Page 1 of How Not to Hex a Gentleman (Witches of Edinburgh)
Chapter One
KENNEDY
O f all the ways to die, I never thought it would be "death by a suitcase," but at this rate, this might be a very real possibility. I didn't even pack that much. Just two, thirty-inch suitcases for my year stay in Edinburgh, Scotland. I'm proud of that accomplishment, not going to lie. The efficient way I packed my life into two medium-sized pieces of luggage brings me joy.
Now though, these two manageable bags seem like monstrosities as I try—and fail—to get them up the narrow staircase of a tenement built in the late 1800s. The stairs are tall, steep, and narrow, with walls on both sides and nothing to hold onto. My history-loving heart is already in heaven, just waiting to dig into the records of when exactly this building was built and how. Sadly for me, tenements don't come with elevators—or lifts —and so here I am, trying to get these two banes of my existence up to my apartment—or flat as they say around here. That's going to take some getting used to, but I'm ready for it. Ready and able and so incredibly excited. My body has been buzzing for days.
When a spot opened up for the exchange student position I jumped on it with everything I had. Edinburgh, Scotland is a dream for anyone, but especially for someone who lives and breathes history. Unsurprising to anyone I know, my goal is to become a researcher. This means I will get my history degree, apply for internships, and then hopefully end up in a gloriously stocked library somewhere with thousands of years of information to go through.
Maybe write my own book about it one day.
As my aunt is always saying, I'm not exactly equipped for people. I like lists and books and being left on my own. The fact that I get to come to a country, all by myself, with my own living space—it's a complete and total dream.
At the back of my mind, there's another dream, the one that has been fully discouraged by my aunt, but it doesn't matter. Being a researcher is the next best thing and I will be good at it.
Regardless of the doubts, the moment I stepped out of that airport and smelled the Scottish air, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be.
The taxi driver was incredibly friendly and talked the whole way to the apartment, but I don't think any of it registered the moment I caught a glimpse of Old Town out the window. I just stared, with my mouth slightly open, the whole way.
It's January, so the streets are a bit emptier of tourists and the air is crisp and cold. Even so, now that I'm struggling up these hundred million stairs—at least—I'm sweating buckets. Good thing my apartment is my own and I can hide away and catch my bearings. Glorious, glorious alone time after all the traveling.
Then I will wander.
I can't wait. How many times can I freak out about this per day? I should really set myself a limit.
I opted to arrive on a Saturday, so I have a day and a half to settle before I have to head to the school. There is also no time for jetlag, so my body better be ready to not sleep until tonight.
Yes, body, I'm talking to you. Don't be getting winded. And brain? Don't you be imagining a bed in your future.
At twenty, maybe I have thought I'd outgrown this weird need to talk to myself, but I've spent the majority of my life with only myself for company so, nope. That's not going anywhere.
And neither is this suitcase, which is now balancing precariously on a not-wide-enough step.
What would be incredibly useful is if I could zippity-zap it up to my flat with a wave of my hand, but my magic is basically dormant—besides making a few plants sprout flowers in the off-season every now and then.
Being a witch is not all it's cracked up to be by the media. Mostly, it's having absolutely no idea where the magic came from or from whom and then only having bursts of random sparks at the most inconvenient of times. I don't have a wand and I don't have any spells in me to get this piece of my personal torment up the stairs.
My aunt—who is also a witch but refuses to practice her magic—spent her whole life telling me that magic is dangerous and I am not allowed to use it in any way whatsoever. It's why I've hidden away for most of my life and have chosen a career that lets me be away from people. I fear magic more than most people fear spiders or snakes. I can still hear my aunt's voice in my head—her threat—promising that if I were to go to Edinburgh, I was not to return.
But I couldn't stay. I couldn't keep myself locked away any longer. When the acceptance letter came, it was the open door I'd been longing for. So here I am, starting a new life and hoping it doesn't end with my suitcases taking me out and ending it prematurely.
My goodness, how many stairs can there be? I feel like I've been on these for an hour.
Taking a few deep breaths, I pull one suitcase up and lean my body against it to keep it in check before I pull the second one after me. There's barely enough space for another person next to me, and for once, I do wish I had some help because I'm going to be fighting with this for a while.
