Witch's Diary: Lost Library Witches, #1

1

An overflowing parking lot, crowds of people in the aisles, and long lines at the register. Kenna snorted. Her grocery store looked like a Black Friday rehearsal.

What had she been thinking? Sunday midday was always a madhouse. She blamed the after-church crowd.

Early Sunday mornings were much more her style—fewer shoppers, fewer screaming kids, fewer people.

The press of humanity alone should have been enough to send her home. Even worse, she’d woken up in a foul mood and hadn’t been able to shake it all day.

And yet she braved the masses—soccer moms to the left, mothers with fussy infants to the right, and manic cart-pushers on all sides—held hostage by her rabid mint chocolate chip ice cream craving.

She booked it to the checkout lane as fast as she could, suspiciously eying a small child in front of her. Picking his nose, wiping it… She looked away.

She really wanted some creamy, minty, chocolaty goodness.

Needed it.

Kenna wasn’t tolerant of noisy crowds on a good day, and today she’d been bombarded from the moment she entered the store. By the time she reached the cashier, she was ready to open her fave ice cream and start shoveling creamy, yummy mint into her mouth.

I’m so sorry. We have to close this lane. The perky teen working the register delivered her nugget of misery with a cheery smile. The register’s not working.

Kenna’s vision narrowed for a split second. She could feel her nostrils flaring. A brief glimpse of hazy red followed. Kenna debated an appropriate profanity, heedless of the young cashier’s innocence. Her crankiness had reached a level that no longer allowed for rational thought to prevail.

And then her day took a turn for the worse.

The cashier held a roll of register tape in one hand while she fiddled ineffectually with the inner workings of her register. Little wisps of smoke caught Kenna’s eye. She followed the thin trail to the source: the register tape in the cashier’s hand.

She must have made a sound, because the cashier turned to Kenna, her gaze following Kenna’s to the smoking paper.

Aah! The cashier dropped the combusting roll.

The mysterious wisps of smoke provided just enough distraction for Kenna to slip out unnoticed, the unpaid-for mint chocolate chip ice cream clutched in her hand.

Escape being her primary concern, it was only after she’d made it safely to the parking lot that she stopped to consider the who, where, and how of the smoking receipt tape.

A few months ago, she’d have been just as surprised as the cashier.

She huffed in annoyance.

Those innocent days of ignorance were gone. Now, she was in on the massive cover-up.

Magic, werewolves, spell casters? All real.

A car horn beeped at her. She checked left, then right, and hotfooted it through the crosswalk with her booty. She looked down at her mint chocolate chip ice cream and suffered a small twinge of guilt.

Theft? Really? Dammit. She really was sinking to new lows. She’d make sure to pay for it the next time she shopped...which wouldn’t be in the middle of a Sunday.

She could hear her best friend, Lizzie, telling her, Turn your butt around and pay for that right this instant. She growled.

As she yanked her car door open and climbed in, she told imaginary Lizzie where she could go, then slammed the door.

She would not feel bad. These were exceptional circumstances. And it wasn’t like she wouldn’t come back and pay. Right now, she needed her damn ice cream.

Kenna sat in her car and gathered the tattered remnants of her patience. The parking lot was a zoo. A very small, very quiet voice tried to reason with her that it wasn’t that bad. But she refused to hear that voice. She wanted to go home and eat her freaking ice cream.

She checked her rearview mirror, looked over her shoulder, put her little Fiat in reverse, and backed out of the spot. She shifted into drive, traveled a few feet, and—thwack!

Looking behind her, she saw a man exiting a large truck. A diesel pickup had tapped her rear bumper.

Seriously? Now? Today? What the heck was that guy doing zipping around in his big-ass truck?

Desperate to get home, almost in tears, she rolled her window down. She rarely cried, dammit. What was wrong with her? Grabbing her proof of insurance card from the glove box with her right hand, she swiped impatiently at the tears starting to fall from her eyes with her left.

But then as she was straightening back up in her seat, she saw her insurance card turn to ash and fall to the floor of her car. She rubbed the gray, powdery remains of her proof of insurance between her fingers. Shit!

