Michael had just finished his own breakfast that same morning, and when he got up to put his emptied plate in the sink, Constance had just left the kitchen, but lit a cigarette and turned to look at him.

"Michael?" she asked. "Wash those dishes."

"Okay," he said under his breath.

And he did so; he took the sponge and turned on the warm water before adding soap to the dirty skillet that Constance used to make omelets for them both that morning. As he scrubbed, his smoldering olive-colored eyes looked ahead through the window to see two familiar female figures standing in front of a table next door. The one who stood out to him the most was the extremely beautiful young woman he had met during his neighborly visit with his grandmother to the house, her golden curls cascading down her back with stray strands on her smooth, fair forehead. Michael looked a little more to notice that she had not been wearing makeup—beautiful, he thought as he reached down to rinse the suds off the next dish he had been washing in the sink. All the while, he didn't take his eyes off the beautiful young woman through the window.

CA-SMASH!

"What's wrong in there, Michael?" Constance called out from the other room. Michael looked down, snapping out of his spellbound fascination with Amy, and saw that he had dropped the plate on the floor. It had smashed into three pieces, and before he could lean down to grab the fragments of china, Constance stood in the doorway with a look of disapproval on her face.

"That was my fine china, Michael," she snapped. "What happened?"

"I-I don't know," her grandson replied.

"Well, pick it up!" Constance exclaimed.

"Fine."

Michael had been thinking about Amy since first laying eyes on her—her image came into his mind even as he leaned down and picked up the pieces carefully, taking them to the trash can and disposing of them. Constance sat at the island counter and dragged on her cigarette, tapping the ash in the crystal ashtray that had always sat there. Her grandson, however, was still stuck in his daydream.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I just dropped it, I guess," her grandson said. "It's only one plate."

"I pay good money for our china," Constance said. "Don't let it happen again."

"It was an accident."

"I know, but don't let it happen again," she said, taking a drag.

Michael looked over to the window, still seeing Amy and her adopted mother in the window—what are they doing, he asked himself curiously.

"Bay leaves are in," Amy said, sprinkling a granulated substance from the mortar and pestle used to grind the said herb.

"Alright, so…" Cordelia said, looking down in her recipe book and trailing her finger down to the next ingredient listed for the potion. "Clovers. Four-leafed clovers."

"Three of them?" Amy asked. "There were three bay leaves needed."

"Yes, three of everything. Always remember," her adopted mother said, taking three, dried four-leaf clovers from the jar containing them and putting them in the pot boiling on the stove.

A sweet, earthy scent came from the smoke that rose to their faces, and Cordelia put the dried herb in the pot as Amy took the wooden spoon and stirred the contents. The older witch looked down at the bubbling sauce pan as the tea-like substance turned a light, clear green. Some leaves were hovering at the fluid's surface, and Cordelia took another gander at her open recipe book, speaking softly in a voice that was all-too-tranquil.

"Concentrate on good luck," she whispered.

"I am," Amy said, stirring the contents as she did as stated.

"Luck, luck, pot o'luck," Cordelia stated. "Luck, luck, pot o'luck…"

"Do I have to chant?"

"If you want. I'm doing it to help me concentrate," the older woman said.

"Well, it's not in pig Latin, that's for sure," Amy snickered.

"The Liber that your aunt once owned is in Latin," Cordelia smiled.

"Say, when are we going to get that book?" the young witch asked. "If Clara is destined to be Supreme of the New Orleans Coven, she should get it now."

"Whoever the Supreme will be, shall be all in due time," Cordelia reminded gently, putting a hand over the rising smoke from the boiling pan. "Zoe has been Supreme for thirteen years. She has been doing well by the students at the academy, and she continues to do so. You can only become Supreme if you participate in the Seven Wonders and are a student or member of the council."

Amy paused and looked down, breaking her concentration to look at her adopted mother.

"We aren't descendents of the Salem line," she stated. "How the hell did we even become part of the academy? Aunt Eleonora said we were descended from Swedish witches. Clearly not British like the ones in Salem."

"It's a very long story," Cordelia said. "For now, we must concentrate on empowering this potion, hm?"

"Ugh," Amy groaned, rolling her eyes. "I'm eighteen now. You have to tell me at some point. Did you tell Clara?"

"Yes, but a shortened version of the story," Cordelia replied. "You will be told when the time is right."

