All That Glitters
Author: Jordan Castillo Price
Date: 2019-05-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Fantasy; Romance; Humour
Publisher: JCP Books

Contents

1. Book Info
2. 1
3. 2
4. 3
5. The ABCs of Spellcraft Series

Guide

1. Cover

2. Contents

ALL THAT GLITTERS

The ABCs of Spellcraft 1.5

Jordan Castillo Price

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www.JCPbooks.com

All That Glitters. ©2019 Jordan Castillo Price. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Electronic Version 1.1

1

YURI

PINYIN BAY WAS BOTH EVERYTHING I thought it might be, and nothing whatsoever like I expected. It was a small American Midwestern city in a fly-over state, where traffic moved slowly and strangers always insisted on smiling. But I’d learned the hard way not to underestimate the damage a smiling man was capable of inflicting.

Pinyin Bay in the winter was also colder than St. Petersburg, and even as February turned to March, my little lakeside cabin was frigid…but I couldn’t really complain about that these days.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Dixon sing-songed from the bathroom.

I’m sure he did. I frankly never knew what he was going to come up with next. I pulled the blankets around me to stop my body heat from escaping. “A good one, I hope.”

“Not just good….” He elbowed open the door and struck a dramatic pose. “But sparkle-licious.”

He flung a hand high, one foot forward, one foot back, arching his spine like a showgirl. Dixon Penn wasn’t just confident—he was ludicrous.

And I was captivated by him anyway.

It wasn’t his body, and it wasn’t his looks, either. It was the sheer audaciousness in the way he approached everything. Including the two of us. Together. Especially the two of us, together.

“What do you think?” he said playfully.

“I think you will freeze your balls off unless you come to bed.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen. I’ve been getting so much use out of them lately.” He tiptoed forward on the cold wooden floor and struck the pose again. “But, seriously—do you like it?”

His nipples were stiff with the cold. Stiff, and alluringly pink against his winter-pale skin, surrounded by whorls of dark chest hair that circled them like a night sky by Van Gogh. I was well acquainted with the way they’d feel against my tongue—but I was suddenly aching to remind myself anyway. Just in case I’d forgotten some very important detail.

“Yuri…” he used his exasperated Yuri. I pretended not to notice. “Not up here.” He framed his nipples briefly, then pointed toward his crotch. “Down there.”

Light from the bedside reading lamp reflected from his pubic hair in tiny glints of pink and silver.

“You put glitter in your…?”

He struck another pose. “And I shaved it into the shape of a heart. See? Uh, well, I guess it only looks like a heart if I’m standing with my thighs pressed together. And my dick is tucked between them. Except I was kind of excited, and the more I handle it, the less tuckable it is.”

“Funny how that happens.” I peered at his handiwork and saw part of his treasure trail was now stubbled. And the whole bush was somewhat misshapen…and sparkly. Very sparkly.

“It’s called Glee Glitter. Not only is it edible—it tastes like cotton candy.”

“Oh, does it?” I said skeptically.

Dixon peeled back the covers and slipped into bed, staring me straight in the eyes, then scaled my body like he was working his way across a fallen log. Whenever I thought I’d learned the extent of his shamelessness, he still managed to surprise me—in the best possible way. He straddled my shoulders, poked me in the chin with his stiffening dick, and said, “Why don’t you find out?”

He shrieked with delight when I pushed up from under him and practically threw him into a backward somersault. The bed groaned, but held. Its rough wooden frame had taken plenty of abuse from the summer tourists—from obese fishermen to families with small children playing trampoline—but after I met Dixon, I had to reinforce the lumber with additional support brackets and longer screws.

Though it could be argued that long screws were the problem to begin with.

I pinned him on his back with his knees around my neck and pressed my forehead to his. “I’ll taste your Glee Glitter when I’m ready. And not a moment sooner.”

“Ohmigod, Yuri, you’re so butch.” He laughed as he said it, as if he was making a joke. But like most humor, it carried more than just a kernel of truth. I was not the type of man you’d want to keep around for more than a dirty hook-up. But instead, he was drawn to me like a planet orbiting a star. A disarmingly adorable planet. I gazed down into his eyes as we grappled for better leverage (whatever we were currently doing—apparently we hadn’t quite yet decided).

