Suddenly Sorceress (2 page)

After a long hot shower, where I scoured away traces of goat semen and saliva, I changed into a pair of red flannel pajama pants, a ratty blue sweatshirt, and my fuzzy bunny slippers. While bunnies were also notoriously horny, I didn’t mind them humping my feet.

Thursday—like almost every other night—was a Swanson frozen dinner night, so I tossed a Salisbury steak with corn and mashed potatoes into the microwave and ate standing up in the kitchen. After pouring myself a glass of cheap chardonnay, I lit a fire and snuggled into my favorite leather chair to read
Pride and Prejudice
for the umpteenth time. Several chapters and a bottle of wine later—Mr. Darcy had just botched his proposal to poor Elizabeth—I realized
my
soon-to-be husband was still missing in action.

I’d like to say I was worried. Or that I missed him. We were supposed to be getting married, so I should have been at least a
little
concerned, right? Instead, my mind drifted back to the farm… and the goat… and the hot veterinarian. I barely gave a second thought to what may or may not have happened to the grown man who obviously didn’t think enough about me to call. Even
before
my crush on the sexy animal doctor, I had had that twinge of doubt as to why we were still together.

When I hadn’t heard from Matt by ten and I’d gotten his voice mail yet again, I called the gym to ask if anyone had seen him. Sometime after eleven, I called the local hospitals. All of them. He may not have been the most attentive man, but he never stayed out so late without at least checking in.

I should have known better. That little voice inside my head should have spoken up. But as far as internal voices went, mine was as quiet as a church mouse. By the time his key hit the lock at ten minutes before midnight, I was officially furious.

Two

T
he front door slammed, and
I stopped pacing around our bedroom, prepared to let him come up with a dozen excuses—none of which would be sufficient for making me worry half the night away. I expected to listen to his pathetic apology. I wasn’t ready for him to stomp up the stairs and confront me.

The first thing I noticed about him was the state of his white dress shirt: untucked, half the buttons undone, and the rest misaligned. “Ivie, I need my grandmother’s engagement ring.”

No, “Hello.”
No, “We need to talk.” Just, “I need my grandmother’s engagement ring.” I tucked my left hand into the sleeve of my sweatshirt, instinctively protecting my precious, and jutted my chin out in defiance like a child. “Why do you need my ring?”

“Not
your
ring. My
grandmother’s
ring. You don’t need to know why; you only need to know I need it back.”

My eyes traveled up to his twisted smile and the red wine mustache circling his mouth like the Kool-Aid smiles my kindergarteners wore. “Are you drunk?” My body thrummed with an undercurrent of raw fury.

His barking laugh caught me off guard, and I flinched. “I had a glass of wine, but no, I’m not drunk. I’ve just finally come to my senses.”

“What are you talking about?” His senses? A contradiction in terms if I’d ever heard one. I stepped toward him then stopped. I had no idea what I wanted to do or, more importantly, what I should do.

“I’ve met someone else.” He leaned against the bedroom doorframe. “I’m in love with Candy. She’s just…” He actually sighed like a freaking teenage girl.

A choking sound came from my throat, and his eyes flashed with irritation.

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s not just the sex.” He sneered. “But believe me, the sex is amazing. We’re flying to Vegas to get married tomorrow afternoon. Now give me my grandmother’s ring.” He held out his hand as if he thought I’d pull it off my finger and hand it over without another word.

My mouth fell open. I’d met Candy. I didn’t know what to say. My fiancé was leaving me—for the aerobics instructor? “You’re breaking up with me?” I struggled to spit out the words. “For
Candy
?”

He nodded, moving away from the doorway. “I’ll be gone until Tuesday. That should give you plenty of time to pack. I need you out by Monday night.”

I followed him into our bathroom. Visions of me living out of the trunk of my powder-blue Beetle flitted through my brain. “You want
me
to move
out
?”

Matt rolled his eyes as he shoved his shaving things into an overnight bag. “I thought I made that obvious. My
wife
will be moving in with me.”

Unable to think straight, I gaped at him. I knew we weren’t
happy
, but we weren’t
unhappy
either
.
The words
comfortable
,
content
, and
settled
popped like soap bubbles in my head.

