Hexes and Holly: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery Holiday Anthology

by Tegan Maher

  I shut my eyes tightly. James had always told me not to squint because it would give me more wrinkles. I shut my eyes even more tightly and focused. "Let what I truly desire most in the world happen to me right now," I said. I focused hard and willed it so.

  I could hear Agatha’s heavy footsteps returning. I hadn't even realised she left.

  This was it.

  I focused harder and harder until everything around me, the air, the sounds, nature itself, stilled.

  Behind me came the sound of a wood splitter knocking the handle off the door. The door flew open.

  "I've got you!" Agatha screeched as she burst into the room.

  "Meow," I said, as I brushed past her ankles and fled.

  7

  No one teaches you anything of use in high school. I was forced to do home science with the girls, and even though the sewing skills I picked up fared me well eventually, I wanted to build birdhouses with the boys in woodwork. And so did most of the other girls in my class. I was also forced to do English and Maths and French and Chemistry, and nothing I picked up in any of those classes prepared me for life as a cat.

  A cat!

  I was now a cat.

  I didn’t know what perplexed me more—the fact I had a tail, or the fact my tail didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I instantly loved being a cat. I loved the feel of my body, which was now strong and agile. I managed to jump on top of the rubbish bins and then jump on top of the roof without hurting my knees and finding my lungs begging for air. I loved the smell of garbage, which had always bothered me before, and I loved doing my business in the dirt, a pleasure humans didn’t seem to indulge in all that often.

  I did find myself concerned about the lack of thumbs. Specifically, my lack of thumbs. How could I open cans of tuna? How could I rip open packets of chicken? No, I needed a human to help, and I knew exactly which human to choose. His name was Edison, and he worked in a bookshop.

  I padded along various roofs until I reached the bookstore, and there I slipped in through the cat door. Yes, the bookstore had a cat door, and a rug, and a warm fire. In fact, I forgot all about Edison and found myself sprawled on my back, the heat from the fire so warm and pleasant on my stomach.

  My stomach! I didn’t have to care about fat rolls anymore. I didn’t have to care about looking pregnant when I stuffed myself like a fat sausage into one of the dresses I’d bought ten years ago and promised myself I would wear to one of my daughters’ functions.

  And my children!

  I didn’t have to pretend I liked my children anymore. Yes, I loved them, but they were raging jerks, and I couldn’t be bothered with them. With their eye rolls. With their snorts. They could go and belittle their mothers-in-law and spend the rest of their lives wondering to where their real mother had vanished. I was mean as a cat, and I loved it.

  I also didn’t have to worry about my cat figurines, because I was now a cat. Come to think of it, I hadn’t dug them up from my garden. Some archaeologist would find them in a thousand years and believe a cat-worshipping society lived on that very sport. That maybe a cat-worshipping, Australian queen was buried amongst those little figurines.

  Suddenly, I heard a bang, and I remembered: food! I wanted food, and quick. I padded into the cafe, where Edison was sweeping the crumbs off the floor.

  “Meow,” I said. “Meow.”

  “Hello. Are you hungry?” Edison replied.

  No, I thought, I am meowing just for kicks. Yes, I am hungry. Feed me now or I will meow at you until you go mad!

  “Are you hungry?” Edison said again.

  “Meow!”

  “Should I get you something to eat?”

  “Meeoooow!” I ran in front of his feet, just because that seemed like the thing to do. “Meeeoooooowwwww!”

  “All right, all right.” Edison opened the fridge.

  Soon I was scoffing down chicken tenders. I purred as I ate, loving the vibration through my body. I read once that purring had long been associated with the therapeutic healing of bones and muscle in humans. I was practically a superhero!

  This was the life. Free food, free rent. I didn’t have to call the bank anymore to ask for an extension on the mortgage. I didn’t have to go to the dentist. I didn’t have to make small talk. I could purr and heal bones and eat other people’s food. Why hadn’t I become a cat a long time ago?

