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  “Well?” Frankie prodded.

  “I suppose I could.”

  “What’s the point of being a witch if you don’t use it to help yourself?”

  “Maybe I’ll do a spell tonight.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “Sure. As long as you don’t interrupt.”

  “I won’t, I swear!” The look of excitement in Frankie’s eyes faded, replaced by one of unmistakable distraction.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Frankie murmured dismissively.

  ‘Tell me.“

  “I’ve been feeling kind of confused lately. Plus, I have this.” She pushed up her shirt sleeve, revealing a blister on her left forearm.

  “So?”

  “Necrotizing fascütis. Flesh-eating disease. I have it, Gemma.”

  Gemma sighed deeply. To say Frankie was a hypochondriac was an understatement. Over the past year alone, Frankie had diagnosed herself with a brain tumor, West Nile virus, Crohn’s disease, and a host of other ailments, all of which mysteriously faded in their own in time. Gemma rued the day she’d bought Frankie The Merck Manual as a joke.

  “You do not have flesh-eating disease,” Gemma said patiently.

  “Oh, no? Two of the symptoms are mental confusion and blisters, both of which I have!”

  “Are you sure you didn’t burn your arm taking something out of the oven?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then call up Dr. Bollard and make an appointment.” *

  “I’m going to.”

  Gemma knew Frankie wouldn’t call. She never did. Instead, she’d walk around convinced she had flesh-eating disease—until new symptoms appeared and then she’d move on to her next self-diagnosed ailment.

  Frankie leaned toward Gemma eagerly. “So, do I get to be your assistant tonight? Hand you your eye of newt or whatever?”

  “I’m a witch, not a magician! I don’t need an assistant. All I need from you,” she added under her breath just as Stavros approached to take their breakfast order, “is to send positive thoughts my way while I work the spell. Think you can do that?”

  “If you promise to make me black bean tostadas for dinner.”

  Gemma extended a hand across the table for a shake. “Done.”

  ———

  Gemma got home from work itching to cast her spell.

  “Just let me get changed,” she told Frankie, who’d been waiting for her in the lobby of her building, eager to begin.

  Frankie nodded, following Gemma into her bedroom as she changed into sweats.

  “I still can’t believe how gorgeous this place is,” Frankie marveled.

  “I know.” Gemma loved this apartment now just as much as she did the day she moved in. Rather than selling, her cousin Michael’s wife Theresa decided to rent her beautiful two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. It had shining parquet floors, high ceilings, and a wall of windows looking out on the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. It was by far the best place Gemma had ever lived in.

  “Now what?” Frankie asked excitedly as Gemma headed back out to the living room.

  “Follow me.”

  She led Frankie into the spare room, which had built in floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining three walls that Gemma had already filled to overflowing. French doors led out to a small terrace where she grew her herbs. In the center of the room were three standing candelabrums, each with four tapers, and a low round table draped in purple velvet cloth. The table held a small vase of fresh flowers and an old cracked pentacle. To the left of the vase were a gold candle, a ritual knife, a censer for incense, and a bowl of salt. To the right were a white candle, a silver chalice, and a bowl of water. A small silver plate held a few pins, matches, and various cones of incense.

  “Now what?” Frankie asked again, eyes fixed on Gemma’s altar.

  “I’m going to light the candles. You sit over there.” She pointed to one of two meditation cushions on the floor. Were she alone, she would probably cast a more elaborate, intense spell. But since Frankie had the attention span of a three-year-old on Christmas morning, she decided some simple candle magick would suffice.

  Frankie did as she was told, slipping off her shoes before twisting her gangly legs into a modified pretzel position. Gemma lit the standing tapers. The room blazed to life around them.

  “Now what?” Frankie whispered.

