Book of Shadows: Volume One: Casting: Book of Shadows, #1

By Michael Beaulieu

What would you do if you found your late grandmother’s book of shadows – a witch’s spell book and journal – and learned that you’re a natural born witch?  You’d try one of the spells, of course, and that’s exactly what 16-year-old Emma McGlinchey does.  To her amazement, the candle lighting spell she picks actually works.  Naturally, she has to recruit best friends Lia and Shar into starting a coven.  Soon the girls cast a spell to make everyone like them at the Catholic high school they’re being forced to attend for the first time.  Unfortunately, it fails to make an impression on a group of zealots who set about bullying Lia and Shar for being an openly lesbian couple.  Meanwhile, a love spell they cast for Emma gets the boy of her dreams to ask her out, but the school guidance counselor comes onto her, too.  The girls attempt to deal with these problems using other spells, but will they be able to set things right before something catastrophic ensues?  Read Emma’s own Book of Shadows and find out in this suspenseful young adult, urban fantasy today. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Midnight Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386579984

Book preview

BOOK OF SHADOWS

Volume One: Casting

A Novel by Michael Beaulieu

Book of Shadows: Volume One: Casting

copyright Copyright 2017 by Michael Beaulieu

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events or incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First edition: April 2017

Visit Michael Beaulieu online and subscribe to his mailing list for announcements about new releases, limited time promotions of his books, a first look at upcoming projects, access to cool giveaways, freebies and much more. www.michaelbeaulieu.com

Cover design by Michael Beaulieu

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Emma McGlinchey-Beaulieu. I just woke up and I’m lying in bed, looking around my room. Like most 16 year old girls, I could talk about my room for hours, but I’ll give you the short version. One wall has floor to ceiling shelves that are overflowing with books, blu-rays, board games, CDs and records. Another has a mural of a blood red dragon fighting a sapphire beta fish painted by my friend Lia. The other two are covered in posters of The Hunger Games, Jessica Jones, David Bowie and Superbus, the latter being my favorite band, who I discovered on one of my family’s trips to Paris. (About half of their songs are in English, the rest in French, which I know quite a bit of.) Otherwise, I have a computer with a large enough monitor, lots of costume jewelry and a couple dozen candles of various colors and scents.

I look over at the Felix The Cat clock on my bedside table; I like retro things. It’s nine thirty already. Today happens to be the last Saturday in August here in Lowell, Massachusetts, which is where I’ve lived all my life. My parents, Logan and Mallory, must be downstairs eating breakfast and getting ready for their day trip to Newburyport. My mother loves all the small shops there and always brings me back candy bars from England from the British store. My favorite is Lion because it’s also popular in France and I eat them all the time in Paris.

I yawn as I sit up and grab my new iPhone, which I begged my mother to let me wait in line for last week. I have a text from Lia: Em, we still on for the mall this afternoon? I text her back: Absolutely. What time? I’m hoping she says one or two so we have practically the whole day together. But not earlier than that because I need to take a shower and get ready. Of course, before that I need coffee. Also, I think I’ll take one or two of the leftover Vicodin from when I had my wisdom teeth yanked a few weeks ago, being that it’s Tampax time and there’s no point letting it go to waste.

I go downstairs, having decided that I need my daily java fix before I do anything else. Sure enough, my parents are sitting at the table, eating breakfast. Today it’s eggs and faux bacon. You see, we’re a family of vegetarians, which I think is wicked cool. I’m glad we do eggs and dairy though. I’d die without Ben and Jerry’s.

Morning, Emma, my mother says.

My father doesn’t really notice me, too busy stuffing his face and reading some medical journal. It’s not that he doesn’t care, mind you. He just gets preoccupied.

My phone vibrates in my neon pink bathrobe, which I bought at Salvation Army last month. I wear it ironically because I think it’s gaudy. I fish it out and look at it. Another text from Lia: 1P.M. Perfect.

What time was the coffee made? I ask as I pick up the pot.

Mom looks at Dad. Not that he notices.

Logan, she says.

He finally looks at her.

She shakes her head. What time did you make the coffee?

Six thirty?

I can’t drink coffee that’s been sitting there that long. I like it black and black coffee needs to be fresh. As I turn to the sink to dump it, it happens. That feeling I get. The feeling that something bad is going to happen. It’s almost like deja vu, but it’s physical, too. My stomach knots up and burns. I feel like someone is pouring ice cold water on my head and it gives me massive brain freeze. Just for ten seconds but it’s awful. Something really bad is gonna happen, I say, my teeth chattering. Then I tremble. That always happens at the end. Once in awhile I collapse. This time I just drop the coffee pot, which hits the floor and shatters, the hot coffee splattering everywhere. Some gets on my legs and feet but it doesn’t burn me. Sure, it stings, but I don’t get actual burns. That’s my other gift.

