Better Haunts and Graveyards

by Angela Roquet

  Randal Thorpe gave me a sharp-toothed grin from the center of the gathered crowd. His gaudy, pinstriped suit had con artist written all over it. An abundance of gel made his hair shine like the slick paintjob on his Mercedes, and equally tacky shiny shoes completed the look. His tongue flopped out of his mouth as I approached, but he quickly reeled it in when he noticed Dylan.

  Even in day-old jeans and a plain white tee-shirt, my batty Shifter was eye candy. His sweep of raven hair and dark, broody brows made the women in the room swoon. Me, too. I was glad he’d decided to come with me today. Zelda had made the right call. Even bloated and grudgy, she had my back.

  Randal cleared his throat and tapped the end of his ink pen on the clipboard in his opposite hand. “Now that we’re all here, we can finally begin.”

  We were ten minutes early, but before I could point that out, everyone began talking at once, hurling profanity-laced complaints in my general direction. I only caught bits and pieces. Great ghost uprising. Hallowed unrest. Ritual ramifications. Slut. And then I heard someone mention Dorothy.

  “Hey now!” I gasped at their audacity. “That’s uncalled for.”

  “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this,” Simon, a mild-mannered skunk Shifter, shouted above the din. “Give the witch a chance to defend herself.”

  “Defend myself from what?” I said. “What makes you all think these ghosts have anything to do with me?”

  The room exploded again with witchy accusations and assaults on my mother’s character. The latter I couldn’t deny, but the former was clearly pre-orchestrated. My money was on Randal. He was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.

  “The ritual was only for the Hernández ghosts,” I shouted to be heard. “If any of you bothered to drop in for a visit, you’d see that they’re very much departed—physically and spiritually. Tell them, Zelda.”

  “It’s true,” she said with a bored yawn and then propped her feet in Mac’s lap. “The hexed papas have skedaddled.”

  “But these new ghosts, they’re buried in her backyard,” Bob, a brow-challenged beaver Shifter said, pointing a finger at me. “My great-great-auntie, twice removed and run over by a horse and buggy”—he crossed himself and shot a mournful look up at the ceiling—“was buried in Father Pepper’s patch back in 1892.”

  “My great-grandbuck was laid to rest there after a hunting accident in 1908,” DeeDee, a deer Shifter and the town doula, said with a sniffle. “Goddess rest his antlers.”

  “Unibrow and Doe Eyes aren’t the only ones being haunted by their late late loved ones.” Randal stood up taller and pointed his pen in the air. “That’s why I’ve offered to undertake the burden of relocating the cemetery outside of town.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, here we go.”

  “Of course,” Randal continued, “proper excavation requires proper compensation. The lot and adjacent property would suffice as payment. Its value is greatly decreased in its current infested condition, but as a proud member of this community, I’m willing to take one for the team.”

  Bob began to clap, but he stopped when I shot him a lethal glare.

  “That property belongs to me, Randal. You can’t barter for it with the Town Council.”

  “Well, technically, he can,” Mac injected. “If you’re not maintaining the grounds, it’s within the town’s rights to take possession of it.”

  I felt my blood pressure rise, and fire filled my cheeks. How long had Randal been schmoozing the townsfolk behind my back? Priming them for this very opportunity. Even Zelda seemed uncaring about my current predicament, and I couldn’t believe only the cookies were to blame. Her muffin top would recover.

  “I maintain the grounds.” The corners of my mouth twisted downward, and I stomped my foot. “I maintain the shit out of those grounds!”

  “Not a blade of grass out of place,” Dylan confirmed. “The paint is fresh, and front walk guano-free. It’s the most pristine property on the whole block.”

  “Except for the ghosts,” Zelda pointed out.

  My nostrils flared, and it felt as though steam was coming out of my ears. “Up until yesterday, you didn’t even believe there were any ghosts!”

  “And now they’re everywhere. Like cockroaches.”

  I gaped at her. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “Friends don’t make friends fat.” Zelda stuck her tongue out at me. “But you’re right. This isn’t exactly fair play. You deserve a chance to redeem yourself—where my waistline and the great ghost uprising are concerned.”

