Page 13 of The Bairwick Witches
“There’s no need to be it was hilarious. You were being a gigantic asshole and then… well. I mean, how it slung around to hit me in the face—impressive.” The giggles returned, and the young man, though resisting, eventually broke down into laughter.
Within an instant, all the frustration and sourness melted from the young man’s face as his expression relaxed. His smile pushed his cheeks up, highlighting the symmetrical perfection and flawless skin. His eyes softened, and their vibrant green shone from beneath thick brown eyebrows, where a few of his curls always seemed to land after being swept from his face.
“We’re all sadly human,” Schuyler added, “honestly, not really a big deal. Just mother nature taking you down a peg.”
Issac agreed and then seemed to realize how he’d acted before the great flatulence. “Wow, okay, so really having a shit day, and I’m sorry. I am so sorry for being in total raging bitch mode. Just like everything today is, ugg, so stressful and overwhelming.”
“No worries. I’m Schuyler, it’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Issac, with two S’s, Issac Carrow, nice to meet you as well. And again, apologies for the bitchiness, and the, um, well the um-”
“The cheese-fry funk we’re smelling right now.” Schuyler smacked his mouth a couple of times, “it’s viscous for sure.” He giggled again, “but I got it.” He whisked his right pointer fingerthree times under his nose, “Tazele.” A breeze swept through, carrying away the foulness and replacing it. “Oh, new car smell, that’s a nice surprise,” Schuyler exclaimed. “You said your uncle passed, right? I’m sorry to hear that.”
Issac sniffed the air, astonished at the dazzling ultra-clean scent filling his nostrils. Issac’s body relaxed, his arms unfolded, shoulders dropped, and muscles loosened as he found a more relaxed stance at the counter. His energy, in turn, shifted into welcoming and pleasant. “How did you?” He questioned, before answering Sky. “Yes, he died long before I was even born.” Issac sniffed the scent again, still marveling at it. “I found this box my mother hid away in a closet, it turns out—¡Qué Sorpresa!—I’m a witch.
“I knew there was something odd about me, something different, not like the being gay kind of different, cause obvi, but like,different-different. There was this nagging thought to look in the closet, and I found the truth. It’s all very Disney Channel movie. My mother was livid with me.” They were the first words to come out with actual sincerity and not a hint of attitude.
“That’s not uncommon,” Schuyler explained. Some people didn’t like the gift, some hid or even renounced the craft outright, burying their magic like a secret. And now the attitude made sense; Issac saw only the illusion of Bairwick, oblivious to the truth. Every ounce of annoyance he felt for the young man passed, replaced with empathy for him having been left in the proverbial dark to who he truly was.
Schuyler felt his attraction returning. In fairness, the ficklest of all his emotions, easily gained—easily lost—and easily re-acquired.
Was that a read? I don’t like how you worded that about me. We’re going to have to discuss th-
Issac laid out his backstory in quick succession: he and his mom had a big fight, yada, dark secrets revealed, yada yada,by the Goddesses he is beautiful,found his uncle’s journal,look at his damn jawline, I ache,wants to do the last spell he wrote in the journal, yada-yada,I bet his dick is thick.
Schuyler, certain he’d caught at least the bullet points while lost in Issac’s handsomeness, agreed, “Yes, you should follow through if he left you a spell. Do you know what it’s for?”
Issac reluctantly shook his head, “Well,” he admitted, “I got the gist of what he wanted the spell for, I think.”
Schuyler shook off the intoxication that had wafted over him. “Okay, it’s risky to move forward with a spell if you’re unclear on what the outcome is supposed to be. You need to be prepared for anything. Spell work is about intention and knowledge.”
“Iknowthe spell has to be done on the first night of the full moon, in a cemetery, and with these required items.” The snarky tone slid back into his words. “My uncle wrote instructions and the incantations, but also stressed they’re not to be shown to anyone. He wrote a lot of crazy shit, about his life, his magic, about his lover, but the only entries not about his lame ass feelings were spells, and this is the last one. I feel like it would honor his memory since my mother erased him, and would connect us. Silly, I guess.”
Schuyler understood; he’d done a lot to honor Devion after he passed, with spells and nature rituals. The desire for a sign from the departed dulled over time, but he could sense the same yearning in Issac. “Not silly at all. How long have you been practicing?”
“I found his journal a couple months ago. It didn't include any lessons or anything, just feelings and spells.”
Schuyler moved from behind the counter, noticed the time, and continued to chat while he straightened the store for closing. Issac instantly followed him around. Schuyler was reminded how Dev had done the same thing, waiting for him to get off so they could go out. “Who’s been teaching you then?”
“I need a teacher?”
“Yeah, dude, everyone needs a teacher—especially us. You’re a Natural Witch, I can see it in the aura around you. You were born with an extremely heightened power. If you’re unsure how to harness and use it correctly, you could hurt yourself or others. And on occasion, possibly, even destroy the world. But no pressure on your lackadaisical approach to our ancient craft.”
Shit, that was snarky.
“I was gonna read a book, but I haven’t found the right one yet. I’m waiting-”
“Waiting?” Schuyler interrupted unintentionally, but he knew where the young witch was going and needed to cut him off. “I know what you’re waiting for; themoment.”
“The moment?”
How could a face look so quizzical and yet still be so stunning?
“C’mon, you know what I’m talking about. You’re waiting for the moment when you’re wandering in an old antique shop or bookstore and there on some dusty shelf all the way in the back is an old, forgotten, leatherbound book—waiting—just for you. And once you open this book, the secrets of our craft spill forth and, BAM! You’re suddenly a powerful witch.
“Cutie, that shit ain’t happening. If that scenario, which, to be fair, we’ve all envisioned, has ever truly happened, it occurred to the very earliest of our tribe, who left traces on their grimoires for other witches to discover. Those ancient tomes, if they even still exist, are not going to be anywhere where you and I can find them.”
Issac’s face dropped as others had when victimized by the biggest cockblocker of them all—the truth.