Clara was out of breath by the time she ran to the doors of Professor Charlotte Truman, who had been giving the first accounting lecture as well as a syllabus for the semester. Her shoes smacked against the noisy tile of the hallway before opening the door to the lecture hall. A tall, mature woman with her chestnut hair tied up in a sophisticated updo shot the young, raven-haired witch a look that resembled that of a killer and her victim. Meanwhile, the class was half-full of students in their seats arranged in a semi-circle, much like an amphitheater.

"You are late," the professor sneered. Clara took a breath and spoke calmly.

"I apologize, professor," she said. "I…uh…had some trouble at home. I missed the bus."

Small, dark eyes darted through the lenses of the professor's eyeglasses, pointing to a seat.

"Sit," she commanded rudely. "Do not be late again. You have disrupted my lecture."

Clara took a seat in the middle row in an empty desk, and only a few students were in that part of the lecture hall. As soon as she sat, she placed her cloth tote bag on the desk and took out a pen and spiral notebook, prepared to take notes whenever necessary. Professor Truman continued her lecture as Clara looked forward at the old-looking teacher.

"In this class, we focus on how managers can use accounting information to assist them in making decisions and how accounting information can be used to control the actions of other members of the firm. We will use managerial and organizational economics to build a framework for understanding internal accounting systems…"

Clara was getting bored—she turned and looked to her right to see a young woman with sandy blonde hair staring down at her desk, tipping a pen on its tip with her frail, small hand as the professor continued the lecture; the raven-haired witch looked at what she could see of her face, noticing familiarity as she heard fragments of the professor's rambling.

"I believe that the best way to learn material is to gain experience through problem solving…"

The flaxen-haired young woman released her hand from the pen, and it not only stood on its own, but spun slowly with the ballpoint tip against the desk. Clara couldn't help but stare at what was going on—are there more witches here in L.A, she asked herself. As Clara gasped at the sight, the young woman was startled and turned her face to the raven-haired witch, the pen dropping and rolling over the desk's surface, toward the edge and on the floor. Clara immediately recognized the face as a woman from her last dream asleep in San Francisco. Her face was freckled, her eyes were verdant and bright, and she gentle-faced with a heart-shaped jawline and hints of cheekbones just beneath her eyes. She also wore light makeup consisting of pink lipstick, taupe pomade filled into her arched, plucked brows, and mascara to make her eyelashes stand out. Her hair was loose and to the middle of her back, slightly wavy as the golden color shined off the surface. Then, Clara could feel the professor's eyes darting back at her as she continued her lecture.

"Falling behind early is not a good idea," she stated out to the class. Is she talking to me, Clara thought, I hope not.

The raven-haired witch had seen the freckle-faced blonde in two more of her classes that whole day, but it was the last class, which ended at three sharp, that Clara worked up the courage to speak to her. She had been sitting next to her by mere coincidence, and Clara was not the one to initiate conversation—the other young woman did during a lecture in World Religions.

"I like your shawl," she told the raven-haired witch; she had an accent that was somewhat familiar, but it was definitely foreign yet not too heavy.

"Thanks," Clara smiled, writing down something the professor was saying. "Boring subject, huh?"

"Hm, I am here to learn," the young woman said.

"I majored in Business to maybe start my own business when I graduate," Clara explained. "I want to be a florist."

"Flowers?" The flaxen-haired, freckled woman looked at her with interested, sparkling green eyes.

"Yeah, flowers," the raven-haired woman chuckled.

The blonde just stared at her, and when the bell rang, the two got up from their desks; Clara took a firm hold of her cloth tote bag and put her notebook back into it, while the blonde stood up—she noticed she was short in stature, at least five-foot two and very petite with an unnaturally tiny waist cinched with a faux leather belt. She was wearing a black dress to just above the knee with long, puffy translucent sleeves, and she had an average-sized bust that was not too big and not too small. Her legs, covered by nude-colored hose, tapered gracefully to thin shins and ankles to her small feet stepping gracefully in short, kitten-heeled boots. She was exquisite in size, and the two even conversed in small talk as they walked out of the lecture hall.

"Do you live in the dormitory, too?" the blonde had asked.

"No," Clara replied. "My sister, adopted mother and I recently moved into a house here in L.A. I lived in San Francisco before this, and before that, my sister and I were born in New Orleans. I moved here when I was eight."

"She is younger," the blonde said in her soft accent. Clara looked sideways down at her and chuckled.

"Yes, how did you know?" she asked.

"I just do," the blonde stated. Clara shrugged and kept walking.

