SNEAK PEEK

SOME PRACTICAL MAGIC
BY LAURIE C. KUNA

At Endora's loud meow, Cassie glanced at the coffee mug the cat was batting back and forth between her forepaws. The logo sported the Wicked Witch of the West skywriting "Surrender Dorothy" with her broom. Cassie rolled her eyes, then said to Medusa, "Listen, Mom, can this matchmaking craze you're on wait until I get back from my book tour? I’m leaving in half an hour."

"You’re touring on the Ides of March? Beware."

"Today’s the sixteenth," Cassie stated with waning patience. "And most likely the tour organizers just think of March fifteenth as two days before Saint Patrick’s Day anyway."

"Most likely." Medusa gave an audible sniff. "Honestly, Cassandra, I can't see why you waste your time on such tawdry pursuits for the benefit of humans."

At that moment, hitting her head repeatedly against the cabinet sounded more enjoyable than further engaging in the conversation. But of course, Medusa would hear the banging, and Cassie would have to explain that her own mother was the trigger for her maniacal self-abuse.

"Mother, please. You know I need to keep busy. What's wrong with what I do?"

"What you do is write a newspaper column."

"And your point is?"

"It's to help humankind!"

Even though this was an old argument, Cassie felt her temper rising, and consciously flattened her tone. "I'm a journalist, Mom. No coven I know of has a newspaper."

"But human beings!" Indignation crackled down the phone line. "They've persecuted us for eons. They're smelly, petty, and stupid. And they're so . . . so common."

Cassie gave up trying to accomplish anything and sat down at her kitchen table. She traced the patterns of the rich oak grain as she said quietly, "Actually, I find them fascinating. Not common at all."

"Well, I suppose if you look at them in a strictly clinical manner, you could argue that they're a diverse, although vastly inferior, species."

"That's the spirit, Mom." Cassie smiled despite Medusa’s grudging agreement. "No pun intended."

Suddenly, Medusa's voice tightened. "I can see there's just no reasoning with you today, Cassandra. So I'll say my goodbyes. Call me when you return from your book tour."

"I will." Cassie hung up the phone and with an exasperated sigh turned to the dishwasher.

"Your mother just doesn't quit, does she?" Endora asked. She’d stopped batting the mug around.

Shaking her head, Cassie pulled out the top drawer of clean dishes. "You can say that again. She wants to see me in a permanent relationship."

"With Mortician Morula?" Endora snorted. "I'd rather date a troll."

"And you have, if I recall correctly."

"Huh." Endora stood and stretched. "Don’t bother with those. I'll get them."

With a sweep of her long gray tail, she sent the plates, saucers and utensils flying through the air, heading for cupboards and drawers suddenly standing open and ready to receive them. All the cookware and table settings were quickly back in their proper places.

"Martha Stewart, eat your heart out," the cat purred.

At that, Cassie laughed aloud. Although she considered her something of a rival, she liked Martha. The difference between them, of course, was that while Martha actually had to work at making her projects look like effortless magic, Cassie just had to snap her fingers. Naturally, La Belle Stewart didn't know that, and Cassie wasn't about to enlighten her.

For the last ten years, Cassandra had written a weekly column on household hints entitled "The Kitchen Witch" for the Salem Evening News of Salem, Massachusetts. She'd deliberately chosen her most recent surname, Hathorne, because Judge Hathorne had presided as the head magistrate at the infamous Salem Witch Trials.

If nothing else, Cassie appreciated subtle irony.

She gave it her best effort to fill her columns with it, and with a light sense of humor that made her wildly popular with readers everywhere. She couldn't stand witches who lacked a sense of humor, having always felt more akin to the Good Witch of the North than to the rest of the witches in The Wizard of Oz. And even though the story was merely mortal fantasy, untold millions of humans believed the stereotypes. Understanding this, Cassandra had kept a low profile throughout her near century of existence.

Now, even though she guarded her secret very well, her "human" persona was about to become not just a well-known columnist in the newspaper, but a body to go with the publicity photo on her book jacket.

She was due in Toledo that afternoon to begin a "down the Mississippi" promotional tour of her latest book, When Dust Bunnies Attack. A compilation of her best columns from five years of national syndication, it had already reached tenth on the non-fiction bestseller list. Her publisher hoped the tour would push those numbers even higher.

