Spellbinder (2 page)

Miranda stood in shock. Thunder boomed in the distance. She pushed away the doom and gloom feeling again and stared at her mom in disbelief. The only thing better than going to see Perry, was going to see Perry with her two best friends, Kylie and Della, there for support. Miranda grabbed her mom by the arm and walked her to the door. “You should leave now.”

“Why?” her mom asked.

“Because I gotta practice and get dressed. Oh, and go ahead and buy those tickets. I’m winning!”

*   *   *

The bell rang, announcing they had five minutes before the competition commenced. Panicked that she’d only practiced the first apples-to-oranges spell, and clueless to what the second and third spells might be, she let out a moan. But no time to whine. She bolted from the chair, slipped her feet into her green heels, and gave herself one quick final check in the mirror.

The dress fit like a glove. A tight glove. Too much breakup ice cream. She recalled Della telling her she was going to get fat and stomping her ice cream into the floor. At the time, Miranda had been super pissed, but now … She supposed she should tell the vamp thank you, or she’d be arriving in front of the council in her fat jeans right now.

She grabbed her brush from her purse and ran it through her long strawberry-blond hair. While she’d gotten her mom’s eye color, she’d taken those red highlights from her father. As the strands fell together on her shoulders, the streaks of green, pink, and black framed her face.

Staring at her image, she recalled that in the past, the judges—nothing more than old-fashioned biddies—had made negative remarks about her hair and even docked her a few points. Miranda had thumbed her nose at their opinion and fuddy-duddy sense of style.

Now she dropped her chin to her chest in resignation. Her thumbing days were over.

At least for this competition. Because holy hell, she wanted to win. Had to win.

Their opinion could keep her from the thing she wanted more than anything. Paris with Perry. Paris with Perry, and Della and Kylie as her emotional backup.

Closing her eyes, she held out her pinky and whispered, “Hair, color of three, turn back to the color that is just boring ol’ me.”

Opening her eyes, breath held, praying she hadn’t screwed up, she found the streaks were gone. A good sign that maybe her other spells would be just as successful. But seeing herself without her trifecta of color for the first time in two years had her breath hitching in her throat.

A crazy sensation swept over her. Who was she? Without her trademark streaks of color, without Perry, she felt hollow, lacking a sense of self.

A sad thought hit. Was she the type of girl who solely defined herself by her hair color and a boyfriend? Was she that shallow?

Needing a confidence booster, she grabbed her phone off the table to call the person who always seemed to say the right thing. The man who called her angel and never led her to believe she’d let him down. Her daddy.

But right then, another bell rang, giving them a three-minute warning. The Wicca council, standing as judges, was not tolerant of tardiness. You’d either get docked points or thrown out of the competition altogether.

Reaching back into her purse, she pulled out her necklace—her Alchemy absinthe spoon pendant, a wearable token of her Wicca heritage. The triangle-shaped emerald-green Swarovski crystal hung right below her neck and matched her dress perfectly.

“You can do this,” she whispered to the stranger in the mirror and set her phone back down. “You want Perry back, right?”

When the young woman in the mirror didn’t answer right away, she wanted to scream.
Now you start doubting?

Standing straight, she cleared her mind. She did want Perry back, didn’t she? The two-minute warning bell rang.

No time to self-analyze, she turned, opened her door, and stepped out. When her feet hit something warm, gooey, and disgusting, she glanced down.

“No!” She’d marched right into a big—seriously big—pile of horseshit.

Fresh manure covered her feet up to her ankles. Giggles exploded at the end of the hall.

Fury, building at the speed of light, had Miranda staring daggers at Tabitha and her sidekick, Sienna, another regular competitor.

Miranda held out her pinky, thinking pimples, thinking hooked noses, and boobs of a ninety-year-old woman—the kind of boobs old women could flash people with by pulling up their skirts. These two girls deserved floppy tits.

Then bam!

Right before she let the thought slip from her mind into her shoulder and travel down her arm to escape from her pinky, she remembered. Any spells placed on other contestants cost points.

Precious, precious points. Points Miranda couldn’t afford to lose.

