Something Witchy This Way Comes: A Jolie Wilkins Novel (10 page)

“Then you must have received the same vision Bella did,” I said, my voice sounding hollow.

“Perhaps,” Mercedes answered, then sighed in frustration. And frustration on the face of the prophetess definitely didn’t give me a good feeling.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

She glanced at me and frowned. “I do not know.”

The next day I found myself sitting on the sofa in Christa and John’s living room. The house, which was a modest brick two-story, was in the neighboring town of Coldingham, Scotland, a mere ten minutes from Kinloch Kirk. With everything that had been going on recently, I just needed a mental break, some time to focus on something other than the Lurkers, Sinjin, and Bella. And my best friend would provide me with just the hiatus I needed.

As I took a sip of my iced tea, Christa shifted from her position on the floor and rolled onto her stomach, propping herself on her elbows. With her legs in the air, she flipped through
Bride
magazine quickly as she sang in time with Coldplay’s “Clocks.” I looked around her, at the multitude of wedding books and magazines strewn about like the entrails of some beast.

We were in the midst of discussing wedding colors and invitations. Luckily, the wedding invitations had pretty much been decided on, so all I had to do now was sit through an endless display of four-inch squares of various fabrics in an array of colors. With all the
swatches scattered around me, I looked like I’d been sewn into a patchwork quilt. But endless questions on wedding colors aside, I was so grateful to have Christa in my life. She had been by my side through all the ups and downs and the trials and tribulations of my transformation from Girl-Next-Door Jolie to Queen of the Underworld Jolie.

“I like the celadon green, I think,” I said, pointing to the third scrap of fabric she held in her hand, next to a bubble-gum pink and a tangerine orange. Celadon green I could handle. Irritating bright pink and fluorescent orange? Not so much. In fact, I couldn’t help but grimace.

She glanced at the green scrap and held it up to a silver one, clasped in her other hand, studying them both with a razor-sharp intensity. “You think they go together?” she asked, not bothering to look up at me.

“I think the green goes way better with silver than orange or super-annoying-pink does,” I answered with a smile as I started collecting the remaining swatches that littered the floor like a butchered rainbow. I figured she’d narrowed the color choices down to green, silver, orange, and pink.

“Well, I’ve got to have some pink. You know it’s my favorite color,” Christa protested as she held up the pink with the green. It actually wasn’t as off-putting as I’d imagined it would be. ’Course, at this point I was pretty much over the whole thing. I mean, you can only look at color pairings for so long before you start to lose your mind. And we’d been at this for well over two hours.

“Whatever you want, Chris,” I said with a smile. “It is
your
wedding.”

“Well,
you
are the maid of honor,” she argued with me. “So I do want your input.” She smiled broadly at me, kicking her feet back and forth like a restless kid.

“I’m happy with whatever makes you happy … but if you force me to wear anything fluorescent orange, I will kill you,” I finished, and pointed with distaste at the orange swatch that was now crumpled on the ground in front of her.

She laughed, and something suddenly occurred to me. Christa had been in my store with me the day Rand first walked through the door two years ago, and she’d also been there when Sinjin did the same, after he went back in time to mess with my past. That mystery hadn’t yet been put to bed—the mystery of which reality was the true one, the real one. Well, now it was time to find out the answer.

“Okay, I promise not to put you in the orange,” she said, smiling up at me as she reached for her
Martha Stewart Weddings
book. She opened the first page, humming as she skimmed it, and moved on to the next. Reaching for her stack of Post-it notes, she started marking pages that apparently deserved a second look.

“Chris …” I hesitated, knowing my question was going to sound odd, but I couldn’t think of any other way to ask it, so I figured a direct approach was best. “Do you remember the first day Rand walked into my store in L.A.?”

