The witch closest to me held the power of the heavens within her reach. At first glance, I would have mistaken her for a vampire. Her beauty rivaled theirs. Long ebony hair traveled in perfect waves along her bold red Renaissance dress. Her lithe body rested against our Subaru and she gripped the long wooden staff at her side. I took her to be the second in command. It was an easy guess, seeing how the head witch was the only other gal wearing a velvet maiden gown, and her power cracked like the power of hell’s whips and thundered around her like the eye of a cyclone.
Their BFFs conversely dressed like they shopped at the Gap.
The dark-haired witch blinked her sapphire eyes my way before returning her attention to the mounting tension on my front porch. To her right, a young woman with dark spiky hair wrote feverishly on a scroll. “Sandy,” the witch from the paper towel incident, hid behind a cluster of witches gathered in our driveway. At the sight of me, she sidled onto Mrs. Mancuso’s property, tipping over one of the creepy lawn gnomes adorning the front lawn.
The head witch’s tight, strawberry-blond curls barely moved when a strong gust of wind billowed her green velvet skirt, revealing her bare feet and three toe rings on her left foot. Each silver loop held minute amethyst stones sizzling with a supersized amount of collective power. I couldn’t see her face since she was currently going toe-to-toe with my scratch-your-eyes-out-first, ask-questions-later sister.
The coven parted as I stalked my way through the crowd, much like the patrons had at the club. I sensed their alarm, but unlike the clubbers, they weren’t exactly fleeing in terror. One witch even dared to cross my path—an ice blonde with eyes as dark as coals. A speck of her magic barely rose to the tip of her white staff before I yanked it from her grip and launched it into the street.
“Don’t,” I told her stiffly.
And she didn’t. Her dark eyes narrowed at the staff as it fell against the asphalt.
Did I intentionally mean to flex my supernatural muscles?
Hell, yeah.
As much as I didn’t want trouble, no one had the right to threaten me or my family in our home. No one.
The head witch’s back stiffened. She must have felt the swarm of magic leave her lesser’s staff. She ignored Taran to fix her eyes on me. And holy cow, the coven must have had a “homely girls need not apply” clause. The witch resembled a blond version of Betty Boop . . . if Betty came chock full of bad attitude.
The amethyst toe rings glimmered with enough power to darken the light blue floorboards, and the heat they emanated was hot enough to burn. No wonder she didn’t wear shoes. Girlfriend would scorch right through them. Hate found its way into her lovely brown eyes. “Were you the one who destroyed my sister’s talisman?”
“Yup,” I said before Taran could answer. I took my place next to Emme. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.”
And because the situation didn’t border on sucky enough, Mrs. Mancuso came to the witch’s rescue. She stomped out of her house dressed to the nines in one of her floral housedresses, orthopedic sandals, and her best support hose. “Taran Wird. Leave the Jehovah’s Witnesses alone!”
Oh, dear Lord.
“Shut up and die, you old hag!” Taran hissed back.
Mrs. Mancuso pointed a nasty finger—at me. “Celia Wird. Do something to control that strumpet sister of yours!”
Strumpet. Now, there’s a word you don’t hear every day.
I heaved a heavy sigh. “Taran. Please be nice to the Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
The soft chuckle from the witch near our car caught me by surprise.
“Something funny, Sister Genevieve?” The head witch’s voice held a twinge of annoyance, but the magic that danced along her hourglass form demanded an apology. My senses shot to high alert. I didn’t like the way they regarded each other. Witches were a lot like Jersey girls. You didn’t want to get in between two fighting. Fists, foul mouths, and fake hair would fly.
Genevieve took a small, elegant step away from our Subaru, keeping her magic whoop-ass stick close to her side. “Of course not, Sister Larissa.” Her voice was soft and silky, her words nonthreatening and apologetic. Yet she left me thinking she actually meant, “Any time, any place, bitch.”
The witches, it seemed, weren’t as united as I thought. Still, I didn’t want them rumbling on our home turf. “Taran, get rid of Mrs. Mancuso,” I muttered.
A translucent stream of blue and white smoke swirled from Taran’s core. The witches slammed their protective shields around themselves with such force, the magnitude of their power scratched like a wire brush against my skin. They watched, fascinated by Taran’s blue and white stream. It glided like a graceful butterfly to where Mrs. Mancuso jabbered on about what tramps we were, and how we’d besmirched a once lovely neighborhood with our hussy ways.
“Go in the house, Mancuso,” Taran whispered in an eerie voice. “Your chin hairs need plucking.”