Seeing the apologetic man approaching her car, she blinked to clear her eyes and hiccupped. She leaned out of the window and said, It’s fine. I’m fine. I’d just like to leave.

He shoved a card in her hand and told her to call him if she found any damage. Kenna heard the words faintly as she drove away.

Home beckoned. At home, she could eat her ice cream. At home, she could cry until the tears wouldn’t come.

At home, everything would be all right.

She made it as far as the garage, and then she cried. And cried some more.

Her throat burned, her nose dripped, her face had a tight, stretched feeling, and still she cried.

The tears must have pulled the last bit of fight from her, because the next thing she knew she was waking slumped over a snotty steering wheel with a crick in her neck.

Several disorienting seconds later, she landed on her last thoughts before passing out: ice cream! She’d been shopping for ice cream…

Where was the damn ice cream?

A cursory search revealed the pint on the seat next to her, mushy around the edges but in otherwise surprisingly good shape.

First order of business: eat the ice cream. Every bite. Falling asleep in one’s car in one’s garage required an entire pint.

Then a shower.

Then, and only then, would she give her grocery outing some headspace.

Ice cream consumed and thoroughly enjoyed, wet hair wrapped in a turban on top of her head, it was time to consider certain important facts. Weird, smoky, fiery things were happening.

Two weird, smoky, fiery things, but two was more than enough, and her proximity was highly suspect.

Since her best friend read magical books, created invisible force fields, and dated a werewolf, Kenna knew that magic was real.

Magic had invaded her life in some terrible (and occasionally wonderful) ways, not the least of which was her best friend Lizzie’s recent kidnapping by a magic-wielding, over-ambitious ass named Worth. And if she’d learned anything in the past few months, it was to pay attention when weirdness happened. Weird and unexplainable events were the hallmark of magic.

Mental note: speak with Lizzie soon, preferably before anything larger or more important started smoking.

Except it hadn’t all been smoke. Her insurance card had disintegrated. Paper one moment, ash the next.

She picked up her cell, because while turning a scrap of paper into ash was bad, the idea of the same fate befalling someone was unthinkable.

Thankfully, Lizzie picked up right away. Hey Kenna. What’s up?

Help. The word ended on a hiccup.

Dammit. She was teary. Really teary. Bizarrely teary. Again.

How was her well of tears not dry? Then again, she wasn’t a crier, so she was in unchartered territory. Maybe once the dam broke, she was nothing but a sopping wet mess. Maybe the well had no end.

What’s wrong?

A squeak was all that came out.

You sound strange. Are you crying? Are you hurt? What’s happening? Lizzie’s questions escalated in volume and speed as she spoke.

I don’t know.

Hang on. I’m on my way right now. Where are you? Are you at home?

Stop. Kenna took a breath. Just give me a second.

You’re freaking me out, hon. Tell me what’s happening. Lizzie’s quiet voice soothed a bit of the anxiety that the smoke and fire-filled morning had agitated.

A quick stop in the bathroom produced a damp cloth that she draped around the back of her neck. I’m fine. I mean—I’m not fine. But there’s no emergency. Except…disintegrating paper bits did constitute an emergency. "I mean, I think something funny—you know, funny—is happening."

Are you being stalked? Or seeing suspicious-looking guys lurking around the house? Lizzie asked.

Not that kind of funny. You’re the big kidnap target. I’m talking about—you know, the magic kind of funny. Kenna plopped down on the massive expanse of her bed. Just talking to Lizzie was helping. Her fears were likely overblown. It would all be okay. There would be a simple explanation for the morning’s events. But bite your tongue. That’s just what I need: to become the next big kidnap target.

Her best friend had spent more cumulative hours in the trunk of a car than any normal person could fathom. She’d been the object of two separate but related kidnappings orchestrated by an evil spellcaster. Seriously. That shit had really happened.

You still there? Kenna asked. Either she’d lost the connection, or Lizzie had gone quiet all of a sudden.

Hmm. Yep. Still here. What exactly are we talking about?

Kenna considered for a moment then decided fast was best. She blurted out the whole supermarket receipt story without taking a breath. And then some guy hit me with his huge-ass truck and my insurance card turned into a cloud of ash.