  “Now you stop asking, ‘Now what?’” Gemma whispered back, amused. She settled down on her meditation cushion opposite Frankie, large red candle in hand. She lit it, placing it on the floor before her. Closing her eyes, she struggled to concentrate. The sound of snarled traffic drifted up to her ears, but she blocked it out. She waited until she felt absolutely centered before opening her eyes and speaking softly.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re both going to stare into the flame of that candle. In my mind, I’m going to think about the man I want to be with. You can do the same if you want.”

  Frankie wrinkled her nose. “Think about the man I want to be with, or the man you want to be with?”

  “Either.”

  “Can it be someone famous? Like Russell Crowe?”

  “It can be anyone. Russell Crowe. Russell Stover. Just concentrate.”

  “Okay.” Brows furrowed, Frankie stared hard into the candle while Gemma did the same.

  Describe the man you want to be with, Gemma.

  It took a few seconds, but then the words came to her: I want someone confident, smart, honest, hardworking, and strong. Someone who loves nature the way I do. Someone loyal and sensitive, who’ll respect who I am and what I do. Someone who’ll love me just as I am.

  She poured herself into these thoughts until she ran out of words to describe her dream man. The next step was to picture him.

  “Picture him,” she whispered to Frankie.

  “Who?” Frankie whispered back.

  “Russell Stover,” Gemma replied impatiently.

  This was harder. In her mind’s eye, Gemma saw the hazy outline of someone tall, but when she tried to fill in the details of his face, she couldn’t. The only thing she saw were his eyes. They were green… no, blue. Blue and wise and full of compassion. She still couldn’t see his face, but now she could hear his laugh—deep, hearty—and delight swept through her. She wanted someone who laughed often. Someone unafraid to feel.

  “Gemma?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I keep trying to picture Russell Crowe, but the only man who keeps coming to mind is Damian.”

  Gemma shuddered. Damian was Frankie’s ex-husband. “Concentrate harder.”

  “I can’t,” Frankie said helplessly.

  “Then concentrate on someone for me.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat a few minutes more in silence. Gemma kept trying to picture more details of her dream man, but none were forthcoming. She glanced at Frankie hopefully.

  “See anything?”

  “I see… I see… a big, steaming tostada on a plate.”

  Gemma sighed.

  “What about you?” Frankie wanted to know. “Anyone?”

  “Someone tall, with kind blue eyes and a really good laugh.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  Gemma reached forward and gently snuffed out the red candle.

  Frankie looked disappointed. “That’s it? No incantations? No flying monkeys? Nothing?”

  “Feel free to say an incantation if you want.”

  “That’s your realm, Glinda, not mine.”

  “Then I guess the spell is complete.” Gemma hugged her knees to her chest. “Let’s just hope it worked.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Riding her bike to work the next morning, Gemma was upbeat. With any luck, Mr. Right could walk into her life today.

  Her friends and family thought she was nuts to bike in the city, but for Gemma, nothing could beat watching the world pull past as she pedaled along, cutting her own, slow swath through the breeze. It was magic to be in motion, especi
ally now that summer’s stifling humidity was finally beginning to fade into fall. Her attention was drawn to every attractive man she pedaled past—could the cute guy in the weathered bomber jacket be the future father of her children? What about that sandy-haired fellow with the cell phone glued to his ear? Maybe he had gorgeous blue eyes…

  Man watching made her reckless: Twice she nearly crashed into parked cars.

  Arriving at her store, she whipped off her helmet, shaking out her hair before unlocking the door and carefully wheeling her bike to the small storage room in the back.

  She had just lit a cone of juniper tree incense and put on a Brigit’s Kiss CD when the front door bell tinkled. Anticipation shot through her. Smoothing the front of her long, peasant skirt, Gemma perched as delicately as she could on the stool behind the counter, anxiously hoping she’d catch sight of her dream man.

  “Hi.”

  The man standing before her was pale and weedy. His sunken chest was lost inside a wrinkled black T-shirt with blessed be in large white letters across the front. Hanging limply from his chin was a long, straggling blond beard. Yes, he had blue eyes—but they were the color of washed-out denim, not a Caribbean ocean. Gemma’s heart sank. Sometimes, what you wanted and what the universe decided to send you were two very different things. Still, she managed to come up with a smile. “Hello. May I help you?”