  When I had finished eating, I found a mirror, just so I could take a good look at myself. I was ginger. A ginger cat. A beautiful ginger cat. No wonder Edison fed me the moment I asked. Who could resist this cute ball of orange fluff? I was going to get so many pats. I was going to get so many scratches under my ear. I was going to be so loved. Finally.

  Now I just had to settle the housing situation.

  “Meow,” I said to Edison. “Meow.”

  “Who do you belong to, then?”

  “Meow.”

  “Maybe you should stay here for a bit,” Edison said, “and tomorrow, we’ll get you checked at the vet’s for a microchip. If no one owns you, you are free to stay.”

  Microchip. Oh no! I would have to go to the vet who would stick a thermometer up my bottom. Well, thermometers up bottoms were a small price to pay for living the life.

  Edison appeared to reconsider. “You look familiar. I won’t take you to the vet,” he said now. “You can stay here.”

  “Meow,” I agreed, and I didn’t stick around for him to change his mind. I padded back to the fire, where I threw up behind a potted plant and then sprawled on the rug again. Edison found the mess and cleaned it up quickly, which shocked me to my feline core. I was the one who cleaned up messes. That was my job. Sometimes it felt as though I spent half my life cleaning up other people’s messes, and now I didn’t have to any longer.

  I lay in front of the fire for the next eleven hours, but jumped up when I had an awful thought. Edison had been so kind to let me stay here, yet I had not given him anything in return. He needed a gift. Something he could eat, perhaps. In truth, I did not trust him to feed himself. No, he needed my help. So I found a rat, killed it, and put it in his slipper. He couldn’t possibly miss a dead rat in his slipper, and he would be so thankful for my gift that he would use his thumbs to open tins of tuna for me. I was a feline genius.

  “Argh!” Edison screamed an hour later when he put his feet in his slippers, and I rubbed against his ankles as if to say, “You are so welcome.”

  “What on earth?” Edison said.

  “Meow,” I agreed. I really was the best cat in the whole entire world.

  I thought about lying in front of the fire again, but Edison had opened his laptop. I suspected he was googling, ‘Ways To Thank Your Cat For The Gifts They Put In Your Slippers,’ but I needed no such thanks, so I decided to sit on Edison’s laptop, right there on the keys.

  “Argh!” Edison said again, and I purred happily.

  But I was not to sit for long. No, Edison needed exercise. Yes, it was now eleven at night, but fitness would wait for no bookshop owner. I jumped off the laptop and sprinted over to the door, where I scratched and scratched and scratched.

  “All right,” Edison said. “I will let you out.”

  “Meow,” I said, but when he opened the door, I simply looked out into the vast darkness.

  “Are you going out or not?”

  “Meow,” I said again, but I did not move.

  Edison huffed, and he closed the door. “Fine. Stay inside. I’m going to bed.”

  But when Edison left the room, I scratched on the door again. Really, it was for his own benefit. He needed to get the blood pumping in those legs, and he needed to get fresh air into his lungs.

  “So you do want to go outside after all,” Edison said when he returned to the room.

  He opened the door once more, but again I just stood there, staring out into the darkness.

  “Why are you doing this?” Edison said.

  “Meow.”

  Edison slammed the door shut. “Do not scratch on this doo
r one more time.”

  Gee, I thought, I am trying to help the man. Maybe he needs another rat in his slipper. Yes, that will cheer him up.

  But rats in slippers would have to wait. First, I had to knock every single vase and photo frame off the bookshelves, then I had to scratch up the couch that looked new, because people would steal a mint condition couch, but they would not steal a scratched couch, and I doubted Edison had the insurance to replace stolen items. I don’t know how he’d managed before I arrived!