I should stop by. Do you want me to come over now? I’m coming now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Lizzie’s voice was rushed and breathless. She sounded more worried than Kenna felt, like the anxiety in her chest has been transferred to her friend. Wait. Did you steal that ice cream?

Kenna frowned. Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about? I’ll pay next time. Kenna could feel the judgey vibes in the silence that followed. Really, I’ll remember. I swear. She even drew a little cross over her heart with her index finger.

Oh, hell. We have bigger issues. I’m on the way. Lizzie hung up.

She knew Lizzie would be worried. Heck, Kenna knew Lizzie would be freaked by the crying, because Kenna was not a crier. But it was more than that.

This was Lizzie. Kidnap survivor, werewolf dater Lizzie. She didn’t overreact to magicky woo-woo events.

Maybe Kenna had underestimated how scary she was when she cried. Whatever. She’d find out shortly—she glanced at her watch—in less than thirteen minutes.

2

Thirty minutes later, Kenna’s suspicions that Lizzie had overreacted were confirmed. Lizzie stood on her doorstep with a sixty-year-old woman in a leather jacket.

What the hell was Lizzie thinking? Bringing her, of all people, to a sit-down about magic? She’d lost her ever-loving mind.

Mom! What are you wearing? In retrospect, not the best thing to say to one’s mother. But Kenna had been startled by her appearance.

Her staid, knitting, crafting, homebody mother stood there in skinny jeans, a black leather biker jacket, and—Kenna’s chin dipped down—red All-Stars.

Kenna crossed her arms and blocked her front door. Have you both lost your minds?

Lizzie’s eyes were wide. Can we come in?

Kenna stood up taller and didn’t budge. I’m not sure. She did her best to glare menacingly—and she could do a nasty glare. Why is my mom here?

Lizzie turned bright red and wouldn’t meet Kenna’s eyes.

Darling, you need to let us in. Her mom pushed gently on the door. The neighbors probably think you’ve gone off the deep end. Her mom tipped her head to the right, in the direction of the Mathesons’ house.

Her mom might look different in her fitted, ready-for-motorcycle-action getup, but she was still the same practical soul at heart.

And wouldn’t you know, there was Mr. Matheson standing in his driveway, jaw slack, staring at her. He elbowed his wife, standing next to him, and pointed at Kenna. Or maybe he was pointing at her mom. Hard to say with the Mathesons. They lived to judge the neighbors.

Kenna squared her shoulders, smiled, and waved—but she held firmly to the towel wrapped around her body while she did it. Not exactly suburban-friendly attire.

She smirked. It would serve him right if her towel did fall. He’d stare, and his wife would probably put laxative in his dinner for a week.

Good Lord. She wasn’t normally quite this juvenile. Okay, already. Come in, she said. She opened the door wider and stepped to the side, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from bugging when her mom walked past.

Are those sparkles on your ass, Mom? Who are you, and where did you stash my mother’s lifeless body?

Her mom breezed right on by. I like sparkles. They make me happy.

Kenna blinked at the strange woman standing in her hallway who sounded like her mom but looked like a stranger. Uh-huh.

Her mom just cocked her head and waited.

Kenna narrowed her eyes. She recognized that long-suffering, you’re-being-unreasonable look. But she wasn’t the unreasonable one here. Okay—she had cried herself to sleep in her car earlier today. So what? They didn’t know that. She’d left that part out as irrelevant (and pathetic) when recounting the story of her day to Lizzie.

Wait. Kenna stared hard at her mom. Then she nodded. I get it. You’re having a midlife crisis, aren’t you? Turning to Lizzie, she pointed an accusing finger. But why are you facilitating my mom’s midlife crisis?

Lizzie’s blush spread to encompass the tips of her ears.

Lizzie. Your ears are glowing. What the hell is going on?

You should get dressed. You have to be freezing. Lizzie gave her a hopeful look.

Trying to act as dignified as a woman who’d forgotten she was only wearing a towel could, Kenna said, I’m going to change. But I’m not cold. Giving Lizzie a knowing look, she added, And don’t think I don’t recognize the evade-distract technique. I taught it to you.

Without waiting for a response, Kenna headed up the stairs to her bedroom. Yoga pants, a T-shirt, a fleece, some socks—all good. She didn’t want the two most important women in her life plotting and scheming any more than they clearly already had.

