by Willow Mason
Beezley and the Witch - Books 1-3
Willow Mason
Contents
Selective Spells
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Vexatious Voodoo
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Muddled Mutt
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Also by Willow Mason
Copyright © 2019 Willow Mason
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Chapter One
The absolute number one, worst thing about being excommunicated from my coven was having to find a new job.
I stood in a queue at the unemployment centre, thinking we were waiting for something exciting and helpful, and instead got handed a small card with an appointment time for the following week. Now, I didn’t want to tell those guys their jobs, but I’ve got rent to pay and food to eat. When I queried how to get by with no money, the sullen receptionist just pointed me at a wall of cards.
So far, so good. I saw a few that appeared suitable to my skill set and tapped a passing employee on the shoulder. “How do I apply for these?”
“You’re keen,” she said, as though there’d be another reason I stood in that dowdy office, other than to find a new role. “Get a clipboard from reception and note the number in the top corner, then fill out the form.”
Yes, ma’am. I grabbed hold of one, frowning at the questions.
Name and address I could handle. Date of birth I heartily objected to but could still fill out, albeit with muttering under my breath.
Work history. Previous employer details. Reference contacts.
Hm.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t had jobs over the years. I’ve performed a variety of duties well, worked hard, and never had any complaints. Well, no more than usual. But with witches being a secret organisation and all…
Being excommunicated was a pain but I could live with it. If I alerted the world to the presence of witches, warlocks, and other supernatural greeblies, I’d be in real strife. Glynda, the witch’s Queen Bee, wouldn’t appreciate that sort of thing. She took a dim view of having her entire coven’s existence exposed.
She’d sanction me and take away my powers, leaving me the same as any normal human being. Don’t get me wrong, if you’re born one of those, good luck to you, but nobody’s volunteering to wind up that way.
At least, I’m not.
Without a work history, it was very hard to complete a form in any way that looked appealing. A great big gap, right in the centre, wasn’t the sparkling first impression I wanted to make.
I thought for a moment I could just make something up out of thin air. A perfectly good excuse for being the age I scribbled down indecipherably while not appearing to have been employed at all. Ever. By anyone.
Travel. That was always a good excuse, wasn’t it? All the time on the news I saw young people heading off for their big OE and nobody questioned why they weren’t in a good corporate job instead.
Except another of the fields I’d left blank was under the heading passport number. We witches had other ways of travelling the world apart from standing for three hours in a queue just to be felt up by a security stick waving minimum wage employee.
Better ways than sitting crammed into a tiny seat for nine hours while everybody hoped it wasn’t their time to die.
I considered writing that I’d spent my time caring for an elderly relative until they passed away. It was the kind of excuse to earn me Brownie points for sure. But faking someone’s death, even in appalling handwriting, could have consequences. The time I pretended my pet slash familiar had died in order to get out of an exam…?
Well.
Let me just say it didn’t turn out quite as I’d hoped.
So, leaving half the form blank it was. If the careers advisor collating these appreciated plenty of white space, he was in for a treat.
As I walked back to the front desk to hand in my pitiful work history summary, a woman placed new cards on display. “Look, Henry,” she called out, waggling a card her colleague couldn’t possibly read from that distance. “The nutter is at it again.”
She screwed up the card and shot it towards the nearest wastepaper basket, missing by a metre. With an ingratiating smile, I picked the rubbish up and palmed it rather than putting it in its rightful place.
“You filled out the form okay?” the same woman asked, heading back to the counter.
“Oh, yes. No trouble.” I passed my clipboard across and tried not to see her eyebrow lift response. “If someone wants an interview, you’ll just contact me, is that right?”
The expression on her face said it was never going to happen but her polite wee voice squeaked, “Yes.”
I strode out of that place, projecting confidence like it was its own job application form, but when I glanced back from the footpath, nobody was even looking.
With a sniff, I flattened out the screwed-up card to read the discarded ad. “Private investigator assistant wanted. Only witches need apply.”
Sounded perfect. It also seemed like a giant trap. Either the employer was deranged and writing out a fantasy position, or he was fond of antagonising the supernatural community. In which case, he was deranged.
