Of Witches and Warlocks: The Complete Series

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Portia Mullins - Present Day

I thought I was the typical teenager—a normal fifteen year old, eagerly awaiting my sixteenth birthday, which was in three days. Mostly I was excited because I could finally get my driver's license and, of course, the dating thing.

My family had a strict no dating policy until I turned sixteen. It didn't bother me too much since I'd seen some sad results from other girls who were allowed to date before then—not that those stories were always their fault. It just seemed like guys who didn't respect girls had an easier time taking advantage of them when they were younger.

Even though I hadn't hit the official dating scene, it wasn't like I didn't have guy friends. I'd always been a happy-go-lucky girl—cute too, in a sort of Goth way. The funny thing is, I wasn't Goth at all. I happened to have naturally straight black hair, which flowed down past my shoulder blades. My sweet, dainty upturned nose matched perfectly with my bow-shaped lips. But it was my big, nearly-black eyes with thick, dark lashes against translucently pale skin that set off the entire look. I tried tanning, but somehow only turned a beautiful shade of lobster-red before my skin puckered, peeled off, and revealed a lovely, new, white skin beneath.

My best friend, Shelly, whom I happen to call Barbie behind her back, tried to make me over many times without success. My hair wouldn't hold a curl, and the extra makeup made me look a bit like a hooker. Since I'm so style challenged, I religiously tried to avoid wearing too much black, sticking to jewel tones and that shabby chic kind of look I adore. That, perhaps, made me resemble a gypsy of sorts, which is a taste in fashion I inherited from my grandma, of all people.

Grandma Mullins is my most favorite relative in the world. She's an eccentric, sixty-something, free-spirited individual—the kind of lady who's always smiling, but you feel like you might be missing the big secret behind it. I loved her tall, slim, graceful figure and straight hair like mine, but it's a beautiful chestnut brown that looks like it was purposely streaked with gray highlights. Her sense of style is fabulous, I think—light, flowing clothes with way too many layers and styles of jewelry on at the same time, but somehow it works. I was super excited that she was throwing my birthday party for me this week.

"Portia!" my mom called from downstairs. "It's time for breakfast!"

I groaned, hearing my name. I didn't hate it exactly, but my dad goes on and on about it. He's the one who chose it. It was sort of a joke, using a play on words.

My dad and his buddies were really big into cars in high school, and according to the many stories I've been told, they used to have some heated, verbal disputes about whether their favorite car was called a "Porsche" or a "Porscha" in their pronunciation. My dad promised his buddies someday he would "own a Porscha." After college, though, he had a hard time finding work in his field of expertise. He eventually became an encyclopedia salesman and was promoted to district sales leader in the company, but he quickly began to see his dream car fade. Then I was born, and he suddenly found a way he could own a "Porscha" once again. He even wanted to spell my name like the car but, thankfully, my mom put her foot down.

"Hey, Mom," I said, dropping my backpack at the foot of the stairs.

I gave her a quick peck on the cheek before grabbing a piece of toast from the stack and slathering it with jelly.

"I have to work the swing shift again, so I won't be here when you get home from school," she said.

My mom was a nurse at the Verde Valley Medical Center. I figured she was most likely the reason our family stayed afloat financially, since I didn't think there were very many people buying encyclopedias in mass quantities.