Page 1 of Witch You Would
Chapter 1
Penelope
The customer’s blue ombré hair spell sparked like fireworks as he leaned across the counter, ranting about how I was the worstspell caster in Miami. I hid my nerves behind my best helpful-employee smile.
“Get your manager,” he snapped. Literally, he snapped his fingers at me.
“I’m the only one here, sir.” Just me and my pepper spray.
Espinosa’s Spell Supplies was so small, I didn’t have much room to move if he got violent. I’d have to run through a mazeof shelves, knocking over bottles and tins and prayer candles, then dramatically throw myself through a floor-to-ceiling glasswindow to get outside, because the door opened inward. Bleeding to death on the sidewalk of a strip mall would suck. I couldduck out the back door, through the workshop and storage room, but if I survived and anything was missing or messed up, myboss would kill me herself.
I needed to stop catastrophizing. It was super unhealthy.
“I have a very important interview! I can’t go there with hair like this!”
I’d been having important interviews for months, and I’d somehow managed not to yell at random retail workers.
“Fix this! Now!” He banged on the counter. I almost pepper-sprayed my butt.
I could do what he asked, or I could tell him to leave. My brain threw together a montage of bad store reviews on Evoke, alecture from my boss, my student loan payments, and the three-digit balance in my checking account.
“Do you have the spell recipe with you?” I asked. If I sounded more cheerful, I’d attract woodland creatures to help me cleanand find a horny single prince.
He threw the instructions on the counter, clearly printed from a blog because they were covered in ads for weight-loss potionsand “one weird tricks.” Big sigh. Magic was like cooking: anyone could do it, and anyone could make up recipes, but that didn’tmean you should trust random crap you found on the internet.
As soon as I saw one reagent on the list, I was pretty sure I knew what happened.
“Did you use a broken duskywing butterfly wing?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. I bet myself a coffee he’d lie about it.
“No.”
Mmm, coffee.
“They fall apart pretty easily, and the spell wouldn’t work if it was broken,” I said.
“Maybe you sold me a broken one.”
Nice try. “We don’t sell them, but if you recast the spell correctly—”
“I want this removed now!” A shower of sparks exploded from his hair.
I went over the recipe again. The infusion method used an essential oil, so soap should work for a counterspell, with lemon to balance the butterfly wing . . . no, orange blossom honey wouldhave fewer side effects and better binding. I put the pepper spray in my back pocket and grabbed my notebook, sketching out a plan.
The customer grumbled. Checked his phone. Checked his fake designer watch. Checked his phone again.
“I think I have a solution,” I said finally. “Our normal casting rate is twenty-five dollars an hour plus ingredients, but—”
“You expect me to pay to fix what you did to me?” he shouted.
Polite smile: slipping. “You cast the spell yourself, sir.”
“Are you saying I can’t cast a simple hair glamour? I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive! What are you,eighteen?”
I was twenty-six, and I’d started casting with my abuela Perla—my mom’s mom—when I was old enough to stir a pot.
“You sold me the wrong ingredients!”
