The Best Kind of Magic

  Copyright © 2017 by Crystal Cestari

  Cover design by Phil Caminiti

  Cover art by Tanya Ross-Hughes

  Hand-lettering by Sarah J. Coleman

  Photographs by rozbyshaka/Shutterstock

  Dana.S/Shutterstock • petejerkk/Shutterstock

  Pablo77/Shutterstock • Richard Cummins/Gettyimages

  John & Lisa Merrill/Gettyimages

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  Designed by Phil Caminiti

  ISBN 978-1-4847-5856-4

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To those who fight for love

  FIRST OF ALL, LET ME just say: I am not a witch. I know there are a lot of rumors about me floating around, and trust me, I get it. People fear what they don’t know, but people are also freaking idiots who refuse to even try looking beyond themselves. I’m sure if you actually stopped to talk to me instead of giving me the side-eye to which I’ve become accustomed, you’d quickly realize that I don’t bathe in the blood of virgins or sacrifice goats on a pentagram-painted basement floor. I don’t even have a basement.

  No, I don’t own a cauldron or a pointy black hat. I’ve never taken a ride on a household sweeping device. One time I did have a wart, but it was on my foot and I’m pretty sure the result of ill-fitting shoes.

  Not that any of these points would get me off the hook. They are just ridiculous stereotypes: commercialized visualizations meant to trivialize a misunderstood source of ancient power. Truth is, I’d love to be a witch. It would make my life so much easier. If I were a witch, I’d have access to so much more magic than I do now. I’d conjure up spells to make me snacks, do my homework, or get me out of gym class. What I do now is nothing compared to the realm of true sorcery.

  I am reminded of this every day; there’s nothing like working in your family-owned magic shop to constantly bring to mind your very non-magicalness. In the right hands, the collections of chickens’ feet, amethysts, and silkweed I am tasked with keeping presentable could do some serious damage, but in my possession, they’d make up the world’s weirdest charm bracelet, and I’m not really into accessories.

  “Amber, can you please start bringing out the pillows?” Mom calls from behind the display of natural perfumes in tiny crystal vials. “I don’t want there to be another fiasco like last week.”

  “Oh yes, because Gods forbid a Wicca butt touch a man-made material like linoleum,” I reply.

  Mom pokes her head around the corner with her less-than-amused face. “Not now, okay? Just get the pillows.”

  She’s stressed; I know it. My picking at the scab doesn’t help. Any minute now, her coven will be here for their weekly meet-up, and for the past several weeks, things have been…off. Not being an official witch myself, I wouldn’t fully know what it’s like to be part of a magical group that’s “on,” but even as a humble outsider, I can sense something’s different.

  They meet every Tuesday to try out new spells and discuss mystical occurrences as well as any other pressing witchy business. It’s kind of like a book club, only with less boozy housewives and more loopy Wiccans. Coven of the Dawning Day has never been super hard-core about sticking to strict pagan teachings; for as long as I can remember, the group has always been more of a social thing. I’ve known most of them since I was an infant, and though this circle has been home to many generations of Sands, I will never be an actual member.

  It’s 9:01, meaning Windy City Magic is officially closed to the non-supernatural. Mom pulls down the silver security gate at the entrance just as our retail neighbors do the same, only our safeguarding efforts are much different. The pattern in the metal links has been enchanted to let certain individuals enter ghost-style. All they have to do is mutter the password “factum” and they can walk on through. Mind you, it’s not just about knowing the right thing to say; if I tried this trick, I’d have diamond-shaped gate marks imprinted on my forehead.

  I’ve barely finished pulling out the pillows from the back room when I hear the password being uttered. Wendy Pumple, the oldest witch of the bunch, is always the first to arrive. She was best friends with my grandmother Edith Sand, who used to be high priestess of this coven back in the day. Hierarchy-wise, Wendy should have taken over the position when my grandma passed, but she didn’t have much taste for magical politics. In fact, she decided years ago that Dawning Day should be a democracy, without a presiding witch. It’s been that way ever since, but with how things have been going lately, I’m not sure it will stay that way for long.

  “Amber, dear, would you mind pulling out that nice wingback chair your mother has in the back?” Wendy asks me in her honey-laced elderly voice. Truly, if you looked up “adorable old person” online, you’d find a picture of this sweet witch. “My bones can’t handle sitting on floor pillows these days.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll grab it,” I say with a smile. I don’t often respond to requests with such pleasantness, but it’s hard to deny my grandma’s BFF. I set down the pile of pillows and pull back the red velvet curtain to Mom’s private den. This is where the real magic lies—not that our shop’s offerings don’t live up to their promises (my mom’s a witch, not a crook), but back here, Mom casts spells for clientele of her choosing. I can’t even tell you about some of the out-of-this-world stuff that has happened in this tiny, candlelit room. If you’ve never been invited behind the curtain, well, it probably means she doesn’t like you very much.

