*Corman

About an hour after Nova brought up wine and a dozen small crackers, Corman was woken by the sound of scratching. It came from the headboard next to his ears, but that wasn't possible. It had to be mice in the walls.

He groaned in disgust. When he had to move to his uncle and aunt's house after his parents died, they would spend summer vacations at bible study camps near a lake. The cabins were infested with rodents and bugs.

He didn't see any mouse droppings on the floor, though. His wooden bedframe, however, was marred with scratch marks, both at the head and foot, but only inside the frame. As though the previous person sleeping there spent hours gouging their nails into the wood—fingers and toes. And with that thought, he could forget falling back asleep.

Besides, he was starving. Remembering what Gwen had said about clothes, he checked the closet. Indeed, it was full.

And the person must have been a five-foot grandmother of decidedly round proportions and never owned anything for the great outdoors.

"Fuck it." He threw on a Hawaiian Mumu.

Cracking his door, he listened. For what, he wasn't sure. Mice? Nova pacing the living room, ready to send him back to bed?

There was a faint light seeping up from downstairs. His stomach spasmed. He had to find food.

Taking a deep breath, he tiptoed out. The wood creaked and popped with his every step, especially the stairs. He kept going. At the bottom of the stairs, he glanced first in the living room, which was dark. Earlier, he'd had the hair-raising sensation of being watched, but now it was a quiet, empty room. The light came from down the corridor—probably the kitchen, although the door was pushed nearly shut. He crept to it, peering through the crack. Gwen was hunched over the table, alone and facing away from him.

She sniffled, shuffling something in front of her.

The sound sent an instant ache through his own chest. He pushed the door. A high-pitched wail sounded from the hinges. Gwen whirled to her feet, and swooshed her arms around in circles at him.

He held up his hands, sure a great fireball would engulf him in flames. When nothing happened, he squinted through the spaces of his fingers in fear. Was death coming for him?

She frowned, studying her hands. "Damn, I really am dried up. Good thing for you. But fuck, Corman, you should know better than to sneak up on me in the middle of the night."

He rubbed his face in relief, thankful he hadn't accidently wet himself. "I don't know you that well, and besides, you were crying."

"No. I wasn't crying."

"I'm pretty sure I heard you crying." He closed the door carefully behind him. There were several post-cards spread out on the table, tropical destinations from the colors and scenery on them. "Someone go somewhere?"

"What? No. I don't have friends. These are just..." Her voice trailed off as she swiped the cards into a bundle. "You aren't supposed to be down here. Nova bound you to obedience to let you sleep here tonight."

"I didn't agree to obey. We'll see if she's better about consent than you, shall we? Is there anything to eat?"

"You can check the cabinets and fridge again, but all I found were dill pickles and more wine." She motioned to a jar in front of her and a glass of red wine.

He grunted and started poking around. He definitely needed more cheese and carbohydrates in his diet. "Tell me. What's up with the post-cards from sandy beaches?"

She collapsed in her chair and spread the cards out in front of her again.

This kitchen was woefully understocked in edible food. One cabinet was full of pickles, another with wine, as Gwen had pointed out. The fridge was unhooked and empty. He plugged it in to cool it off, just in case they stayed longer and he needed it.

"Do you realize, I didn't know your name until you told Nova?" he said. He flopped into the chair across from her, cradling his own jar of pickles. He poured himself some wine.

"It's Gwendol, but I go by Gwen." She motioned for him to fill her glass, as well.

"Right. Gwen. What's up with the post-cards?"

"One day, I plan on retiring. That's what's up with them. I'm thinking ahead to that day."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She held his gaze for a long moment, not answering his question. Traces of tears glistening on her cheeks and in her eyelashes, and the end of her nose was red. Maybe she was a terrible person, but she was also in pain. He laid his hand on the table close to hers. She stared it, but took her wine glass instead.

"Talk about what? Retiring?" she asked bitterly.

Corman wouldn't let her off the hook. "Yeah and the fact you were crying. Is that why? Thinking about when you get to retire to a tropical beach? Is that what you get to look forward to, as a witch? Mai Tais and luaus?"

"Ask me one more question, and I'll plant the broken shards of my wine glass in your tongue."

If that was how she felt... He sat back in the chair to take a long drink of wine. It did not pair well with the dill pickles, but he devoured one anyway. "Not a question, then. Tell me about your plans for tomorrow when we have to leave."

"I would like to point out, for the last time, I hope, there is no we. I will leave when Nova asks me. You will leave tomorrow."

"We have a deal about you fixing my life."

"I need to worry about fixing my own life. My store was ruined, my camper destroyed, and I have no money, no magic, and no way of getting either right now. You think all witches get to retire to some tropical paradise? You couldn't be further from the mark. Most of us die horribly, and usually alone. I want a little something different for myself, and I don't think it's entirely unreasonable to be selfish after what I've survived so far. This life is a game that is rigged against the players at the bottom, and I intend to cheat it."

"Your life might be ruined because you're a witch, but my life is ruined because of you. You owe it to me to put it back on track, including the losses I've incurred."

"Really?" She tipped back in her chair and rubbed her fingernails on the breast of her faded, plaid flannel shirt which was three times too large for her. She must have found it in the closet, the same he had found the Mumu. Maybe they could switch closets. "How do you propose I do that? Because I'm not exactly living in the lap of luxury at the moment."

"Then let's figure this out together. Let's work together. I can do a lot of things that apparently you witches have no clue about."

"I don't want to hurt your feelings, but besides the phone helping us get to the house, you are a dead weight that I can't carry around." Gwen's voice was firm, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.

It stung to hear those words, he couldn't lie to himself. "Why would I ever find that hurtful, considering you are directly responsible for the shambles my life is in?"

Shit. He had asked a question.

She lifted her glass, threatening to hit him at the same time he realized his mistake. Her glass was still full of wine, though, and she held up a finger for him to wait while she guzzled it.

He jumped to bolt for the door, but before he reached it, Nova swept inside the kitchen, startling them both.

"You can't sleep either?" Nova asked dramatically. "Electric charges are in the air tonight. There is magic here." She had swapped her evening gown for a floor length, lacy, white cotton nightgown from a nineteenth century period piece. The blond wig was in a long, golden braid over one shoulder.

If she stood out in the lawn, pacing, she could be her own terrifying ghost.

He shook himself. He didn't want to believe ghosts might be real, too.

"Corman, excellent. You have found the pickles." Nova stepped gracefully to his side to place her hands over his and the jar. "You must always carry these with you wherever you go in the house. Not that you will go anywhere except back to your room. But remember, if you see anything unusual, anything strange that moves in the shadows, throw a pickle at it."

"Throw a pickle at anything strange."

She nodded. "And then run to your room and lock the door. I'll escort you back up."

"That won't be—"

The doorbell rang.

*** Thanks for reading! ***