Spelled

By Anne Eastwick

A truly funny and inspiring story about that first crush in a world of witches and magic.

Your magic is not a toy.
It is not for cleaning your room.
It is not for impressing your friends.

These are the rules Willa lives by, until she meets Henry.

Henry had never fit in with anyone before, but with a little help from his new friend Willa, and a little magic, he starts to feel like he belongs. Until a tragic encounter with a sorceress destroys everything.

Grab this bite-sized read, and enter the world of Willa Wicked today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oakland Press
• Release date: Jul 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311471079

Book preview

1

The Noose of Henry Charming

Henry Charming had been teased since kindergarten for more than just his fairytale name and wild red curls. But that’s not why he wanted to die.

When he finally returned to school after an attempt on his own life, everyone made up nasty stories about why it happened. And still, Henry wouldn’t say a word about it. All he said when I asked him one day was, It wasn’t because of them, you know? I know everyone thinks that, but that’s not why I did it.

When I asked him what he meant, he simply said the bullying never bothered him enough to make him want to die. And then he stuffed both hands into his pockets, ducked his head, and checked the street before crossing it.

I don’t know if you’ve ever known someone who wanted to die, but they probably don’t check the street before they cross it, right?

And if I was curious about Henry before then, that just cemented it.

Why would someone want to die, but not want it enough to accidentally get hit by a car?

I’d never actually spoken to him before that. We’d lived across the street from each other for a few years and caught the same bus to school every day, but Hey, Henry, why’d you do it? were the first words I ever said to him. Admittedly, I stayed away from him because he sort of looked like he didn’t want anyone to notice him. He was a little on the skinny side, with a dark-red bowl of curls on his head, eyes hidden behind thick-framed lenses, and a wardrobe full of the ugliest button-up shirts his mom could buy from the local Walmart store. We’re talking tiny brown triangle patterns or loud floral ones. He wasn’t much to look at, and he always kept his head down, so he was the kind of kid you either never noticed or looked at once and then quickly looked away from.

I know how that feels, because I’m a witch. I’m supposed to keep it a secret but everyone suspected it. They’d teased me for it until the ninth grade, all because I drank a bottle of red paint in kindergarten and made up a silly little spell, then burped bubbles. Red bubbles. I was super proud of myself, but the rest of the class freaked out, and that’s how I got the name Willa the Wicked Witch.

Thankfully, by eleventh grade they’d all forgotten, or convinced themselves that it wasn’t really possible. Plus, most people wanted to like me because my father just happened to own half the businesses in town and threw the wickedest Halloween parties in all of Salem—parties talked about all year long for the strange and spooky occurrences and very realistic manifestations of ghosts. Which, what they didn’t know, were actually real.

So my high school story was heading for a happy ending of graduation parties, shopping or studying with large groups of friends, and hopefully senior prom with Chase Nightingale. But Henry Charming and his attempted suicide had just plunged him down a path of further isolation.

By the time he came back to school after the rope burns healed, the puns and cruel-but-kind-of-funny jokes were no longer whispered in corners. We were warned in a whole school assembly not to tell those jokes at school or even reference the terrible situation, but even now as I stood by my locker I could hear people talking about it—theorizing. No one much seemed to care that Henry had wanted to die. All they wanted was to know why.

Willa! Lucy called, waving me over to her locker. Willa, you have to come see this!

I slammed my locker shut, tucking my books under my arm as I glided over. What’s up?

She aimed her phone at me. Look.

I dipped my head to see. Where did you get that?

The screen angled back to her eyes and she thumbed at it. My mom bought it for me. What do you think?

I think a dress that small is asking for trouble. It’s great, I said. So sexy. Thomas Mason is going to go so crazy over you at the party!

Her nose crinkled and her lip curled on the top. Ew. Thomas Mason is yesterday’s news, Willa. I’m going with Chase Nightingale.

My blood ran cold. My teeth fused together in my mouth. Steam came out of my ears. Chase? I said, forcing that all-American smile. Wow, Lucy. He’s… I mean, wow.

I know, right? she said, texting away like I wasn’t even there. He said if he was going to the hottest party he wanted the hottest girl on his arm. Hey— She looked up, sniffing the air. Do you smell… smoke?

I covered my ears for a second then waved my hand around like I was tidying my wind-messed hair. Nope. No. I don’t smell a thing.

Lucy’s small shoulders moved up dismissively and she went back to her texting.

When I walked away, she didn’t even notice.

I practically cooked my own head right there in the middle of the school corridor and she barely even noticed.