She eyed me before nodding, then dropped her attention back to the book. She was marking off a page with a picture of a butterfly bouquet—butterfly bouquet, as in no flowers, just butterflies on the ends of what looked like nearly imperceptible wire surrounded
by a cloud of tulle. It was cute. “Yeah, ’course I do. I remember how we both freaked out about his English accent and how hot he was. Who knew he’d end up being so stuffy?”

I raised my eyebrows at her and then laughed, imagining how offended Rand would be to hear her talk about him like that, although she sort of had a point. Sometimes he could be stuffy, but I assumed that was from his austere English upbringing. I must admit that I still loved him for it, all six-feet-two inches of Rand Balfour stuffiness.

I gulped as I considered my next question. “And do you remember the day we met Sinjin?”

She turned to the next page and inhaled quickly once her eyes feasted on a picture of a table setting completely in celadon green, including the floral arrangements, which appeared to be green roses. And, yup, the accents were in silver. “Wow, Jules, look at this.” She studied it for a minute or two, cocking her head to the right and then the left. “You know, you’re right; this color combination really looks pretty.”

I glanced at it and smiled, but my thoughts weren’t on table arrangements. “Yeah, really pretty.” I cleared my throat, eager to get an answer to my question, if only to understand how her brain had processed something so implausible. “Do you remember Sinjin walking into the store, Chris?”

She glanced up at me and frowned. I guess she was probably wondering why I was going on about all this when she wanted to focus on her wedding details. She brought her attention back to the book and plucked off another Post-it note, placing it directly in the middle of the picture, like it was awarded Most
Important or something. “Yeah, he got a flat tire—why are you asking me this?”

I took a deep breath, knowing there was one more question I needed to ask, one more piece to this puzzle that I had to find. “Who did we meet first, Rand or Sinjin?” I cleared my throat.

“Why does it matter?” she asked, clearly much more interested in the colors, bouquets, and table arrangements that were splayed around her.

“Um, it doesn’t matter,” I answered quickly, hoping to sound casual, unconcerned. “I just wondered if you remembered,” I added, trying to give my questions a semblance of normalcy. “Was it Rand or Sinjin?”

She immediately opened her mouth, as if she had the answer right on the tip of her tongue, but then shut it just as quickly and glanced up at me. Her expression told me she didn’t have a clue. She frowned and shook her head.

“Um, God, who was it? Jeez, is my memory that bad?” Then she was quiet for a little while longer, but it wasn’t because her attention was elsewhere, on the upcoming wedding, for example. No, she was genuinely trying to remember. She shook her head. “It’s really foggy. How weird! But I literally
can’t
remember who came into the store first.” Then she faced me again. “Who was it? Do you remember?”

“Rand,” I said as I debated whether to tell her about the whole time-traveling saga. I knew it would come up eventually, but so far I just didn’t have the energy to divulge it. And I couldn’t say I was feeling any more energetic at the moment. “Rand came into the store first,” I repeated. “We met him before we
ever met Sinjin.” And that was the truth as far as I was concerned. It was also what I’d convinced myself to believe. Regardless of what Sinjin did to manipulate time, Rand had come into my life first.

Christa seemed to consider it for a few more moments and then nodded, looking up at me with a smile. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s how I remember it too.” She shook her head again. “How weird that I couldn’t remember it before. It was like I thought they both were first. Guess I’m not getting enough sleep,” she said and laughed. “Sheesh!”

I smiled back at her and couldn’t help the anxiety that suddenly flooded my body. It seemed that every time I thought about Sinjin, something rebelled inside of me and made me feel nauseous, sick to my stomach over what had happened between us and his banishment. I just didn’t feel good about the decision, even now. I couldn’t wipe away my fear that he might cross paths with the Lurkers, as improbable as that seemed. I mean, Sinjin could be anywhere and the Lurkers could be anywhere, so what made me think their “anywheres” might collide?

Christa closed the Martha Stewart book and moved on to the one just beside it, a, much smaller book that was black and red. She opened it and then smiled up at me impishly.