  The man reached into his pocket, handing her a crumpled newspaper clipping. It was the ad she’d placed in the Village Voice offering tarot classes. It was a way to help offset the costs of her ever-spiraling store rent.

  “You’re interested in learning tarot?”

  The man nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Uther.”

  Gemma bit her lip. In her opinion, telling strangers your name was Uther or Gwyddion or Raven only gave the public more ammunition for not taking witchcraft seriously. She knew it was a person’s right to use their Craft name publicly, but still.

  “Uther what?” she prompted.

  “Abramowitz.”

  “Uther Abramowitz,” Gemma repeated thoughtfully. Was it possible the universe had sent her someone named Uther Abramowitz to love? If so, she was going straight home and dismantling her altar. She extended a polite hand across the counter. “I’m Gemma Dante.”

  Uther’s grasp was limp, like a wet sock. The urge to bundle him up and hustle him to the deli for some minestrone soup was strong. “What do you do?” Gemma prodded.

  “I write computer code.”

  Gemma smiled. Lots of Pagans held high-tech jobs. She wasn’t sure why. “Well,” she said, sliding off her stool, “let me explain how I work. I give private lessons. I also give a group lesson on Thursday nights—”

  “I’d prefer private,” Uther cut in immediately.

  “Okay.” Gemma pulled out her Palm Pilot from beneath the counter. “I hare an opening at eight o’clock on Tuesday nights. Does that work for you?”

  Uther shook his head. “Not really. Can you do any during the day? When the curtain of night falls, I’m pretty busy.”

  Doing what? Gemma wondered. Watching Lord of the Rings for the 500th time? Actually, she didn’t want to know. “Well, if you’d be willing to come in during your lunch hour, say between noon and one, I could squeeze you in on Tuesdays.”

  “At your humble abode?” he asked eagerly.

  “No, here in the store.” Gemma fought to ignore the overt way he was checking her out. Did she really want to be alone with this odd duck for an hour every week? As subtly as she could, she read his aura, something she’d been able to do ever since she was a child. It was gray. He was confused, not evil. She could handle that.

  “I charge sixty dollars an hour.”

  “‘Tis a fair fee,” Uther replied.

  “I should have told you seventy-five,” Gemma joked, hoping to pierce his solemn demeanor. But Uther just blinked. “That was a joke,” Gemma clarified.

  “Oh,” said Uther.

  “You’ll need your own Rider-Waite deck,” she continued. “If you don’t already have one, you can buy one here.”

  “I don’t have one,” he mumbled, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

  Slipping out from behind the counter, Gemma led him to the locked glass case where she kept the tarot cards. Some, like those she’d recommended to him, were very basic and reasonably priced. But she also carried unique, more expensive decks, like the Dali Universal Tarot as well as one set of the much-sought-after, now-out-of-print Shakespearean Tarot.

  “What deck do you use?” Uther asked shyly.

  “Rider-Waite.” Gemma pulled out a set for him that came with an accompanying booklet. “I still use the set I bought when I was twelve.”

  “How old are you now?” he blurted.

  Gemma felt a blush go up to the roots of her hair. “That, kind sir, is classified information.” Cards in hand, she walked back to the counter to ring them up. Strange as he was, there was something about Uther’s utter lack of social skills that touched her.

  “You don’t need to buy any books right now,” she noted. “The book that comes with the set is pretty good. Plus, I use handouts. But a lot of people like to put their cards in a box or bag to protect them from negative energy when they’re not in use.” She pulled out her own cards, which she kept in a small, purple velvet bag. “Would you like to buy a bag?”

  Uther cleared his throat nervously. “Not now.”

  “That’s fine,” Gemma assured him, ringing up his order. “That comes to twenty-one sixty-five.”

