Two days had passed—no ghosts bothered to socialize with Cordelia and her two adopted daughters. Clara had been at classes, and Amy had taken Cordelia's advice in searching for a job. Anything, she had thought to herself while scrolling through a job search website, I don't care, as long as I make money.

When Saturday came around, Clara found time to tend the garden she had created in the backyard. Rather than making any new flowers grow, she poured water at the base of each plant with an aluminum watering can and concentrated enough to make any browning leaves turn green with life again. Smiling, she placed the watering can down—Fleetwood Mac had been playing on the portable radio she had brought downstairs with her, and she had been wearing the shawl once belonging to her mother. Looking down at its distinctive floral print, she extended it out as the music caused her to spin around, her skirt billowing out as she looked to the clear, blue sky:

"Listen to the wind blow
Watch the sun rise
Run in the shadows
Damn your love, damn your lies…"

She felt the warm breeze caressing her long, raven black hair as she closed her eyes, feeling it on her face as well as she sped up to the chorus of Stevie Nick's impeccable singing:

"And if you don't love me now,
You will never love me again
I can still hear you saying
You would never break the chain…"

As the song began to slow down to the next verse, Clara let the dizziness take over as she fell back on the ground, her hair touching the lush, green earth as the white, puffy clouds slowly moved across the baby blue sky. She listened to the music while wrapping herself snuggly in the shawl inherited from her late mother. It still had its distinctive, earthy-perfume scent, but Clara suddenly got visions from repressed memories.

She ran down to the ancestry room, nearly fainting at the sight of the bloodied, heavily wounded bodies of not only her aunt, but her parents laying on the floor right next to the threshold of the doorway. Chase and Julie seemed to be piled up on top of Misty's body at certain parts, and a slight trail of blood led to the doorway.

"AAAHHHHHH!" she had screamed.

Clara had tears forming in her eyes, holding the shawl closer to her as she struggled to forget what had haunted her for years, the traumatic images branded into her mind. She couldn't, so she shut her eyes.

"But no! I want to bring them back! My ma taught me to make a poultice. Stitch the wounds, put it on, and yeah! They'll be good as new!" she had exclaimed.

"Hey."

Clara opened her eyes form the frightening images to see Tate standing above her, crouching down to see if she was alright. Their eyes met, and the ghost seemed to be curious, mostly about the music playing.

"Oh, hey," Clara said, wiping her eyes on the shawl."

"Got any Kurt Cobain on that thing?" he finally asked.

"Uh, no," the witch answered. "Who is that?"

"I was about to ask the same thing," Tate responded expressionlessly. "What's with the hippie songs?"

"They're not hippie songs," Clara began, her voice getting more enthusiastic. "It's Stevie Nicks! Fleetwood Mac!"

"Who?" The teenaged ghost looked somewhat confused as he followed Clara closely behind toward the radio. She had simply crawled over and began to hum along with the song that had just started to play.

"Stevie Nicks, the White Witch," Clara explained. "My aunt was a white witch, and my mother loved Stevie Nicks. She played it all the time when we were kids."

"Where is she now?"

"She passed away," Clara said, trying to repress the disturbing, gory images that had haunted her for years.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright," the witch said.

"And…witch?" Tate asked, furrowing his eyebrows inward.

"It's a long story. I already told Moira," Clara said. "I thought she'd tell you."

"I only saw her yesterday," the ghost told her. "She didn't tell me anything."

"Well, I guess she's full of secrets and true to her word," Clara said, swaying her head from side to side in time with the lyrics. Tate watched her and listened to her soulful voice crooning the lyrics of the middlemost verse:

"She is like a cat in the dark,
then she is your darkness.
She rules her life like a fine skylark,
when the sky is starless.
Once in a million years, a lady like her rises…
Oh no, Rhiannon, you cry, but she's gone…
Your life knows no answer,

Your life knows no answer…."

There was a silence, and Clara spoke again as she knelt next to the portable radio, her hand tracing along the smooth, hard, faded white plastic.

