Bewitched (Betwixt & Between #2) - Darynda Jones Page 0,23

you a reason?”

“Not in so many words. She just kind of kicked me out and told me not to come back.”

“And yet here we are.” I took Nette by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. “And now we should go.”

“I’m so sorry,” Love said, breaking off her reading. She scooted back from the table and looked around. Her gaze landed on me and Annette. Mostly Annette. “I’m getting interference from the peanut gallery.”

“Sorry.” Annette waved an apologetic hand. “We’ll shut up.”

Our talking had broken her concentration? How much concentration did it take to rob people blind?

The other women in the store gaped at us. One brought out her phone, grasping for her fifteen minutes of viral fame.

Love’s fiery gaze turned livid. “I thought I told you not to come back.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say for how long. And I needed”—Annette’s gaze darted about wildly before landing on—“a refrigerator magnet in the shape of a cauldron.” She grabbed it and held it up like a trophy. “Found one!”

“What in the fiery hell did you do to her?” I asked, my voice low.

She pasted a smile on her face and spoke without moving her lips, like a ventriloquist. “I’ll tell you later.”

Love walked from behind the rail and strode toward Annette. It was a small store, so it didn’t take long. Only before she reached us, she stopped short. Or something stopped her short. Her mouth formed an O. She looked at me and took a step back, as though astounded by what she saw.

I wanted to be flattered, but I knew better. “Crap,” I said under my breath. “Do I have a praying mantis in my hair again?” That was such a horrible experience.

Annette seemed mesmerized by Love’s reaction. She reached over and patted me absently, unable to take her eyes off the blonde. But she kept patting, her hand eventually finding its way to my face.

I slapped it away and told Love, “We’ll just be going.”

It was as though she couldn’t catch her breath. Her face turned a soft pink, and her amazing eyes, a stormy emerald green, shimmered with wetness.

I grabbed Annette’s hand and hauled her out of the shop and through the mass of tourists, anywhere that was away.

“Did you see that?” she asked.

“Seriously?”

“That was crazy.” Her enthusiasm, like champagne, came with lots of bubbles.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say she’s the real thing.”

“Ya think? This proves it. You still have your powers.”

Crap on a cracker. “This proves nothing of the kind.”

“Please. Why else would she react that way to you?”

“A history of mental illness comes to mind.”

“Clearly your powers are still there. Like they were before Ruthie taught you how to access them. We just have to work on getting them back.” She looked at her hands. “Also, I shoplifted, but it’s kind of your fault.” She showed me the illegal contraband in the shape of a cauldron as proof.

I took it from her. “It’s so cute.”

“Right?”

I flipped it over. “Twenty-five dollars!” That was an expensive refrigerator magnet. “We have to go back and pay for it.”

“Not in this lifetime. I’ll mail her a check.”

“That works.”

We headed back toward the restaurant, Annette rambling about my powers and Love’s reaction and how hard it was to be a psychic in a skeptic’s world. It did make one question a few of life’s certainties. Like the fact that psychics were fake. That belief had been so firmly ingrained that even knowing what I knew now about witches and magics and the preternatural, it still made any evidence to the contrary seem trivial.

Something in my periphery dragged me out of my thoughts. I turned to see Roane among a group of tourists. He was leaning against a house one minute, watching me with that dark gaze of his, but gone the next. Then I saw the house.

“Wait.” I stopped before Annette could adjust.

She ran into me from behind then followed my gaze.

I read the sign. “The Witch House,” I said, my voice full of awe.

Like with Love, I felt a pull. A gravitational tug. But unlike with Love, the energy wasn’t positive. Not totally. It was a mixture of light and darkness. I knew enough about the house to know that it had belonged to one of the judges in the Salem witch trials.

“It’s so cool,” Annette said. “It belonged to Judge Jonathan Corwin. They believe that many cases were initially investigated here. You have to buy tickets in advance, but I know a