Witch Way Out Page 2

  And too pushy by half.

  Serve him right if she didn’t show up. She could stay home and teach him to wait for an answer before assuming every witch in town would fall to his feet at a bit of attention. What had her mother always said? When you assume, you make an ass of you and me. How dorky would it sound if she repeated that? When he came over to find out why his silly dinner was getting cold and she hadn’t shown up. Why, Mr. Bear, did we have a date? I don’t recall accepting an invitation to dine...

  Sashaying into the kitchen to a samba beat, she opened one cover then the next, finding exactly what she’d put in there by way of snacks.

  Zip. Zero. Nada. And a tin of tea.

  Problem.

  If she stayed home...well, she had the tea. And unless the previous owners left a stash of food somewhere she hadn’t found yet, she had nothing else. Not even sugar. Her tummy rumbled, reminding her she’d had a long day and very little food during the course of it. Nothing since a 7-Eleven hot dog on the way from Zelda’s. What could it hurt to let him feed her? He could use a little magic in his life, if his dull blue-and-white house with the single tree on its neatly trimmed lawn offered any indication.

  But why was she making a big deal out of a dinner invitation? Yuvan, a nice neighbor, had returned her pets with very few complaints considering what his bathtub must look like and followed up with an offer of food!

  Little gave her the warm fuzzies so much as someone offering to feed her. Despite her skill with herbs and remedies, she couldn’t cook anything non-medicinal. Except of course, a microwaved frozen burrito. If she had a burrito. Or a freezer. Or a microwave.

  Tina grabbed her cell phone from the counter and snapped her fingers. The music lowered a little while she chanted under her breath and waited for the phone to ring. Somewhere in the vicinity, there had to be a real place to dance, and her hunky neighbor would make a great escort.

  “Hello?” Oh that voice!

  Remember, Tina, he’s bossy. Don’t let him think that works with you.

  “Hey, Yuvan. Your neighbor here. Tina? Remember?”

  “Uh, of course, sure.” Rattling sounds in the background. “I hope you aren’t calling to cancel. Dinner is almost ready.”

  What was he making? She pictured a hunk of fresh, raw salmon on a platter with a sprig of parsley for garnish, but even that would be better than nothing! Sashimi, right? Tina twirled a lock of hair around her fingers then crossed them. “No, not at all. I was just thinking if you are offering your hospitality, I want to return the favor.”

  “Oh”—something crashed to the floor—“absolutely. Sounds good. Whatever you like. Now, if you won’t think me rude, I just dropped one of my jars of preserved lemons, and I want to get it cleaned up.”

  Preserved lemons? Intriguing! She did a little soft-shoe step, throwback to elementary school tap lessons given by a migraine-prone teacher. “All right! See you soon.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up. How did you get my number?”

  “Magic.” She clicked disconnect and snapped her fingers. The music, the latest by the Zombie Twisters, followed her up the stairs to change into something a little more dinner worthy. What did one wear to eat at the home of one’s small-town neighbor? He’d probably barbeque something or maybe serve stew. Or that raw salmon. It all sounded better than what she had on hand! Were the lemons for the salmon?

  An hour later she stood in front of the gorgeous, if ripply, full-length mirror in her new bedroom, surveying the results of her beautification project. She’d gone a little further than she intended, with a lavender-and-lime dress with plunging neckline, shorter skirt, and a pair of sparkly purple pleather boots. Sure, overkill for dinner in the country, but maybe that way he’d be excited when she told him about hitting the nightclubs.

  The music thrummed around her, “Bouncing with Zombies” by a band she couldn’t remember the name of but loved, sending her into a pogo. Maybe they’d dance after dinner tonight. She could get music going in his house if he didn’t have his own. Lights, too. A snap of her fingers and a sparkly disco ball spun over her head, along with a number to match the mood. Could he hustle?

  Could he dance as a bear? She giggled and spotted Ralph eying her from the corner. “Oh, chill, cat. A girl has to have some fun, especially if she’s going to run an Internet business from the back of beyond.