"Listen to these lyrics," she instructed calmly. "This song was her anthem. It was my mother's favorite of hers, too. Doesn't it just pierce through your soul and tell the truth about everything you've ever felt in your whole life?"

"I don't feel anything," Tate said.

"Really? Nothing?" Clara asked.

"Yeah."

"There is something…someone you're thinking of," the witch said pensively, standing up on her bare feet as they planted toward the lush, green grass. "Then again, it doesn't take a simpleton to figure that one out."

Tate shook his head—Clara also noticed tears developing in his dark, chocolate-colored eyes as he sniffled.

"I…I still love Violet," he confessed tearfully. "Whenever I see her, it hurts me. I can't talk to her. When she told me to leave, I was so heartbroken. I still am."

Clara had been hesitant at first to reach for him—she wanted to console him, but she was afraid he was as absent as an illusion. However, she took the chance anyways only to find that his form was solid, as though he were alive and well. She patted his back gently, hearing him sob slightly before pulling himself together enough to make a seemingly simple request.

"You're a witch, right?" he asked. "You can…do spells and…make people do what you want them to do?"

"Uh-huh?" she asked. "Why?"

"I just want Violet to love me again," Tate told her, dropping a not-so-subtle hint. "Can you make her do that?"

"Hm…" Clara thought for a moment—is that really ethical, she thought, what would Amy and Cordelia say? And would Britta help? "We will think about it."

At one that afternoon, there was a knock at the door—it had caught Cordelia's attention, but just before she could reach for the door, the spirit of Moira faded into view and looked the guest straight in the face—seeing long, glistening golden hair and penetratingly clear green eyes with a youthful, freckled face, she smiled cordially.

"Hello, welcome," the ghostly maid said.

"Oh, hej," the person said. "I am Britta. I have come to visit Clara and her sister."

"Right this way," the old maid said, gesturing the Swede into the house as Cordelia stood by the parlor doorway nearby. As she approached her, she smiled; yet Britta only gave a friendly glance.

"Miss Britta, what a pleasant surprise," Cordelia smiled. "Care for a seat?"

"It's alright, we are here," Amy said as she and Clara entered the room.

Britta took a long look at her two descendents, staring at every detail of their outfits—Amy was dressed somewhat provocatively in a strapless black dress with a skater-styled skirt that went to the middle of the thigh, and it made her cleavage almost too noticeable. On her feet were strappy, sky-high-heeled garnet sandals made of faux leather, matching her devil red lipstick and the red tinge added to her black smoky eye. Atop her curling, fair ringlets was a black floppy sunhat, and around her neck hung a rosary with an inverted cross.

Clara, on the other hand, was dressed more tastefully and modestly, something Britta had favored during her life in the mid-20th century. She had changed out of her dirtied clothes from tending the garden and into an ankle-length black maxi dress with a bright indigo-colored, translucent open kimono top over it. Clara's black hair was loose but with a turban-styled headband wrapped around and tied in the front. Around her neck were layered necklaces with mystical symbols at pendants.

"Hey, Britta," Clara smiled.

"So what are we doing? Getting her new clothes?" Amy asked. "She looks like an old church marm."

"And please, tell me what you have ever done good with your life?" Britta asked. "Beside everyone you see."

"Ugh, go to hell, you old hag!" Amy sneered.

Britta immediately began to concentrate, raising her right hand and flicking her wrist so rapidly that she telekinetically sent Amy toward the solid wall, causing her to thud backwards into it. Clara and Cordelia gasped, and Amy's hat fell off as she collapsed to the wooden floor. The intense blue eyes of the witch stared up at her great-grandmother, standing up and placing her hat back on her head as she groaned in pain.

"Ow…"

"Maybe if you shut your mouth once in a while," Clara began, "then that won't happen."

"Maybe we all should go shopping," Cordelia suggested. "I'll pay for lunch."

"The mall?" Amy asked with anguish, her high heels hitting the floor as she made her way over in anguish.

"I would love to," the Swede said.

"Then let's go," Clara smiled.