His eyes were the darkest brown, nearly black—even in the sunshine, but especially inside the dim cabin. Show me a fair-haired Scrivener, and I’ll show you bottle of peroxide dye stashed under the bathroom sink. Scriveners all come from the same stock: black-haired, brown-eyed people too clannish to risk diluting their gene pool. Dixon looked nothing like the thick, ruddy, pale-eyed men I’d been with back in Russia.

And that was how I liked it.

When I pinned him down, he never struggled. Instead, he devoured me with his dark, mischievous eyes while he luxuriated in whatever we were doing at the moment. Rough, tender, impulsive or absurd. He was eager to explore every facet of lovemaking. I was mistrustful, both by nature and experience, but even so, I couldn’t help but indulge him. And while I wouldn’t say the edible sparkle tasted exactly like cotton candy, it was definitely more palatable with a bit of salt to cut the sweet.

As we finished, he kissed the taste of himself from my lips—or maybe he was re-introducing me to my own flavor—and then nestled his dark head in the crook of my shoulder with a sweaty, contented sigh. “I could do this all day.”

“Good thing you didn’t freeze your balls off.”

“Too bad I said we’d be there by six.”

For all that Dixon tended to flood me with information, he also had a habit of presuming I was privy to his thoughts. Either that, or he just lost track of what he’d actually told me and what he’d only been thinking. But he’d been scoping out various business opportunities for us ever since we agreed we didn’t want to Spellcraft for anyone else, and it was high time something finally came through. “Where do we need to be?”

“Dinner—the best chicken and dumplings you’ve ever had. Bar none. Because my mom uses those great big flaky buttermilk biscuits, you know, the kind that come in the can—”

“Dixon…?”

“Do you have those in Russia? Biscuits in a can? Do you even call them biscuits, or do you think biscuits are cookies, like Brits? You know what I mean, though—the ones that scare the bejeezus out of you when they pop open and they’re all big and squishy inside? I guess they’re technically just biscuit dough until you actually bake them—”

“Dixon….”

“When I was little I used to chase my cousin all over the place with those half-open cans because they scared her so much when they popped, and once I made her wet herself—oh God, don’t tell Sabina I told you that, she’ll totally die—”

“Dixon!”

He shut up, finally, but his dark eyes were startled and wide. I pried him off me—we were somewhat stuck together—and turned him onto his back, pinning his wrist to the pillow so he’d stay right there and look at me when I spoke. “Why is your mother making us dinner?”

“Because ever since Dad melted her favorite Tupperware in the oven, he’s only allowed to cook on the grill, and it’s too cold out for grilling.”

Oh, Dixon Penn is adorable all right. But I’m no pushover, and I wasn’t about to let him think he was getting away with anything. I glared at him until he squirmed in my grasp…and finally, he relented. “What’s the big deal about meeting my folks? We’re an official thing. Right?”

He knew there was no one else. I grunted a reluctant affirmation.

“And so, you were bound to see them sometime. Pinyin Bay’s not that big.”

Maybe not.

Still, he grossly underestimated my how much I truly hated playing nice.

2

“UNFORTUNATELY, SABINA CAN’T be there. Which is a shame, because Sabina has this dessert thing she does with marshmallows and coconut and green Jell-O. Do you have Jell-O in Russia? I’m sure you do, but it’s probably called something else. Anyway, she’s taking these mandatory classes in defensive driving to get her traffic ticket reduced, which is totally not fair. It’s not her fault the Buick’s gas pedal sticks.”

Dixon had been talking nonstop since we pulled away from the cabin to the point where he steamed up the windows. I turned up the blower.

“And, no pressure, but it’s always been Mom’s dream that I’d end up with a Seer. Don’t worry—I didn’t tell her about your talent. I know you’re traumatized after what happened with Precious Greetings.”

“Traumatized is a bit…exaggerated.”

“It’s okay, Yuri, you can feel your feelings in front of me. I mean, heck, you feel everything else.” He was batting his eyelashes. I could tell from the corner of my eye, but I pretended not to notice. “I just want you to be prepared. My mother is profoundly sentimental. Don’t be embarrassed if she gets all schmoopy on you.”

I was unfamiliar with the word, but that was fine. Dixon’s ideas were a constant patter. It was a stream one could dip into and out of at will and still end up at the same location.

“And my father…let’s just say I think the term ‘dad-joke’ was coined specifically for him. He’s the life of the party. Whatever you do, though, don’t pull his finger.”