  I drag the chair out and finish setting up the pillows—ten in all—in a circle in the center of the store. The rest of the coven is thankfully less prompt than Wendy, so the scene is properly set before anyone else arrives. I’m not allowed to handle any of the other staging (Gods forbid a non-member touch the ceremonial candle), so now I can just blend into the background like a decorative plant (although really, plants have the power to turn sunlight into food, a pretty amazing spell if you think about it. If I could do that, I’d never go indoors).

  “So, dearie,” Wendy starts in, “how’s your love life?” Her eyes twinkle with her own perceived cleverness.

  “Oh, you know, same as last week—nothing to report,” I say, my smile a bit less genuine this time. We seem to go through this same routine every Tuesday. I’m not going to say it’s dementia, but…

  Wendy answers with a cute little laugh. “I think what you do is so…” She searches for a positive adjective. “…neat. It must be nice to be so in touch with such a delightful subject.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pumple
,” I say. I know she’s trying to extend a mystical olive branch, but really, it’s not necessary. There was a time, yes, when I wasn’t as thrilled with what the Fates had dealt me. But I’m a big girl now, and I’ve come to terms with my place in the world.

  You would think magic would run in our bloodline, and you’d be right; the Sand family has a long, proud history of witches and sorcerers. But sometimes magic skips a generation or takes a transmuted form. Mom may not have passed her bewitching genes down to me, but I did get one highly specific mystical talent that still gets me a check in the paranormal column. While I may not have the swagger or power of your everyday witch, I’ve come to realize that what I can do is still pretty badass: I can see true love.

  I don’t mean the chocolate-covered, mushy-gushy signs of love, but real, destined-to-happen happy endings. All I need is five seconds of eye contact, and I’ll envision anyone’s soul mate.

  I’m a matchmaker.

  The rest of the coven is starting to trickle in, and rather than answer more questions about my love life (or lack thereof), I decide to head out. I wave to my mom, who’s already in full hostess mode, to come let me out through the gate. She weaves through the huddle of long skirts and Birkenstock sandals and meets me at the front.

  “Have a good meeting. Be witchy and stuff.”

  Mom nods. “I’ll see you at home.” She lays her hand on the enchanted section of gate and peels it open, like turning a page in a book. I slip through the metal, and it clangs shut behind me; from the outside, the shop looks vacant, with no visible light or people. Another one of Mom’s magic tricks.

  I step outside and feel the cool lakefront air on my cheeks. Chicago’s city lights glitter against Lake Michigan’s dark waters. Our shop is nestled within the insanity that is Navy Pier: part carnival, part convention center, 100 percent overpriced tackiness. Among the kiosks hawking everything from shot glasses to backpacks emblazoned with “Sweet Home Chicago,” and cheap jewelry that falls apart the moment your feet leave the pier, rests our humble storefront filled with actual, quality products intended to improve someone’s life and not just clutter it with junk. I hate pretty much everything about Navy Pier, from its garish neon lights to its constant churro stench, but I certainly don’t hate this view. Being the most eastward point of the city means you get to take in the entire skyline in its glory.

  But my serenity doesn’t last long, because as soon as I pass the docked tour boats, a group of sophomore girls has spotted me. In no way will this lead to anything good, and I consider jumping in the lake, knowing full well my insides would turn to icicles the moment I hit the water. Still, history has proven that would be preferable to what will happen next.

  I met one of them—I don’t remember her name—at school the other day, when she begged me to reveal whether or not her current beau was THE ONE. Normally, I avoid matchmaking at school because the results are never pleasant. And yet, this girl has chosen to follow me like a psychotic shadow, and after three days of her whining at my heels, I guess she decided to corner me at my place of business. Why a Chicago resident would freely visit this tourist trap is beyond me, but whatever.

  “Amber!” she coos, waving like we share matching friendship bracelets. Her entourage circles around me. “Please talk to me. I know this won’t take long; can’t you help me out?”

  I grit my teeth, wishing I could use her body to pole-vault over to the bus stop. Dammit, I guess we’re doing this now. “Is this really what you want?”

  “Of course! Why wouldn’t I? Tristian and I have been dating for, like, ever, and I just KNOW he is the one!” Her friends nod in agreement.

  “Then why do you need my confirmation?”

  “Because!” She smiles brightly. “It would solidify my love even more.”

  Ugh. That is not what I wanted to hear. But okay. Here we go. I look into her eyes, and after a few seconds, a montage of scenes play in my head: this girl—whatever her name is—and some boy, doing a bunch of coupley things. Skiing down a hillside, shopping for bedding. Scooping mounds of wedding cake into each other’s mouths. Only the boy is not Tristian Michaels, the loser who pushes freshmen into trash cans. I have no choice but to reveal the absolute shocker that no, her hormonally charged, high school lunkhead of a boyfriend is not her lifelong match.

  “Well, I have news. Whether you categorize it as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ is up to you. Personally, I think it’s a win,” I start, though I know the long-term benefit of being moron-free will be lost on this audience. “You have a match and he seems swell, but it’s just not Tristian.” The words have barely left my lips when her claws instantly unfurl. (Not actual claws, mind you. Any being sporting that kind of hardware would not be so careless as to flash them in public.)

