Supernatural Syndicate: A Limited Edition Collection of Magical Mafia Stories

by Thea Atkinson

  “So, who was the visitor, chica?” Frankie beamed, folding his hands under his chin. “You gotta spill the tea. I know there’s tea. I can feel it.”

  Jemma swatted his arm. “Geez, Frankie. Her butt barely hit the seat. Let her breathe a minute.” Then she turned to me. “So, you do got some tea to spill, though, right?”

  “Good grief, you guys.” I shook my head and set my purse on the far end of the table. “I guess you can call it ‘tea.’ But, it’s kinda good and bad.” I winced, knowing once I told them everything, Frankie would likely mock-faint, need to be fanned, and Jemma might punch me. It was honestly a toss-up.

  “Good and bad?” Frankie asked, raising a perfectly arched brow. “How’s that?”

  Thankfully, our server approached to take our order before I had to answer. “Hey, Harlow.” Vera’s blue eyes always sparkled when she spoke. It made me wonder if she was magical, but I’d never gotten the vibe from her. “Good to see you. You having a white chocolate mocha as usual? Warm double-chocolate brownie on the side?”

  I liked my chocolate—a lot. “Yeah, thanks, Vera.” I gave her a wide grin, thinking about all that gooey yumminess.

  “What about you two?” Vera directed her gaze to Frankie and Jemma, brushing her long blonde ponytail off her shoulder. “The same? Double-shot expresso with warm chocolate chip cookies?”

  They grinned. “Yep, that’d be great,” Jemma told her. “Thanks.”

  Vera removed their empty cups and proceeded to get our orders, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Frankie went back in for the kill.

  “Spill it, sister.” This time, he kept his voice low.

  I sighed. “Okay, so you know that spell I cast? Well, it sort of backfired a bit. Not on me, but on…others. Dangerous ‘others.’” I was finding it hard to explain what’d happened. How could I tell them what I’d done and then about the whole blood thing, and gods, Emilio? A possible war with the coven? This sucked donkey balls.

  Jemma blew out a breath. “You’re stalling, Har. Just spit it out already. Are you in trouble? Do we need to bury bodies? I got a shovel; Frankie’s got the duct tape and garbage bags. What is it?”

  And this was why they were my besties, my family. They always had my back no matter what.

  Choking out a laugh, I shook my head. “No bodies. I hope…” I paused, inhaling a deep breath, and then went on to spill the whole sordid story, even the part about me being a blood witch, or the possibility of it. But, in my heart, I knew it to be true.

  Just as I’d finished, Vera came around with our orders, and both Frankie and Jemma’s faces had paled. They hadn’t said a word, not even when our server set their goodies in front of them. It seemed I’d rendered my friends completely mute. Vera stared at them for a beat and then over to me. I just shrugged with an awkward smile, and she took off to take somebody else’s order.

  Jem was the first to break the silence. “You fuckin’ kidding me? Is this some kind of joke? That’s not funny, Har.”

  Blowing over the rim of my cup, I took a sip of my coffee before I answered. “Afraid not. So, I need to go before the council and plead for their help. I mean, I screwed up and I’ve got to fix it. Those were the terms. How was I supposed to know I’d drain blood from a bunch of vamps? That was not in the spell.”

  “And that,” Frankie piped in, twirling his index finger near his head, “is why you don’t just wing a damn spell all willy-nilly. But a blood witch?” He whispered that last part. “It makes so much sense now. The storm, the Blood Curse spell, and your reaction to that sexy vamp bite. Oh, how was it, by the way? Hot?” He beamed with excitement. “Did it give you the big ‘O,’ or—"

  “Not now, Frankie,” Jemma chided, and then her eyes went wide. “But wait, Frankie’s got a point. You said you wanted to ride him like a cowgirl? Ah, hell.”

  “See? I told you Harlot was back in action.” Frankie burst out laughing.

  “Guys, that is so not the point. I need to get a meeting before the council. Help, please. Focus.”