She dropped her arm. With the stench billowing upward, she tried breathing through her mouth. Tabitha and Sienna continued to giggle. Oh, this was sooo funny.

Not!

Miranda squared her shoulders. “Why does the perfection of this spell of yours not surprise me?” She aimed her words at Tabitha, knowing it had been her idea. “Oh, wait, I know. Because you are so full of shit!” she seethed.

The one-minute bell rang. The two girls ran out to take their places.

Miranda had less than thirty seconds to make the circle on the stage. No time to conjure up a cleansing spell, she held her head high and walked out on the stage, pretending she wasn’t up to her ankles in horse crap.

Crazy idea?

Yes.

Stupid?

No.

Was she mortified?

Absolutely.

Yet logic trumped embarrassment. The judges docked points for tardiness; she’d never heard of them docking points for horse dung.

*   *   *

Soft music echoed from the loudspeaker as Miranda took her place. She stood ramrod straight. Murmurs of discontent echoed from all directions. The witches on both sides of her in the circle put hands over their noses. Tabitha, one person to her right, held a slight smile on her lips.

Oh, what Miranda wouldn’t give to turn and make huge dollops of horse manure rain down on her.

The twelve judges sitting at the end of the stage behind a long wooden table waved their hands in front of their faces. The front-row audience of the dome-shaped auditorium squished up their noses as if the stench was just now invading their air.

What a way to start a competition. Especially one she was damned determined to win.

“Ms. Kane?” one of the judges snapped after the one beside her pointed to Miranda’s shit-covered feet. The music came to an abrupt halt.

“Yes, ma’am?” Miranda answered, her voice magically projecting through the entire auditorium.

“Do you lack so much respect for this competition that you would walk on our stage … like that?”

“No disrespect intended,” Miranda answered, praying her voice didn’t crack. “I’m simply trying to honor your promptness rule. I wasn’t expecting to find … excrement waiting outside my dressing room door.”

“Are you implying that someone here did this?”

“It would appear that way,” she stated, realizing her dilemma. Their next question would probably be for her to identify the person responsible for the horseshit.

Miranda was not a tattler. Nope.

“I am tired of these childish games,” a different judge spoke up and she held out her finger, giving it a good wiggle. The dung on Miranda’s shoes and on the floor vanished.

“Who is responsible for this act?” the witch asked. “They will pay for this with a ten-point deduction.”

Just ten?
Surely, equine dung came with a higher consequence? “I … I’m afraid I didn’t see the spell being placed.” That was the truth.

“Do you suspect someone guilty of this crime?” another judge spoke up.

Miranda could feel Tabitha’s and Sienna’s gazes on her. Were they afraid? They should be. “I … I can’t really say.”

“Can’t or won’t?” the woman questioned.

Miranda’s gaze shifted to the audience, where she saw her mom sitting in the second row. She was nodding her head as if telling Miranda to spill her guts.

Her hesitation provoked another judge to speak up. “This is silly. Your silence will cost you ten points. Now tell us and let’s get moving.”

Just tell them,
a voice whispered inside her head. The two witches deserved it, but to do so went against her moral compass.

She opened her mouth to do just that, but when she did, she saw who sat behind her mom. Kylie, a light blonde who was … as perfect on the outside as she was on the inside. Sweet as apple pie. And Della, with her almost-black hair and dark eyes, eyes that barely slanted upward, that hinted at her half-Asian heritage. No one would call Della sweet. Not to her face anyway. And yes, in truth, Della could be a tad standoffish, and feisty, but it was mostly an act. Miranda couldn’t have a more loyal friend. Both of them were … her support team. Her best friends. Two girls she looked up to, admired.

What would they do?

The answer resounded back with clarity.

Chapter Three

Miranda would stand her moral ground. “I will take the deduction in points,” she said, decision made, but her fury again rising.

“So be it,” another judge said and slammed her gavel down on the wooden French farm table.

Miranda refused to look at Tabitha for fear she’d lose it and send her own horseshit spell the girl’s way.

