"Zack is going to kill me," Marie Laveau muttered to herself. Her arms loaded with groceries, she rushed up the rain-slicked steps of the cream-colored mansion she shared with like, two hundred other people, and with her cousin Zachary Warren. She didn’t know what time it was, but she knew she was late – really late.

Soaking wet, Marie burst through the front door of the sorority apartment she and Zack shared. "Zack?" she called out.

"In here," Zack replied, "working on my recipe."

Marie followed Zack’s voice or rather, the smell of his pasta sauce, into the sparkling-clean kitchen and set the groceries on the floor. She squeezed some water from her long, dark hair.

Twenty-six-year-old Zack was hovering over the stove, stirring a pan of sauce as he reached for some freshly chopped herbs and tossed them into the pan. He raked his fingers through his dark blond hair and sighed. Then he turned to scowl at Marie, narrowing his gray-blue eyes.

Yep, Marie thought. He’s pissed. "Sorry I’m late," she told her cousin. "Really. I just didn’t realize how long I was gone, and then it started raining…"

"Whatever," Zack waved a hand in dismissal. "Did shopping help get your mind off things?"

"Do you see any bags?" Marie asked, thrusting her hands out at her sides. All she’d done for the past few hours was moving numbly and blindly through her favorite stores, freaking people out with her zombie-like behavior. The past week had been pretty eventful for her… and not in the good sense. Even the groceries she’d bought were for Zack, who needed them for his audition tomorrow.

"What’s this?" Marie slid open the top of a wooden box and pulled out a dark bottle with a white label.

Zack flashed her an excited grin. "It’s a very special port wine," he explained. "The ultimate ingredient for my audition recipe. This wine might just get me the job at Quake."

"Quake?" Marie wrinkled her fine nose as if something smelled bad. "Is that what the restaurant is called? The name kinda reminds me of that breakfast cereal with the pirate guy on the box."

Sunlight streamed into Quake’s shiny stainless steel kitchen, reflecting off the gleaming pots and pans hanging above the stove. Even Zack’s white kitchen jacket seemed to glow in the afternoon light as he spooned sauce over a roast of pork.

He worked quickly and carefully, concentrating on every detail. Sheridan Moore – the head chef at Quake – had given him exactly one hour to prepare his audition meal, and the hour was nearly up.

Everything’s going well so far, he thought. Hope I don’t screw up anything now. He spooned some red sauce from a pot and tasted it. "Mmmm." The sauce for the pasta was almost ready. Now was the perfect time to add the port wine.

Zack opened the bottle of wine he had bought – the final touch for his pasta recipe. He sniffed at the smell that was wafting from the bottle. Wow! This would transform his pasta sauce from ordinary to fabulous! He carefully measured out a quarter cup of port. Zack was about to add it to the pasta sauce when Chef Moore breezed in.

"Your time is up!" the dark-haired chef announced in his French accent, clapping his hands. Zack froze. Though Chef Moore was not much older than he was, he found his European manners a little intimidating. Even so, Zack really wanted to work in the kitchen of a remarkable cook.

"I’m ready to taste your meal," Chef Moore told him.

No! Not yet! Zack thought, still clutching onto the measuring cup of port wine. He hadn’t had time to add it to the pasta sauce, and without it, the sauce wouldn’t taste right. What was he going to do?

"Chef Moore," Zack said. "I, uh…"

The chef ignored him and looked at the index card. "Let us see," he said. "Roast pork with gratin of fennel and penne with a port giblet sauce. Hmmm."

Zack was desperately trying to add the port to the sauce, but Chef Moore stood between him and the pasta dish, blocking his way. Before he had the chance to say something, the chef picked up a fork and hovered over the pasta dish.

"Chef Moore?" Zack said.

The chef paused, spearing a few pieces of pasta with the fork. "What is it?"

"The port…" Zack began.

Chef Moore nodded. "Ah yes, the port. Without it, the sauce is nothing more than a salty marinade. A recipe from one of those easy-cooking home magazines. Puh!" He shook his head in disgust.

"I didn’t have time to…" Zack tried again.

"Ah-ah-ah!" The chef cut him off with a wave of his hand. With his other hand, he dipped the pasta into the sauce and raised the fork to his lips, preparing to taste the unfinished dish.

Zack was frantic. I can’t let him eat it, he thought. He’d never get the job if Chef Moore tasted that sauce. "No! Wait!" he cried, spreading his fingers out in front of him. He waved his hands. "Stop!"

Chef Moore stopped. He stood as still as a statue, the fork hovering near his open mouth.

Zack let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much," he said. "I just need a few seconds to…" He stared at the chef, who still stood frozen in place, the fork at his lips.

"Chef Moore?" Zack asked, laughing nervously. He waved a hand in front of his face. The chef didn’t move an inch – what was he doing? "Chef Moore?"

He didn’t respond. His eyes didn’t even blink.

"Hello?" Zack waved his hand again. "Hel-lo!" he said a little louder. Zack glanced around the stainless steel kitchen, his eyes falling on the pot of boiling water that had frozen mid-bubble.