  A dash of glitter mascara in the color of her boots, a wave in the direction of her hair that sent the red locks into a curly updo, and she was ready for her scene! Skipping down the stairs, she hummed along with the music. Mmm food and mmm her yummy neighbor to enjoy it with. What more could a girl want.

  Arriving on the first floor, she turned toward the front door and froze. Where did it go?

  Yuvan chanted as he cooked. A mantra taught him by his new yoga teacher, Swami Srilami, which roughly translated from Sanskrit meant, “Peace and joy.”

  “Shanti, shanti, ohhhm. Shvaana, shvaana, ohhhm.” He always felt warm inside when he chanted. Some people felt that he should be vegetarian in his search for peace, and true, some of his family weren’t big carnivores, but overall, bears were omnivores, and the few times he’d tried to eat just veggies and fruits and nuts, he’d felt so weak, it hadn’t lasted more than a few days.

  He often enjoyed exotic fare, like the Moroccan couscous he currently prepared. He even had authentic dishes in which to serve it properly and a real Moroccan teapot brought back from his cousin Sheira, the world traveler, from a trip to Casa Blanca.

  Exotic...he sought peace but also had, deep down inside, a yen to see the places that inspired his cuisine. A combination that would never meld, so he’d stay here and appreciate his studio and his recipes. Tonight’s meal was intended to ensure the continuation of that peace. If he could convince the dancing belle next door to tone it down and embrace the country life, he might be able to continue on the path he’d set for himself.

  He drew in a breath of fragrant steam as he checked on the chicken with green olives and preserved lemon—luckily, had an extra jar of the essential ingredient in the pantry—cooking in the tagine. The entrée itself was also called a tagine. The stew accompanying the couscous...often referred to as couscous stew. He pictured the busy marketplace with its colorfully dressed people and stands selling fascinating ingredients. The music would be ancient rhythms, all acoustic instruments, the calls to prayer echoing through the aisles several times a day. Although not a Muslim, he respected keeping spirituality in daily life...

  Not like his loud, stomping nightclub-loving family. The Moroccan people lived with the ways of history and the land. Incorporating bits and pieces from the cultures that had at various times settled there. Spaniards, French, Berber tribesmen, Moors, Arabs, and...well, he didn’t know who all. Completely fascinating. He dusted the crisp filo top of the chicken pastilla with the lightest latticework of powdered sugar then stirred the savory vegetables simmering in another tagine, the savory chunks of lamb in spicy tomato sauce...a conglomeration of delicious ingredients to be served, on the rug his cousin brought from her trip to Turkey. He bustled to the living room and set the huge silver tray on the rug then returned to the kitchen for all the little white porcelain dishes of olives and raisins and other tidbits like almonds to snack on or add to the various components of their meal.

  What a pleasant surprise to have someone to drag it all out for. Sure, he’d have had the chicken and the couscous, and maybe the olives, but the rest was a chance to show off. And to eat everything delicious. The little witch next door hadn’t had to tell him what she was, not since Warren opened their clubs to everyone, magical or not, and the women of the Craft were known to party. But, outside of all the noise and her truly extraordinary familiars, he was sure, with a little guidance, she could become a cordial neighbor. He’d feed her, a bribe of sorts, to show what pleasant times one could have when living in harmony.

  And he wouldn’t pursue the attraction he felt. His bear would just have to shut up and leave him in pea
ce. She’s not ours. We live alone.

  Growwwlll.

  Ignoring the response from within, he surveyed the result of his preparations. The room presented just the image he wanted for such a meal. Despite the reputation for Victorian homes to be over-furnished with lots of red velvet and tassels and other heavy, dust-collecting fabrics like horsehair sofas, he’d stripped the place of its antiques upon arrival, sent them to an auction, and gone for a lighter, more airy decorating scheme.