The four witches then made their way down the street in the right direction, an odd single file line led by Cordelia and followed by Britta, Clara, and Amy. The only one without a hat was the golden-haired Swede, who looked to her right at the house right next to the manor her descendants lived in with their adopted mother to see a handsome, charming young man with short, shaggy flaxen hair. There was such a look in his olive-green eyes that made Britta suspicious, and when she looked back, she saw Amy waving at him flirtatiously.

"Hey, Michael," she heard the young woman say.

"Amy," he smirked; then, the blonde promptly stopped and turned to her family members.

"Stop," she commanded. "I want a minute with him."

Michael approached the four witches and smiled at each of them, giving Amy a tight hug with his arms wrapped around her waist. As he did so, Britta observed his facial expressions and body language sharply—he seemed to bury his face into the volume of her golden curls and inhale her scent deeply as though she were some type of exotic, deadly drug. She noticed his hands go to the lower part of her curvy hips, on the brink of her round buttocks as he let her go.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Just shopping," Amy replied in a sultry whisper.

"We're going out later," Michael stated, dropping a huge hint on her.

"Huh?" The blonde was confused, but he did not say anything—she changed the subject. "Uh…Michael, you've met my sister and Cordelia?"

"I think so," he replied, looking at the two witches; he was particularly focused on Clara, whose clear blue eyes looked up at him cordially.

"Hello," she said.

"You, too," he smirked; Britta had noticed his every subtle hint, seeing him bite his lower lip subtly at her great-granddaughter until Cordelia cut in.

"It was nice to see you, Michael," the older witch said. "And have you met Britta?"

As Cordelia moved aside to let the Swede take half a step forward, Michael looked down at her—she was short-statured and looked every bit intimidated as she seemed size-wise. However, Britta tried to hide it as she stared up into his olive-green eyes, seeing his short, shaggy blond hair before looking over at Amy's smoldering sapphire gaze. Michael continued to look down at Britta, entirely straight-faced before Cordelia spoke again.

"We should go now," the witch told them.

"Yeah," Amy said, locking arms with her sister. "Come on, loser. We're going shopping."

Los Angeles' famed Melrose Avenue was full of trendy clothing stores that suited the tastes of both Clara and Amy, but Cordelia managed to find new clothing items in business casual stores—she wanted to look her best, and look approachable to others. However, Britta had a hard time, particularly because during her natural lifetime in the mid-20th century, she had only worn modest clothing. Even as they walked through the streets of the shopping district, she looked at the mannequins curiously and even with a bit of shock, noticing short skirts on dresses and tops showing midriff aside from flashy colors and patterns. She had been wearing a knee-length raven black dress with a tie in the front and three-quarter sleeves with intricate black lace sewn at the hem and the bottom of the sleeves; black hose and matching shoes completed her simple look.

Upon reaching a boutique catering to younger women, the sisters dispersed while Cordelia hung out at the register—Britta, however, was invited to go along with Clara, and she willfully joined her. The young, raven-haired witch was open to giving suggestions to the century-old Swede, who looked at everything she had tried to take off the clothing racks.

"I have a similar style that my mother had," Clara explained. "I always loved how she dressed."

"I took pride in my modesty," Britta said in response. "I have not changed."

"Well, since you've been…uh…" Clara lowered her voice to a faint whisper, "resurrected, and you're in our time now. Maybe something a little more modern for you?"

"Yeah," Amy chuckled. "Show some skin. You look like you could use some exposure." Amy had taken a black bustier crop top with a blood red rose print all over it, and upon seeing it, Britta looked away.

"Nei," she said softly, shaking her head as she continued to look away; Clara just stared at her.

"Oh, c'mon," Amy snickered. "You're no fun."

"There is a saying I was always taught," Britta said calmly. "Där det finns ödmjukhet , det är dygd ."

"What does that mean, Britta?" asked Clara curiously as she took a top and maxi dress off the rack.

"Where there is modesty, there is virtue," the Swede said.

"Nothing's sacred," Amy sighed. "Just know that as you adapt to modern society, lady."

Three stores later, Britta had finally found a few articles of clothing that suited her liking—they were modest, yes, but they were not just the plain, drab black she had been seen wearing since meeting Clara. She had even gotten a few pairs of shoes and hose to put under her skirts and dresses. Now, they had all gone to an outdoor café for a light lunch of tea and buttery, crisp croissants. It was just then that Clara brought up Tate's request.