  “You’re an uber powerful witch,” I said, giving her a pleading look. “Can’t you do anything about the ghosts?”

  “Margo, I’m the Shifter Wanker. I need all my energy to heal these asswaffles when they have run-ins with honey badgers,” Zelda explained. “Besides, Baba Yaga told me this battle was yours to fight.”

  “What? That’s impossible. I’m not—I mean, I can’t—” I gritted my teeth. How was I supposed to confess that I was the magical malady of the West family to a room full of Shifters who were ready to turn my home over to a ball-licking douche canoe?

  Zelda gave me a neutral shrug. “If you can’t nix the ghosts, Randal has promised to build a Target in place of your house.” Ah-ha! So it wasn’t just about cookies. That dirty dog.

  “You have 48 hours,” Mac announced. “If you can’t get rid of the ghosts, then Randal will be given the go-ahead to move the cemetery.”

  Bob began clapping again, but this time several other Shifters joined in. Assjacket didn’t feel as welcoming as it once had, but I knew who was to blame for that.

  Randal Thorpe was a very bad boy. And one way or another, I was going to put him in his place.

  Chapter 6

  I BALLED MY FISTS AT my sides and stomped the entire way home. Rage and sorrow funneled inside me like a cyclone leading straight to hell. Dylan stayed a few steps behind, his own hands tucked down in the pockets of his jeans. He’d quietly listened to my ranting and raving since we’d left the meeting, but I was sure his heart was just as heavy as mine. The bat colony in the belfry were like family to him. And this was his childhood home.

  It was hard not to feel slighted by the few Shifters I considered clients and friends. Polly, the porcupine Shifter I’d sold a cute bungalow to last summer, had at least been among the handful of Shifters who hadn’t seemed overjoyed about a Target. But she also worked at the hardware store, so her displeasure might have had more to do with job security.

  Even more than the Shifters, I wondered how Zelda could do this to me. I felt so betrayed. I mean, how could the Baba Yaga think this ghost business was even remotely anything I could handle? Zelda was the only witchy friend I’d ever had—besides my gran—and I had really thought she was happy to have me in Assjacket. Maybe I’d overstayed my welcome.

  I mean, sure. Target. What witch wouldn’t sacrifice a familiar or two to have one of those just down the street? Not that I believed for one second that was what Randal Thorpe intended to do with the property.

  “If I were a better hex slinger, I’d shrink his balls to the size of peas,” I said through clenched teeth. “No, I’d fuse his spinal column together so he couldn’t lick his balls. Or turn his magic wand into a cactus. Then I’d brick him inside his doghouse—wait, I might be able to do that one without magic.”

  “Maybe Mama Ellie has a spell for that in her book,” Dylan offered with a grimace and adjusted his own magic wand and fondleberries. “Hopefully one to get rid of the ghosts, too.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “And it would be nice to know what’s riling them up.”

  We paused at the corner to admire the Hernández house from afar. It was three and a half stories of Victorian charm reinvented. The best home makeover I’d done by far. The soft green shutters and front door stood out against eggshell stucco, and the late morning breeze ruffled the petunias and morning glory in the planters that lined the porch.

  Dylan had repaired the rotten
steps and broken windows, and I admired his hard work, too. He’d also updated the house’s plumbing. We made a pretty good team. If everything didn’t go to hell in a handbasket, I could see us tackling all kinds of fixer-uppers around town.

  “Never thought I’d see the place look that good again.” Dylan wrapped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  “You did half the work,” I said.

  “Yeah, but your magic made it a home again.”

  I smiled weakly at the compliment. It was going to take a lot more magic than I had to give to save the place from Randal’s wrath. I opened my mouth to say so, but before the words reached my lips, something shattered through the living room window.

  “Was that...a cookie?” Dylan asked, cocking his head. I blinked up at him, and then we both took off at a dead sprint for the house.

  BROOMZILLA COULD MAKE her bristles hiss as savagely as a one-eyed alley cat. This further confirmed my theory about her past life, but it also meant that she could hold her own against most intruders.