When I first came to the United States, it was disconcerting to see everyone constantly baring their teeth in bizarre and inappropriate smiles. We Russians only smile when we mean it…and I’ve never had much to be happy about. But when Dixon smiled at me, he wasn’t just trying to coerce me into liking him. No, he exuded joy. And so it didn’t surprise me at all to find out he’d come from a loving home where his mother was kind to him and his father knew how to laugh.

One where I’d fit in like a bear in a rabbit hutch.

Dixon’s family lived in a part of town where lawn ornaments never got stolen, though you couldn’t say the same for cars. I left my truck unlocked anyway. It was more rust than metal now. And no matter how many times I cleaned it, when it was above freezing out, I still got an occasional whiff of the dead squirrel I’d found in the glovebox.

His parents’ place was a small, square, no-nonsense tract house with vinyl siding and a shockingly green plastic wreath hanging on the front door…which was also unlocked.

“Hello-o! We’re here!” When Dixon burst through the door, the smell of cooking hit me in a blast of humidity. Chicken and fake butter, rounded out with apples and cinnamon and something that was browning on the verge of being burnt. The home inside was cluttered with bric-a-brac and far too many pieces of furniture. Not antiques, unless you counted the 70s wicker furniture that was starting to unravel. It was as if no one could bear to throw anything away, even though it was pressboard, plastic and veneer.

“Hey, Dad!”

Dixon’s father sat in a faded recliner with his feet up and a newspaper in his hands. When Dixon greeted him, he let one corner of the paper droop and assessed the two of us over the top. He looked like Dixon—brown hair, dark eyes—but with high widow’s peaks and extremely deep frown lines. “Took you long enough.”

This was the family’s source of dad-jokes? If he was kidding, he had a phenomenally dry sense of humor. While I tried to determine if it was sarcasm or true annoyance, Dixon kissed the top of his head, then gestured at me with a sweep of his hand. “This is Yuri, obviously. Yuri, this is my father, Yoska—everyone calls him Johnny—whoa, do I smell what I think I smell?”

“Your mother pulled out all the stops and made her Dorito green beans on the side.”

“Best day ever!”

As Dixon enthused about dinner, his father eyed me over the top of the newspaper. Was I supposed to shake the man’s hand? Refuse to pull his finger? I was in the dark as to the Penn family traditions. Spellcrafters are insular, and the ones I knew in Russia would only meet with me for as long as it took to do our Crafting. They’d never invite me into their homes, let alone introduce me to their families. Johnny narrowed his eyes, then flicked up the newspaper barrier between us.

How soon would I be able to go back home?

I followed Dixon into the kitchen, which was just as cluttered as the living room, and hot enough to steam a dumpling. His mother was at the counter, chopping parsley very loudly with a knife that was bigger than her arm. To say she was a stout woman would be putting it kindly. She was very nearly spherical, with apple cheeks and black-dyed hair teased and sprayed into an improbable shape. I would have taken it for a wig, if it weren’t for the half-inch of gray at the roots. She wore a T-shirt with the words Mama Bear stretched across her wide bosom.

“Mom!” Dixon rushed her, nearly impaling himself. They hugged each other fiercely. “Mom, Yuri. Yuri, the most awesome mother in the world, Florica.”

Dixon’s mother glared at me as if she’d found the perfect place to sheathe her knife—directly in my chest.

“Do they have Doritos in Russia, Yuri?” Dixon asked, but before I could answer, he had his head in the oven. “Apple turnovers? Ma, you’ve outdone yourself!”

“They’re frozen,” she said gruffly.

“Not anymore.” He pulled them out with an oven mitt and set the tray on the butcher block to cool. “Actually, the green beans are just the way I like ’em, too—y’know, with the crunchy little brown tips—I say, let’s eat.”

With lots of fussing and jostling, Dixon herded me over to the dining room, which had one too many chairs jammed up to the table, despite the fact that there were only four of us. It was set with random foods. Not only the chicken covered in canned biscuits, and green beans with crushed, orange-powdered corn chips on top, but lima beans studded with chopped hot dog, a plate of saltines, a bowl of pickle slices and a can of aerosol cheese.