Not only was the witch getting off without being punished, Miranda was being punished for her actions.

Not that she was throwing in the towel on winning. It simply meant she would have to work harder. It meant she’d have to pull off each and every spell without one hiccup.

Could she do it?

*   *   *

A tiny drop of sweat collected between Miranda’s boobs.

“Sienna Banker.” The name of the eighteenth contestant was called. The order in which they were to perform was decided by random drawings. That meant the only ones left were Miranda and Tabitha.

It only added to Miranda’s pressure.

She stood on wobbly knees, watching the
B
with an
itch
move in front of the table. The girl extended her hand, her pinky twitching. The spell spilled from her lips. “Apples to apples…”

Miranda purposely tried to not listen to the spell.

Part of her problem in competitions was simply repeating bad spells. She’d managed to change the apple into an orange twice in her dressing room. She had the spell down, she didn’t need to screw with it.

“Oh, orange of mine,” the girl continued.

No. No. No. Do not listen.
Miranda cupped her hands at her sides and mentally hummed the “Yankee Doodle” song. She’d picked up that song and the act of humming when nervous from her dad. Her gaze cut to the audience for a second. Not that she expected him to be out there. For some reason, even when he was in town, he never attended the competitions.

Applause erupted from the audience.

Miranda stood stoic at the girl’s success. She wished no one failure, but their victory added to her problem. Another drop of sweat crawled down her cleavage.

Suddenly, a dark mood, the same one that had appeared when she’d studied the storm, whispered across Miranda’s soul. She shot Tabitha a frown.

The girl stood frowning in return, looking uncomfortable in her own skin. Was Tabitha doing this to Miranda? She didn’t appear to be casting a mood spell.

But it had to be her, didn’t it?

“Tabitha Evans,” the judge spoke up.

Friggin’ great. Miranda was going to be last. Swallowing down a lump of fear, she mentally went back to humming.
Yankee Doodle went to …

Tabitha stepped up to the table where a fresh apple had just been placed. She repeated a few words, twitched her pinky, and a perfectly round, juicy-looking orange appeared.

Her orange was removed. Another apple took center table.

“Miranda Kane.” Her name set a gang of butterflies loose in her stomach.

She stepped up to the table, now closer to the audience. Her mom’s face stood out. Then Kylie’s and Della’s.
You two are going to Paris with me.

Raising her arm, she recited her spell. “Apple, oh apple, fruit of the tree. Grant me this spell, I place upon thee. An apple no more, an orange you shall be.”

When the piece of fruit didn’t transform immediately, murmurs of defeat could be heard from the crowd. Time held its breath.

A second before accepting her failure, a light cloud of magical fog appeared hovering over the table. The apple disappeared and an orange, a bright, perfectly round orange, proudly took its place.

A light applause echoed from the crowd. The tickle of victory filled her chest. One down, two to go.

*   *   *

Given a five-minute break before the second part of the competition, Miranda ignored the increasing sense of lurking danger and darted off the stage. She refused to let Tabitha’s silly hex distract her. Determined, she hurried back to her room to study the competition brochure and hopefully discover what the next spell entailed. If she worked quickly, she might even fit in one practice.

Face it. If she wanted to win, she could use a little practice.

She shut her door, ran to the small table where the brochure had been left unread. The small print seemed to try to push in her brain at the same time. Damn dyslexia. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate.
One line at a time. One line at a time.

Opening her eyes, she moved down to the second paragraph and ran her finger under the line she needed to read:
The second spell will be altering …

The door to her dressing room shot open, slamming against the wall. Turning, she glared at the intruder, certain it would be her mom, probably to yell at her about the horseshit.

Not her mom. But the horseshit maker herself.

“Stop it!” Tabitha seethed.

“Stop what?” Miranda asked.

“You know what,” she accused in a serious voice. She walked off, slamming the door so hard Miranda’s eardrums flinched.

“No, I don’t know, bitch,” Miranda muttered in a sneer. Then, determined to focus on the competition, she pushed all curiosity about Tabitha’s little tantrum into a mental vault, and stared back at the brochure.