My parents look worried, but it’s mostly because I dropped the damn coffee pot. Even though I’m always right, they never believe me when I warn them. My mother thinks I have a seizure disorder. My father suspects panic attacks. I think they’re both wrong. If only my premonitions showed me what was coming instead of just making me experience what just happened.

My mother gets a broom and dustpan out of the closet as my father picks up the big pieces of glass. I sit down, feeling unsteady.

Sorry, I say to my parents. I feel awful that they have to clean it up, but I believe I’d pass out if I bent over.

My father sneezes just as he’s about to drop a large shard in the trash. It causes him to make a tight fist around it. Then there’s blood. Lots of blood and it drips everywhere.

Honey! my mother exclaims as my father goes to the sink and runs water over his hand.

Fuck! he exclaims. And he rarely swears.

Is it deep? my mother asks.

Deep enough.

Of course, I feel guilty, my face getting more and more flushed by the second. I might not get actual burns, but my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. What can I do? If I black out, so be it. I have to do something now. It’s my fault this is happening.

My father glares at me, his eyes so angry it’s a wonder they don’t pop out of his head. You’ve done enough already. Then his eyes flicker to my mother and he says, I need stitches.

My mother grabs her purse and I hand my father a clean dish towel, which he wraps around his hand.

Let’s go, my mother says to him. Out the door they go.

Good luck! I shout.

This sucks because my father is a right-handed surgeon – mostly cardiac – and that’s the hand he cut. Tears are rolling down my cheeks now and I really couldn’t feel worse. As I clean up the rest of the glass, I think about cutting myself. As a punishment, you know? But I don’t because I watch Intervention and know that can be addictive.

Aside from cleaning up, there’s really nothing I can do but pray for my father and I said prayers to God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, Virgin Mary and Saint Jude before I left. Now I’m on the bus to the lame Pleasant Valley Mall to meet Lia. Her, me and my other best friend, Sharan, grew up together. We’ve been besties since we were seven and met at Parker Elementary School. They both turned out to be lesbians and they’ve been a couple for two years already. Not something you can say about many 16 year olds. I was actually oblivious to the fact that they were falling in love and quite shocked when they told me while we were on the second level of the Eiffel Tower the time my parents took the three of us to Paris! But, of course, I had to accept it and now I think they’re adorable. I just worry about what might happen if they ever go splitsville. I could never pick sides. It would just suck. Big time. Fortunately, they seem destined to be together.

The reason I’m only hanging out with Lia today is that Shar – our nickname for Sharan – has to go to a wedding with her parents. They’re a really tight knit Indian family who moved here from New Delhi when Shar’s mother was pregnant with her. A year ago Shar told them she was a lesbian and it damn near killed them. I know because I was there for support when she said it. Her parents were a mix of angry and disappointed. They said she was confused, that she was only fifteen and that she was still developing. Her father said she was too young to be attracted to anyone, male or female. Of course, she didn’t tell them that her and Lia were a couple. They would’ve flipped out even harder and forbidden them from spending time together. In any case, I wanted to flee the kitchen when they were screaming at Shar, but she just sat there and took it. So, I had to sit there, too.

Are you a lesbian, too? her mother asked me.

No, I said firmly, as if I was agreeing that it was a bad thing. I was just hoping that it would give them a little solace because they looked so betrayed. Looking back, I wish I wouldn’t have said it that way.

I remember how her mother reached over and placed her hand on mine. Can’t you talk some sense into her?

I tried, I said, which was a lie because I knew she was born gay and nothing anyone could say would change that.

Of course, Shar got a little irked and kicked me under the table. Hard. The funny thing is that her parents are more or less OK with her being a lesbian now. It took them several months to come to terms with it, yes, but today her mother is in P. Flag, that pride group for parents of gay, lesbian and transgender kids. They still don’t know about her and Lia though. Knowing that she’s sexually active would freak them out all over again, but probably not because her partner is a girl, just because she’s their 16 year old daughter.

I’m feeling a little out of it because I took two Vicodin before I left home. That said, I’m still plenty with it enough to realize that the bus has just stopped at the mall and I make my exit accordingly. Then I walk halfway around the building until I find Lia sitting on a bench outside the food court entrance where we always meet. Lia is nothing short of gorgeous and has piercing sapphire eyes. She looks a lot like Ashley Benson from Pretty Little Liars. Except Lia has long pink hair, which is shaved on the left side. As for my hair, sometimes it looks auburn and sometimes it looks brown. That tends to depend on the shampoo I use. I like it best when it looks auburn, so I usually use a shampoo for red-heads, but when it looks brown people are always saying how well it compliments my hazel eyes.

