SonofaWitch! Page 5

  Violet chuckled. “You’re going to give yourself sex dreams, aren’t you?”

  Zoe winked.

  “Okay, there’s no one in line, and I need a refill. How do I look?” She ran her palms down the sides of her short, blonde pixie cut and pressed her lips together to liven up her lip tint.

  “Gorgeous. Now, go get that hot piece of ass.”

  Violet focused on walking with a little hip shimmy as she made her way up to the register, where Maxwell leaned against the counter and read a faded book by Elmore Leonard. “Hey,” she said. She attempted nonchalance but felt awkward with her hands hanging at her sides. She crossed them under her chest instead and gave her breasts a boost.

  He stopped reading. “Hey.”

  “Could I get a refill, please? French roast.”

  He put the book down and reached across the counter for her mug but not before a blue spark flew from her finger and into the back of his hand. “Ow!”

  “Sorry!” It was only the eighth time she’d done that—the wussy witch’s subconscious equivalent of a hand caress. “Must be static electricity.”

  He picked up her mug and filled it up. “I’m worried if you have any more coffee, you’re going to start bouncing around the room.”

  She laughed and, surprised at her own volume, covered her mouth. “Uh, I can hold my caffeine,” she said from between her fingers.

  “I know.” He slid the mug across the counter, smiled just a little, and picked up his book.

  Violet practically danced across the floor. “I zapped him again, but he talked to me at least,” she whispered to Zoe.

  “Well, I would hope so. It’d be super awkward if he just stood there in silence.” She turned a page just as Violet noticed her chai tea refilling on its own.

  Violet put her hand over Zoe’s mug. “Hey. No magic in public.”

  “Says the girl who occasionally shoots blue sparks at the guy she likes.” She gestured to a guy in a seersucker suit, focused on pouring heaps of sugar into his coffee. “And no one’s paying attention anyway.” Zoe flipped another page. “Onto more important things… How do you feel about body swapping?”

  Violet took a sip of French roast, smoky and strong. “You mean switching bodies with someone else?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Even if you could switch with Maxwell? You could play with yourself.”

  Violet cackled. “I’m about as interested in body swapping as you are in love spells.”

  Zoe shook her head, the tree of life tattoo on her arm catching light from outside. The black roots of the ink on her shoulder reached all the way to the back of her wrist. “You shouldn’t mess with love spells. They’re not real. They invoke a feeling that is false and will fade.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Textbook. Don’t worry, I’m not going to use a spell to make Coffee Boy love me. Well, not exactly.”

  Zoe shook her head. “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Who said I was going to tell you?”

  Zoe snapped her book shut. “Are you coming to the meeting tonight?”

  “No. I don’t really like them.”

  She’d met Zoe three years prior at a Wiccan meet-up on the Battery. The Battery was the fanciest part of Charleston, lined with hundred-year-old homes that often featured modern pools on the roofs. The meeting had taken place within one such abode. Inside, the house had been a disappointment: run-down and filled with trinkets. True, a witch never knew what she might need for a spell, but Violet rarely attended meetings there anymore. It felt too much like an episode of Hoarders. The only thing she’d gotten out of that first coven meeting was Zoe.

  “I actually need to get to class,” Violet said. Her gaze was back on Maxwell as he smiled at a tall man in a business suit while prepping espresso. She whimpered. “He has such a nice smile.”

  “Don’t do a love spell, bitch.”

  Violet picked up her bag from the floor and gulped half her coffee. She kissed Zoe on the head and tried to wave at Maxwell as she left, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  When Violet got home that night, she smelled like tomato sauce—possibly because her entire right sleeve was covered in the stuff. Italian food was her favorite to play with, even when her culinary experiments got messy. She kicked off her filthy kitchen sneakers in the front foyer of her tiny apartment. The guesthouse of a much larger estate, there was barely room for a couch in her living room. However, a sizeable island dominated the kitchen, along with updated appliances, which was all that mattered to a witch who loved to cook. The kitchen was the main reason she lived there.