  We found her in the kitchen, flinging frozen cookies from behind the open refrigerator door where she took shelter from Glinda. My cousin ducked behind the island between the sink and stove, ducking and bobbing to avoid the frozen projectiles. Her hands glowed with an electric green light that spiraled up both arms and gave my sunshiny decor a sickly pallor, and her glossy bob fanned around her head, crackling with static.

  “Give me the book, you wretched crotch splinter!” Glinda screeched as she hurled another limey ball of energy through the air. It smacked the stainless steel refrigerator and dispersed in an explosion of sparks.

  Broomzilla countered with rapid-fire pawpaw-doodles. My cousin dodged the attack, and I ended up taking a frozen cookie to the forehead. My audible grunt at the impact drew Glinda’s attention. Dylan grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the threshold between the kitchen and living room just as a bolt of green electricity shot through the opening.

  We took cover behind the sofa as more cookies and balls of neon sparks torpedoed through the house. Glinda spat more curses, and Broomzilla scratched out a frantic rhythm on the kitchen floor that I took as part apology and part plea for help. She wouldn’t be able to fend off the magical attack for much longer.

  “Owwww,” I groaned and rubbed the welt rising on my forehead.

  “Are you okay?” Dylan whispered, easing my hand away from my face to inspect the damage. He sucked in a sharp breath and gave me a sympathetic smile.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing a big black hat can’t hide.”

  I snarled and blinked my eyes several times, making sure my lash power hadn’t been affected. Which Dylan apparently took as a cue that my brain had been rattled loose.

  “Well, maybe a really big black hat,” he said under his breath.

  All witches had their thing. That special whatever that made their magic tick. Zelda had a glittery-infused rainbow of healing mojo at her disposal, and Glinda had her lightning-charged death curses. I had my winky homemaker charms. That didn’t mean I couldn’t use them for more than they were intended.

  “Time to blink this bitch back to Kansas,” I said, using the back of the couch to haul myself upright. I straightened my purple blazer and stepped into the kitchen.

  Glinda stood in the corner near the back door, one hand wrapped around Broomzilla’s handle. Mama Ellie’s grimoire was grasped in her other hand, and a triumphant grin split her face. In her leather getup, she looked every bit a West witch.

  “You should have given me the broom when I asked for it,” she said. “I could have helped you with your little munchkin ghost problem. Now you can deal with it on your own.”

  I didn’t waste time arguing with her. I simply winked and sent the dish of leftover lasagna hurling out of the open refrigerator and at her face. The glass made a satisfying thunk! against her forehead. Before she could wipe the tomato sauce from her eyes, I lashed up a pot of scalding coffee and sloshed it over her bare arm.

  Glinda shrieked and released Broomzilla, only to get a mouthful of bristles. She garbled a curse in my direction, but I easily sidestepped around her flickering half-spell and blinked a tiny dust bunny tornado to life, blowing it in her face. The debris stuck to her eye lashes and brows, making her look like a cross between Jack Frost and a dumpster fire.

  I reached for the grimoire, but before I could reclaim it, Glinda darted out the back door and slammed it behind her. I grabbed the doorknob and was rewarded with a zap from hades. Not to be deterred, I tried again and was blasted twice as hard. She’d electrified it.

  “Don’t!” I warned Dylan as he reached for the knob.

  “Why?” he asked. Then his mouth dropped open as he turned around and fixed me with a wide-eyed stare. “Whoa.”

  “What? What is it? Did the welt get bigger?” I poked a finger at the tender spot in the center of my forehead and sucked in a hissing breath.

  “You, um...might wanna fix your hair,” Dylan said, struggling to lower his gaze.

  I closed my eyes and blew out a frustrated breath. “Wizard, help me.”

  DYLAN, BROOMZILLA, and I spent the next two hours cleaning the house and boarding up the living room window. We decided to hold off on ordering the replacement glass. Just for a day to stall the rumors. Those would circulate fast enough once Roger did his stalker rounds through the neighborhood.

  If it had been a small crack or two, I could have mended the windowpane with magic. If I’d had any left, that was. I was ashamed to admit it, but the short battle with Glinda had wiped me out. I didn’t have enough witchy energy left to fix lunch and had to degrade myself to manual cooking. With Dylan’s help, it wasn’t quite as horrible as I expected it to be.

