Page 41 of Of Poison & Pumpkins (Of Witches & Men #3)

CHAPTER ONE

Alouette

T o follow my dream, a passion rooted deeply in the essence of my soul, I need to be brave.

Am I courageous? Debatable. I’ve managed to create my own path instead of following in the footsteps of my family, but I still hold on to that nagging guilt that I’ll always be somewhat of a disappointment.

This morning is too stunning to drown in negative thoughts, though.

I bask under the last moments of the sunrise, savoring the way the blues sparkle like a mosaic all the way until the ocean meets the sky.

No type of art can fully capture the spectrum of colors in those rays.

It’s this view, with flocks soaring above, that let me know Ouma still blesses me with her radiance, even though she’s gone.

The spectators gathered along the shoreline, watching the infamous RipSilver competition, all applaud in unison. I tune into the sound of the waves crashing, seagulls cawing, and the melody of an ice cream truck. I can almost smell my favorite flavor—coconut.

It’d be nice to cool down since my forehead is sweating a bit.

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest choice to wear this black dress on the sand instead of a swimsuit.

I won’t be here for much longer, though.

I only came to the beach early for the magical memory-inducing fireworks.

I’m hoping to experience a memory involving Ouma, since I will never see her wrinkled face in person again.

Like me, Ouma was a Fuzer. Two of a kind.

When I was little, she’d even waste her monthly spells to entertain me with ridiculous magic, like making mailboxes dance when we drove by or bewitching dogs to meow when we passed them on the sidewalk.

Goddess, I loved her. After thirty years of her constant companionship, how am I supposed to move on so easily?

It’d be nice if I could choose a spell to eliminate this grief, but I doubt the Nergs would allow any Fuzer that strong of an ability.

Fuzers make up about one percent of the world’s population—those who carry magic in our DNA.

Even though we’re few and far between, the Nergs (non-magical folk) fear us.

To ensure balance, Nergs approve our magical requests once a month.

Every Fuzer is required to declare their spell at the monthly Ceremony.

If it’s simple and harmless, then it’ll be approved by the Nergs.

It’s not like we can do anything insane, like forcing our family to understand our deepest desires at the snap of a finger. Goddess, that’d be bloody nice.

My spell this month increases my reading speed and memory. A skill that is necessary to find what I’m searching for.

In the distance, one of the surfers conquers a wave more gracefully than a pelican gliding in the sky.

An announcer calls out his career stats—a surfer named Talksihnn—but I can barely hear over the cheers exploding along Kitesville Beach.

The audience applauds loudly for his trick, which looks impossible.

Maybe he used a spell, but I bet enhancements are forbidden in such a competition.

My chest tightens at the sight of another wave rolling in.

If the other surfers don’t start paddling hard to the outside, they’ll get rag-dolled.

Absolutely terrifying. I squint as the competitors disappear under the water.

I hate this moment, the seconds when I don’t know if they’re safe.

It makes me dig my fingers into the sand destroying my manicure, but I can’t help it.

A unified gasp erupts from the crowd. One lone surfer shoots out from the barrel, still aboard. Impressive. Excitement reverberates like a live wire down the coast. For a moment, I’m wrapped up in the energy.

“Alouette!” Zola yells from my left.

I turn in time to witness my best friend avoid a frisbee to the head. She ducks between families building sandcastles.

Zola is the main reason I can never spread my wings to leave Calypsa. Not that I’d ever blame her; we’ve been inseparable neighbors since birth.

“Aloooo!” Zola charges towards me, arms out wide, face covered in glee.

“Whoa! Slow down!”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

I brace myself for impact. “Zola, you’re gonna slam into me!”

We land with a thud, a pretzel of legs in the sand, our entanglement only worsening as she showers me with kisses. I shriek and bat her away.

“Accept my love or I’ll give you a lizard kiss!” she threatens.

“No!” I giggle and block myself from her mouth. “You wouldn’t dare!”

She sticks her tongue out in a threat and tries to pin back my wrists. I’m not Superwoman, but apparently yoga has worked wonders because I miraculously toss her off me.

“Truce?” I yell.

“Fine!” She smiles that tropical warm smile I love. “Only because you’re the birthday princess.”

Side by side, both out of breath, we watch the surfers finish their last set.

“You smell weird,” Zola says, sniffing my neck.

“Don’t ask.”

“I do love an epic story.”

“No story. Just some guy. And a weird lotion. The end.”

“Excuse him ? Do I need to run a creeper over with my skateboard?”

I sputter out laughing. “Maybe next time.”

The surfers wade into the shallows with their boards, causing the paparazzi to swarm. The annual August festival in our beachy town, Calypsa, attracts a lot of crowds because there’s always some hot shot celebrity. I’ve always considered fame overvalued.

A Fuzer points their finger into the air to create celebratory fireworks. This is exactly what I’ve been waiting for, especially the fuchsia ones, since they have a charmed ability that allows viewers to relive a favorite memory.

I relax, knowing a past scene with Ouma is about to cascade over me. As I grow entranced by the erupting pink in the sky, my vision fades.