  Knowing it was a full moon, Violet hurried to bathe before the moon set—the better to channel her powers. She washed her skin clean of culinary school and coffeehouse and put on a simple white robe. Then, in the quiet of her bedroom, she cast her circle. She lit candles at the four corners—north, south, east, and west—and said the familiar invocation she used whenever working magic. She sat in the center and laid out her supplies.

  She set a silver needle in the center of a red piece of cloth, along with some black string, and finally, a strand of Maxwell’s hair. When busy at Brew, he tended to run his hands through his hair, and one day, she’d been lucky enough to grab a runaway curl from the countertop.

  She heard Zoe’s voice in her head.

  Don’t do a love spell, bitch.

  “It’s not a love spell. Exactly,” she told herself in the quiet of her bedroom. She cleared her throat and pressed the needle to her finger before reciting the spell she’d written herself. She’d been waiting for a full moon when power would be highest.

  A bead of blood dripped onto the crimson fabric as she spoke.

  I mean no harm by this, I swear,

  So, goddess, hear me if you dare.

  With the sound of mourning dove,

  Make me someone he will love.

  With that, Violet put the piece of Maxwell’s hair within the red cloth and wrapped it tightly with black string. She went to sleep that night holding tight to her little charm, hoping for the best.

  The quiet coo of a dove outside her window woke Violet. She blinked and rubbed her eyes before glancing at the clock. Only seven, she had plenty of time to putter around her little house and perhaps read some new recipes before meeting Zoe for coffee at nine. She sat up and something fell from the bed to the floor. She leaned forward and recognized the square of red—the color of passion—and sat up straight when she remembered her spell. She wondered what would happen when she saw Maxwell that day. Would he finally see her, notice her?

  She pushed out of bed and wandered, half-asleep, to the bathroom. She blinked at her reflection in the mirror.

  She blinked some more.

  Then, she started screaming.

  Zoe arrived fifteen minutes later, mostly because she claimed she thought Violet was playing some weird joke. When Violet opened the front door, wrapped in a robe that was now much too snug, Zoe’s eyes widened.

  Violet knew what her best friend saw. Her best friend saw a handsome young man with short, blond hair and blue-green eyes. Violet didn’t say anything, terrified of the low timbre of her own voice. She couldn’t even think about the awkward new additions between her legs without tearing up, so she just stood there in the doorway, waiting.

  Zoe’s hands went to her head. “Holy shit. It’s you. But you’re a boy.”

  Violet nodded as her best friend pushed past and into her apartment.

  Zoe put her hands on Violet’s shoulders, broader and with more muscle, and stared into her eyes—the only part of Violet that hadn’t changed in the night. “It is you in there.”

  Violet nodded again.

  “Well, congrats, you’re really good-looking. I didn’t know you wanted to be a man. How could you not tell me about this?”

  “I don’t want to be a man!” Violet, shocked at her own gruff voice, covered her mouth. “I did a spell, and it didn’t work.”

  “Okay, Man
Violet, what spell?”

  Violet stomped to her bookcase and pulled down a worn notebook. She flipped through pages until she found the incantation from the previous night. She shoved it at Zoe and waited.

  “You did a love spell.”

  “It’s not exactly a love spell.”

  “You know, that sounds even more like bull shit coming from a man’s mouth.” She pointed at Violet. “Did you have something of Maxwell’s?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and cringed at the lack of breasts. She felt robbed, the victim of an unwanted, unexpected surgery in the night. After rushing to her bedroom, she returned with the little red pouch. She threw it on the floor. “A piece of his hair. So why is this happening to me?”

  Zoe’s lips moved. Out loud, she repeated, “Make me someone he will love.” She repeated it again until she gasped. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, my God.” She giggled.

  “Zoe!”

  Bereft on a wave of laugher, Zoe could not speak, but she did make her way to the small couch wedged into Violet’s living room. She sat with the notebook on her lap.

  “Zoe, this is not funny.”