“What’s that?” I asked, trying to shake away the feelings of sickness that lodged in my gut. I felt light-headed, winded and ill—like I had motion sickness or something. It was sudden and … weird.

She opened the book and scanned a few pages, pausing for dramatic effect. Then she looked back up
at me and smiled again. That’s when I knew something was up.

“Well?” I prompted as I shook my head, laughing all the while. “I can tell the book is naughty just by the way you’re looking at me.”

She giggled in return and then nodded. “ ‘How to Free Your Inner Sex Diva,’ ” she read from the cover, only to flip back to the inside of the book almost immediately.

I sighed deeply and couldn’t help laughing. “Chris, there’s no possible way you could free your sex diva anymore. It’s already broken its leash and is halfway down the block.”

She giggled again and sat up straight, crossing her legs Indian-style. She began thumbing through the pages before she glanced up at me and read: “ ‘Tip Number Thirty-two: It’s all about your nipples. Get in the mood by touching them. Massage them, squeeze them, and roll them between your fingers.’ ” She looked up at me again and then returned her attention to the book. “ ‘Put ice on them,’ ” she whispered in a sultry voice.

“Oh my God,” I said and rolled my eyes. “What kind of tip is that? What’s the point?”

She shrugged. “ ’Cause it feels good and gets you in the mood.”

“Ice?” I repeated. How could that possibly feel good? I exhaled, feeling like my overwhelmed mind couldn’t handle any more. I mean, I didn’t have the time or the interest to deal with wedding details, so I really didn’t have it in me to focus on silly sexual advice. “Can we go back to the wedding stuff?”

“This is important, Jules,” she argued, looking at
me like she was a teacher disappointed with her star student. Then she arched a brow and considered me with interest. “I bet Rand would appreciate it.”

I shook my head, but I couldn’t help but smile. That smile quickly turned into a frown as I realized I was giving in and waving my white flag of surrender. “Okay, read me another one.”

She smiled and thumbed through a few more pages, apparently looking for something extra juicy. “Hmmm … pubic mound, lubrication … um, what else? Ah, here we go …” Then she flicked her finger against the page like she’d really found something worthwhile.

“What?” I asked, my tone halfway between resignation and interest.

“Watch yourself in the mirror,” she finished, and smiled up at me slyly.

“Watch yourself in the mirror doing what?” I fished. “That sounds pretty dumb.”

She frowned at me and then shook her head like I was a hopeless cause and it was a wonder I was even having sex. “Come on, Jules, watch yourself you know … titillating yourself, rubbing the ol’ kitty!”

“Oh God,” I started, shaking my head in disgust even though the idea didn’t totally appall me. It was just easier to pretend I had no interest in this sort of thing. Otherwise it would only encourage Christa and that would be like opening Pandora’s box. “Why?”

She frowned. “It’s supposed to be kinky and erotic, Jules. You need to get in touch with that side of yourself.”

I shook my head and just laughed. “So tell me how any of this helps Rand and me in the bedroom?”

She smiled again and slapped the book shut, as if I’d finally asked her the right question. “Because it puts you in the right frame of mind for sex and turns you into a sexual being, a sexual diva … like me. I think about sex constantly.”

“Trust me, I’m well aware,” I muttered. A dull ache began to spread behind my eyes, making me feel light-headed again and nauseous. I gripped my head and leaned back against the couch, closing my eyes.

“What’s wrong with you?” Chris asked.

“I just got a killer headache,” I said.

“Gosh, Jules, you don’t have to be such a prude!” she barked at me. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you just pretended to have a headache to get out of talking about sex with me! Ha, that’s supposed to just work on men!”

“No, I really don’t feel well,” I said, and shook my head, wishing I was pretending.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, her voice a little more caring.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling the ache behind my eyes dissipate as I magicked it away. “I just suddenly didn’t feel very good. It was weird.” I opened my eyes and faced her again, feeling nausea bubble up inside of me. I magicked it away and felt it disappear as quickly as it had come. “I felt like I was going to throw up.”