  In the expansive living room, where he stood, he had only a few pieces of comfortable furniture arranged to enjoy the fireplace or watch a movie on the seventy-inch TV mounted over it. His sound system had been installed by Cousin Julius who did the same work for all the clubs. Not that Yuvan would ever use his for such noise. Soft jazz, sometimes, or the sounds of water in the oceans of the world. Whale calls on nights he missed the Pacific Northwest... Tonight, for a special treat, he had a rather unique recording, a subtle belly-dance beat. Perfect for a Moroccan meal. He’d painted the room a pale shade of terra cotta and hung his current series of desert and North African scenes on the walls. Some said paint what you know. He painted what he desired.

  Maybe the witch next door would pose...nude.

  Shut that thought down. Good fences make good neighbors. Maybe a soundproof fence would solve his problems without getting into a relationship with a woman who would probably be happier with just about any of his relatives and their club lifestyle.

  Glancing at the clock over the living room mantle, he calculated in his head and returned to the kitchen. Yuvan inhaled the fragrant air again and sighed. All the spices...cinnamon, saffron, garlic... Must be how the marketplace in Casa Blanca smelled. Heaven and then some. Pressing into the pale mound of dough, he determined it was risen just right. Time to make flatbreads.

  An hour later, the golden discs steamed in their pottery holder next to an array of foods fit for a sultan, but his electronic doorbell—a modern addition added during one of the many remodels his home had undergone in its nearly a century and a half of existence—remained silent. Peering through the curtains, he checked out the path between their homes but saw no sign of his invited guest. His belly echoed the growls of the hungry bear within, and irritation sharpened his appetite. What could be delaying her? Surely she wasn’t spending a lot of time getting fixed up to come next door for a bite to eat.

  Not like it was a date or anything.

  He paced from the door to the rug on the floor, flexing his hands at his sides to avoid the temptation to fall on the feast and devour it. He might not make himself so many dishes unless company was coming, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t eat every bite.

  Finally, just as he was about to call it a miss and accept she’d stood him up, the doorbell rang. In three strides, he grasped the knob and pulled it open to find...nothing. A burble of irritation emerged in a hiccup as he leaned out and looked up and down the street. Nobody. Since their nearest neighbor was at least fifty yards away, and had never approached him yet, it had to be someone from one of the two houses and he lived alone.

  “Tina?” he called. “This is not funny. I know you’re a witch, so what kind of trick are you playing? Dinner is getting cold.”

  Silence. He grasped the edge of the door to pull it closed again. He should move. A neighbor who danced, played music that even now vibrated the windows of her home, and could not be relied upon to show up as promised, did not lend herself to the peace of mind he sought.

  A chirp-slurp-tweet interrupted his plans to pack, and he glanced down. The harshams or whatever she’d called them hopped and fell over one another in what he could only interpret as mad excitement.

  “Shoo.” All he needed was another mess in his tub. He shuddered at the memory. “Go home and tell your mistress...tell her...” Tell her what? Chirp? Tweet? Of course, she was a witch, and maybe all this noise meant something to her. “Tell her I’m sorry she couldn’t be bothered to let me know something suddenly came up.” What TV show had he heard that line on? Didn’t matter. “Now, go away.”

  The brownish one with gray spots leaped forward and wrapped itself around his right leg. The white one with black stripes hopped backward to the top of the porch steps.

  “This isn’t funny, boys.” Were they boys? Yuvan bent to try to pry the first one off his calf, and the white one bounded up to wrap around his neck. “Let go, and go home.” He worked to get his fingers between the fluffy fur and his skin, but it seemed melded there. “Enough.”

  The chirp-slurp-tweet intensified in almost a round where when one chirped, the next slurped then tweeted, in a pounding rhythm until his head threatened to explode.

  “Okay, I tried to be nice, but enough is enough.” His cell phone lay on the table by the couch, so he grabbed it and his keys, closed and locked the door behind him, and lurched down the pathway toward the sidewalk. He’d return the fluffy intruders to their owner and threaten to tell whoever was in charge of witches if she or her familiars, if indeed they were familiars and not just irritating pets, trespassed on his property again. A man, and a bear, could only take so much.

  Mine. Mate.

  “She is not our mate!” he chuffed as he stomped up her walkway.