I pulled a mint out of my bag to freshen my mouth and tossed the card inside. I’m not a litterbug and there were no public rubbish bins in sight.
Never mind. People used to find roles before they put up these job centre eyesores. I’d just have to work off a layer of shoe leather, going around to enquire directly with shop managers instead.
When I was part of my local coven—all my life until fourteen hours and seven minutes ago, not that I’m counting—it never occurred to me how many places my fellow witches worked. There were a lot of witchy fingers in a lot of human pies, something that became clear as I ticked off the main stores on
my internal list.
Our local hardware store was owned by Grace Jeddens. Witch. When I couldn’t work out why the automatic door recognised everybody but me, I looked up to see her waving from an upstairs window.
The pet store—I love animals best when they don’t belong to me—was staffed with three witches and a warlock. Although he smiled in welcome, the expression was soon wiped off his face by a slap upside his head. Mummy witch wasn’t happy. An invisible force field drove me back outside, messing up my sleek pageboy hairstyle.
Fine. I’d just have to track down the stores in town without supernaturals at the helm. My next choice was a better one. I walked into the menswear store on Parkland Avenue. No witches. Still, an indignant salesman promptly escorted me outside while assuring me their male clientele didn’t want my lovely fingers measuring their inseam.
Great. Now I had to contend with sexism too.
I ducked into the community centre for a glass of water and a rest. After five minutes spent slumped on their mouldering couch, I saw their noticeboard had a lot of small jobs listed. Perhaps I could become an odd jobs woman. It sounded like a busy and fulfilling career.
With a groan, I got to my feet and checked out all the listings on offer. Most were tasks like gardening, cleaning, and putting up shelves. Not my specialty. I’d spent the better part of my career keeping occult spells locked in their boxes. A good skill to possess if you worked in the magic division of your local witch library. Less useful in other spheres.
Many of the notices had yellowed with age, languishing in physical reality when they would have done better with a posting online. One card was crisp and glowed white against the others.
“Private investigator assistant wanted. Only witches need apply.”
I pulled down the card and compared it to the wrinkled note in my bag. The same contact name and address were listed on both of them. Adam Beezley, twenty-five Huntingdon Drive, Riverhead.
At the bottom of the community notice was a different admonition. “Only serious applicants PLEASE.”
I smiled at the despair hiding behind that warning. Had poor Mr Beezley experienced a few crank callers in response to his oh-so-serious note? How unlikely.
Huntingdon Drive wasn’t far from my house. No kidding. Given the size of Riverhead, nothing was far from anywhere. I could get there in fifteen minutes—ten if blisters weren’t already bubbling against my heels.
Thirty seconds if I used my broom.
If it was a witch this fellow wanted, then a witch he would get. I strode out of the community centre, brushing random bits of disintegrating sofa cushion from my rear end, and held my hand out for my favourite method of transport.
Oh.
The second worst thing about being excommunicated from my local coven was that I’d been dropped from the neural network they maintain. Rather than issuing a simple command and have it transferred by the small contribution of hundreds of witches—like an internet of magic will—I had to power the whole spell myself.
With a sigh, I summoned up the first layer of my magic, then decided it would be easier to walk instead.
I’d just passed by Mrs Eggsby—third tier member of the coven elite—when I found myself unable to venture further. In a fit of spite, the old crone had frozen me within a solid block of ice.
Chapter Two
There’s a spell over Riverhead, which enables witches to keep themselves hidden with little effort. Because we’re mandated to stay secret by the supernatural council, every member of the coven helps to maintain their part.
It’s great if you’re lazy and forget to check for humans before using your magic powers. Great if you’re careless and whip out a spell in the pub before common sense kicks in.
What it isn’t great for is when you’re a witch frozen in a large block of ice and wouldn’t mind a helping hand from a member of the public. As I stood there, slowly melting my way out, a dozen pedestrians wandered past, oblivious.
Turned out, my magic only liked to operate at room temperature. I learned something new every day.
“Need a hand there?” Harriet Richmond ambled into view, her large face creased in a gleeful smile. “It looks like you’ve encountered someone in a bad mood. I can’t imagine who?”