He stared at the big black cat weaving around my feet. “And don’t forget to take that damn mangy cat with you.”

I scooped up the mass of black fur I’d taken in a few months earlier, hugging him. Looked as though we were both about to be strays. “You’re supposed to be marrying
me
! You can’t ask for the ring back and marry someone else just like
that
.” My voice sounded frantic.

Matt smiled. “Actually, I can marry anyone I want. I know I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not. You and I aren’t married. We aren’t
getting
married. Truth be told, I’ve come to realize there’s nothing at all exciting about you, and Candy has made me see I’m far too young to settle for someone so…
boring
. This is
my
house. You have no claim to it. Seriously, if you’re still here when I get back from my honeymoon, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Nothing exciting about
me?
Matthew Green was, very literally, the least exciting man I knew—his whirlwind Las Vegas elopement notwithstanding. He organized his sock drawer by color. He slept with a mouth guard to protect his capped teeth. For crap sake, the man wore tighty-whities!

I
put the color in his black and white TV show.
I
added the soundtrack to his silent film. For the first time since we’d met, I realized I was living a farce. Our entire relationship was meaningless. How did I end up with such a colossal stinker? That’s when my anger billowed up like a white sheet on a windy day, blinding me.

The cat darted out of my grasp, and my hands balled into tight fists, snapping open before clenching again. My blood ran like hot oil through my veins, and I had a strange taste in my mouth—metallic but almost sugary. I remembered thinking,
how dare he?
Horrible images zigzagged through my mind as I thought them so loudly I may as well have been screaming. A string of unspoken obscenities bubbled up to my lips. And then…
nothing
.

As Friday morning dawned, Matt was still missing, and I was still coming to grips with the fact that Thursday wasn’t a dream.

Retracing my steps, I dredged up as much detail as I could remember from the great big blank that was last night. After Matt came home, he’d asked for his ring back. There was a flash of light, then a delicious warmth coursed through me. His clothes lay in a lump where he’d been standing. In his place sat a little black skunk.

I gnawed on my already jagged thumbnail until it throbbed in sync with my heartbeat, chipping my favorite polish in the process. I thought there had
to be some logical explanation, but after several hours of soul-searching, I could come up with only one possible conclusion.

I’m a witch.

Especially when I realized the skunk responded to “Matthew.” I mean, what were the odds they would have the same name?

After my immediate horror, and all the varying levels of disbelief that came along with it, dissipated, I settled into what could only be shock. I tried to be rational. What was done was done. He was a skunk. And since no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to wish the whole thing away, I decided to recreate my steps—the ones I could remember.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I concentrated and struggled to envision Matt as he used to be—as he should have been. I waited for the surge of heat to return.
Nothing.
I couldn’t summon his human image, as if he’d been obliterated from my memories. Wiped clean. Well, not quite clean. I saw bits and pieces—random flashes.

I pictured the exact shade of blue in his colored contact lenses and the precise way his highlighted hair swept back away from his square face. Rationally, I knew what he looked like, but I couldn’t bring his face into view. Not even a flicker.

Digging through my dresser drawers, I searched for a photograph of Matt. I couldn’t find one. There were pictures of me—lots of them—with my arm draped around nothing and kissing air. Not a single photo included Matt, as though he’d been erased from every one.

Poof.
Like magic.

I should have spent the entire night trying to find a way to reverse whatever spell had transformed Matt, but I didn’t. The shock and anger had completely worn me out.

The rollercoaster of emotions made me hungry too—in many disturbing ways—so I’d trekked down to the kitchen at one o’clock in the morning for the pint of Chunky Monkey in the freezer. It was Matt’s favorite flavor, but he couldn’t eat it
now
. I had no idea what skunks ate. After devouring the ice cream and an entire bag of Double Stuf Oreos—more calories than I normally ate in two days—I crawled into the guest room bed with my laptop. I planned to do a Google search for magical incantations—and what to feed skunks—but instead, I drifted off, fuzzy slippers along for the ride.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I mean, how
could
anyone sleep after turning their fiancé into vermin?