Cassandra was unashamedly proud of her writing skills. Oh sure, she didn't have to actually type or speak into special computer software like every other hack in the world. She just sat at her computer, let her thoughts organize on her topic, then teleported them onto the screen. Simple, efficient, and she never worried about Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

But thinking up the topics and developing the best approach and the best wording were still hard work. And there was always an editor to please. How did all those human writers do it? Endora's leap from the counter to the table eight feet away brought Cassie out of her reverie.

"Packed for the trip yet?" the cat asked.

Cassie glanced at the clock. "The cab won't be here for another half hour, so there's plenty of time. I've got lots of other things to do first."

"Like figure out how to keep Medusa from interfering in your love life. Or current lack thereof."

Cassie grimaced at her familiar's stark comment. "Mom just doesn't understand my fascination with human beings. Or how that affects my relationships with witches." All extraneous interaction with "inferiors" was regarded as completely beneath every male witch Cassie knew. "The males of my species are so arrogant."

"Sort of like every Ivy-Leaguer you've ever dated," Endora commented wryly.

"Well, there is that." Cassie opened the trip itinerary and her planner, but couldn't study either. Her mother's voice kept intruding in her mind. "I don't know what to do about Mom."

"Ignore her." Endora lapped from the creamer on the table.

"Like that would work."

After licking remnants of leftover cream off her face, the cat settled down on the table top. "Look Cass, I know you don’t often see eye to eye—"

"Like never." Cassie closed her planner with a snap. "I don’t think we share a single common opinion."

"I know this. I’m your familiar."

"Well, as my familiar, it’s your job to listen to me complain." She scratched behind Endora’s ears. "I’m on a roll here. Pretend to be sympathetic."

"I’m all ears."

A huge yawn spoiled Endora’s attempt at empathy.

Cassie ignored her cat’s indifference. "Take the fact that she despises human technology."

"Why does she call you on the phone, then?"

"She thinks phones are quaint. And, she actually dated Alexander Graham Bell for a while."

"See, she's got human friends."

"Acquaintances," Cassie amended, "not friends. And she basically keeps them around to amuse herself. Her neighbor, Viv, is a church secretary, and one of her jobs is to contact parishioners if they've missed several consecutive weeks of services. You know, send Get Well cards and such. Mom suggested that Viv's message should be, 'Where the hell have you been?'"

Endora's eyes lit with humor. "That's Medusa for you."

"Yes, that's Mom all right." Cassie sighed and rested her chin in her hand. "Once she's made up her mind, nothing stops her."

She sensed this marriage campaign her mother waged would not abate until Medusa had seen her only daughter "properly" attached to some macho witch. What had General Grant said during the Civil War? "I intend to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer"? In Medusa's case, Cassie could amend that to say, "If it takes the next century."

***

The upcoming book tour’s major player sat in the main floor restaurant of the hotel attached to Toledo’s convention center eating lunch with his publicist. Sunny and airy, the establishment was not too crowded at midday, but the size of the crowd was of no import to at least one of the pair.

"Mick, I can't believe they've got you seated next to Cassandra Hathorne," Jennifer Bodin sputtered in a volume just a bit below ear-piercing. "Why, she's nothing more than a syndicated columnist!"

Mirek Sandor—known to his legion of fans as M. S. Kazimer, horror/suspense writer extraordinaire—frowned. He set down his fork, which had just been poised to dive into what looked to be an incredible piece of cheesecake, and gave his former fiancée-still publicist his undivided attention. "Say, Jen, do you think you could say that again a bit louder? I don’t think the guys in the kitchen heard you."

"Stop being so sarcastic," Jennifer snapped, but she lowered her volume significantly. "This is important."

"They seat authors alphabetically for these group signings," he commented evenly. "It’s not a big deal."

Jennifer sniffed, laying the book signing information with deliberate care onto the table by her plate. "She'll ride your coattails, mark my words. Her sales aren't a fraction of what yours are, and she'll take advantage of sitting next to you to boost her sell-through."

Mick leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest. "She writes non-fiction. How will sitting next to me help her sales?"

"The pity factor," came Jennifer’s stiff reply. Her posture had stiffened with her tone. "Your fans will pity her, sitting there without a customer while they wait in line for hours to get your autograph. They'll feel compelled to step over to her line—after they've gotten your book, of course—and buy hers."