  Also, I had to slap him in the face as he slept, just to make sure he was still breathing. You could never be sure. So, I sat on his pillow the whole entire night, prodding him with my paw until he woke up grumbling, which was my cue to slip out of the room. When he fell asleep again, I jumped back on the bed, prodding him until he woke up. Humans sure were a lot of work.

  “Edison?” A man poked his head around the door the moment the bookstore opened the following morning. His name was Francis, and he worked part time with my husband.

  “I didn’t sleep all night,” Edison said with a yawn.

  “Agatha Jones murdered James.”

  Edison’s mouth dropped open. “Agatha murdered James?”

  “She confessed.”

  “No!”

  Francis nodded. “Yes, they were having an affair. Apparently, she’s lost her mind. Says she saw a human turn into a cat. Couldn’t confess fast enough.”

  “Whoa. Is Jennifer all right?”

  “She’s gone,” Francis said.

  “Gone?” Edison turned pale and started to shake. “Gone where?”

  “Fiji,” Francis replied. “Her children think she’s left them and moved to Fiji. They think she’s now floating in a clear lagoon while drinking cocktails out of a coconut.”

  “It would serve those awful children right.”

  Francis nodded. “I never liked him, that James. Wherever Jennifer is now, I hope she is happy.”

  “I hope so too,” Edison replied. “I hope so too.”

  I wished I could tell Edison I was happy for the first time in my life. I wished I could tell him I had solved the murder: I was a feline Jessica Fletcher. I wished I could tell him I felt powerful for the first time. I could run and I could jump. I could sleep all day and run around madly at night. I could sit in shoeboxes and potted plants. I could head butt people I loved, which is an urge I’d always had but had to keep to myself. Really, I could do my business in the dirt and throw up on the rug and no one would care because I was cute.

  Wait a moment, I thought, this must be how Kim Kardashian feels.

  Want to Read More?

  But Wait, There’s Myrrh is the prequel to the MenoPaws Mysteries series. The first book is Midlife CatAstrophe. Get it HERE!

  About Morgana

  USA Today Bestselling author Morgana Best survived a childhood of deadly spiders and venomous snakes in the Australian outback. Morgana Best writes cozy mysteries and enjoys thinking of delightful new ways to murder her victims.

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  Wicked Gift of the Witch

  ReGina Welling & Erin Lynn

  Wicked Gift of the Witch

  By ReGina Welling and Erin Lynn

  Hagatha Crow likes nothing more than causing trouble. When she takes on the magic of a Christmas wish made by a grief-stricken woman, Hagatha learns a lesson she won’t soon forget.

  This is a standalone story from the Mag and Clara Balefire Mysteries world. It is not, however, a mystery. It is merely a witchy Christmas story that we hope you’ll enjoy.

  1

  It wouldn’t be Christmas in Harmony without three things: Gertrude Granger’s over-the-top holiday display, Hagatha Crow creating some form of magical mayhem, and a group of carol singers from the next town over going door-to-door during the four nights before Christmas Eve. This year was no exception.

  Still riding the high of actually meeting Santa the year before, Gertrude had outdone herself, and that was saying something. The magically powered glow from her lighting display turned night to day for half a block and triggered a power company investigation into why her bill didn’t rise. She had to charm a dozen cookies with a forget spell to get the meter reader off her back and keep from disappointing hundreds of people who found a reason to wander past her house sometime between Halloween and Valentine’s Day—Gertrude ran her celebration longer than most.

  For the first time, Francine Shaw wouldn’t be among them. In fact, as she sat in her dimly lit living room with an unread book in her hand, Frannie wished the holidays would pass her quickly by. And that was why, when she heard the bright sound of carolers singing next door, she quietly reached out and turned off the one small lamp burning next to her chair. At least they’d shown up on the first night, so she wouldn’t have to worry about them again.

  “There,” she spoke into the gloom, “That should do it.”