  Pulling out two twenties, he guided them shyly into her palm. Making change, Gemma continued, “What I’d like you to do before next week is get used to handling the cards. Spend a few minutes each day shuffling them, touching them, and laying them out. Look at the images. See if any trigger images or visions. Go wherever your mind leads you. It may feel strange at first, but what you’re doing is enlivening your imagination and building a rapport with the cards.”

  “What if I have to miss a class?” Uther asked.

  Gemma handed him one of her business cards she kept in a seashell beside the cash register. “Just call and leave a message here at the store.” She smiled as she passed him his purchase in a plain white bag. “Anything else?”

  Uther shook his head no.

  “See you next Tuesday, then,” Gemma concluded brightly.

  Uther dipped his head shyly. “Many thanks,” he said, holding the bag aloft. “I’ll make sure to do my homework.”

  “Don’t think of it that way,” Gemma urged. “Think of it as fun.”

  “Fun,” he repeated to himself as if the concept were foreign. Looking befuddled, Uther Abramowitz made his way out of the store.

  Gemma watched him leave. What if… ?

  She couldn’t bear to finish the thought.

  PLEASE STOP STINKING UP THE BUILDING.

  ———

  After a hard day at work, Gemma longed to meditate before dinner, but last week, someone had slipped a note under her door. Taking a box of matches from the mantelpiece, she hesitated before lighting her favorite Indian incense. It was probably Mrs. Croppy, the old woman across the hall, who had written it. She lived to make other tenants’ lives miserable. Gemma lit the incense. If Mrs. Croppy had something to say, she should say it face-to-face.

  The incense and a few well-placed candles created instant serenity. Dragging one of her meditation cushions out to the center of the living room, Gemma sat down in full lotus position. Eyes closed, breathing slowly, her body felt almost weightless as she floated in a dreamy, fragrant white cloud. She was calm. She was well.

  Until someone started pounding fiercely on her door.

  “Fire department!” a voice shouted. “If anyone’s in there, open up!”

  Fire department?

  Gemma unfolded her legs and headed quickly to the front door. Peering through the spy hole, she saw three New York City firefighters staring back at her. Dressed in full firefight
ing regalia, each was holding a tool that looked like it could pry her door off its hinges in three seconds flat.

  She fumbled to open the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Evening, ma’am,” said a firefighter with the bluest eyes Gemma had ever seen. “We received a report of smoke coming from your apartment.”

  Peering past the handsome firefighter, Gemma saw the door to the apartment directly across the hall open a crack, then abruptly shut. Mrs. Croppy.

  Gemma smiled politely. “I’m sorry, but there’s been a mistake.”

  But Blue Eyes wasn’t listening. He was craning his neck to see into the apartment. He brushed past her, the other two firefighters following suit. Speechless, Gemma trailed them, then realized what pulled them in: ribbons of thick white smoke curling in the air and hanging like smog.

  “Ma’am?” asked a short and stocky firefighter. He had a graying handlebar mustache that made him look turn-of-the-century.

  “It’s incense,” Gemma explained. The third firefighter, exotic as an Aztec with huge black eyes and smooth caramel skin, began coughing violently.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he wheezed. “It smells like a funeral parlor in here.”

  “It’s incense,” Gemma repeated.

  “Yeah, well, it stinks,” Mustache said harshly.

  “It’s supposed to.”

  Aztec looked dubious.

  Meanwhile, Blue Eyes—who, Gemma noticed, had the word BIRDMAN painted in bright yellow on the back of his heavy black rubber jacket—snuffed out the joss sticks.

  Gemma couldn’t believe his lack of manners. “Do you mind?”

  “Do I mind?” Blue Eyes echoed, incredulity in his voice. “Excuse me a moment.” He got on his two-way radio, announcing the call was a false alarm. Hearing those two words, Gemma felt terrible. His expression was serious as he turned his attention back to her.

  “I can see it’s incense, but your neighbors had no way of knowing that. They were right to call the fire department, especially if this stuff was seeping out under the doorway.”

  “It wasn’t,” Gemma insisted lamely. Was it?