"So you've been a student here for sometime, I'm guessing," the brunette said cordially. "Where are you from?"

There was a brief silence before the blonde answered.

"Sweden." Clara just smiled softly as they continued to walk, adjusting the straps that hung her cloth tote bag from her shoulder.

"Say, I'm part Swedish myself," the brunette said. "On my dad's side, a little."

"I know," the blonde said, looking to the bus stop nearby. "This is your bus?"

"Uh, yeah," Clara said; she was slightly weirded out by the blonde, even though she felt a familiar connection with her as she saw her throughout the day. Then, the blonde began to walk away as her sandy blonde hair blew in the warm, late summer breeze. Clara looked and gasped anxiously, gritting her teeth with worry—she hadn't even learned her name, let alone formally introduced herself.

"Hey, wait!" she exclaimed, running a few steps closer. "I forgot to tell you my name. I'm Clara Day."

"I know," the blonde said.

"Wait, how?" Clara asked. "You've never met me before, and even though I think you look very familiar, I don't even know your name."

There was a silence; the wind seemed to carry her voice like doves in flight, their white, fluffy feathers flapping with each of their swift movements.

"Britta," she said softly, her accent trilling the R sound as she turned herself around to the direction she had been initially planning to go in.

Her booted feet seemed to turn around in a perfect circle, and as she walked away at an even pace, Clara just watched strangely. I've heard that name before, she thought, and she looks so familiar. Have I really seen her before? Was it a prophetic dream?

Clara had come home after the bus let her off at the stop down the street from their new house. She walked rapidly up the front steps and into the house, tossing her cloth tote bag on the floor near the front door to hear piano music being played in the key of E-flat. Following the sound, Clara was led to the parlor, where she leaned against the wooden doorway, seeing the curling blonde hair of her sister cascade down her back as she played the piano—her voice was breathily angelic, but not quite a soprano as she sang out a familiar, old tune:

"Notice me, take my hand
Why are we strangers when
Our love is strong…
Why carry on without me?"

Just when Amy began to sing the chorus, Clara felt a presence walk slowly next to her, and when she turned to look to her left, she saw a figure of a young girl with honey brown eyes looking ahead at the beautiful blonde at the piano who sang with such vocal richness. She was only shorter than Clara by an inch, and she had light brown hair that would look like a dark shade of blonde in a different lighting. She was wearing a beige cardigan over a tank top with skinny jeans and lace-up brown loafers. Her facial features were soft, but in her eyes was an inerasable sadness that even the sun couldn't shine away. Clara knew that the house was haunted by the spirits who lived there before, so instead of showing fear, she was kind and welcoming.

"Hello," she whispered to the figure.

"Hi." The girl kept listening to Amy singing and playing the piano in E flat:

"Everytime I try to fly
I fall without my wings
I feel so small
I guess I need you, baby
Everytime I see you in my dreams,
I see your face, it's haunting me
I guess I need you, baby…"

"Uh…my sister plays beautiful, doesn't she?" Clara asked the girl nervously.

"Yeah," she replied. "She does."

"I am Clara," the black-haired witch said cordially. "You…you're Violet, aren't you?"

"Uh…how did you know?" the girl asked.

"I met another one of you the other night," Clara explained quietly as Amy continued to play and sing. "And this morning…"

"Who?" Violet asked.

"This morning, we met Nora. Last night, we met Tate," the brunette said. Violet gasped, her doe-like honey-brown eyes looking into Clara's clear blue ones.

"Tate?" she asked.

"Yes."

Amy continued to sing and play as she finished the song:

"At night, I pray
that soon your face will fade away…

Everytime I try to fly
I fall without my wings
I feel so small
I guess I need you, baby
Everytime I see you in my dreams,
I see your face, it's haunting me
I guess I need you, baby…"

The notes that finished the song were drawn out but flowed nicely, and Amy got up from the piano bench to gasp at Clara's presence. Then she turned her eyes to Violet, her eyes jeering condescendingly as she took a heavy sigh.

"Another damn ghost?" she asked. "Geez."

"Amy, stop," Clara said.

"I honestly don't give a shit," Violet stated expressionlessly. "Don't stick up for me. Please."

"You don't give a shit because you're dead," Amy said. "It's no wonder they say it's the living you have to be scared of."

"But I'm…not scared," Violet said.

"Yeah," Amy said cynically, "because you're dead."

