Page 18 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed

Preston's arm comes out, directing me toward the area he wants me to go. Giving one final awkward wave, I start to the other side of the stage. As a few workers finish setting up a large prop, they part and I can see the final contestant—a curvaceous woman wearing shades of mossy greens and earthy browns.

"Hedge witch?" I guess.

"Look at you, knowing your types of witches."

Now that we are away from Bodaway, Preston's jealousy seems to have dissipated, leaving his sexy grin in its wake. At least I'm not the only territorial one. Now to just get through this show, then I can have as much of him as I want.

And I never have to see Bellamy again. . .

Ugh, I thought too soon. Of course, Bellamy's where I’m going, stepping up to the hedge witch and tossing me a snooty look.

No matter, I can be the bigger bitch—I mean witch.

"Tansy, I want you to meet one of your fellow contestants, Evanora," Preston introduces me for what seems to be like the tenth time that day.

And just like every other time, I give her hand a shake and a forced smile.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tansy," Bellamy purrs, winking at the hedge witch.

A hot poker sticks in my chest at the sight—not from jealousy, psh—from hate and only hate. . .

What?

Not my fault the guy's attractive in that'I hate you so much that I'd like to ride your broomstick’way.

He’s the one who offered, remember—and you know you'd do the same if you were in my shoes.

My smile grows strained when she giggles at the Putnam charm.

Thankfully, Bellamy gets called away.

"I love your shirt," Tansy admires once it’s just the three of us.

"Thanks, compliments of the network."

We talk for a bit longer and I try my best to keep my voice lighthearted, but I’m just about full of my ‘meeting new people’ quota.

That’s when this witch bitch turns into a toad and hops away.

Thank goddess after this it's just the tour and I won't have to see any of these people for another day or two. Then, it’ll be the official walk through of the first trial, Spell Caster’s Cipher—and one step closer to my prize.

Double, double, boil, bubble.

I better win or my family’s in deep shi—trouble.

“So, how bad are we going to smoke the competition?” Gram-Gram enthuses when I walk into the family’s solarium.

She’s perched on an old rickety wooden stool, pouring over another coven’s grimoire with the hope of finding something to help our curse lessen until we can get the spell to reverse it.

“It’s complicated,” I hedge, staring at her long white and gray hair wrapped up into a braided bun. “Where’d you get this book from?”

“The Baker coven—they allege that they’re descendants of Tittie’s.”

“Gram!” I yell. “Tituba, Gram-Gram. Her name was Tituba;pleasestop calling her ‘Tittie.’”

Tituba was another infamous woman accused of witchcraft during the Salem witch trials. She was a South American woman brought to the colonies as a slave. She “worked” for Samuel Parris, who allowed Tituba and her son to live in a shed on his property. Samuel’s wife, the insufferable—I mean honorable—Elizabeth accused Tituba of witchcraft likely because the Carib woman was different.

Insert snort of disgust here.