"Can we talk about this later? This dessert has my name on it."

If anyone could actually swell with indignation, it was Jennifer Bodin. "For God’s sake, can’t you focus on your career? That cheesecake can wait."

"No it can’t."

Jennifer flushed. "What’s a stupid dessert in comparison to—"

"Making tons of money?" Mick leaned forward, picked up his fork and said deliberately, "I’ve focused on writing for twenty years. Now, I want to eat this before it spoils."

Jennifer’s crossing her arms over her ample chest snapped Mick’s gaze up and drew his eyebrows down. It was more her expression than her mirroring his gesture of a moment before that made his stomach churn with tension.

"Cassandra Hathorne is an award-winning columnist," he stated flatly. "Her books have sold millions, and she doesn't need me to help her sell more. Give it a rest."

Jennifer's expression immediately turned to a pout. "I just have your best interests in mind, darling."

"I thought we dispensed of the ‘darling’ tag a few weeks ago." At the look of stubborn determination on Jennifer’s face, Mick’s anger at her posturing heightened, and he added brusquely, "Ms Hathorne isn't a competitor."

"Of course she is," Jennifer retorted, all remnants of her sulk gone. "The buying public only has so much money to spend. Since she sells the same product you do, she's competition. You're both vying for the reader's hard-earned dollar."

Mick studied the woman that, up until three weeks before, he had been engaged to marry at Christmas. Just over five-feet tall, she was blonde, beautiful and curvaceous, with cornflower blue eyes and a mouth that, when not turned down in a pout, begged to be kissed. She'd been his publicist and manager for four years, his lover for two, and his fiancée for just over six months. He loved everything about how she managed his writing career, but he’d been foolish to think that his love of her professional abilities could carry over into a personal relationship.

Once they’d announced their engagement, it had become apparent that Jennifer was more interested in his net worth than she was in him. As a business manager, her attention to detail made her second to none. But Mick realized he needed equal personal attention. Equal affection. And he needed to return them. A month ago he had discovered he didn’t love Jennifer for herself, either, but for what she’d done for his career. So the fact that she loved his alter-ego, M. S. Kazimer, and all the wealth and prestige that went with that name, rather than Mirek Sandor shouldn’t have bothered him so much. But it did. They were quite the pair. Maybe they deserved to marry each other.

He mentally sighed and stopped that line of thinking. Their engagement was over. Nothing would change that. Fortunately, God hadn’t even joined them before they were split asunder.

He studied the pretty blonde a moment. "I'll likely sell a disgusting number of books on this tour, regardless of who sits next to me. No point in getting upset about seating arrangements."

"You should be off by yourself," Jennifer persisted. "Not only is that witch-person next to you, but Robert Whitman—whoever he is—is on the tour, too."

"He's new. Promoting his first book," Mick said stiffly, suddenly very tense at mention of Whitman. He could feel his stomach clench. "Our publisher wants him on this tour with some of its big guns, to give his career a boost."

Jennifer's eyes lit up like a zealot's at a church revival. "You've just made my point. He'll really profit from your fame. I certainly hope you’re being compensated in some way."

"As my publicist and business manager, you'd already know I’m not," came Mick's even retort. "And I want all this talk of money and compensation and riding my coattails to stop now."

"I've offended you."

He shook his head and with a concentrated effort modified his sharp tone. "Look, Jen, I know your job’s to promote me. But I'm not exactly failing at the author business. I've got more money than I know what to do with."

"Then why throw it all away by retiring from writing?"

Knowing he was treading water in a shark tank, Mick worded his answer carefully and put as much calm conviction into his tone as he could. "When the joy of what you’re doing is gone, you have to stop doing it and find something else that makes you happy. Writing no longer makes me happy."

His quiet declaration didn’t have the effect he’d hoped it would, and he knew it the moment he saw Jennifer’s color heighten.

"I can’t believe you made this decision without consulting me first," she said, volume increasing with each word.

Restaurant patrons seated at nearby tables stared at her and then quickly looked away. Mick had the sick feeling they were trying to pretend they weren't attempting to eavesdrop.

God, he wanted this nightmare to end. He kept his voice low when he leaned toward Jennifer and said, "I told you this before, but you’ve refused to listen. I'm tired of all this. Tired of the deadlines, of the hype, of the pressure to live up to my readers' expectations. But most of all, I'm tired of creating demented serial killers who leave a grisly trail of victims behind them."