"Amy, stop it," Clara said, turning her attention to the ghost with sad, honey-colored eyes. "Listen, I know you're probably a little upset that we moved in here—"

"Why would I be upset?" the ghost asked.

"Well…I…I don't know," Clara said, "But I'm getting that vibe from you. Want some tea or something? We can hang out, if you want."

"No," Violet said. "I want to be alone."

"C'mon," Amy said, shaking her head. "You know it's no fun when you're all alone."

"You should talk," Clara said. "You've been in this house since we got here."

"There's not much to do yet," Amy stated. "I need a job. Real bad."

"I hate this place," Violet cut in. "I've hated it ever since we moved here."

"Why did you move here?" Clara asked.

"Well, my dad had an affair," the girl explained, walking and taking a seat at the small loveseat near the piano. "My mom literally caught him in the act. Meanwhile, she had a miscarriage. I hated her for taking him back. I hated my dad for cheating on her. I lost respect for him. He's dead to me."

"I understand what you mean," Clara said. "But…is he dead as well?"

"Yes," Violet said. "My mom is, too. My dad hung himself from one of the lights. My mom died having another baby."

"Really?" Amy asked, joining her on the loveseat and looking at her with her intense blue eyes.

"Yeah. I don't remember what happened to the baby," Violet said. "I think it died."

Ding-Dong!

"Oh, that's the door," Amy said. "Go answer it."

Clara walked toward the front door, moving her tote bag aside as she heard the doorbell being rung again. She took a breathy sigh and peeked through the small peekhole to see a handsome, tall young man in casual clothing staring off into space with his strange, olive-colored eyes. He ruffled his shaggy blond hair before Clara opened the door a crack to see him standing there.

"Uh…hey," she said with a smile. "Can I help you?"

"I don't remember seeing you when I came here with my grandma to welcome you guys to the neighborhood," the young man said. "I'm Michael. I live next door."

"Hello, I'm Clara," the dark-haired witch said. "Uh…so…"

"Is Amy here?" he asked. "I came for her."

Then, the mentioned person called form within.

"Who's there?" Amy asked.

"Oh, the neighbor is here!" Clara exclaimed.

"Can I come in?" Michael asked.

"Uh…yeah, follow me," she said.

Clara led Michael into the kitchen, where Cordelia sat reading a book. The older woman looked up upon hearing footsteps and smiled at the familiar young man she had met so recently. She closed her book and removed her eyeglasses, her brown eyes smiling up at him.

"Hello, Michael," she said politely. "It's nice that you came to visit. Would you like tea or coffee?"

"No," Michael said. "I'm here for Amy. Is she here?"

"I'll go tell her you're here," Clara said.

The dark-haired witch did as promised, sprinting down the hall to the parlor, where Violet and Amy remained on the sofa. The gorgeous blonde stared up at her sister, who smirked down at her.

"You have a visitor," Clara said.

"What?"

"Yes, that kid Michael. He wants to see you, and maybe even take you out on a date."

"Uh, what the actual fuck is going on?!" Amy exclaimed.

"Well, you need to get out of this house, anyway," Clara stated.

"No, tell him to leave," the blonde said, covering her face. "He can't see me like this!"

Violet just looked at Amy sideways and shook her head, nearly smacking her palm to her face.

"You're the vainest person I've ever met," she remarked.

"Watch it," Amy snapped, "or I'll drop a house on you."

"Okay, look," Clara said. "Guys don't care if you wear makeup, Amy. I don't think this one does."

"Oh, this coming from a girl who has only had one boyfriend her whole life," her younger sister said sassily.

"Really? One boyfriend?" Violet asked. "I only had one, too."

"I think you should just go with him," Clara said. "You may come to like him a lot, you know. Just give him a chance."

"Ugh, alright fine, if it makes you shut up about it," Amy sneered, standing up from her place on the loveseat. "How is he dressed?"

"Casual."

"Whatever," Amy stated. "I'll be down in a few. Go tell him."

Michael smiled slightly when Clara went to tell him the news—yes, he thought to himself, but the feeling in this house is unbearably strong.

A/N:

Thank you all for the reviews and reads on this story! It was more successful than I expected it to be especially judging those last couple stories, so thanks! :3

And YES! Britta has returned, and this time, she's in the flesh! Hmm…how did she come back to life after all these years? I guess we will find out in a future chapter!

Looks like Michael (aka the "Anti-Christ") is gonna get him some lovin'….oh boy, I need help XD

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