Dixon plunked himself down at my side and squirmed with eagerness on the edge of his seat. Florica slammed a plate of folded bologna on the table while Johnny glowered. Once all the “courses” were set out, Florica picked up a serving spoon…and Dixon gasped.

“Mom! What the heck is that?”

She gave his father an exasperated sigh and said, “I told you he’d make a big deal out of it.”

Out of…what? No idea. But my policy has always been to keep my mouth shut and play along until I figure things out.

Dixon sprang out of his chair and plucked the serving spoon from her hand. “You can’t serve it without the red spatula.”

“Dixon—”

“No, It’s bad luck.”

“I’m sorry, Dixon, I know how attached you are, but I haven’t seen the spatula since Christmas. Now let go of the spoon or the casserole will get cold.”

“But we all love the red spatula.”

“We looked,” his father said. “You think we haven’t looked?”

Dixon set his jaw. “Well, look again. This is our first dinner with Yuri, and it would be bad luck to start off on the wrong foot.”

Florica shook her head and muttered something about the Dorito topping going soft, but she pushed herself away from the table and said, “Fine. We’ll take one last look. You search the dining room with your father. Yuri can help me in the kitchen.”

As I pried myself out of my seat, I wondered if the whole setup was some kind of bizarre American prank. But given the high flush on Dixon’s cheeks and the frantic way he began tearing through the sideboard…I didn’t think so.

3

THE STEAMY KITCHEN smelled of cheese powder, corn chips and singed apple turnovers. I kept an eye on Florica and she kept one on me. “Might as well make yourself useful and look up high,” she said, and began turning out the drawers. The Penn family owned a startling number of can openers. I went through the highest shelves in the pantry—not that it was a logical place to put a spatula. Perhaps I thought I would understand Dixon better by seeing what his family kept on their shelves. But the contents were just as baffling as he was, rows of generic canned goods with faded, dusty labels covered in neon “closeout” and “half off” stickers.

I was still wondering if this was some kind of hazing ritual when I overhead Dixon’s father telling him, “Calm down, kiddo. How about this? I’ll run out to the store and get us a brand new red spatula.”

“But it’s not the lucky red spatula….”

If the gruff tenderness in Johnny’s voice and the distress in Dixon’s were fake, the two of them should have been actors, not Scriveners. As if she’d somehow read my mind, Florica said, “I suppose you know we’re a Spellcrafter family. Practical Penn. That’s us.”

“I know.”

“And I suppose you have all kinds of notions about what that might mean.”

I had many notions, of course. But not the ones she might think.

I realized Spellcraft was deceptively powerful.

I suspected a good Scrivener could work wonders.

And I knew that outsiders—the Handless—were both fascinated and repulsed by Spellcraft magic, even as they scoffed about it and made it the butt of their jokes.

“I’ll tell you something,” Florica said. “People might look down their noses at Scriveners. But you’d be wise not to underestimate my son.”

I’d circled around the kitchen to search the top of the refrigerator, which was covered in old cookbooks, oily dust, and a broken fortune cookie still in its wrapper. “Did you know Spellcraft was illegal under Soviet rule?”

Like most Americans, she got her knowledge of my homeland primarily from cold war spy movies. “That’s a bit extreme.”

My gaze fell to the refrigerator door. It was crowded with cheap plastic magnets shaped like various states, menus from at least four different Chinese restaurants, and a truly bizarre shopping list. “Even now, it’s unusual for someone to hang a sign on their shop and proudly declare what they do. Who they are.”

“Well. This isn’t Russia. And Spellcraft might not be the world’s most glamorous profession, but don’t go thinking my son will give it up to go do something more exciting with you. He’s worked long and hard to be a Scrivener. And if you can’t handle that—”

I checked the freezer—which, other than some ice cube trays and a box of waffles, was empty. But when I closed the door, my eyes returned to the grocery list.

It looked like it had been there for ages. The paper was a torn scrap with a coffee ring in the center. It read:

FLOUR

FAMILY SIZED

FISH STICKS

KIELBASA FETA CHEESE

I should count myself lucky that whatever dish was comprised of these ingredients was not on tonight’s menu. But when I began to turn toward the cabinets, I found my gaze drawn back to the list.

Why was it written that way, with the family-sized fish sticks on two lines, but the sausage and cheese on one? And other than the coffee ring, the paper was bright white, and very thick. Quality paper. Cotton rag, by the looks of the torn edge. Not the sort of thing most people use to jot a quick note.