Em, you will not believe this, Lia says. It sounds urgent.

What’s up? I ask.

My mother just told me I can’t have pink hair at school. She’s talking about Noah’s Catholic, where our parents are sending us – and Shar – for high school, which starts next week. We’ve always gone to public schools, but our parents are sending us to Catholic high school for our junior and senior years because it was in the news that our public school, Greater Lowell High School, might be losing its accreditation with colleges.

I put my arm around her and rub her arm. That sucks. But are you really that surprised?

I already hate that stupid fucking Catholic school. Lia swears a lot.

What are you gonna do?

She shrugs. Guess I’ll have to go back to blonde.

An idea strikes me like a lightning bolt and my face lights up. Or you could just wear a wig to school.

Holy shit, Em, she says. You’re a genius.

Just make sure you get one that looks real, I say. Not some Halloween costume grade shit.

Yeah, no kidding. How expensive are decent wigs?

I don’t know, but I bet Juliana will buy you one. Juliana is Lia’s mother, but she’s a modern day hippie and acts more like her sister.

As we walk around inside the mall, we make fun of the stupid, over-priced stores and the lame people who shop at them. We get a laugh out of watching as they buy all sorts of crap they don’t need because society tells them to. Of course, we’re guilty of doing that once in awhile, too, but we’re determined not to fall into the financing trap. Juliana had so much credit card debt she had to file bankruptcy a few years ago.

Look at that woman, she can barely carry all her bags, Lia says, motioning with her head. Sure enough, the woman in question, who looks like Cruella Deville, has six huge bags from Macy’s, New York and Company and JC Penny.

Guess she’s gonna shop til she drops, I say. As we giggle, I think of that part in Fight Club where Brad Pitt tells Edward Norton how the things you have end up owning you. See, we don’t like the mall, but since we can’t drive on our permits without an adult in the car there are only so many places we can hang out. And we spent all day yesterday at Happy Accidents, our favorite café.

Checkout that dipshit over there, Lia says, motioning toward a guy who’s wearing a Bruins hat, Patriots sweatpants and a Red Sox T-shirt.

We both laugh. Hard. One thing about Lia, Shar and I is that we all hate sports. Another thing? They’re vegetarians, too.

We’re sitting down in the food court, drinking our Gloria Jean’s Coco Locos, which is pretty much all we’ll have here. It’s not like the food court has many vegetarian offerings and what they do have is fried or otherwise gross. I mean, who wants to eat a veggie egg roll that’s been frozen for nine months and fried in fattening hydrogenated oil that should’ve been changed three days ago? I’m only giving these things any thought because I’m making an effort not to think about what happened this morning. Unfortunately, it’s not working. I wonder if my Dad hurting his hand was the bad thing that was going to happen or if something else is on its way today.

Em, you alright? Lia asks.

I take a couple deep breaths before answering. It happened again this morning. I don’t have to tell her what. She knows me well enough.

It’s been happening more often.

Yeah. And this morning I think it actually caused something bad to happen.

How?

I was holding the coffee pot when the feeling hit me and I dropped it. Then my father sliced his hand open picking up the glass.

Which hand?

His right, I say and swallow hard.

My iPhone vibrates inside my purse. I look and it’s a text from my mother. It says: Dad needed six stitches but he’ll be OK. Doesn’t seem to be any nerve damage. Don’t forget to ask Lia about helping with grandma’s house tomorrow.

Everything OK? Lia asks.

Yeah, I say. My father needed stitches but it’s nothing serious.

She breathes a sigh of relief. Cool.

Hey, can you and Shar help us clean my grandmother’s house tomorrow?

Yeah, I guess. We were gonna hang out anyway.

I don’t want them to feel obligated. You don’t have to.

No, it’s OK. You know how much I love your grandmother’s house. All that chic vintage shit

Cool. I’m sure my parents will let you keep some stuff.

My grandmother, Eloise Beaulieu, passed away six months ago. She was 95 and still had all her marbles. The house she lived in was my great grandmother’s before that. So, there’s stuff there from both of them. They weren’t hoarders like you see on TV, but they both collected all sorts of things. I can’t wait to get my hands on some of it, even though it’s bittersweet because I miss my grandmothers so much.

As Lia and I continue walking around the mall from hell, Shar facetimes us from the wedding. It looks like quite celebration. Her family is Catholic, but the reception looks like it’s straight out of India, which I think is awesome.