"But people adore your stories!"

"But I don't anymore. And doesn't my opinion count for something?" As Jennifer’s silence lengthened and her mouth set stubbornly, Mick shook his head. Fortunately, his business manager couldn’t feel the lump that had settled in his throat. Macho horror writers weren’t supposed to get emotional. He was rather proud of the fact that his voice was steady and matter-of-fact when he said, "You were never as in love with me as you are with M.S. Kazimer. And the money and fame that go along with that persona."

Looking the part of a long-suffering martyr, Jennifer rose regally from her seat. "Spare me the histrionics, Mick."

"I thought that was your ploy."

She continued with barely a pause. "You get moody every time you go on tour. Come up to my room, and I’ll see about arousing your interest in being here."

"Don’t go that route. We haven’t made love in months—and for the record, I don’t count sex after our increasingly frequent arguments as lovemaking. Personally, sex that’s for mending fences instead of for passion doesn’t interest me anymore."

Her chin rose. "Now you’re being deliberately boorish."

"You were the one who broke off the engagement. And now you’re coming on to me in the hotel restaurant."

"Sometimes, Mick, you really are a bastard." She turned on her heel and stalked from the restaurant.

He watched her leave, his mood sinking further with every step she took. The thought that she didn’t love him had nagged at him for at least a year. She’d proven his suspicion when he told her this current book, Mortal Sin, would be his last by promptly threatening to call off the engagement if he retired. When he said his decision was final, she’d canceled the wedding.

Not publicly, of course. He knew Jennifer secretly harbored the idea that she could lure him back to his writing career—and perhaps back into her bed. But knowing his bank account and international fame meant more to her than his emotional and physical well-being would shield him from her schemes.

And he had another, far more compelling reason for wanting out. A reason he couldn't discuss, not with his family or his friends, not with his former fiancée.

He snapped his napkin closed and called for the check. If Jennifer couldn’t love him for himself instead of for the writing talent that had made him filthy rich and world famous, that was her problem. At the end of the book tour, when he officially announced his immediate retirement, she’d either decide she could live with Mirek Sandor, or take her severance pay and find work as another writer’s publicist.

The realization that the latter scenario was the most likely to happen made his heart thud dully in his chest. But he set his jaw and squared his shoulders. Jennifer was going to spend this book tour mounting a furious campaign to keep him writing, but he wouldn’t cave in. Couldn’t. Mirek Sandor was not a coward; he could resist his former lover’s persuasion.

But he'd sure as hell rather be facing a deadline for the editor from Hades than Ms Jennifer Bodin on a mission that involved money.

***

"You're sitting next to M. S. Kazimer at all the signings." Endora studied the book tour itinerary as the cab sped them from the airport to their hotel near the Seagate Convention Center in downtown Toledo. "Wow."

Cassie's head snapped around to look at her now very human familiar. "The M. S. Kazimer? As in, 'Every-word-I-write-turns-into-a-bestseller' M. S. Kazimer?"

"The very same."

"Did you arrange that, oh business manager of mine?"

Endora shrugged shoulders encased in a bright red suit jacket that perfectly complimented her steel-gray hair. Her ability to wear clothes that always harmonized with her coloring amazed Cassie. For Cassie herself, shopping solo was a recipe for fashion disaster. Fortunately, Endora was always more than happy to shape-shift into human form and accompany her.

Today, Cassie wore a royal blue suit coat with black slacks and a brightly colored silk scarf. As the tour moved south, she’d packed accordingly with lighter weight—and lighter colored—clothes. Of course, Endora had picked them out for her. Thank the goddess for color analysis, and a friend with a good eye for style.

"You know I’d take the credit if I could, Boss," Endora was saying of the signing arrangements, "but I can’t. Luck of the alphabet, I guess."

Cassie sat back against the limo’s plush leather seat. "That man's some kind of alchemist, I'm sure of it. He can certainly transform his imagination into gold."

"Good looking." Endora passed Mick's press kit photo to Cassie, who immediately sat straight up, studying it as if she thought it might speak to her.

"I'll say!" She continued to stare.

"I heard that."

"Heard what?"

"Don’t give me that ‘What are you talking about?’ deliberately blank look. I heard your heartbeat."

One dark brow deliberately winged up. "Heartbeat?"