  Until another ghost decided to pop in for a visit.

  “Needs more garlic, niña,” she croaked in a brittle voice.

  “Flying monkeys!” I gasped and threw my spatula across the kitchen. Bits of salmon splattered the floor. Broomzilla rushed to clean it up, still in a grateful mood for being rescued from the wicked biker witch.

  “So jumpy.” The tiny, wrinkled apparition clicked her tongue as though this were a grave character flaw.

  “Dorothy, drop a house on me,” I swore and pressed a hand over my heart, begging it to stay put in my chest.

  “Mama Lois?” Dylan blinked in disbelief at the ghost, taking in her busy floral dress and the veil clipped above the bun in her gray hair. Then he remembered the pot of rice about to boil over on the stove and turned the burner down. “What are you doing here?”

  “A little bat told me my nieto’s wife could use a hand in the kitchen.”

  “But I’m not married,” Dylan said innocently.

  Mama Lois waved a hand in my direction. “You bring a harlot into my house?” Her voice rose, and a subtle, Cuban accent colored her words. “The roadkill beaver woman told me she saw you in the garden with her. Have you no shame?”

  Dylan’s face flushed deep red. “Abuelita, it’s not like that.”

  “You want to spend the whole day scrubbing the belfry, is that it?” she threatened, pointing her ghostly finger in his face.

  “We had to do one of Mama Ellie’s rituals to save the house.”

  Mama Lois exhaled a shaky breath and crossed herself as she muttered a quiet prayer in Spanish. Then she took a calming breath and glared at me. “The fish still needs more garlic.”

  Dylan gaped at me behind Mama Lois’s back and shook his head, stopping when she shot a dark look up at him. The few recipes he’d shared fond memories of from his youth had all been Mama Gretta’s. I had to wonder if there was a reason for that.

  “Uh, Mrs. Hernández,” I said, folding my hands politely. “You said a little bat told you to come here. Is that right?”

  She grunted a vaguely affirmative noise and resumed glaring at the salmon in the skillet.

  “Did this bat have a name?” I pressed.

  “You’re going to b
urn that poor fishy to a crisp,” she complained, then clicked her tongue again. “Ungrateful sinverguenz. I should go visit that nice gopher family across the street. They always appreciated my expertise in the kitchen.”

  “No!” Dylan and I shouted at the same time. I picked up the bottle of garlic powder and shook it over the skillet.

  “Careful!” Mama Lois snapped then squeezed her eyes shut. “Dios mío.”

  “The bat who sent you here, Abuelita?” Dylan tried again.

  “Yes, yes.” Mama Lois waved her hand dismissively. “She said I could not rest in peace until I give the gift of my recipes to a living soul in need. Your wife—bruja—whatever she is—seems very much in need. Does she not?”

  Dylan groaned and dragged both hands down his face. Mama Lois nodded sympathetically as if he had just confirmed her assessment.

  “This will take a while, Nieto. But do not worry. My mind is like a steel trap. I did not keep recipe or spell books like your Mama Gretta or Mama Ellie because there was no need. I remember everything I ever cooked.” She shooed him away from the stove. “You could help by fetching a pen and some paper.”

  “Check the rolltop desk,” I said, cocking my head toward the living room. He gave me a concerned look, but I smiled, silently assuring him I wasn’t afraid to be left alone with his snippy, spectral grandmother.

  Once Dylan was out of sight, Mama Lois made a face at the salmon in the skillet. “No wonder he has not married you,” she said under her breath. I swallowed my pride and gave her a sweet smile.

  “Teach me how to cook this fish, and maybe he will.” That seemed to perk her mood.

  “Do you have oregano?” she asked.

  I nodded and fetched the bottle from the spice rack. Then she instructed me to add a dozen more spices that I wasn’t quite sure belonged together in the same dish, but I bit my tongue and kept adding them without protest. When Dylan returned with a pen and pad of paper, I decided to test the waters again.

  “Mama Lois,” I said, using her family name now that we were kitchen chums, “this fish smells divine.”