Wicked sorceress Cora must ruin someone's life before her eighteenth birthday or lose her magic forever, a task made tricky when she falls for her chosen victim.
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Cora Emerson is a magical misfortune who just can't get the hang of being a wicked...
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At about a quarter after five, she was back on the Campbell's front porch. "Tell Jean I said thanks for the cake," she said to Beau.
Jean had given her a whole cake to take home. Cora held the old cookie tin close to her chest. "I had fun," she said.
He gaped at her in silence.
She shivered. "Boy, it's cold out here."
"Fun?" he said, his eyebrows edging up. "You liked looking at those old photos?"
During the latter half of her visit, Jean had brought out a photo album. She'd expected to see lots of photos of a younger Beau, missing teeth and chubby. Maybe even photos of her children. She had two, a daughter and a son—Clyde—Beau's father. Instead, there'd been lots of photos of Jean herself. "Her glory years," she'd called them and sighed, running her slender fingers across a black and white photo of her then boyfriend, now late husband.
She shrugged. "It was cool." Younger Jean had a trendy sense of style, quite mod. She could respect that.
He leaned closer. Her inhale was sharp. She hated herself a half second later for it, realizing he'd moved to watch a bright red sports car speed down Hemlock Avenue.
She pointed over her shoulder. "I should go. They're waiting for me."
I wish. The cake is all they really want.
"Yeah," said Beau, his eyelids lowering. He set his bottom lip between his teeth.
Come on. Say something else. Say anything. Ask me about school.
She beamed as much mental energy she could at him. But mind control was one charm she didn't possess. It was a law of magic because if she could she'd have charmed someone into pieces and be done with it.
"See you later," he said, oblivious to her powers over him.
"Good night, Beau." Without another word, she ran down the steps. The Campbell's door closed the moment she reached the gate. She didn't stop, didn't glance that way, until at her front door. She paused with the key between her fingers and the cake tucked under one arm. "Be warned, Beaumont Campbell. You're still at the top of my list," she said.
Forgetting the key, she snapped her fingers to unlock the door. Inside the Emerson house was quiet. "I'm home," she said, as she did her usual routine of kicking her shoes off at the door and tossing her coat into the hall closet. "And I've brought cake."
No one answered. When she checked the living room, expecting to see Agatha or her mother, the TV greeted her with an ad for cat food. "Ew." She cringed.
In the kitchen, she set the cake down on the counter. "I should have my slice now," she said, prying off the top. "With a glass of milk to wash away my pain." She skated across the kitchen floor to the fridge. Along with the milk, she grabbed the strawberry syrup.
