Page 3 of Rewitched

“Malleus Maleficarum.”

Belle’s face blanched from flushed red to stark white in a moment. She must have misheard. “Sorry, it’s been a long day, I think I’m going mad. Which is good.” She laughed politely, shaking her head clear. “Pardon?”

“Malleus Maleficarum. Not saying I agree with the message, of course,” he mused. “That magic is evil or wrong. But tracking down witches is an interesting concept, don’t you think?”

Belle’s vision flickered. Malleus Maleficarum, the most notorious text from history on the origins of witchcraft, the infamous witch-hunter’s guide on how to spot a witch.

A coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. But then she felt it, as though a switch had activated something intuitive inside her. She forced herself to make eye contact with the man again, and it was instantaneous. Her skin turned to pure static. A coppery taste flooded her tongue. He leaned his forearms on the countertop, interlacing his fingers, and a scent of woody bonfire smoke and spiced sweetness hit her. Belle noticed the muscles of his jaw lock a fraction of an inch, the smallest flash of a knowing smile. Realisation hit with the weight of a wrecking ball.

A witch.

Jim dropped an enormous cardboard box of hardbacks behind the front till with a loud thud, and Belle snapped back to reality.

“Don’t mind me,” Jim chimed, sauntering back towards the cookery corner while he whistled at an unbearably high pitch.

“Interesting choice.” She let out a painfully awkward laugh, tucked her hair behind her ears, then inexplicably fired finger guns at the man opposite. Panic had now evidently taken control of all of her limbs. “Not something we stock, I’m afraid. Such a shame. Sorry. Thanks for popping in.”

“That is such a shame,” the man echoed.

It was only then that she registered his tongue poking firmly into his cheek, a deep dimple etched into the other side. His eyebrows raised knowingly, as though waiting for the penny to drop. He beckoned her to match his lean across the counter, bringing his voice to a whisper just inches from her neck.

“I tried the Hecate House library, but it would seem their editions are all on loan. They said to enquire with a Belladonna Blackthorn. That she’d happily oblige and lend me her copy?”

No one ever called her Belladonna. She hated her full witch name with a passion and always had. So much so that not even her mum used it anymore; it was reserved only for when she was distinctly disapproving of something or other about Belle’s major life choices.

The world spun in slow motion, but Belle somehow managed to paint on something like a professional smile. Her first and only thought was simply to remove this man from public view. She had spent a lifetime protecting herself from this exact scenario, from the moment her magic would be revealed to a non-wicche world after everything she’d ever done to keep it a secret.

Monica shot a quizzical look across the floor in Belle’s direction, silently asking if everything was okay as the queue began to grow behind the man.

“Actually, of course.” Finger guns again. “Silly me, it’s through here, in the back…Right this way. If you’ll just follow…” She gave the man a desperate look, spun on the spot and said a silent plea to any forces who might be watching in pity. Anything to hide whatever this conversation was about to be.

Signalling to Monica to take her place, Belle shot to the rear of the shop towards the dimly lit stock cupboard piled precariously with boxes and cut-out characters from window displays. She frantically manoeuvred a large cardboard dragon aside and beckoned wildly for the man to follow her away from the customers. Mainly from the handful of women who had been surreptitiously lingering around him, watching his every move since he entered Lunar Books like he was the last slice of cake. The man followed her diligently but with an unmistakably mischievous smirk as he strolled nonchalantly behind, hands clasped behind his back.

She tugged on the cord light in the cupboard, kicked a heavy box out of the way and, after a distraught glance at the shop floor to ensure that Christopher was nowhere to be seen, yanked the door behind them. Fortunately, she was too consumed by dread to bother feeling embarrassed anymore as she stood eye to eye with a complete stranger in extremely close, warm proximity.

“Cosy.” A glint flashed across his dark eyes.

“Who are you? What is this?” Belle asked in a furious, hushed voice. She had already begun to make assumptions. It occurred to her that his arrival could only signify a limited selection of bad news. “Is it my mum?”

“What? No, of course not. Nothing like that,” he replied instantly.

Belle felt a rod of tension across her shoulders bend.

“I’ve been sent by the coven,” he went on, looking down at her with a heavy brow. Having always been fairly tall herself, it was rare that she felt like the short one in the room.

“I gathered that much from your hilarious introduction,” she snapped, stress still bubbling to boiling point.

“I wasn’t really going for hilarious. More mysterious, maybe alluring.” Evidently finding the whole thing very amusing, the man crossed his arms and leaned back against a shelf of Ordnance Survey maps.

“But Selcouth has never sent anyone to me before. Or communicated with me at all in almost fifteen years of witchery, for that matter. Did I do something wrong? Am I in trouble?”

“Trouble? You tell me.” He smirked, apparently finding far too much enjoyment in her teetering on the verge of a breakdown.

Belle gave him a distinctly unimpressed look, then risked a glance around the door to check for wandering bosses. “If you hadn’t noticed, I am working,” Belle said, her voice getting gradually more high-pitched. “And if my boss finds me in here with a customer, I might as well just say goodbye to my life now. I haven’t got time for whatever it is that you’re meddling in.”

His face dropped, and he rolled his eyes at her refusal to play along.

“Well, you’re no fun. And I do not ‘meddle.’ Do I look like a meddler to you?” he said hotly. “Look, you’ve been ignoring our correspondence.” His voice softened a fraction, a little more serious. “You know you can’t do that—”