Bitch Witch (37 page)

Paul stretched out beside her and smiled, saying in a normal tone, “I don’t want to hook up with you, Sarah. To be clear, I want to make love to you without anything that has to do with spells or dark matter.”

Sarah wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, until their foreheads touched. “You don’t mind that I’m an evil witch?”

“I don’t mind that you used to be,” Paul whispered against her lips. “There’s light in you, Sarah Archer.” He brushed his lips over hers. “And that’s only one of the things I’ve grown to love about you.”

S
arah left Adolf on the front porch, safe from the snow coating the ground, and told him to stay. He listened. Paul stooped to scratch his ears and tell him goodbye.

“I can’t believe Mommy renamed you after a fascist, genocidal maniac.”

Sarah didn’t have the heart to argue that one madman didn’t get to own a name. She followed in Paul’s footprints, not even trying to hide the tears streaking down her face.

“It’s not safe to drive that car in this weather,” she told him.

“It’s nearly forty degrees. It’s already melting. My dad’s having a fit that by the time he gets his new car it’ll be last year’s model. I promised him, Sarah. But I’ll come back in the spring for a visit.” He opened the passenger door and tossed his backpack in.

“A visit?” Her chin wobbled. “After the last couple days?”

“I told you, that’s up to you.”

“Do you want to leave? Is this really even about your dad’s car?”

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, whispering into her ear, “You know what it’s about.”

“I’m afraid.”

“I know. Goodbye, Sarah.” He kissed her on the forehead, hovered for a moment over her lips, then straightened. Without looking at her Paul walked around the car, got inside, and within seconds was driving away from the curb.

Sarah watched, her heart aching with loneliness already.

Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.

Please, make him come back!
She watched as the car stopped at the end of the block and waited for another car to pass.

Light slid into Sarah’s mind. Red light. A second later a whistling sound echoed over the snow, heading down the street. Adolf hissed from his perch on the porch. The whistling followed Paul’s car, catching up with it and landing as he tried to turn onto High Street. It sounded like a meteorite dropped through the hood and tore the engine out. A sonic boom vibrated over the neighborhood and the percussion set off car alarms up and down the street.

Sarah gaped, reminded of her first encounter with Paul all those weeks ago. Adolf had hurled himself off the porch to tunnel under the snowy leaves.

The guy who cut the grass in summer came running with a snow shovel in hand. He bolted across the yard and around the side of the house heading in the direction of the greenhouse. Farther up the street Paul got out of the car and slammed the door shut with a bang. Sarah waited as he stalked up the street toward her, his expression furious. He’d barely gotten within earshot when he started yelling.

“Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? You do not do that kind of crap to a war vet! Woman, you have got to be out of your mind! I’m going to need to go back into therapy and take medication. Lord! Even my legs are shaking!” Paul stopped several feet in front of her. “What the
hell
were you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” Sarah admitted.

The thundercloud of dark brows over his eyes lifted.

Paul took a step closer. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

He turned to look up the street at the car. Several people had gathered around it. He turned back to her. “You couldn’t text me that? You know I would have turned around! I told you last night all you had to do was say you’d think about it. That’s all I needed to hear. Did you really have to blow up my dad’s car?
Again?
”

Sarah crossed her arms. “I didn’t think it would work. I guess I
can
use light for bad stuff too.”

Paul fought a smile. “That’s not funny, or good.”

Sarah shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t think the light is happy with me either.” The zig-zagging patterns of lightning dancing through her head lightened and faded away, now that she’d acknowledged it.

“Life is short and I’m old-fashioned, I told you. If I stay we’ll have to talk about commitment.”

“But I’m not old-fashioned,” Sarah pointed out.

“You’re very old-fashioned. You’re not traditional.”

“Yeah. That,” she said.

“But you said you were thinking.”

“I am, Paul, and I’m willing to talk about it if that’s what you need. We can discuss it every day for years if you like.”

“If you’re going to be like that, I might have to bust my warlock outta retirement.”

She smiled. “I love when you talk dirty.”

“You’re not the only bitch witch in town,” he drawled.

“Pretty sure I am.”

Paul moved the last few steps between them and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t be afraid, Sarah. A relationship simply means you’re going to be with your best friend forever.”

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading
Bitch Witch
. Your feedback is important to me, so please take a moment and leave a review. It’s the best way for me to know what you’re thinking, and your reviews are instrumental in getting the next book published.

The idea for
Bitch Witch
hit me last summer during a night run to Target. As a full blue moon rose over the parking lot, I tossed paper towels, coconut yogurt, and a step ladder into the back of my little Jeep. Because I’m an introverted writer who spends most days wearing my workout clothes (because I
am
going to get to it
soon
) I tend to run errands after dark.

That spectacular moon deserved to be the opening scene of a novel. In my mind I could see Sarah Elizabeth Archer. The title
Bitch Witch
came immediately to mind and the entire story unfolded in several heartbeats. Sarah’s house took form in my mind. Many moons ago I lived in Shrewsbury, Massachusetts. I knew she’d work at Mass Power and Light, because I once temped there, besides, what better name for a book about power and light?

That very night I pitched the story to my publisher, thinking surely
Bitch Witch
is a concept and title that’s been taken. Yet it was as available as any title can be. I wrote as fast as I could, barely giving a thought to the fact that my mother would probably have to change churches after this book (sorry, Mom.) It wasn’t until the book was out of my hands and in the capable hands of my editors that my publisher said, “This book will redefine you as a writer.”
Uh-oh,
I thought, quickly followed by an uncooperative
whatever
.

My job as a writer is to write stories with honesty and fearlessness. I hope you enjoyed your time with Sarah as much as I did. Surely there’s a little bitch witch in all of us, and even when we follow the light there’s just no getting rid of her completely, is there?

With love and light,

S.R. Karfelt

LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, ‘If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—

One, if by land, and two, if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm.’

Then he said, ‘Good-night!’ and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The Somerset, British man-of-war;

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,

Wanders and watches with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry-chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,—

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town,

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night-encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, ‘All is well!’

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,