What is going on? Zack thought, his heart thudding heavily against his chest. He glanced at the clock on the wall. The second hand isn’t moving either, he realized. He rested his ear against the refrigerator. It’s not humming! Everything has stopped dead… Everything except me!

He stared at the motionless Chef Moore in horror. Did I just do that to him? Is Marie right? Am I… am I really a witch? He stared at the unmoving chef in front of him, ready to taste the pasta dish.

Without thinking, he snatched up a soupspoon and filled it with some port wine. He then dribbled the wine onto the pasta and dabbed a few drops onto Chef Moore’s forkful.

Chef Moore suddenly blinked and popped the pasta into his mouth.

Whoa, Zack thought. I can’t believe this is happening. He glanced at the water on the stove. It was bubbling again. The clock was ticking and the refrigerator was humming. Everything was back to normal.

He looked at Chef Moore.

"C’est magnifique!" he declared as he swallowed the pasta. "This is very good!" He gave Zack a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Welcome aboard, you get the job! What do you say? Can you start this evening?"

Zack beamed. He’d done it! "Of course," he replied. "Tonight is fine."

"Good. See you at five." Chef Moore took another forkful of Zack’s pasta and sauntered out of the kitchen.

Zack sank slowly onto a high stool. His hands were shaking. He was thrilled to get the job, but what had just happened? Had he really frozen time? How did he do it?

Marie, Zack thought. She must know something about this. I’ve got to call her – now!

"We’ve got to tell somebody about this," Marie said the next morning, for the third time, as she poured cereal into twin bowls.

"Sure we do," Zack, who was perched on a tall stool by the kitchen counter, sarcastically replied. "We should tell, oh, I don’t know, your foster parents? The police? The media? And just what are you gonna tell them, huh? That we’re witches? That you saw – in exquisite and minute detail – what was gonna happen even before it did? A vision of Bobby getting knocked down by a car?"

Marie put the cereal box down and frowned. Zack was right, of course. No way could anyone have known that an accident was going to happen even before it did. No one normal, that is. She sighed.

"And, while you’re on that topic," Zack ranted on, "why not tell everyone about how I just froze the entire audition room yesterday? How, with a wave of my hand, I had mysteriously stopped everything in its tracks? You can even throw in the part about the spirit board and the Book of Shadows thing."

Marie gulped. Zack was definitely right. They could trust no one – at least not yet – until they had completely figured out what was going on. In the meantime, she flipped on the kitchen TV. She channel surfed, but couldn’t get her mind off what has happened during the past few days. This definitely tops it off, she thought, this stuff about being a witch.

Zack grabbed two spoons and brought it to their kitchen table. "Snag the milk, okay?" He nodded at the fridge.

Marie opened the refrigerator door. She was nearly blinded by the white, bright, spilling over-fullness of it all. Containers of juice and milk, bottled water, cold cuts wrapped in crinkled waxed paper, a loaf and a half of bread, eight bottles of salad dressing lined up in the shelf of the door, plastic containers of leftovers.

A picture of her own pitiful half-fridge back home came to her. The wilted lettuce, a couple of pocked tomatoes, the almost empty jar of peanut butter, and her father’s plentiful supply of beer. She didn’t mean to slam Zack’s fridge shut, but apparently, she did. Hard enough to rattle the salad dressing bottles.

Zack whirled around, annoyed. "It can break, you know."

"So?" Marie, whose heart was breaking just that moment at the thought of her foster parents said, "Just get a new one. What’s it to you?"

Zack closed his eyes. Was this how it was going to be like every single day? He almost wished that his cousin Marie had never shown up.

Marie opened the fridge again, slowly this time. She was relieved to see that nothing has been damaged. "Sorry," she apologized. "I didn’t mean to slam it. Good thing nothing’s been ruined."

"It’s okay," Zack said, smiling. "It’s just me. I tend to overreact, anyway." Marie instantly felt better. She’d never been in much contact with her cousin until a few days ago, and it still surprised her how easy it was to let go of grudges and arguments as if they had never happened. Maybe it was just part of Zack’s charm, or maybe he was more forgiving, but whatever the case was, it was definitely a cool thing to be living under the same roof with him.

"Here," Zack said, handing her a spoon. "Dig in." Nodding appreciatively, Marie reached for the spoon. Then, a sudden dizziness overcame her as her hand brushed against Zack’s. Marie gasped as a sudden jolt of electricity ran through her body. She knew what was happening. She was having a premonition. She closed her eyes, and a scene unfolded in her mind.

Three figures stood, veiled by the darkness of a snowy night.
In the hands of one of the figures, a woman, was a baby.
The baby had familiar gray-blue eyes.
It wore a delicate half-moon necklace.
A child, standing beside them, wore a matching sun necklace.
The child turned around. It was a boy.
And the boy looked an awful lot like Zack.

The images disappeared. Marie blinked her eyes, accustoming to the bright morning light. She shook her head as if to clear the fog that had gathered in it. The scene felt so real, she thought, catching her breath. She had felt a wave of anguish so strong that it took her breath away – a wave of deep and wrenching loss. Whoever this woman and this baby were, they were about to be separated.