  “It’s so funny, though.” She tittered like a caffeinated mockingbird.

  “What?”

  “This is why Maxwell James has never been interested in you.” Her laughter went up an octave as she announced, “He likes dick!”

  Violet sucked a breath of air into her lungs as she crumpled to the floor. “The clothes. The way he smiles at dudes. The way he never looks at my breasts. Maxwell is gay. Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yeah. You got what you wanted, stud. Wait, do you have a penis right now?”

  Violet tried not to cry because boys didn’t cry. “Yes.”

  Zoe slid off the couch and next to Man Violet. “Let me see.”

  “No! I haven’t even peed yet. I don’t want to touch it.”

  Zoe smacked her friend hard on the shoulder. “Looks like you’re a homosexual now.”

  Violet stared at her best friend. “We have to fix this.”

  “No shit. What’s the counter spell?” She reached for Violet’s discarded notebook.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t think I’d need one.” Violet stared down at her big man hands.

  Zoe sucked air loudly into her nose. “In the three years we’ve been working magic together, we have always had a counter spell. That’s like sipping arsenic and hoping for the best.”

  “Well, I know that. Now.” She gestured to her breast-less chest. “Help me!”

  “Okay, look, I’m going to the Battery coven.”

  Violet groaned.

  “They might look homeless, but they’re good. You, stay here.”

  “It’s not like I’m going to class like this.”

  Zoe pointed a finger in her face. “Hey. You’ve done a lot of dumb shit in the past twelve hours. I don’t know what to expect.” She turned to go but stopped. “At least play with your penis. Every woman wants to know what it feels like to have a penis, and you have one for a day, so use it. Meanwhile…” She held up Violet’s notebook. “I’m going to clean up your mess.”

  Violet went pee and showered, both of which disturbed her. Her hands felt wrong. Her whole body felt wrong. At least when she looked in the mirror she recognized her eyes, and her hair wasn’t too different. She’d kept an old pair of jeans and some shirts from an ex-boyfriend. She’d used the baggy jeans and plaid button down for painting her kitchen, but despite a few stains, the clothes fit. Phone in-hand, she paced and waited for Zoe’s call. After an hour of that, she sat down, only to wince and moan when she sat on her man junk. She reached between her legs and adjusted before sitting again. Going commando was apparently dangerous.

  It was ten in the morning already, so Violet was late for her daily Brew time. Maxwell’s morning would be slowing down by then, most Charleston business folk already at the office. She could close her eyes and picture him. He’d be standing near the edge of the counter, probably reading a dog-eared used book as usual. He’d be pushing his shaggy, dark hair out of his eyes while sipping an espresso cup that would resemble a thimble in his long fingers. Decked out in his usual trousers, shirt, and vest, she would be unable to take her eyes off him. She wondered if he smelled like coffee or aftershave or maybe a secret cigarette. She’d never gotten close enough. What would his body feel like pressed against hers? Would his mouth taste bitter or sweet?

  She wondered herself right off the couch.

  Violet pulled an oversized Isle of Palms hoodie over her head. Well, it had been oversized the day before. That strange morning, it fit perfectly. She gave herself a once over in the bathroom mirror, and realized Zoe was right: she really was good-looking.

  “I’d date you,” she said. “Now, what about Maxwell James?”

  With a couple unread cooking textbooks, Violet walked the few tepid, sunny blocks to Brew on East Bay. All evidence pointed to her—his—attractiveness as young women smiled at Violet as she passed. She walked faster and tried not to strut like a girl.

  Brew was dead when she arrived, most of its crooked, old tables empty. The overhead lamps painted the wooden floors with gold circles. From behind the counter, Maxwell looked up when the door opened, but instead of his usual glance of disinterest, his eyes lingered on her face and he smiled.

  Violet gulped.

  Maxwell wore a deep purple button-down with a dark gray vest and matching slacks. With the sleeves rolled up, she once again admired his forearms—lean, muscular, tan appendages she wanted to lick.

  “Good morning.”

