How to Stone a Crow (Witch Like a Boss Book 2) Willow Mason (inspiring books for teens .txt) 📖

“You remember Andrew?”

“Sure. The office became grimmer after he died. Solomon never had a chance at that promotion. He hadn’t even bothered to put together a proposal for the new service and there Andrew was, charts and spreadsheets out the wazoo.” She wrinkled her nose. “You can tell he didn’t deserve the spot because he’s still in it. Andrew would’ve used the position as a steppingstone, but Solomon’s got nowhere to step to.”

“Do you think he killed him?”

Clarissa’s eyes and mouth opened in a wide O while the receptionist behind her guffawed. “Solomon? Murder someone? Ha!”

“Didn’t he die in a car accident?”

Patrick nodded. “Yes, but we’re afraid something more might’ve been going on.”

“Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree there. Sol has about as much imagination as a flea. Even back when his chief enjoyment was playing pranks, he couldn’t invent one to save himself. Bore you to death, yes. Kill, no.”

I was about to make a move on the exit when I frowned and turned back. “What kind of pranks?”

“Traditional rubbish. Glad wrap across the toilet seat. Coiled spring in your drawer. Putting your stapler in jelly.”

The receptionist nodded in agreement with Clarissa, and added, “He put laxatives in the coffee once. If I hadn’t caught him, it would have been a shocking day to be alive.”

Patrick thanked them for their time while I shuddered. “How can people think such tricks are funny?” I complained, getting into his car. “They’re just mean.”

“As she said, no imagination. Speaking of which, I’m out of ideas.”

“Maybe Solomon left a long voice message and Andrew drove off the side of the road when he fell asleep listening to it?”

“Ha-ha. Now, who’s being mean?”

We dropped by the supermarket, then headed home. Wes and Jac waved as we passed by their shop; the two men being driven out again.

“I’ve got my classes this afternoon,” I told Patrick when he wondered aloud what our next steps were for their sadness problem. “Let me ask the teacher about poltergeists and lingering emotions. Hopefully, he can come up with a solution.”

“I thought your classes were going badly.”

“Yeah, but not because of the teacher.” I flexed my hand, sending a little spiral of sparkles into the air. “And not because my powers are waning. I just don’t seem to have the habit of magic at all.”

“Did I ever tell you, when I was six my family moved to Quebec and I became fluent in French?”

“No.” I stared at Patrick with renewed interest. “Say something.”

“Oui.”

I liberally applied Clarissa’s favoured expression. “Something a bit longer than that.”

But he shrugged. “I can’t. That’s my point. We spent eight months there and I could speak it like it was my first language. I can even remember the way it felt in my brain, to translate back and forth between English and French, so quickly I never needed to stop talking to catch up. Two years after moving back, it faded. I had to concentrate just to make the simplest sentence. When I took high school French, I was just as bad as everyone else in the class, so I dropped it.”

“What a waste.”

“My point is, you’re stuck in your high school class, struggling. The fact you were born to magic and could use it once upon a time doesn’t matter as much as the long period where you didn’t have it at all.”

“And in your analogy, I just give up?”

“I didn’t need to speak French. You do need to perform magic. And you’ve already done amazing things.”

“I could do amazing things right now if I were allowed. How does that fit in with your French-speaking?”

Patrick tapped his cheekbone for a second, then said, “Because I could say the longest, most complicated words in English, and they’d pretty much be the same in French. That’s the beauty of a common language base.”

I sighed, tapping my fingers on the dash. “Think how amazing we’d be if our parents hadn’t yanked us out of the places we should have lived. I’d be an awesome witch and you’d be seducing the ladies with your romantic talk.”

“I’d also be in Canada and we never would’ve met.”

“And would that bother you?”

The lights changed and Patrick concentrated on his driving for the next few minutes. I stared out the side window, pretending the heat in my face was from the sun rather than the conversation.

“Yeah,” he said when I’d given up on him responding. “Yeah, it really would.”

Hadyn Malone was the magic teacher at Briarton Supernatural Academy. A fancy name for a prefab building set two sections back from the Briarton High School that every teenage pupil in the town attended. Being one of the select few to attend classes lost its pall when the other students were a thousand miles ahead of me.

I picked up the shattered glass from my failed lesson, using my gloved hands to do the dirty work because another round of magic would do my head in.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” he said, standing well outside the circle of disaster. “You’re talented and the power at your disposal is quite extraordinary. It’ll just take time with your nose to the grindstone to get it all under control.”

“If I have a nose left by the time I finish.” I dabbed a tissue to the specks of blood on my face. Luckily, I still had my normal human reflexes in plentiful supply, otherwise, I might have had an eye out.

“Here. Stand still and I’ll give you a quick check over.”

I stood in the fading light from the window and tried not to feel a sharp tug of envy as he effortlessly sent out a shower of sparkles to heal the damage I’d done.

French, I reminded myself. You’re learning French.

<What are you babbling about now?>

“Just an allegory I picked up. Stand back! I don’t want to spend the evening fishing slivers of glass out of your paws.”

Annalisa jumped onto a bench table, nearly sending another glass vial flying. <You should