“Whom,” I said, deciding snideness was the best defence. “And unless you’re going to help, can you please move along. I was enjoying the view.”
“I’ll help you if you help me.” She put her hands on her hips, pursing her lips. “I’ve taken over your old job and I need a guide on what to do.”
“Isn’t Glynda keeping you up-to-date? I thought you were one of her favourites.”
“Compared to you, everyone is a favourite. She hasn’t given me a manual or set of instructions, though, and that’s what I really need.”
“Sure,” I said with a nod. “I can help you if you don’t mind chancing the wrath of the coven. Melt me down a little first, please. I’m freezing to death in here.”
True to her word, Harriet melted most of the block, keeping my feet bonded with ice while she pulled a dairy out of her bag. “I’ll just need you to sign this,” she said, writing an appointment time for later tonight.
Smart girl. With a sigh, I gestured for the pen and signed along the dotted line. She had me. No witch worth her salt would suffer the penalty of a broken promise. The coven didn’t need to enact that particular spell—it was a part of the natural law.
“Good-o. See you then.”
Harriet melted the last vestiges of ice as she waved goodbye and I raced into the largest patch of sun I could find. It wouldn’t do to turn up to a job interview shivering and dripping wet.
Once the sun had warmed me through, I used my magic to dry up the soggy remainders of Mrs Eggsby’s surprise gift. With a smoothed skirt and a wary eye out for other elite members of the coven, I continued onwards to the address on the notice and stared up the front path with open suspicion.
The house was set back about ten metres with a large swathe of cut grass that sloped up to hydrangea bushes, bursting with purple flower heads. They framed the front porch along with a variety of smaller flowers, all in a weeded bed that reminded me I needed to buy some Roundup to take care of my own.
If I had to guess, it was a lawyer or dentist’s office. Maybe a psychologist who’d install their patients on the couch facing the large bay window to the side of the front door.
But I didn’t need to guess. I could just knock and find out.
“Come in,” a male voice called out. “The door’s open.”
I pushed at it with a dose of hesitation. Just in case, I summoned up some of my magic and kept it thrumming in my chest, at the ready. If the resident wanted to assault me, I wouldn’t be able to fight them off for long—my magic powers weren’t strong—but it could take him by surprise.
Except he was expecting a witch, wasn’t he? Even if he was a nutter, it was the one specification on the ad.
“I’m in the parlour,” the man continued as I shut the door behind me, checking to ensure it didn’t lock.
“Where’s that?” I called back, unable to track the exact direction the voice came from.
“Second room on the right.”
The disembodied instructions creeped me out. Why couldn’t he come to the front door? Why not show himself?
I took another few steps, each forward progression sending my pulse racing at a faster beat.
With one hand grasping the doorhandle, I glanced back at the entrance. Just leave. You don’t need more weirdness in your life.
Like most advice, I ignored it and pushed the door open.
A French bulldog sat on a rug in a patch of sunlight, giving me a wide grin.
“Hey there, boy. Where’s your owner?”
“I don’t have an owner,” the dog said, getting to his feet and trotting over. “My name is Adam Beezley and I’m a private investigator. I presume you’re replying to my advertisement?”
Yeah. This was just the kind o
f weirdness I’d hoped to avoid in my life.
“Good joke,” I said, stepping further into the room. “Where’s the camera?”
“The what?” He stared up at me, pink tongue lolling over the teeth on the right-hand side of his mouth. “There’s a security camera if that’s what you mean.”
“I meant the television camera. This is a prank, right?” I moved over to a cabinet, checking the knickknacks on display for small lights.
“No.” He turned in a circle, as though also searching for a hidden cameraman. “No joke. I need an assistant. Preferably one who can start now.”
“You realise you’re a dog.”
Beezley backed up in horror. “What? What are you saying?” While I was searching for another way to put it, he burst into laughter. “I’m well aware, thank you. If some horrible monster hadn’t put this curse on me a week ago, I’d be doing all the investigating myself.”
“Do you need me to find out who did this to you?” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, still wedded to the idea this was a joke or a scam.
“Not unless you think you can convince them to change me back at once. I’ve got more important business to take care of, otherwise.”