  She cleared her throat. “Morning.” Was it some primal thing that her voice lowered around Maxwell, as if she wanted to sound manlier, more dominant?

  His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, do I know you? You look familiar.”

  It was probably her eyes. “My sister comes in here a lot. Violet.”

  “Oh. Skinny, pretty girl with the pixie cut?”

  She grinned. He thought she was pretty! “That’s her.”

  “I’m Maxwell.” He reached his hand across the counter, and she took it.

  “V-ictor.”

  Maxwell ran his hand through his hair. “Do you live in Charleston?”

  “No?”

  He licked his bottom lip and waited.

  “I’m, uh, visiting,” she stuttered. “Violet’s out of town, so she asked me to watch her place.”

  “First time in Charleston?”

  “No. I’ve been here before.”

  “Well, you’ve never come to visit me before.”

  Oh, my God, he’s flirting. Maxwell James was flirting with her. Him. Her.

  “What can I get you to drink, Victor?”

  “Uh, tall redeye.”

  Maxwell picked up a ceramic mug and tossed it in the air before catching it between two fingers. “That’s one of your sister’s favorites. Are you twins?”

  “Yes. Yeah.”

  “Must be weird knowing there’s a female version of you out there.”

  She laughed so hard, she almost choked but found the sound way less irritating as a man. Instead of a high-pitched keen, the panicked guffaw more resembled a pleasant rumble than a screaming monkey.

  Maxwell returned with her redeye and a pumpkin muffin and placed them on the counter. “On the house. Welcome to Charleston.”

  “Thanks.” As she reached for both offerings, blue sparks shot from her hand and singed some of the hair on the back of Maxwell’s arm.

  He hissed. “Ow!”

  “Sorry!”

  He stared at her, long enough to make her chin disappear toward her neck, before he chuckled and shook his head. “It’s… static electricity.”

  Violet scurried to her usual window table, heart thumping in her chest. She wanted to text Zoe and tell her the spell had worked—really worked. Yes, well, she had a penis to worry about, but Maxwell liked her, he really l
iked her. Him. Her. Whatever. Instead of texting Zoe, though, she pulled out a book about using chemistry in the kitchen and pretended to read while secretly gazing at Maxwell as he conversed with the occasional hurried customer and topped off his own white coffee mug.

  Next thing she knew, he was walking toward her. “Shit.” She hid behind her book as he pulled out the chair across the table. One of his shoes touched her feet, strangled in too-small sandals. Despite the fall temperatures, they were the only things she could fit her man feet into.

  “And I thought I read pretentious books.” He smiled.

  “Oh, it’s for school.”

  “Are you trying to be a chemist or a cook?”

  Violet lowered the book and chewed her thumbnail for a second. “I’m in culinary school. In New York.” And the lies kept coming, but she supposed it was better than telling him she was a witch—who was trying to make him fall in love with her.

  He leaned his chin in the cup of an upturned palm, and she realized his hair was definitely dark brown, not black. “Do you like it there?”

  “I like it here better.” Which was true.

  “I can’t cook. At all.”

  “Maybe not, but you make great coffee.” She took a showy sip of her redeye.

  “Well, that I can do. It’s a form of chemistry, I guess, mixing the right ingredients at the right ratios until you make magic.” He leaned closer, so Violet did, too.

  “Magic?”

  “Sure. Coffee magic. People always talk about wine and how it’s got different bouquets, different flavors, all dependent on how it was made, where it’s from. Coffee beans are the same way if you pay attention.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Tell me about cooking. Why do you want to be a chef, Victor?”

  “God, you’re gorgeous.”

  Maxwell’s gray eyes pointed at the table as he went red from his neck to the tips of his ears. Having finally voiced her year-old feelings, Violet’s shoulders lowered as she smiled around her answer.

  “Cooking is creation. Making something from scratch. Adding to something. It’s alchemy.”

  “Turning pasta into gold?”

  “Maybe. Or not. I once ruined a whole pot of spaghetti sauce by using too much allspice.”