But definitely the sort of thing to hold a Crafting.

My vision shifted, and I saw the brown circle wasn’t a coffee stain after all, but a distorted circle of golden brown watercolor. The words seemed to vibrate—some at a different frequency than the others. And as if they’d just lit up to my inner eye, I saw the Craft cunningly hidden within the words.

FL OUR

FAMILY SIZED

F IS H STICKS

KIELBA SAFE TA CHEESE

Dixon’s relentless optimism was one thing, but I’d been dreading meeting his parents—worried that I would find a couple of soft, weak, gullible fools. Easy prey. But when the hidden Crafting revealed itself, I saw they were clearly shrewd enough to handle themselves—and they had the good sense to realize that Spellcrafters couldn’t afford to be too trusting.

“Tell me something,” I said. “Is there actually a lost spatula, or is this some kind of test?”

Dixon’s mother blinked. “Of course there’s a spatula.”

I drew my paintbox from my pocket and set it beside the charred turnovers. “Then, if it’s here to be found, I will help you find it.”

Her eyes went wide when I pulled out the tiny notepad I carried everywhere these days—just in case—and she realized what I was doing. I cupped my hand beneath the tap to capture a bit of water, wet my brush, and cleared my mind.

When I was a young man (and my Seens would fail as often as not) I would try to picture a thing in my mind and copy it to the page, until an old Scrivener helped me find my inner sight. She drove a hard bargain, too. In return for this education, I painted her a thousand small Seens over the next few years.

Florica was not unlike my old mentor.

I didn’t try to picture a spatula. I focused on Dixon instead. His distress. His hope. His fear that his loved ones’ fortunes hinged on a random bit of “luck.” And when I had the feeling fixed firmly in my mind, I swirled my wet brush against the red paint and set the bristles to paper.

When I was done…it certainly did look like a spatula.

My composition was strange, however, with the painting all on one side rather than the middle, but I no longer question these things. I slid it across the butcher block and told Florica, “Find it.”

She scrutinized the small painting, then my face. And without mentioning anything to her husband and son, she slipped out of the room, returning shortly with an inkwell and a case that contained a long white plume. Before she dipped her quill, she leveled a hard look at me—one that told me if I wasn’t legit, if I was trying to make a fool of her, I would no longer be welcome in her home.

I held that cool gaze for a moment, then nodded.

She closed her eyes and allowed words to come to her in much the way I did my painting. She considered them for a long moment. And when she was finally satisfied, she opened her eyes, turned the Seen on its side so the spatula was at the bottom, and in simple, precise penmanship, wrote, Luck, Laughter and Love.

I would have written, Look, there’s the spatula. In Russian. This is why I’m no Scrivener.

As Florica’s Scrivening meshed with my Seen, the power of Spellcraft played across the back of my neck like a gentle breeze. The whole kitchen held its breath as the two of us looked expectantly at this thing we’d made together. And whether or not the spatula ever turned up, I’d shared a secret of utmost importance with Florica. A profound secret that could mean as much to her family as Dixon finally receiving his quill.

Her words had a chance to succeed where mine might have failed. They were general enough to embrace many possibilities. This was important, because sometimes what is lost can’t be found again, not in the way we hope. If the spatula had been accidentally thrown away some months ago, it would be out at the Pinyin Bay landfill by now. And while Spellcraft was certainly a deep and mysterious power, it couldn’t make a hunk of plastic erupt from the ground and fly across the city.

As surely as I felt the magic course through me, though, Florica had felt it too. And her voice sounded different when she said, “I’ve always been partial to Seens that actually look like something.”

We both reached for the Crafting at the same time, then both pulled away with a huff of embarrassed laughter. The small paper fluttered to the floor. “I’ll get it,” I said, and knelt down to retrieve it…and saw a hint of red plastic peeking out from between the range and the cabinet.

I pulled out the cobweb-covered spatula and handed it to Dixon’s mother, who took it from me with no surprise at all, and then held her hand out for the Crafting. She turned on the stove’s burner, then touched the corner to the flame. I must have looked worried, because she said, “Most people keep Spellcraft around forever. But not me.”

“I thought it was dangerous to destroy a Crafting.”

“Only if you’re trying to reverse the spell when you really need to Uncraft it. This is different, though. I have a theory that once the Crafting has done its job, the magic wants to be free again.”