  “You’re wrong!” She points an accusatory finger. “What the hell do you know? You’re just a bully!”

  “A bully?” I feign insult, clutching imaginary pearls. I have to fake some sort of reaction, as this kind of allegation happens more regularly than I’d like. “You’re the one who’s been stalking me.”

  She huffs again, pulling up her scarf to hide her reddening cheeks. A single tear slides down her face, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. You would think she’d be relieved, seeing as how her boyfriend is such a dud. Shouldn’t it be a blessing to know there’s someone better out there? Someone who doesn’t belch randomly during study hall? Haven’t I provided a service? I never understand this reaction.

  “So, that’s it? How can I believe anything you say?” she asks. “You didn’t even do anything…magical.”

  “What did you expect? A puff of smoke? A rabbit out of my hat? That’s not really how magic works.”

  “Ugh. You and your ‘witchcraft.’” She throws in air quotes, trying to regain herself. The girls all giggle.

  I’m really tired and definitely over this unnecessary encounter. She’s not going to leave me alone until she’s exacted some verbal revenge, so I’d better set her up so I can get home to my sweatpants. “I’m actually in the business of l-o-v-e, but I understand this misconception.”

  “You’re in the business of heartbreak!” she spits. Tears start piling up, and her friends rub her shoulders in support. “Maybe you’re not a witch, but you’re definitely a bitch.”

  Remind me to get that on my tombstone. Satisfied, they all storm off, and I’m left to catch the bus in peace. You know that saying “Don’t shoot the messenger”? I really should invest in a bulletproof vest.

  “MOM, DO YOU THINK THE human heart has a love limit?” I ask out of the blue, during a particularly slow afternoon at Windy City Magic. (Don’t you just love the name of our shop? We don’t. Unfortunately, it’s practically written into Navy Pier’s lease agreement that your store must have a cliché name and equally cheesy logo. Ours is an impossibly cutesy, black-hatted witch perkily perched atop a broomstick, with an undetermined source of wind in her wake. She’s blond and bubbly and completely sickening. We couldn’t pick anything classy or even remotely culturally appropriate, as that might scare off the candy-chomping tourists who wouldn’t know a magic spell if it hit them in the fanny pack.)

  Mom stops straightening the bottles of anti-cellulite potion and turns to me. Her long black-and-gray-flecked braid falls down her back.

  “Why do you ask?” she says in a noncommittal tone. Mom constantly gets approached by people looking for answers they’re too embarrassed to find. An open-ended question about how things grow usually is a thinly veiled foray into how to go up a cup size. Mom knows that words usually hold more meaning behind them.

  “Just curious,” I say casually. It’s something I think about a lot, especially in relation to myself. I spend a ton of time channeling love stories but have yet to start a single sentence of my own.

  “With all these top-notch love connections I’ve made, I just hope I’m not wearing out the Fates’ patience for romance in my general direction.”

  Mom sighs. “The Fates? Amber, really.” She r
eturns to her straightening. “You know better than that.”

  And I do, of course. I just want to hear her say it. The Fates really don’t have time for an individual’s drama; they are more “big picture” sorts. You can believe that one person can make a difference and we all hold the power to change the world, blah, blah, but the powers that be are generally uninterested in the day-to-day events of the common man, not even the magical ones.

  I am just about to comment on that very fact when a customer walks in, a dripping raincoat hood covering his face.

  “Welcome to Windy City Magic, where the mystical becomes reality.” My delivery is monotone. It’s my “I can’t believe I have to say this spiel” voice. “Can I interest you in an aura cleansing with Madame Sand?”

  “No, thank you, Amber, but I do need to talk to your mother.” The man pulls off his hood, revealing a very familiar face. It is John “The Blitz” Blitzman, former Chicago Bears quarterback and current city mayor. Not only is he the youngest QB to win a Super Bowl with the Bears (not that I follow such things, but it’s been repeated so many times it’s kind of impossible not to know), he also boosted tourism for the city by implementing a lot of smart changes to the Loop. He’s pretty much a supercelebrity.

  He’s also my mom’s oldest friend and (not-officially-confirmed-but-c’mon-it-just-has-to-be) high school sweetheart. They are not soul mates (my talents have made that clear) but have remained close through adulthood. They were there for each other when John’s wife died and my dad left. I usually only see the mayor in passing (he’s a very busy man, after all), but I know he and my mom talk often.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you under there, Mr. Blitzman. I think she just ducked in the back. I’ll get her for you.”

  “Amber, I’ve known you since you were born. You can call me John,” he says warmly.

  “Okay, Mr. Blitzman.” Like I’m going to call our mayor by his first name.

  I pull back the thick velvet curtains to Mom’s private meeting room. It’s equipped with all the expected accessories: tarot cards, crystal ball, incense. Most of them are just for show; a real witch doesn’t rely on gimmicks. But when people pay for a witch’s services, they expect to see a certain level of “mystical properties.” The real magic—talismans, herbs, stones—are only brought out for very select patrons. Patrons like John.