In Ouma’s cottage kitchen—her baked bread rises in the oven. She sings loudly, with wild abandon better meant for the outdoors. Her sweet smile sent my way has a hint of mischievousness. “How many waterfalls did we see earlier, Little Owl? Five! That must be a new record.”

The scene dissolves fast. I’m whiplashed back to the present within a single breath, wishing I had more time.

Despite the bright day with clear blue skies, my heart is heavy with the loss of my grandma.

Nothing can compare to the pain of not seeing her every day.

Honestly, it’s been a cynical summer full of twisted nightmares and buckets of tears.

Zola sighs, then lays her head on my shoulder. “I want you to be happy again, Lou.”

“I am.” I clear the emotions clogging my throat. “Well, I will be. Eventually.”

She faces me and holds both my cheeks between her palms. “We all miss Ouma. And she misses you too. I forgot to ask, have you found her cottage yet?”

Even with the magical spell of reading inhumanly fast, I’ve barely made a dent in my research. Ouma’s missing cottage seems impossible to find. Not a single instance has been recorded of a building moving on its own after its owner dies.

Next to me, Zola quietly draws a design in the sand with her finger. My art is pottery, but hers is painting the tiniest, most detailed designs on the teacups I create. Her skills are meant to be seen across the planet, not trapped in Calypsa, where only tourists can witness her talent.

“That’s beautiful.” I angle my head to get a better view.

“This is a basic sketch of a bird, Lou. You can find charm in anything.” She snorts and wipes her drawing away.

“Are you still thinking of that internship offer? London would be lucky to have you.”

“I can’t leave. You need me here.”

“Zola!” I scold her like Ouma once did.

“Alouououou!”

“I’m serious. Quaint Brush needs your decision by September, right?”

She doesn’t meet my eye. “Come on. Let’s start your b-day! First round is on me!”

I can’t help but laugh as she tugs me to my feet. “Wait, Zo, we’re meeting Marquis first, remember?”

“Can’t your stupid brother wait till tomorrow?”

“He flies back to Sydney tomorrow to give a lecture. Don’t look at me like that. I have to see him. I mean, I want to see him. I do.”

“But he’s sooo dramatic.”

“Hey!” I slap her shoulder softly. “He’s simply a bit … theatrical.”

She rolls her eyes and takes my hand, and we stroll towards Moe’s Cauldron above us on the pier, our favorite spot for breakfast. I release a giant breath and stare at the clear sky. Divine beauty stares back, luminous and refreshing.

Fortunately, most of the tourists don’t know about this local diner and I hope it stays that way. Above, a few fishermen cast their lines over the edge of the pier. Colorful vines climb the rustic wooden columns by the bar, adding vibrant splashes of flowers against the backdrop of the vast ocean.

“Mighty Crone! Look!” Zola points. “There are dolphins!”

I run forward, careful to keep dry. The scars along my back are a reminder of the dangers lurking in the depths.

“Where?” I bump into her by accident. “I don’t see them.”

“Right there.” She points to the spot where they leap.

Dolphins have always been one of my signs of good fortune to come. Once, when I was a kid, Ouma and I saw an entire pod, complete with calves. What part of my life could this fortune be related to? Maybe my research will finally produce the answers I’ve been seeking.

“Hey, birthday girl!” Marquis shouts from above. “Get your butt up here!”

My big brother leans over the edge of the pier, waving like a complete dork. Of course he’d wear a plaid bowtie to the beach, with only a matching speedo. I doubt his husband will ever let him forget this look.

“Oh my goddess!” Zola hops chaotically. “Do you see him?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What? He’s sooo hot. I mean, look at him!” Zola squawks and points.

“Huh? My brother? He’s a married gay man. Are you high?” I glance between Marquis and Zola.

“Not your stupid brother!” Zola squeals. “Jacob Talksihnn is standing right next to him!”

“Who?”

“The Mackin’ Master! National champion in 2019!”

“You know I don’t follow surfing.”

Zola shakes me like she’s out of her mind. “Lou! Listen to me. That white guy with blond hair is Jacob Talksihnn. Surfing legend. Was the best in the world until … Well, that doesn’t matter. And he’s standing right next to your brother.”

I scan the tall, fit man, and a few puzzle pieces click into place. A few months ago, Marquis had mentioned a friend, Jake, visiting town. This must be him. Since my brother has lived in Sydney for the last decade, I haven’t met many of his friends.

I’ve never been interested in jocks, but holy mother of the moons, this Jacob guy has a nice body. In fact, I’ve never been attracted to blondes either, so my reaction is more than a little strange.

Jake’s—or Jacob’s—blond hair is pulled into a wet bun, dripping droplets down his temple. He’s ridiculously tan, as if he lives outside, but his complexion is nowhere near as dark as my and Zola’s brown skin. The surfing legend lifts a hand to wave as bright camera flashes burst to life.

“Jake! Turn this way!” one paparazzi shouts.

“Jacob! Look over here!”

“How was the water today?”

“Have you spoken with Nella since the scandal broke?”

“What are your comments about her quote in Wave Magazine?”

I meet Zola’s eyes, guessing mine are as wide as hers. Do we leave or join them?