  “Right.” Jemma sipped her coffee and cleared her throat. “Well, we can all go together and talk to Nannette. Gods, she’s such a bitch, but whatever. Tell her it’s urgent and invoke the council law to hear a witch’s plea when a death threat’s been made. Or, in this case, a threat of war to the whole coven.”

  Frankie pinched the bridge of his nose. “This tea just went sour.” He picked up his expresso and gulped it down, making a face. “I rather like the juicy bits with the hot vamp, but whatever. I’d also like to not die.”

  “So,” I said, getting everybody back on track, “let’s finish up here and head to the coven.

  Everybody groaned, including me.

  This was gonna be worse than getting a root canal with no magic or numbing agent. Nannette was worse than the Wicked Witch of the West.

  I didn’t even get to properly enjoy my chocolate.

  Driving to the coven was “mostly” silent, with Frankie chiming in now and then wanting details about Emilio. He said it was for “blood magic research,” and how the bite, tasting blood, and wanting to get my freak on was all part of it.

  Frankie was so full of shit. He just wanted to know if I’d felt Emilio up and the size of his package. Frankie never ceased to amuse me. He needed a boyfriend so he’d stop trying to live vicariously through my sexcapades. Well, there hadn’t been many to speak of in a while. I told him everything anyway. Usually. This time, though, I kept the spicier details to a minimum. For some reason it just felt private and different. I couldn’t explain it and I wouldn’t even try.

  After what felt like an age, we finally went through the huge wrought-iron gate and parked in the covens’ circular driveway. My stomach had tied itself in knots, and I hoped my brownie didn’t make a spectacular reappearance. I was so not looking forward to this. Not only would I have to face Nannette, but my parents as well.

  Yeah, they were on the council. Surprise!

  Shaking off the dread I felt, I climbed out of Jemma’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle, pushed my shoulders back, and held my head high. The façade of a blue Victorian home (the inside was four times larger and built like a fortress) still looked the same: as unassuming as ever where it sat on more than fifteen acres of woodland, with its immaculate landscape, and everything seemingly in order. As we ascended the front stairs of the wraparound porch, I felt a bit of pushback, as though someone was warding me away. What the hell?

  Turning to Jemma, I stared at her with a semi-shocked expression. “Did you feel that? Like a warding or warning spell to try and keep us out?”

  She eyed me for a second and then shook her head. “No, not really. It must be the stronger wards Nannette and the others put in place after the…ya know.” Her brows furrowed, and I knew she was referring to my magical faux pa.

  “Umkay, chicas.” Frankie linked his arms around our elbows. “Time to head into the lionesses’ den.” He winked at me. “You ready?”

  Inhaling a deep breath, I nodded. “Yep. Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

  Nearing the door, it swung open with Nanette standing there, her perma-scowl drawing down the corners of her mouth. She swiveled her gaze between the three of us—after my loud gasp (I almost jumped out of my damn skin!)—her steely gray eyes landing on me.

  Frankie Bell reached down and squeezed my hand.

  “To what do we owe the displeasure of your visit, Harlow?” Nannette’s voice was shrewd as usual, her pale hands clasped in front of her, her body still blocking the entryway.

  This woman, as if I hadn’t been a member of this coven since birth, treated me like a pariah, as if my birthright alone didn’t allow me through those damn doors. I was seething, and I knew it must’ve been written all over my face when the corner of her mouth lifted into a satisfied smirk. The bitch.

  I’d let her get to me. Dammit.

  Letting her barb roll off my back, I took a calming breath and smiled ever-so sweetly. “Why hello, Nanette. Always a pleasu
re to see you. We’re here to petition the council—”

  “No,” was her quick and harsh reply.

  Unwilling to let her faze me again or allow Jemma or Frankie to speak for me (they tried), I persisted. “Unfortunately, this petition is about witch law and a threat of war upon the entire coven. According to our bylaws, a witch’s plea must be heard when her life or the covens’ safety has been threatened.” I bowed my head respectfully, hiding my grin, but I could feel the metaphorical flames from Nannette’s temper ratcheting up the temperature a notch or twenty even from the porch.