"I saw Tate today," she said.

"What did he want?" Amy asked.

"Who is Tate?" Britta questioned, looking at her two great-granddaughters and Cordelia. "He is…dead?"

"Wait," Cordelia cut in, "how did you know, Miss Britta?"

"When I walked into the house for the first time, I felt something," the Swede explained between a brisk sip of her tea. "Then I saw your maid."

"Maid? You mean Moira?" Cordelia asked, biting her croissant. "She's very nice. That is her name, by the way."

"I was the first to meet her," Clara told her. "Tate is different. He came into the garden while I was tending to it this morning, and he asked me who Stevie Nicks was. Well, Fleetwood Mac, too. He didn't even know."

"My daughter had music by them when she was young," Britta said, taking a bite from her croissant.

"So you weren't such a Bible-beater," Amy assumed.

"Not in that way, nei," Britta answered, sipping her warm tea and taking in its earthy aroma. "I allowed her to listen to whatever she wanted within reason. She loved Carpenters, Fleetwood…uh…Mac? Then a group called Floyd."

"Pink Floyd?" Clara corrected. "And the Carpenters are awesome, too."

"Ja. I had forgotten the name," Britta said, putting the half remaining of her croissant down on the saucer and wiping her fingers on the napkin given to her.

"So what were you about to tell us?" Cordelia questioned, looking into her adopted daughter's blue eyes.

"Well, he misses Violet," Clara stated. "Remember meeting her?"

"Poor thing killed herself," Amy said sadly.

"How?"

"Drug overdose. Entirely intentional," the gorgeous blonde witch said, taking her teacup to her devil-red lips. "I never feel bad for anyone, but her…she was a special case."

"Suicide?" Britta asked, a slight frown hidden in her naturally pink lips.

"Yeah," Amy said.

"Anyways," Clara said. "We are getting off-topic. I wanted to bring something up. I feel terrible knowing that he and Violet are on bad terms. I had an idea earlier, and he put the bug in my ear."

"To do what?" Amy asked.

"I…want to help them get back together," Clara said directly, looking specifically at Cordelia. "I know the Liber is with Zoe back in New Orleans, but we can make it happen."

"Say no more," Britta said, waving her hand dismissively in the air as she placed her cup down. "Fröja told me her story and how she made couples fall in love."

"Wait, who? What?" the three asked with confusion.

"Fröja," the Swede repeated. "Your ancestor. My ancestor, too. She lived in the Middle Ages. She was very beautiful, almost goddess-like. Her magick made couples fall in love. She bound hearts together."
"Your point is?" Clara asked, raising her dark, defined eyebrows.

"I know her magick. She taught me while I was roaming the Other Side with all of those who came before me, before you," Britta said. "I know what to do. I will need your help, but I will know what to do."

"That's great!" Clara exclaimed. "Tonight we should! Let's do it tonight!"

"Oh, shit, no," Amy protested with a grunt.

"Why?" her sister asked.

"Michael wants to go out tonight." In response to her great-granddaughter's disapproval, Britta shook her head and looked right into her sapphire eyes, speaking calmly and assertively.

"Nei," she said. "Tonight is fullmåne. All works of love are done under this phase."

"Full moon?" Cordelia concluded, noticing the cognate.

"Ja, or whatever you call it in English," Britta replied.

"Whatever," Amy said dismissively. "Tomorrow night I start my new job."

"Oh, you found one?" Cordelia asked. "Where?"

"Platinum Pleasures," the blonde witch said. "It's a strip club."

The table of witches was struck silent with shock, yet it was no surprise—Amy was promiscuous and conceitedly proud of her looks and body, enough to show it off when it rained dollar bills. Britta just stared coldly—dirty whore, she thought to herself.

A/N:

So things are getting more heated…let's hope the magick the witches perform works and bring Violate together.

Thanks to everyone who has left feedback and liked this story—please leave a Review, Favorite and Follow! :3

Stay tuned!