My parents and I are the first to arrive at my grandmother’s on Sunday. It’s a fairly large house, light green with dark brown shutters that actually shut. It’s at the end of a dead end street on a hill and I’ve always felt like royalty whenever we’ve driven up here.

At one time, every house on the street was owned by a Beaulieu or someone who married into the family. Also, they all spoke French, which is one of the reasons I’ve been taking it since junior high. I’ve even been studying French this summer and will be taking it at Noah’s Catholic. You’d think my mother would be proud of me since she’s fluent, but if she is she sure has a funny way of showing it. You see, she won’t speak it with me out of respect for my Irish father, who doesn’t understand it. Of course, I can understand her not wanting to speak it in front of him, which would be rude, but she won’t even speak it with me when we’re home alone. I think that’s pretty stupid. It’s really disappointing, too, because when I was a kid my mother used to speak French so beautifully with my grandmother and great grandmother. And my grandmothers did speak English, so it’s not like she had to speak French with them. I guess they just preferred it that way. Or maybe she’s the one who liked it that way, which would make it even less fair that she won’t speak it with me.

We walk into the house and I immediately feel a strong connection to my grandmothers, having visited them so many times here. As I said before, my grandmother’s name was Eloise. My great grandmother’s name was Ruth. We called them Grandma Eloise and Grandma Ruth. And it’s like they’re both still here, welcoming us inside. It makes me so happy to see all of their books and knick knacks and old furniture and everything. Just the smell of the place makes me nostalgic. It’s a mix of lavender, lilacs, wood, dust, and cleaning supplies they probably don’t make anymore.

I can’t believe you’re selling this place, I say. It’s not like we need the money.

It’s the will, my father says. It specifies that the house is to be sold for your mother and your aunts to split the money.

You realize the stuff in the house is probably worth more than the house itself.

That’s why we’re having an antiques dealer appraise things after everyone’s had a chance to take what they’d like.

Can I take the old desk in the office and sell it for a couple grand? I ask jokingly.

My mother folds her arms in front of her. You’ll take what you can bring home in a couple boxes and be reasonable about it.

I clench my jaw in lieu of saying something sarcastic.

It’s noon and I’ve gone through half the books in the living room and cried twice. I have so many fond memories of reading them when I was a kid and talking to Grandma Ruth and Grandma Eloise about them. I’ve always been an advanced reader, so I was reading things like A Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations when I was eight. I wish I could keep all of these books, which already feel like they’re mine, but I was only given one box for whatever books I want to keep and it’s almost full already. So far, about half the books are things I’ve never read that I was planning to eventually and the others are favorites that I read and discussed with my grandmothers. I hate choosing though. Maybe I’ll get lucky and the books won’t be appraised for much and my parents will say I can keep them all. One of the rooms in our house is a library and I think we’d have enough room, if only just barely. Unfortunately, most of them are first printing hardcovers so they’re probably worth a fortune.

Lia and Shar arrive around twelve thirty, just after I’ve finished dusting all the books.

How goes it? Lia asks as I let them in.

I let out a sigh. The truth? I’m miserable. I want every single one of the books but the parental units are only letting me keep what I can put in one box.

That sucks.

This place is wicked awesome, Shar says, looking around. This is the first time she’s been here since we were kids.

I told my mother I was giving you each a box for helping us clean, I say.

Sweet, Lia says. Where are your parents?

Upstairs. In Grandma Eloise’s bedroom. My aunts are in the kitchen.

Maybe we can go clean your Grandma Ruth’s room? she asks. I would die for one of her old clocks. Grandma Ruth collected clocks. There are a couple of those grand ones that are almost as tall as I am downstairs but she has a whole wall of smaller ones in her room. Plus, others on her bureau and dresser. I totally want one, too.

Let’s do it, I say. I need a break from dusting anyway.

I hand Lia and Shar each a decent-sized box and take one for myself.

As soon as we walk into my Grandma Ruth’s room a warm sensation washes over me. It’s like the opposite of those awful premonition feelings I get, making me feel totally calm. I guess it’s similar to the feeling I experienced when we entered the house but it’s much stronger. The only bad thing about it is that it only lasts for a minute.

God, you can sure smell the dust, Shar says.

The funny thing is, all I smell are sweet roses. It must be from the perfume collection on her bureau.

How do you want to do this? Lia asks.