  When I lifted my head, she was scowling even further (if that was possible), then she opened the door wider, her black robe billowing out around her bony frame like a dark, ominous cloud. Oh, Nannette did not seem pleased. Welp, she could suck it.

  I gave her my best smile. “Thank you, High Priestess.” I’d called her “High Priestess,” even though she hadn’t officially been bestowed the title—my own little barb, but I doubted she’d see it that way.

  Nannette was more like a department manager at Walmart (no offense to department managers), but she liked to think she oversaw everything and had the final say as the de facto coven leader—having an ear and a seat on the council made her “super-duper” special. To placate her, everybody just went with it—something I didn’t understand, but whatever. I wasn’t one “in the know.” Didn’t really give a shit, either. This day in age, though, the High Council had the final word over the coven, not a High Priestess. The witch was delusional.

  Frankie and Jemma bustled in right behind me, and I could hear Frankie trying not to laugh. Gods, he would get us in trouble before we even made it to the High Council.

  Then I heard a muffled “oof,” and knew Jemma had kicked or elbowed him. And well, it was my turn not to laugh. Damn, this was serious, and we needed to act like the grown adults we were, not like kids who’d just one-upped a crotchety old witch.

  “Follow me.” Nannette beckoned with a curt nod, and her shrill voice echoed off the marble flooring, her long chestnut hair flowing like a waterfall over one shoulder. She had to use a spell for that—nobody’s hair looked that good, especially at her age. She was older than my parents by a good twenty years at least. Hell, I wanted her hair. If Nannette weren’t such a witch—pun intended—I’d ask her what she did to make it so beautiful.

  Shifting to the side, I eyeballed my friends and mouthed, “behave.” I wished we’d performed a spell where we could speak telepathically—it was one of Jemma’s specialties. It would’ve helped things go so much smoother. Now that we were headed to the council, my hands had begun to sweat, and it felt like cement had settled in the pit of my stomach.

  But, I knew I had to do this. It was important. Regardless of the looks, the whispers, whatever came my way, I had to make sure I got that damn spell.

  I couldn’t fail.

  I wouldn’t.

  Even if I had to beg.

  We couldn’t go to war with the vampire mafia, or we’d all die.

  11

  Emilio

  My stomach clenched uncomfortably as I stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, staring out at the view of the harbor. Bracing my hands against the glass, another pain rippled through my gut, not of the physical sort, but an emotion.

  Harlow.

  Our connection.

  She was in pain, but what the hell was happening to her?

  My fangs descended as a loud growl thundered from my throat.

  Sliding to the floor, visions swam to the forefront of my mind until they settled upon her face.

  Fire raged from her palms as she stood before a decorative wooden platform of twelve people that I could only assume were witches. Several were laughing, while others cowered behind their high seats. The council.

  Two witches stood at Harlow’s side, a man and a woman, both pleading for her to stop as her feet lifted from the floor, her entire body rising midair. She lowered her flaming hands and fire sprang from her fingertips, lighting the dais aflame. Blood trickled from her lips, and she threw her head back in maniacal laughter.

  The scene was utter chaos and confusion: beauty and darkness, blood, fire, and magic.

  Was this a vision of what Harlow would become?

  Or was it happening now?

  Rising to my feet, I grabbed my phone off the side table and dialed her number, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Fuck.

  Was she in trouble?

  What had she done?

  Dropping the phone on the rug, I lowered myself onto my black leather couch as another vision slammed into me hard and fast. But this time, it was of a much calmer scene.

  Harlow and her two friends stood before the same raised dais pleading for help.

  Again, several laughed, some scowled, and a few even shouted, but Harlow stood stoic, appearing like she wasn’t afraid in the least.

  This must be another vision from the witches’ council room. The fuckers.

  One woman, who looked like an older version of Harlow, stood from her raised seat and pointed, clearly giving Harlow a dressing down. I watched as my little witch flinched and seemed to curl in on herself for a moment, but as the woman’s voice grew louder, Harlow’s posture grew straighter and her face hard as stone. Tiny sparks of fire began to flicker from her fingertips, but I couldn’t be certain if she or anybody else noticed.

