Page 1 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
I’m sitting in a booth, peering out the window, waiting for a Mister Preston Carwright. I’m at the quaint diner, Hocus Yolk Us, where the omelets are ‘magical.’ Everything in Danvers, originally Salem Village, revolves around witches—even our restaurants. They’re all just a bunch of tourist traps, but this particular haunt does have the best food.
The door dings as it opens, and I look up expectantly. I don’t know who this Preston is exactly, but it’s not the elderly couple coming in for breakfast. My gaze flicks back to stare sightlessly out the window as thoughts about the upcoming show surge to the forefront of my mind. It was my gram-gram who first heard about it, which is not surprising considering how much time she spends trolling the internet and watching TV—mostly just infomercials. The CW was looking for contestants for their new show,Modern Day Witch Hunt.
I remember cringing at the name.
Humans are ridiculous.
Of course, witchcraft is just a bunch of nonsense to the human world, or an earth-based religion that barely begins to scrape the legacy of my people. True magic is real, but only for those born within the right bloodlines—my bloodlines. My family’s coven is directly descended from Mother Shipton and is one of the most powerful clans around—well, itused to beuntil another coven cursed us.
I scowl.
I would never have to cater to human whims if not for this curse—thisjinx—that not only fucked my family, but also changed the course of history. If only the Putnams had stayed in their lane, but those assholes were worse than a little old lady crossing six lanes of traffic with no turn signal. See, Mother Shipton gifted her grimoire to her eldest daughter—who would marry and become a Porter. To her other daughter, Mother Shipton bequeathed her book of prophecies.
This daughter would marry a Putnam andso began the divide.
The younger sister envied the elder her mother’s grimoire. After Mother Shipton died, a bitter war ensued between the two siblings about who rightfully deserved the grimoire—ironically, no one wanted the jumbled ramblings of Mother Shipton’s prophecies, but maybe if her daughters had taken the time to read and interpret them, their destinies would not have been painted red with blood.
Lifetimes passed, but the Porters and Putnams remained rivals, never mending the rift that had torn their family apart to begin with. On one fateful night in late 1690, Ann Putnam stole the grimoire and sailed to the Americas in an attempt to escape the Porter coven’s wrath and retaliation—but the Porters weren’t a bunch of little bitches.
They sailed the Atlantic and followed Ann to the colonies, trying to recover what was rightfully theirs.
The Putnams settled in Salem Village, while the Porters did so in Salem Town, and their feud resumed. Everyone within a twenty-mile radius knew about the two families and, often, others would pick sides and join in the fighting. The colonial settlement soon became a breeding ground rife with malice, deceit, and allegations—the worst coming from Alicia Porter in 1693 when she accused Ann Putnam of witchcraft.
I always wince at this part.
It’s a tough pill to swallow acknowledging that my great13-gram was a traitor and the instigator of the Salem witch trials.How ironic is that shit?
Because witches don’t rat out other witches. . . unless they want their grimoire back, I guess—and damn did Alicia Porter want hers. I would argue that Ann Putnam had what was coming to her, but no one deserved her fate. The humans of that time were puritanical—literally. Those crazy bastards took Alicia’s words to heart and burned—motherfucking burned—Ann at the stake.
Still, Ann got the last laugh—and the last word.
While she was seared alive on her own punishment pyre, the Putnam matriarch clutched Mother Shipton’s grimoire to her chest, where it incinerated into ash. As if that wasn’t revenge enough, Ann’s last words were a hex on my family: with every consequent generation, the Porter magic would dwindle further and further until there would be no more.
Alicia accepted the curse because she deserved no less for her betrayal, but she refused to let it be passed down to her family—we were innocent. Unfortunately, the only way to undo the hex was a spell inside Mother Shipton’s grimoire, which was nothing more than dust and smoke. Alicia spent the rest of her life trying to reverse the curse, but to no avail. She even prevailed upon the Putnams to help, but the divide that had always been there now was a chasm a continent wide.
There was no forgiveness and to this day, the Porters and Putnams hate each other’s guts.
Of course, the Putnams havetheirmagic, so I don’t understand why they’re so pissy. It’s my family that got the shaft. I allegedly have prophetic blood running through my veins and I can barely make a piece of paper twitch. Witches are connected to the Great Mother—our planet—and our magic is elemental; therefore, our powers are strongest in tandem with fire, wind, water, and earth.
Making a stick-it-note defy gravity should be child’s play by simply harnessing a gentle breeze. Or making a faucet drip by calling on the water—but I can’t make a spigot leak in an eighty-year-old house with crappy pipes. I glare at the small candle on the table, trying to make the flame bigger and brighter, proving Ann Putnam and her hex wrong, but nothing happens.
Which brings me back to why I’m even sitting at Hocus Yolk Us—it’snotfor the eggs. Nope, it’s to meet with this Preston character because I’m about to become a reality show star. Every day I try to break this curse, but never in a million years would I dream it would be like this—competing with a bunch of ignorant humans for a family heirloom long thought gone.
That’s right—the prize for winning this tv reality game show isMother Shipton’s grimoire.
Clever Ann Putnam didn’t actually burn with it—she hid it. Somehow, instead of her children finding the treasure, a human did. Luckily, the man didn’t destroy it on the spot—have you read about the Colonials during that time?Religious zealots doesn’t even begin to describe them. When Gram-Gram came to me announcing that the TV show reward was the real deal, I was floored. How the old thing managed to make it all this time is nothing short of a miracle—but magic has a way of surviving.
How she even knew was a bit of a mystery, but Gram-Gram explained that she could feel the grimoire calling to her—proof it rightfully belongs with the Porters as Mother Shipton decreed. Unfortunately, the Putnam curse has afflicted our family for so long, no one is capable of magicking the humans into giving us the grimoire. Meaning. . . one of us actually has to compete for the damn thing and that lucky person is me—the youngest member of the Porter coven.
If you consider thirty young.
I usually do, but watching a bunch of college students laugh over their breakfast a few tables over makes me feel old.
And alone.
I’m cursedandsingle.
Those Putnams messed with my magic and my sex life. Okay, to be fair, it might not be Ann Putnam’s fault that I’m not getting laid. But it definitelyisher fault that I can’t set the diner’s curtains on fire using the flame from the tea light—which might actually be for the best. The door dings open again and I glance up, not expecting to see much, and my mouth promptly falls open.
