By the time Jackson pauses at the end of the hall, by a green door with a brass knocker in the shape of a mermaid, the delicious smell has shifted from spices to essential oils. Patchouli, frankincense, and the sickly-sweet scent of jasmine hits my nose. We’re clearly in the right place.
Before we have the chance to knock, the door swings open, and a beautiful man with long lilac hair and lashes triple the length of mine smiles at us.
“Jackson, nene guapo! Come in, come in.” The man ushers us through a tight entryway, full of haphazardly strewn high heels. He throws a curious glance over his shoulder. “And who might this pretty little thing be?”
Ping. I feel the sting of his lie. He doesn’t actually find me pretty, and he doesn’t know I’m a Verity Witch.
“This is Saskia. Saskia, meet the ever-talented Angel.”
“Hola,” I say, already having noted his Puerto Rican accent.
“Enchanted.” Angel offers me his hand to shake then gestures for us to follow him through a curtain of shimmering beads.
Who is this guy and why did Jackson refer to him as talented? Maybe he’s the Witch’s assistant?
Angel’s long embellished golden nails glitter as he parts the beads and lets us through. He’s wearing a turquoise knitted caftan that exposes his large, tanned belly. His heavy make-up is made up of golds and blues, with perfect smoky eyes. I spot a ring light and color backdrop in the corner of the room. Of course, this flawless creature has a YouTube channel. But why are we here? Is Jackson throwing me a makeover?
I guess the décor is what one would describe as ‘boho-chic.’ Jagged crystals in all shapes and sizes line the mantel, glittering throw pillows cover the floor, and in the center of the room is a fancy brass cauldron that looks more Crate and Barrel than any object of magic.
OK, so we’re not here for a makeover. And it’s just the three of us. Where the hell is the Witch?
I look over at Angel. His hair, which moments ago was lilac, is now a deep shade of pink, and his nails have turned from gold to neon green.
Oh. I look at the cauldron and then at Angel again. Jackson’s Witch-for-hire is a Brew Witch… and a Warlock at that!
Angel starts to gather supplies as I watch him warily.
“You didn’t tell me your friend was a Warlock,” I hiss at Jackson under my breath. “Might as well give me a packet of sage and wish me luck!”
Angel whips around. Shit, he’s heard me.
“And you didn’t tell me your friend is a classist Bruxia bitch,” he says to Jackson. Then he taps his ear. “I brew a delightful hearing potion. Helps me gather all the gossip.”
“I’m not classist! You take that back!” I say childishly. “It’s just that the spell I need is complicated and…”
Angel sticks his tongue out at me. “You can take your Catalan cattiness and shove it up your culo plano, hooooney.”
“I’m not Catalan,” I reply sulkily. “My mother is from the south. And my ass is not flat!”
“You’re still bigoted.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “I’m good at what I do. I don’t need your archaic MA beliefs up in my temple of power.”
Fuck. He’s right. I can’t believe I just pulled a full Solina de la Cruz and judged his Witching powers based on gender. The idea that Warlocks are less powerful has been ingrained in me since childhood.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say, getting to my feet and stumbling over a floor cushion. “I don’t subscribe to their archaic ways either! I promise. I’m not even in the MA.”
The Warlock watches me from beneath those giant lashes of his. I swear they keep growing. He’s certainly talented with beauty brews, I’ll give him that much. He points a phallic crystal at me. Wait, it’s more than phallic, it’s a literal rose quartz dildo.
“A Spanish Witch who isn’t in the MA? Well, that’s refreshing,” he coos. “Now, let’s get to work. Sit by my cauldron. I’m paid by the hour and Jackson here knows I’m as expensive as I look.”
Blue liquid bubbles in the cauldron, steam rising into my face and causing droplets to leak down my temples. I wipe the sweat from my brow. Very attractive.
“Whatever that is, it smells like shit.”
“The most powerful stuff always does,” Angel says, as he keeps adding ingredients to the copper cauldron.
It’s true. I remember my mother had Brew Witches come to our house when I had chickenpox, and again when Mikayla had whooping cough. The brews always stank.
“I’m going to give you a protection brew. It works as a vaccine of sorts. Although it will only make you resistant to a certain type of magic from one select person.”
I’ve already told Angel why we are here, and to his credit the Warlock showed no signs of shock that I’m the daughter of the second highest Witch in the MA. Instead he looked at me with pure compassion — the kind of look only those familiar with the power of abusive parents can give you.
“Do you have something of your mother’s I can use?” he asks me.
I was prepared for this as many spells need an anchoring object. Reaching into my pocket I pull out a locket my mother gave me for my Witching Day. Mikayla got a diamond pendant, but I got a simple locket she forgot to fill. To this day, it’s empty of photos and full of