I’ve been crushing on Chase Nightingale for two years now and she hasn’t even noticed!

A shrill screeching ripped across the school halls then, and everyone looked up as the sprinkler system kicked in. My freshly straightened hair withstood the winds of fall outside this morning, but the second that water touched it the curls bounced out of place and frizzed up on top of my head like a woolly red sheep.

In the same way a mob of bored zombies might move toward fresh meat, people in the corridors shuffled to the nearest exit, books over their heads, muttering the usual feed about the school needing to fix the sprinklers. Again. But the principal, Mr. Ferguson, had fixed them several times. What they needed to fix was this little witch’s temper.

As we gathered in groups outside, I looked around for Chase. I needed to know who asked who to my party. If Lucy asked him, he might have said yes because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But if he asked her, then my two-year crush would very swiftly be coming to an end.

I spotted his mop of blond hair a head above the guys he was standing with in the parking lot. He was laughing about something that had the others folding over, and when I saw him make a gesture above his head and angle his neck flaccidly to one side, poking out his tongue—as if he’d died on the end of a rope—I quickly looked away, my eyes falling on a god-awful shirt a few feet in front of me: Henry, whose eyes were directly on Chase.

A sinking feeling went through me when I saw the expression on his face, and I was about to walk over and tell him I was sorry those guys were so obviously talking about him, but he put his head down before he even saw me and just walked away—out of the school and down the street.

If any part of my conscience wanted to feel pity for him before, that just cemented it.

History is the foundation for the future in a family of witches. Magic is passed down, spells and grimoires are passed down, and so are family homes. In my case, the grandmother that was supposed to pass it down hadn’t passed on yet, which meant we were cramped into a four bedroom house that was built some time in the early eighteen-hundreds. It just wasn’t designed for teenage girls that needed personal space and their own modern bathroom!

My parents said the house was too old to renovate and insisted I share the tiny downstairs bathroom with Gran. Until she passed on, they added without adding it.

Gran wasn't easy to live with, though. She wasn’t one of those lovely old ladies that baked and gave good advice. She was the other kind—the weak and cranky old hag with the pointy hat and warts on her nose, who turned you into a frog instead of grounding you. Okay, that’s exaggerating. She didn’t have warts. But I’d spent my fair share of Saturdays as a frog or other nasty little critters instead of shopping or going to parties with my friends.

Because of Gran, my nightly ritual involved staring at the stars and wishing we could move back to our old house—the giant mansion on the water—back to the way things were before Gran got too old to remember to eat and bathe. Funny how she suddenly remembered all those essential tasks as soon as we moved in.

The only saving grace was that Mom gave me her childhood bedroom. It was large and open, with a comfy window seat covered in squishy pillows that gave me a full view of both ends of the street. I had a double bed to my right and a desk across from it on my left, a chest of drawers by the door with a big mirror above, and enough floor space for at least four friends to sleep over.

I could feel the history in this room—feel the ghosts of my ancestors—and that was one of the things I did love about living here. Also, I got to read Gran’s Book of Shadows whenever I wanted. Since she forbid it to leave the house, I used to only read it when I’d visit. Which was never.

I shut my bedroom door and thanked the goddess for Fridays, dumping my bag in my tiny wardrobe before taking up my favorite spot in the window seat—right where the cushion had worn to the shape of my butt.

Down in the street the trees dropped leaves on unsuspecting kids riding their bikes, and moms tended pumpkins that’d gone a little flaccid, while all around, the magic of Halloween filled the air. I could feel the buzz of spirits as they prepared themselves for the Walk Among the Living in a few weeks’ time. Uncle Albert and Fiona the Grey, the Rattling Rocker and Grandpa George would all come across from the spirit world to attend our party, and even that demon from under my bed when I was ten would pay a visit. Luckily, I had my charmed bloodstone to keep him away.

I wrapped my fingers tightly over it, just to make sure it was still around my neck, before dropping it back under my shirt.

Across from us in a house as old as ours but not quite as well kept, Henry Charming sat on the porch steps eating a sandwich. He watched the kids go up and down the street, his wiry red hair pulsing on his forehead in the wind, his knobby knees showing beneath the khaki shorts he’d somehow managed to pair with a black tee-shirt and a pair of ugly brown high-tops.

If he looked up, he wouldn't see me staring. There were still enough leaves on the tree outside his house to hide me, but just in case, I looped a finger around my head twice and whispered, Invisible me you cannot see. It just felt safer that way. Henry and his attempt on his own life brought out my curious side—made him somewhat of a mystery to me—and I needed to stare at him a while to make sense of it.

Without his