  Once he told her off, he would return home and eat every bit of the food he’d put so much time and care into preparing then fall into bed to forget about the sexiest...err...most irritating female ever to cross his path.

  He could put the house on the market in the morning.

  Chapter Three

  Dear Zelda,

  I’ve really done it now. The problem is I don’t know what I did. I met my neighbor, did I tell you? So cute! And growly. I’ve never dated a bear, but I think this one could be fun if he just got the stick out of his butt. There may be hope for him, though. He wandered over here all grouchy and insisting I keep the noise down—not everyone is as appreciative of my music and dancing as you and your group. Although, once or twice I almost got the feeling you were a little overwhelmed, like when you put your head between your knees and whimpered. But I’m sure that was not related to us or you would have said so!

  Anyway, new neighbor. His name is Yuvan Ursa. Where have I heard that last name before? He’s a bear of some sort, so growly and sexy, and he lives in this boring house, same era as mine but all blue and white and cute, big yawn...what I couldn’t do for him style-wise! He invited me to dinner, and I got all fixed up—see attached image—and ready to go, to really wow him, with my highest boots and really plastered on the makeup, hair high as the ceiling almost. But now I can’t get out. I went downstairs to the first floor, turned to the front door, and it wasn’t there. So I went back up again and tried a second time, thinking I’d made a wrong turn, but no...still no door. I’ve spent at least an hour wandering, and I always do find my way back to my bedroom, but the downstairs just seems to have changed and I can’t get out. Help! I think it might have been that troll I beat out for the house? A little vindictive curse. I hate trolls! Either way, help! No spell I can think of is working.

  Blessings and desperation,

  Tina

  The red velvet draperies over her bedroom window that had once seemed so luxurious now suffocated her. Tina grasped an edge and yanked them aside to reveal the dusty windows she would have to clean. Harshams made handy dustcloths. But, for now, she only wanted out. Why had the turret room seemed like the best choice for her master suite? The round chamber was at least four stories up, and when she opened the window and leaned out, the ground looked very far away. From her vantage point, no handy handholds presented themselves, either. When she’d picked out the tower room, she hadn’t considered that.

  In fact, what if there was a fire? Although she had no problem leaving the tower itself via the stairs, provided the hypothetical flames did not block them, she had no way out of the house.

  But no fire currently existed, and her mother did always counsel her not to borrow trouble. She had a lot of sayings! And the current problem was
how to find an exit.

  Neither flight nor instant healing were among her talents, so sliding down the sheer turret was not an option. But maybe she could climb out a downstairs window. How could she have been so stupid? Trailing down the wrought iron spiral staircase yet again, she darted toward where the front of the house should be. Sure, there might not be any doors, but a first-floor window offered just as easy an escape.

  If there were any windows. Because while she was almost 100 percent sure there had been on her last trip through, now there were not. The staircase to the second and third floors of the main house was also noticeably absent. In fact, the only familiar thing at all was the spiral staircase straight to the turret room. What if she went up there again then couldn’t even find the stairs?

  She could be Rapunzel in her tower! And while her hair was long and, if she didn’t say so herself, luxurious, it was not long enough to reach the ground so her rescuer could climb up and save her. And why the hell hadn’t that idiotic girl cut her hair off, tied it to something, and shimmied down instead of waiting for rescue anyway? What kind of woman wouldn’t prefer to rescue herself? She hated the shivering females who threw themselves into the arms of big, strong men without even trying to think out their situation first. Did men like that? Oh help! I’m stuck and can’t bother to put any time into coming up with a solution.

  Didn’t matter. Again...not the problem of the moment. No prince stood below the turret, yelling for her to let down her hair, even if it were long enough and...oh cruddles! Think, Tina. Be the witch you’ve always claimed to be.

  Not that she would mind spending some time in the arms of the bear next door, but as an independent woman! Standing on her own two feet and ready to rescue him if necessary. Her rumbling tummy reminded her she hadn’t eaten since that shriveled, gristly hot dog, and a delicious hot dinner and a delicious hot man waited for her next door. Big guy like him might have eaten all the food by now.