  Frannie might have been right if not for the addition of a hunched-over woman leaning on a tennis ball-footed walker bringing up the rear of the group. If anyone had asked the other carolers, none of them would admit to inviting Hagatha Crow to join in the singing. What’s more, at the end of the night, none would even remember her being there. Hagatha had that effect on non-magical people—by choice. She found it far easier to work her magical mischief without worrying about anyone pointing the finger in her direction.

  Hagatha didn’t understand how regular mortals could get themselves into such a state of giddiness over Christmas. Probably some form of mass hysteria brought on by the inherent magic of the season.

  “Give them even the barest taste of power,” she said to no one in particular, “and they go overboard.”

  If you told Hagatha her opinions on the ways of non-magical mortals smacked of bias and ignorance, she’d have laughed in your face—right before she hexed you six ways to Sunday. Hagatha considered herself an equal opportunity pain in the butt and didn’t hesitate to bedevil those of her magical community should the occasion arise.

  Almost older than dirt, and the last of her family, Hagatha took less pleasure at Yuletide with every passing decade. She still enjoyed reciting the traditional spells and reading the omens for the coming year. Hanging holly and mistletoe over each threshold and above the fireplace for protection made her feel safe. But after too many years to count, even stirring the pudding clockwise in the direction of the sun had lost its appeal.

  And so, as always happened when Hagatha found herself bored, she took to the streets of Harmony looking for new and different ways to make mischief. Running across the carolers had seemed like an unparalleled opportunity, so Hagatha attached herself to the group, walked up the ramp to Frannie’s barren porch, and waited for just the right moment to unleash havoc on the unsuspecting group.

  How about a nice rash? A really itchy one that came on mid-song. That would be fun, she thought. Or better yet, she could spell them to all misremember the lyrics.

  Holy Hecate, Hagatha decided, why limit myself to only one spell? No reason I can’t do both. She began to build the curse in her head.

  “It’s sad. This house is so dark and dreary,” one caroler said to another. “Not so much as a shred of tinsel in sight. The rest of the street looks so festive, too. Just being here is enough to sap some of the joy right out of the season.”

  “Pick a short song, then, so we can move on to the next house. That one looks cheery enough to make up for whatever Grinch lives in this one.”

  Meanwhile, inside the house, Frannie sat in darkness, ears closed to the song, heart closed to any joy the world had to offer. Grief choked her by the throat, making each breath a chore.

  Though it had been more than two months, it still felt like only minutes ago she’d held her father’s hand and watched him pass beyond this world. With his final breath, she’d come to know what it truly meant to be alone. He’d been her rock, her champion, and the last blood tie
she’d had to another living soul.

  Almost every moment since he’d gone, she envied her father for finding peace. If only, she thought, she could choose to simply spread her arms, close her eyes, and fall softly into that same gentle oblivion.

  But such was not to be. Frannie gave in to the darkest thoughts, decided she would not try to put the pieces of her broken heart back together. Why should she bother when no one was left in the world to know or care? Not even at Christmas, a time she’d once loved.

  What use did she have, after all, for singing and mirth, or decorations and packages wrapped in gaily colored paper? With no family left, who was there to share in the joy of the holiday?

  This year, Frannie hated everything to do with Christmas.

  Get off my porch, she thought toward the carolers. I wish you would go away and never come back. I wish Christmas would pass me by.

  Wishes have power, any witch worth her salt will tell you the same. Wishes latch on to whatever magic they find handy, which makes them unreliable at best and downright dangerous when the source of power happens to be a witch with wicked tendencies. Had Frannie known just such a witch stood on her front porch, she might have chosen a better time to make her wishes.

  “John can play the trumpet.” With a singing voice that sounded like a creaking gate, Hagatha butchered the second line of Oh Come All Ye Faithful. When the wishes tapped into the rising magic of the spell she planned for the carolers, they picked up a bit of her intention.

  If you’re going to wish for things, try not to do it if the magic to grant them comes from a witch who prefers mischief to mercy, and magic above all else. But that is not the moral of our story.