  Perhaps her magic was not only tied to blood but her emotions as well.

  Another witch stood and leaned over what appeared to be a judge’s bench that spanned the entire council, pinning her narrowed gray gaze on Harlow. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but whatever it was, it affected Harlow in such a way that she screamed, and all the lights flickered in the room. Harlow scanned everybody seated behind the wooden bench, and the only words I heard were: “Watch me.”

  Smiling to myself, not because it seemed Harlow wouldn’t get what she wanted, but because of her strength in the face of adversity—her spitfire nature. I couldn’t say why (perhaps the rare blood connection), but I knew our paths had crossed for a reason. Although, I had initially wanted to murder her. Now, I was seeing something else altogether: a possible opportunity for an alliance of sorts.

  Sure, the blood connection was something to explore further, but I believed it may be more than that.

  We could help each other.

  Her coven had no love for her, and clearly, Harlow had no love for them, either.

  Perhaps there would be no need for an all-out war, not in the sense I’d intended, anyway. I scratched the stubble along my chin as an idea formed.

  Yes, that might do nicely, I thought to myself and grinned.

  Grabbing my phone, I headed for the club to get things in order.

  12

  Harlow

  We stood just outside the huge, ornately carved wooden doors leading to the High Council room. We’d been standing there for fifteen minutes, and Frankie had already started twiddling his thumbs, twisting his curls between his fingers, sighing every few seconds—basically fidgeting out of sheer boredom. I couldn’t freaking blame him.

  But for me, all this time left waiting only caused my anxiety to grow. Inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I just breathed. A lot. Until it felt like I might hyperventilate. Nannette was doing this on purpose.

  Jemma elbowed me. “Good grief, Har, you’re driving me nuts. Stop breathing so loud. Frankie’s sighing is bad enough.” She glanced between the two of us. “Seriously, calm the hell down. We know what we’ve got to do, and, most importantly, we’re doing the right thing. Chin up, guys. We’ve got this, all right?” Jem eyeballed us with “the look,” the one that dared you to argue.

  “Got it. I’ll just hold my breath.” I snickered and slung my arm over her shoulder. “Love you, Jem.”

  She pecked me on the cheek and pushed me off of her. “Love you, too, shithead. Be brave. Just be yourself…well, mostly yourself.”

  Frankie flicke
d her on the arm. “Harlot’s just fine the way she is, and, by the way, I was not sighing. I’m just tired of standing—”

  Shit. Frankie was cut off by the doors opening and his words echoing off the walls of the huge space. And they’d just heard him call me Harlot—it’d been particularly the loudest.

  Wicked awesome start.

  The first person to stare a hole in my head was my mother. Throttling Frankie when this was over was definitely an option.

  “You may enter,” Nannette called, her voice sounding disembodied.

  Somebody was certainly full of herself today. I had to work hard to control my eyeroll.

  Keeping my head held high and facing forward, I moved into the ginormous dimly lit room and toward the panel of the twelve High Council members. They sat behind a large wooden table on a raised dais, high above anybody who entered. Golden candelabras adorned the red-painted cinderblock walls, and a crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. This place felt like a dungeon, most likely on purpose. Needless to say, it was a teensy bit intimidating.

  We came to a stop in front of the platform and bowed before the council. Moving forward, I began to plead my case but was immediately cut off by my mother, Gilda. Of course.

  “Harlow. Before you utter another word, choose what you say carefully. The grounds upon which you’ve called this council are quite serious, and if we find your case has no merit, you will be met with severe punishment. Have I made myself clear?” She glared at me as if we weren’t related, as if she hadn’t even given birth to me. Like I was a stranger.

  Why was I surprised? I had to admit, though, it did sting a little. She was still my mom.

  “Noted, Mother. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  At my use of her title, “Mother,” she narrowed her hazel eyes (the very same ones she’d passed down to me). “In this sacred High Council chamber, you will address me as Councilwoman Bishop or Mistress Bishop, is that understood?”