Like a baby actually.
Probably the best night’s rest I’d ever had. Other than numerous erotic dreams starring a criminally sexy—but conspicuously faceless—veterinarian, I was dead to the world. I woke up from my reoccurring sex dreams feeling refreshed and alive, cleansed of all negative feelings. Then my conscience hit me.
So much for my good mood.
I mean, who had decadent dreams after turning her fiancé into a woodland creature?
I do, that’s who.
The first thing I did when I got out of bed was call in sick for the third time that week.

I hadn’t been sick the other two days either. I supposed the first day loosely qualified. My mother had to have a root canal and begged me to go with her. How could I say no? I was her only child, and since my poor father blew himself up in a freak accident, a science experiment gone wrong, more than twelve years ago, I was all she had left.

Basically, she played the guilt card.

The other day I’d spent shopping with Chloe. Prada had had an unprecedented sale, and Chloe refused to go alone. I could have said no, but honestly, surrender was easier. Since our first day as college roommates, she had decided I would be her exclusive shopping partner. We were practically inseparable—until I moved in with Matt. Since then I’d still talked to her on the phone at least once a day.

The chorus of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”
blared from my phone.

“Hey, Chl—”

“I know you said no, but you absolutely
have
to go with me to Coach,” Chloe blurted. “Do you remember the bag I dreamt about? The hobo with gold flecks in shimmering, soft, buttery leather, with the silk lining and thick leather strap?”

Chloe’s newest quest was to locate the perfect fall bag. She knew exactly what she wanted and had described it to me so many times I could pick it out of a lineup. She spoke about the purse with a divine reverence. She didn’t care how much it cost; finding it was her life’s mission. Of course, the elusive purse didn’t exist. She had literally dreamed it, calling me the next morning to tell me she’d fallen in love. In all the years I’d known Chloe Jamison, she had never professed to love a man, but she’d fallen for many a leather handbag. According to Chloe, something about the shape of the perfect hobo and the sumptuous feel of leather against her skin made life worth living.

After two weeks of exhausting every avenue, she had yet to find anything even remotely resembling her dream bag. Had that discouraged her? Not a chance. The challenge, and knowing that bag was out there and needed her, drove her to search harder. She was determined to drag me along for the ride.

How could I
ever
forget that bag?
“Yes, of course, I remember, but—”

“Well, I saw an ad showcasing a purse almost exactly like it. Even on sale it’s ridiculously expensive, but who needs groceries, right?” She laughed. “I’ll just have to arrange a few dinner dates for the next week or two.”

Chloe had enough boyfriends to keep herself in dinner dates for a month. It came with being model beautiful. Men fell for her big blue eyes, perfect body, and luxurious, long vanilla-blond hair.
Natural
blond hair. Hating her should have been easy, but I didn’t know anyone who hated Chloe. Her personality was infectious. In a non-STD way.

“I’m coming to pick you up, and don’t even try to say no. The simple fact that you answered tells me you didn’t go to work today, so you have absolutely no excuse.”

I glanced down at the clothes I’d slept in. And although I couldn’t see my hair, I was sure we were talking wild nest. “I can’t. It’s just… it’s not a good day for me.”

“Ohhh nooo,” she said. “I am
not
letting you weasel out of going. I’m pulling into your driveway now. Hey, is that Dr. Doolittle’s car?” She emphasized Doolittle as if it were two words—
Do Little
. “You know what, never mind, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got thirty seconds to change out of your flannel pajamas and get your butt out the door, or I’m coming in.”

I had absolutely no way to stop her. And
I
was supposed to be the witch. Chloe had her own way of weaving a spell to overtake free will. I hoped my appearance would distract her from her mission long enough so I could, in fact, weasel out of going. The call had barely disconnected when the doorbell sounded
. Ding dong, this witch is dead.
I smoothed my crazy hair and straightened my clothes before opening the door.

Chloe’s wide smile looked like the “after” photo in an orthodontist advertisement. One glimpse of me, and her smile turned into a frown, creating a wrinkle between her perfectly sculpted brows. “Oh, God! Sabrina, you look awful!”

She was referring to the Audrey Hepburn movie,
not
the teenage witch. Chloe had called me that since college when she’d insisted I looked just like a young Audrey Hepburn. All things being equal, I would’ve preferred Rita Hayworth. But genetics being what they were, I was stuck with the “girl next door” vibe.