"You really hate me, don't you?" I ask the suitcase, glaring down at the little progress I've made. I'm not even ten steps up. My apartment is on the third floor. It's going to take forever. At least there's a small landing a few steps above me before the staircase turns and continues up. Maybe if I can just make it there, I can leave one suitcase and struggle with the other.
My mind is working on a strategy when I hear a door shut above me. The sound of footsteps reaches me first before a deep, slightly accented voice speaks up. I focus on pulling and lifting the suitcases, determined to make it to the first landing, when the voice gets louder, a bit of worry in it. "No, I'm coming. Don't move. I'll be right there. I don't?—"
Before I can figure out how to move out of the way, a guy rounds the corner. There isn't anywhere to go, so I flatten myself to one side with a quick gasp, but before I can get my suitcases out of the way, he's already slamming into one, making it tumble all the way down to the ground floor.
"Seriously?" I sigh, frustration making my back taut. I turn to offer an apology, expecting one as well, but the guy is already almost down the stairs.
"You good?" he calls up and I glimpse a strong jaw, tousled brown hair, and light eyes before I realize he's moving away, his ear no longer pressed to his phone.
"No?" I snap, my voice loud enough so he can hear me. He stops then at the bottom of the stairs, his attention on his phone as he proceeds to type quickly.
"It's not polite to take up the whole staircase," he says, not even bothering to look up at me. He's got a very nice voice with a slight Scottish accent, and I tell my insides to get a hold of themselves because he is not attractive.
Rude—he's rude!
Before I can formulate a response, my suitcase decides to burst open, like the traitor that it is.
"You've got to be kidding me!" I glare at the mess as if it has personally offended me. Clearly, all my research into this luggage only paid off for airplane travel. The moment someone knocks it down the stairs, it decides to not be toss-resistant.
The mess on the floor must finally pull the guy's attention and I see the moment his eyes zero in on a specific item. I shove the suitcase I managed to hold onto against the wall on the landing and nearly trip down the stairs in my haste. I don't miss the way he chuckles as I drop myself on top of my clothes.
"You're a walking hazard, you know that right?"
"If you weren't racing down the stairs, this wouldn't be a problem," I reply, trying to push all my clothes back into the suitcase.
"If you weren't taking up the whole staircase, I would've had no problem getting around you." He sounds completely unbothered by my situation, but also distracted at the same time. I find it annoying.
"Well, if you managed to glance up from your phone for more than a second, you'd realize you're not the only person on this planet!" I snap, my voice rising—and so is my magic. I drop my head, taking a few calming breaths because I am not the kind of a person to lose it in front of a complete stranger. I thrive on control.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach down, yanking the t-shirt from where I was trying to hide it.
"I glanced up long enough to see this atrocity," he says, opening it up to take a good look. "I mean, I like Ninja Turtles as well, but this shirt has more holes than the sewer topper?—"
"It is none of your business how many holes this shirt has." I reach up, yanking the t-shirt out of his hands and balling it up to hold it against me.
"What a zinger of a comeback. Raphael would be so proud."
I look up at him, my rage rising, but before I can say anything, his phone rings and his whole body snaps to attention. "It's okay, I'm coming! Don't do anything—please just—okay, stay right there!" His voice is full of worry and he turns away immediately, heading for the door.
"Thanks for the help!" I call out, sarcastically.
"Don't mention it!" he yells back as the door shuts behind him.
I sit there for a moment, surrounded by my clothes, completely bamboozled, before shaking myself into action.
I throw another annoyed look at the entrance door, but the cute—no, incredibly rude—guy has disappeared. I'm not blind. Obviously, I noticed what he looked like, but I still hope he was just a visitor and I won't be running into him again. If I do, I'll have a few very stern words to offer him. Once my brain restarts, I'm sure I can come up with some. Ugh, that guy was unbelievable!
"So much for Scottish hospitality," I mumble, as I toss the clothes back into my suitcase and manage to zip it back up. It seems to stay shut and I can only hope that it does all the way to the third floor.