I’m not sure. My mind is wandering as I take everything in. I look at all the clocks on the wall. I know from memory that a few of them have cuckoo birds that come out on the hour. I definitely want one of those. Not sure which one though. They’re all awesome. I want some of the perfume, too. I love the idea of wearing perfume from 1930 or whenever. To be like the only person alive today who wears that scent. Then there’s the crosses. My great grandmother collected crucifixes and there must be five dozen on the closet door. It’s kind of creepy, actually. It makes me feel like the devil is trapped inside and the crosses are all that’s keeping him from escaping.

Lia punches me on the arm. Kind of hard, too.

What? I snap.

I asked you how you want to do this. Like, five times, she says.

I shrug. Um, I’m not sure. I guess let’s take what we want first then we can clean.

Duh, Lia says and I glare at her.

Can we pick clocks first? Shar asks, eyeing them the way a kid eyes gummy worms in a candy store.

Yeah, but let’s not fight, I say. If two of us wants the same one we flip a coin.

What if all three of us want the same one? Lia asks.

Then I’ll just pass on it and you and Emma flip. Shar says. She’s always a sweetheart like that.

We divide up the clocks. Of course, we don’t take them all. I take the best one of the cuckoos from the wall, which is mostly made out of wood, probably mahogany. Lia also takes one that’s mostly wooden and another that has a frame that looks like it’s made out of solid gold. As for Shar’s, well, Shar’s looks like it’s made of platinum. Not that I really know anything about fine metals or whatever. I just hope my mother doesn’t tell them they can’t have them because they look like they’re worth a lot of money. See, my mother’s an attorney, so between that and my father being a surgeon I’m pretty sure we have more money than we know what to do with – not that my $30 dollar a week allowance reflects it – but if my Aunts really need the money they might say we can only keep one each.

Next we start going through the bureau and the dresser. Both hold a lot of clothes but they reek of mothballs. Still, we take some of it. Mostly the corsets, which are gorgeous and of a quality you don’t see every day. There are jewelry boxes and stuff, too. I think most of it’s costume jewelry but, being the costume jewelry whore that I am, I take some anyway. At least the damn Catholic school lets you wear accessories and we’re going to be the coolest with this stuff.

These earrings rule, Lia says, holding up a pair that’s like all of these tiny gold circles connected to each other. I kind of want them for myself but I let her have them. I’m still feeling guilty about my father cutting his hand yesterday and it’s got me in this mood where I just totally don’t want to argue with anybody. I just want people to be happy. Besides, I’m exhausted from crying about the books.

There are a few pearl necklaces and earrings in the jewelry box I’m going through. I wonder if they’re real.

You guys want any of these? I ask.

No thanks, Lia says.

Yeah, I’m not a pearl girl either, Shar says.

Cool. More for me, I say and smile.

I’m about to put the pearls in my box but then I say fuck it and just put the whole jewelry box in it. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll have sentimental value and I need a new jewelry box anyway.

Eek! Shar suddenly screams.

‘What?" I ask as I turn to face her and Lia starts laughing. I look and see a few old dildos in one of the bottom drawers. One is shiny and golden but the other two are made out of wood. They appear to be professionally made though. I mean, they’d have to be. You wouldn’t want to get a splinter inside of you using a homemade dildo. Goddess, that would suck.

Wasn’t her husband a wood worker? Lia asks. I hadn’t even thought of that.

Yeah, I say.

I kind of like the golden one, Lia says.

Are you serious? Shar asks.

Sure, Lia says, picking it up. It’s kind of heavy, definitely not cheap shit like my broken vibrator. And it feels nice and cool.

It’s yours if you want it, I say. She puts it in her box, tucking it underneath some other stuff.

Shar blushes as she picks up one of the wooden ones. Oh, this is cool, she says. It has marbles or something inside it. She turns it from side to side so we can hear.

Guess that was their idea of a vibrator, Lia says.

I think it has your name on it, I say to Shar.

Shar scratches her head. Seriously? You think I should take it?

I give her an evil grin. Yeah. She might as well.

You totally have to, Lia says.

Then you have to take the other one, Em, Shar says.

I open my mouth to say something about not wanting something that was in my great grandmother in me, but then I just say fuck it and put it in my box. I can throw it out later.

When I turn around, Lia and Shar are kissing, which always makes me feel a little weird, like I’m the third wheel, which I guess I am sometimes.

I open the closet door. It’s a huge walk-in closet. So many dresses. More icky moth balls, too. I guess it’s good she used them so the clothes didn’t get eaten by those pests but, seriously, the smell is giving me a headache. They must be made of some seriously toxic shit.

I look down and see that there are all sorts of boxes and shoes on the floor. Also, a really nice, wooden dollhouse that’s sure to be an expensive antique now. It’s far too big to fit in