She found them huddled together at her kitchen table over a steeping pot of tea. As soon as she walked in, they fell silent.

What gives? Kenna’s patience—already in short supply these days—was wearing thin.

She sat down across from the dynamic duo and waited.

Lizzie looked nervous. Kenna’s mom looked like she always did. Practical, calm, capable. Except for the clothes—that was definitely different.

I’m a witch, her mom said.

And that was different. Her mom had clearly lost her freaking mind.

Kenna couldn’t help it—she giggled. Gwen McIntyre, witch extraordinaire… How could she not laugh?

I get the midlife crisis thing, Kenna said. The clothes, the new look. I mean, you look kinda hot. I’ve been telling you for ages you should get out there, play the field. But Wicca? Really, Mom? Isn’t that a bit loony, even for a midlife crisis?

Kenna looked at Lizzie for support. Except Lizzie was looking at Gwen sympathetically.

And suddenly Kenna felt like she was attending an intervention. Her own intervention.

Why bring her mom over to the house, especially now? Why were they dealing with this now? But Lizzie wasn’t looking so good. She’d gone from red to very pale. And her eyes looked huge in her face. Kenna’s head whipped around to her mother.

First, I’m offended for Wiccans the world over. Don’t you dare belittle someone’s religion in such a way. I taught you better. Her mom looked pissed.

Since her mom was pretty even-keeled, that was a bad sign.

Kenna scrubbed her hands over her face. I don’t understand.

I’m a—I guess you could say, a born witch.

You’re a witch witch? Kenna’s gaze flicked between her mother and Lizzie.

Lizzie smiled weakly.

You’re an actual witch. Kenna’s voice came out funny, half hoarse, half squeaky. She cleared her throat. Turning to Lizzie, she said, And you knew. She couldn’t keep the hurt, the sense of betrayal, from blossoming in her chest. And she was leaking tears yet again. Dammit. What is wrong with me? she practically yelled as she swiped away her tears.

Blinking furiously, she tried to clear her vision. Then she got it: why Lizzie had picked up Gwen on the way; why they both seemed to be in on the secret; and why she was so completely not herself.

She rested her cheek on the cool wood of her kitchen table. This was an intervention. Shit. So, what exactly am I? Squinting enough to make her head hurt, she turned to Lizzie. And how the hell did you know?

Lizzie swallowed. Gwen and I have worked together. You know, that job in Vegas… Lizzie stopped, hesitating to finish the thought. Not shocking, since Kenna was feeling violent and probably looked worse.

So you knew about Mom and about me—or at least that I might be a witch. Lizzie didn’t argue with Kenna’s conclusion. Kenna shifted her laser stare to her mom. Mom?

Fire witch, like me. Her mom reached out and gripped Kenna’s fingers in a fierce hold. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It’s… She sighed. It’s complicated.

But you knew? Kenna asked Lizzie.

Lizzie nodded slowly, her eyes latched on to Kenna’s face. I did. I wanted to tell you, but—

Kenna held a hand up. I love you. You know I do. But you need to leave now.

Lizzie bit her lip, and her eyes got wide. She blinked, nodded quickly, and stood up. I’m so sorry. Her words came out in a rush. She took a deep, slow breath. Call me if… Call me when you’re ready to talk. And she left, letting herself out the front door.

Gwen arched an eyebrow. She was my ride. You’re going to have to give me a lift home later.

Kenna hadn’t let go of her mom’s hand, and she felt a quick, reassuring pressure on her fingers.

I might be too angry, but I can definitely call you a cab or a rideshare. Kenna extracted her hand from her mom’s clasp. Explain.

Her mom hesitated, a riot of emotions passing across her face.

Feel free to start with any of the major points. Like maybe, how am I a witch? Why is freaky stuff happening now? Or, maybe, why you didn’t tell me. You have a variety of confessional options.

Kenna was ready for some answers. She was owed some answers. And still her mom remained silent. Kenna was allowed to be angry. This whole scenario was nuts.

Kenna raised her voice, slightly but noticeably. Now. You can start now.