"Come on, Cassandra," Endora teased. "Your heart went into overdrive when you got a look at ol' M.S. here." She flicked the back of Mick's press photo with her index finger. "It's beating a regular tattoo right now."

Cassie shrugged. "He is very good looking . . ."

"No, he's devastatingly handsome. Admit it, you could go for a hunky human male like M. S. Kazimer in a split second."

"I'll plead the Fifth." Cassie looked at the picture again. "Or I’ll drink a fifth, so I don’t go into groupie overdrive at the signings and turn into a simpering puddle at his feet."

"I knew it," Endora crowed, then started chanting, "Cassie and M.S., sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G—"

An elbow to the ribs brought an end to her banter.

"Great Mother Goddess, Endora, grow up! Okay, the guy’s gorgeous. But he's probably married and the father of five."

Still snickering, Endora glanced at Mick's bio. "Says here he's forty years old and single."

"I thought I read somewhere that he’s engaged."

"Engaged is not married. That means he’s fair game. Grrrrr . . ."

Giving up any hope of heading off Endora's line of thinking, Cassie returned to studying the photo. "Black hair and blue eyes. Quite a combination."

"I prefer calico fur and yellow eyes, but then, that's just me." Her familiar grinned at the face Cassie made. "Ever read any of his books?"

"No! That psycho serial killer stuff scares me to death." She shuddered. "Disgusting."

Endora snorted. "You're hopeless. A witch who's afraid of the dark? Who'd a thunk it."

"I'm not afraid of the dark. I just can't stand to read novels about crazy people killing regular people."

"Of course not. Such actions would indicate that your precious human race aren't all saints."

Cassie’s lips pursed indignantly. "E tu Brute? You're sounding just like my mother."

"Yet another service I, as your trusty familiar, supply," Endora stated blandly. "I must continually assure that your plane returns from Fantasy Island."

"How many lives have you got left?"

The Cheshire grin returned. "More than enough to do my job."

"I was afraid of that." Cassie moved to hand Mick's photo back, then paused, staring at it again. "He's hiding something. Something very dark."

"Let me see that." Endora snatched the photo from Cassie’s fingers. Flipping it over, she held it to the limo's interior cabin light to see Mick's image from the back. She glanced at Cassie. "You're right. His aura's got a definite darkness to it."

"I don't sense it as being something evil inside him, though."

Endora shrugged, and then returned Mick's picture to the press kit. "Hard to tell from a photo. But you're the witch, not me."

Cassie's laugh was more like a snort. "You’re practically as much witch as I am." She winced mentally when she saw how uncomfortable her remark had made Endora. Instead of making matters worse by bringing attention to her gaffe, she opted for a light tone when she added, "Everyone I know protects some secret. Why would M. S. Kazimer be any different? He uses a pseudonym. But then, so do I."

Her comment had the desired affect. Seeing Endora stiffen, she knew the cat was going into her familiar's role of witch protector. There was no need. But knowing Endora—despite her sarcastic manner and unorthodox ways—took her responsibilities to Cassie seriously was comfortably reassuring. Dora was a good friend, too.

"You know the reason for a pseudonym." Endora's voice held a touch of heat. "What might happen if you ever revealed your true nature to a human?"

Cassie held up her hand to stave off her familiar's rising fervor. "You're preaching to the choir, here. I’ve always been extremely careful about revealing myself. I'm just not the only one who has secrets. M. S. Kazimer certainly does. More than likely every author on this tour is hiding something. However, since I'll be sitting next to the most prolific and popular writer alive today, I thought I should familiarize myself with his history, just in case his ego’s as big as his bank account, and I have to practice my ego-reduction skills."

Endora bristled. "You’re as good a writer as he is."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal, but he could very well not share your exalted opinion of my skills."

"If he’s obnoxious to you, I can put a hex on him. Turn him into a zombie for you. I know you don’t like doing that kind of stuff yourself."

Cassie knew Endora was only half-joking. "His fans might grow concerned when his body parts started dropping off at autographing sessions."

"You're right. I'll have to be more subtle . . ."

Cassie reached over and gave Endora a quick, affectionate hug. "Thanks for being my friend."

"My pleasure."

"And no hexes."

"Spoilsport."

Text Copyright 2004 by Laurie C. Kuna
Web Site Copyright 2004 by ImaJinn Books