have kids! That’s why I thought it would be nice if she had something really spectacular to wear to the ball. But Idon’tcast glamours on my customers.Ever.So you can go back and tell the Council they’re wasting their time. I haven’t broken their rules.”

Satisfied I’d put him in his place, I leaned back in my chair and thought about rewarding myself with a miniature Snickers bar, but decided it wouldn’t be dignified.

“Well,” Derrick replied, slowly. “That’s all good to know. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Really?” I was shocked. From what I’d read on the various spellworking message boards I belonged to, the WCW was always sticking its nose where it wasn’t needed, much less wanted. “Why are you here, then?” Suddenly realization hit, and I slammed both my hands down on either side of the pile of bras and pushedmyself up to my feet. “Wait a minute. You can’t be telling me I’m on the Council’s shit list for something I did more than a decadeago, when I was only a teenager?”

“Ms. Gold,” Derrick said, his eyebrows raised again. “I think you ought to sit down.”

“It’s Jessica. Or Jess. And no, I won’t sit down. Just because you uptight wand-clutchers can trace your magic lineage back to your ancestors on theMayflower, you think you’re so superior to the rest of us. Well, let me tell you something that no one else has probably ever had the guts to: Hereditary witchcraft? That isn’t a thing. There’s no genetic marker for magic.Everyonehas psychic ability. Some people are simply more in touch with it than others, and that’s because they’veworkedat it. They’ve honed and practiced their craft. That’s all there is to it. Having a relative who was hanged for witchcraft in the sixteen hundreds doesn’t make you any more of a—”

“Ms. Gold.” The leather of his motorcycle jacket creaking, Derrick reached across my desk and laid a hand upon my shoulder. “I said,sit down, please.”

Instantly, a fizzy sort of... lightness came over me. That’s the only way I could describe it. It started where his hand touched my shoulder, then traveled down my arm to the tips of my fingers until it enveloped my entire body, robbing me of the tiredness I’d felt all day. Not only my tiredness, but the soreness I’d been feeling in my knuckles from sewing half the night, and my feet from being on them all day, hand selling dresses for the ball.

Instead, a delicious warmth descended upon me, as if I’d been wrapped in a blanket made of the golden autumn sunlight outside. Even when he drew away his hand—which he did almost immediately—the light, warm feeling stayed with me, and the pain didn’t return. I felt... well,good.

“What,” I asked incredulously, sinking down into my chair, “wasthat?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He was all business. “Ms. Gold—Jessica—I’m here to deliver a message to you, and it’s not about your illicit glamour-casting or whatever else you seem to think.”

“I said I—”

“Don’t cast glamours. I know. I heard you. Again, that’s not why I’m here.”