Her mom reached into her purse—the huge mom-bag that she always carried, the familiar accessory at odds with her new look. She pulled out a small box and pushed it across the table toward Kenna.

Kenna eyed the pastel box in confusion. "What… Wait a minute. No way. You think I’m pregnant?" she screeched.

Her mom’s eyes softened with sympathy. I’m almost sure of it. It’s that, or—she winced—early onset menopause. Very early.

Appalled, Kenna shook her head. Those are my options? Are you kidding me?

A baby. A child.

Kenna’s insides turned mushy. She barely stopped the aww sound that was burbling in her throat.

She was not a sentimental person. She wasn’t…but if anything could turn her into one, it would be a baby.

And then she got a solid burst of reality, because Max was the only possibility. No. Uh-uh. Nope.

Full-blown denial set in. You’re wrong. I’m not pregnant.

Her mom sighed. I’m ninety-five percent sure that you are, sweetheart. She gently pushed the box another inch closer. But I brought the test so that you’d know for sure.

Kenna’s head shook from side to side. And it just kept shaking. I can’t be pregnant. It’s not possible. I can’t get pregnant. And…I’m not ready. I wasn’t expecting this.

Take the test. Let’s be sure before… Well, let’s just be sure, okay? Her mom’s voice was gentle but firm.

Kenna was angry, uncertain, and confused. She was experiencing more emotions simultaneously than should be possible, chief amongst them denial.

But…she wasn’t herself. Not remotely. Not with the crying, the stealing, the smoke, and the ashes. Her patience had run thin, her reason had fled, and she needed help. Hell, she barely recognized herself.

And while she didn’t believe for an instant that she was pregnant, taking the damn test would convince her mom—and then they could get down to figuring out the real issue.

So Kenna picked up the pastel box, swallowed a biting comment, and headed to the bathroom.

After the longest three minutes of her life had passed, she flipped over the stick.

Her heart stuttered at what she found: two pink lines.

She stared, but that didn’t change the result.

No, that just couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

She stared a little harder, and while her brain did cartwheels trying to sift its way through this altered reality she’d entered, an odd odor filled the small room. What was that smell? Burning plastic?

Dammit! She dropped the melting pregnancy stick into the toilet.

Staring at the innocent white stick in her toilet—now bent into a distinct curved shape—she couldn’t decide. Not what to think, or what to do, or even how to feel.

She closed her eyes and sank slowly down to sit on the edge of her tub. When she finally opened her eyes, she spotted the second test in the pack sitting on the floor.

The second stick managed to avoid death by melting, but it yielded the same result: two pink lines. She carried the stick out with her to the kitchen.

These aren’t very accurate, are they? Kenna waved the stick in the air as she spoke.

Her mom raised her eyebrows slightly, then retrieved the small kitchen trash can from under the sink. Holding the trash can out toward Kenna, she said, They are. Very, these days.

Kenna threw the wand into the garbage, grabbed the trash can, and popped it back under the sink. One of the lines was faint…so maybe I’m only a little bit pregnant. Washing her hands, she said over her shoulder, You’re sure they’re accurate?

Even without the test, I’d be sure. The only time I’ve seen you this emotional…

Kenna felt her entire body freeze, locked in one place, in one moment of time, her past pulled into the present. And then she was back, drying her hands, turning to her mom.

Her mom leaned toward Kenna. I’m so sorry.

Kenna waved her apology away. No. It’s fine, Mom. That was a long time ago. And you’re right. I’ve only ever been this emotional when I was taking fertility drugs. Kenna laughed, a touch of hysteria coloring the sound. Clearly, a lack of fertility is no longer my problem.

And then the tears came again.

It’s worse for witches, her mom said over Kenna’s teary hiccups.

Kenna wiped her tears away. What do you mean?

Her mom gave her a weak smile. As a witch, your hormones are more closely tied to your magic than most magic-users and that can make pregnancy an emotional roller coaster.

Can? What was it like for you?

Her mom’s gaze darted to the side.

Kenna waved a hand to catch her mom’s attention, certain yet more life-altering news loomed. What? What’s wrong?

I love you so much. Her mom’s voice was fierce, almost angry. A bizarre reaction to the events of the