Clearly, Florica Penn was a wise woman. And I still had so much to learn.

A curl of smoke rose from the Crafting as she dropped it to the surface of the stove. The paper flared, browned, and collapsed. Florica wiped away the ashes with a bright yellow sponge, then handed me back the spatula and said, “You should be the one to make Dixon’s day. I think you’ve earned it.”

***

The bottoms of the biscuit dumplings were still raw—everyone else just scraped off the doughy parts without comment—but Dorito green beans, it turns out, are edible.

“A Seer,” Johnny murmured, while Dixon squirted aerosol cheese on a piece of bologna and topped it with a pickle slice. “And how did the two of you meet, again?”

Before I could figure out where to even start, Dixon kicked me under the table and said, “The internet.”

His parents nodded sagely. And I supposed, in some small way, it was true. If he hadn’t entered the online Precious Greetings contest, we might never have crossed paths.

Johnny helped himself to more lima beans, taking care to capture some extra bits of hot dog. “Do you need a job, Yuri? I’m stuck in a contract until our Seer wants out…” he gave me a shrewd little smile. “But with your help, we can Craft a little something to make an early retirement seem pretty appealing.”

That was entirely illegal. Even here.

I liked the way the man thought.

“Yoska,” Dixon’s mother scolded. “Isn’t it obvious now why Dixon hasn’t come back to work with us? The boys are freelancing.”

“Oh, sure, Practical Penn might not have some fancy foosball table or staff retreats or beard glitter.” What? “But what about stability? No one respects a side hustle as much as I do—honest. I’d even write a special freelancing clause into your contract…so long as you agree to a non-compete agreement.”

Dixon rolled his eyes, not dismissively, but with adoring tolerance. “I love you, Dad, and I know you only want to make sure we’re both provided for. But I’ve gotta figure out my own way.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it for emphasis. “Me and Yuri.”

I’ve seen plenty of strange things over the course of my life, but I wasn’t sure which part of that exchange was more surreal. Dixon saying “I love you” to his father? Taking my hand right in front of him? Or Johnny tearing up, claiming to have something in his eye, and reeling off to the bathroom?

Dixon and his mother kept on eating, totally unfazed. Florica said, “Of course, if Yuri needs a work visa, we’ll put him on the books.”

Dixon gave a happy wriggle. “You’re the best, Mom.”

As the night wore on, I realized I was no longer so eager to leave. That Dixon’s father did indeed crack jokes, though they were stealthy and dry, and that his mother’s fierce scowl protected a tender heart. When we climbed back into the pickup truck, Dixon was uncharacteristically silent, and I watched his eyes flick back and forth as he replayed our first family dinner with a faint smile.

It had been a long time since I cared what someone else thought of me. I knew the Penns would embrace me as a fellow Spellcrafter. Just the fact that I was not Handless would have been a relief, but a Seer? Practically unheard of.

And yet, I’d been worried I would screw everything up, despite the magic. After all, the last time I’d visited my own mother, she’d told me, Bring a girl home with you next time…or don’t come back at all.

Scriveners were a clannish bunch, all right. And I’d never realized how much I’d longed to be included.

“Yuri? What are you thinking?”

I cleared my throat. Twice. Then gruffly said, “That went well.”

“There was no doubt in my mind they’d adore you as much as I do. But I wonder what Dad meant about the beard glitter—um…oh.”

“Oh?”

Dixon looked entirely too innocent—but he was staring at my chin. I yanked down the rearview mirror to see what he was looking at. When I tilted my head, by the dim light of the cab, I could just make out tiny glints of pink and silver in my stubble.

I’m not one to blush…but I wouldn’t have been surprised if the edible body glitter singed to a crisp like the Doritos on his mother’s green beans.

“I can always put some glitter in my 5 o’clock shadow the next time we go there,” Dixon offered. “Make them think it’s something all the cool kids are up to these days.”

I shook my head, put the truck in gear and headed back to the cabin. “Never mind. I have a feeling it would take a lot for your parents to disown me.”

And not just because I was a Seer, either. But because I made their son happy.

-end-

The ABCs of Spellcraft Series

1. Quill Me Now

1.5 All that Glitters

2. Trouble in Taco Town

3. Something Stinks at the Spa

4. Dead Man’s Quill (coming soon)