Page 2 of Hopelessly Teavoted

He grimaced. “I’m not heartbroken,” he insisted. “And California’s not that far away from Vermont. Some witches go international, you know.”

“Azrael Ashmedai Hart!” The rasping voice echoed across the upstairs hallway like sandpaper against wood.

His father stood, as always, in a three-piece suit with a starched white dress shirt and a bow tie, in a deep shade of merlot today.

Benedict Hart ran a hand through snow-colored, shoulder-length hair in a nervous tic that Az recognized all too well.

With his golden-rimmed eyes, he was the family member who was most obviously a witch, at least to a trained magical eye, though his mother and sister certainly dressed the part enough to leave the townsfolk speculating that the Harts were the weird kind of wealthy.

It was a wonder the mundanes didn’t figure them out immediately.

And yet, here Az was, nineteen and about to leave for college, and no one in all of Hallowcross, save Vickie, knew that the Hart family didn’t just dress like they belonged in his mother’s eclectically witchy tea shop in the middle of downtown, they were magical.

Pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs, Az looked down at his father expectantly.

Benedict cleared his throat, waiting. When his son did not say anything, he went on.

“Did you see Vickie off properly?”

“Yeah, Dad. It was fine.”

Arms crossed, his father grunted, as though he wanted to say more, but beside him, Az’s mother rested her hand on Benedict’s arm.

The simple intimacy of the gesture was like an exhale, and his father relaxed.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, letting the line of interrogation go.

It was always like this; though Az’s father sat on the North American Council of Witchery, his mother ran both his father’s life and the shop.

Hopelessly Teavoted had an ornate sign with the name carved across it in shiny letters.

Inside, it smelled like vintage books and incense, freshly ground coffee, and the tea of the day.

They had a small side business trading in magical equipment with the odd witch traveling through, but those were so few and far between that it had been months since his mother had served anything other than antique cups full of surprisingly delicious beverages, sometimes magicked gently to wear away at worries or soothe a deserving soul.

Persephone Hart was as kind as she was committed to the pallor of her deathly white skin.

That was saying something. Once, when he was a small boy, Az had held a sun-bleached bone he’d confiscated from his dog, Cerberus, up to her and noted no real difference in color.

She must have powdered it to achieve the shade.

Az loved his parents, and even his annoying sister, but he couldn’t handle being seen at the airport with them today nor taking any of the ignominy of the Hart name with him to the Golden State.

Not after everything that had happened with his classmates calling him odd, and everything that had not happened to Az in Hallowcross with Victoria.

California was a fresh start. A chance to be normal. He just wished that he didn’t see a heart-shaped face with enchanting green eyes and slightly frizzy brown hair whenever he shut his eyes. That he wasn’t haunted by swirls of freckles and the almost of loving her.

“Are you certain you don’t want us to take you to the airport?” His mother tapped her long crimson nails together. “Uncle Larry said we can take the hearse if you have a lot of luggage.”

Azrael blanched. The very last thing he wanted was to roll up to the airport in the hearse, of all things. He’d had enough of the teasing and staring in high school, and if he had it his way, he’d never set foot in the halls of Hallowcross High again in his life.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He repeated it to himself when the rideshare pulled up and he rolled a single, sleek black suitcase down the cobblestone drive, trying not to notice the way the driver stared up at the sharp spikes of the gates and the general gloom of the grounds.

I’m fine.

The refrain pounded through his brain as he watched the familiar haunts of Hallowcross drift by through the car window: his mother’s tea shop, Hopelessly Teavoted; the local salon, Blade Runner; and the twenty-four-hour diner, Don’t Go Bacon My Heart.

All the absurdly punny shops on Main Street faded into a winding stretch of highway.

When he got to the airport, and the driver paused for the cars whipping in and out of the departure zone, he reminded himself once again.

I’m fine.

The Zoloft kept him from panicking; even witches believed in better living through chemistry. And he remembered what his mother had told him: When the weight of the world seems awful, we look for the ways that we can make it better .

Small magics to fix the world.

He focused on moving through the security line, speeding it up with the snap of his fingers and a pinch of simple magic to relieve the head and foot aches of the agents standing all day. When they visibly relaxed, Az smiled as the line became more pleasant for everyone.

I’m fine , he reminded himself as he boarded the enormous plane, the sun creeping through the windows.

A mother a few rows back wiped sweat from her brow while she wrangled two small children into their seats.

All it took was a subtle snap of his fingers to lower the cabin temperature, and she exhaled relief.

The children settled, and Az smiled to himself.

The world had a history of burning witches, but magic could heal the world in so many small ways.

It was beautiful, really, when he could let go of his shame over his eccentric family long enough to remember all the good they had to offer.

Azrael slid into his seat and gave the flight attendant a wave. She winked, whispering to the attendant next to her, who also smiled and raised his eyebrows at Azrael.

They were both attractive, and they couldn’t be too much older than he was.

He would enjoy kissing either, but it was no matter, because that all-too-revealing note was burning a hole in his wallet, and his heart was stuck on the impossible dream of the girl next door.

And of course, because they were not Vickie, it was easy enough to wave again, and to smile at the resulting blushes.

He had this effect on strangers, so why couldn’t he ever find the same bravado when he was with her?

He stretched out, wishing he had opted for comfortable clothing instead of fitted jeans and a pressed white T-shirt, a gray bomber jacket completing the look, which he hoped screamed normal .

I’m fine , he insisted as the plane lifted off and his stomach flipped for a moment as it rose into the air. He closed his eyes. He’d do a pass of the plane on the way back to the bathroom and magic away small inconveniences as much as he could without being noticed.

His father said they had an obligation to help mundanes. That magic meant compassion. And it calmed him to walk the plane and tap his fingers against each other.

Snap. A cord connected fully for a kid’s tablet.

A few more snaps, and the airflow increased on a sweating older woman.

A quick snap and the man struggling with a crossword puzzle suddenly remembered that five down was kumquat .

By the time he reached the bathroom, the mood had shifted. Sun streamed through the windows, and a little boy raised a daisy-print blanket in front of it, casting pink and yellow tones on the tray table in front of him. It reminded Azrael of Vickie, and his heart twisted.

I’m fine , he told himself.

The assertion was undone as he returned to his seat, and the plane dipped through turbulence.

The queasy feeling reminded him of how he felt sometimes when she came into a room, smelling like strawberries and lavender, and humming to herself.

Usually, it was something he wanted to fuck her to softly, like Edward Sharpe. Oasis.

He was fine. And even if he wasn’t, Azrael Hart was a witch, going to his top choice of schools to study screenwriting and live his dream. What more could he ask for? There were plenty of men and women in California he could serve his heart to on a platter.

He hoped.