Potions Are for Pushovers

by Tamara Berry

  Also by Tamara Berry

  Séances Are for Suckers

  Potions Are for Pushovers

  Tamara Berry

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Tamara Berry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number:

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1963-8

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: December 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1966-9 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1966-2 (ebook)

  Chapter 1

  “Is the cat part of the ritual?” The tall, gaunt man taps his fingertips on the mantelpiece, uneasily eyeing the sleek black feline at his feet. “It keeps looking at me. Why does it keep looking at me?”

  “She won’t cause you any harm, Mr. Worthington,” I reply, though I, too, have a habit of treading warily where that animal is concerned. For reasons known only to herself, my cat refuses to leave the room whenever I receive a visit from a client. Like a brothel madam overseeing her domain, Beast—as I’ve aptly named the creature—won’t leave until payment is secure and services are rendered. “Her presence merely seals what is already strengthened between us. Did you bring the money?”

  Mr. Worthington pats his breast pocket. “Small, unmarked bills, as you asked.”

  I nod once. Small, unmarked bills are my favorite kind. A little bulky to carry around, yes, and a pain when trying to buy anything bigger than a breadbox, but I find them essential for daily living. Not even Inspector Peter Piper, the village watchdog and my ever-attentive nemesis, can raise a hue and cry if I stop by the grocer’s with a purse full of five-pound notes.

  With a careful glance at Beast, who has moved to position herself in the doorway to the kitchen, I reach under my couch and extract a small wooden box scratched all over with cryptic markings. Even I don’t know what they mean, so you can imagine the effect they have on my visitor.

  “What’s that?” he asks, his voice wavering.

  I place the box on the coffee table and push it toward him. “You asked for the most powerful elixir I can make. This is it.”

  Intrigued despite himself, Mr. Worthington leans forward and examines the box. He’s careful not to touch it, though. Glancing up at me, he breathes, “And this will do it? If I drink it, she’ll come back to me? Forever?”

  I nod. “Forever.”

  “When should I do it?”

  Considering I’d already cornered his beloved and locked her up while he went on a fruitless errand to plant a handful of flax seeds at the evergreen crossroads, I’d prefer it if he drank the tonic sooner rather than later.

  I gesture at the box and begin a low, humming chant that amounts to the Latin version of Annie’s “Tomorrow.” “Cras cras cras te amo,” I say.

  Mr. Worthington’s dark, watery eyes fly open. He makes as if to flee from the room, but Beast is sitting perfectly still, blocking the kitchen as she watches the proceedings. Since I’m closer to the front door than he is, my nervous guest is trapped. I nudge the box one last time.

  Reluctantly, he lifts the box as if he expects it to burst into flames at the least provocation, then slides it open to reveal a vial of purple-red liquid nestled in a bed of straw. The liquid is composed of vanilla, sage, cinnamon, and a hint of boiled beets for color. It doesn’t taste great—the sage overpowers what might otherwise be quite tasty—but it won’t hurt him any.

  “Tu tantum diem,” I continue, accidentally slipping into the song’s catchy beat. At this, Mr. Worthington shoots me a slightly suspicious look, but he lifts the bottle to his lips and, after a tentative recoil, kicks it back.

  He pauses, as if waiting for something miraculous to happen. I mentally will Beast to indulge us with a well-timed meow or even a haughty twitch of her whiskers, but she doesn’t move. Stupid cat. The next time I unwittingly adopt a witch’s familiar, I’m getting a dog. A sweet, cuddly, highly trainable dog.

  “That’s it?” he asks, disappointment drooping the corners of his mouth. “I thought it would feel different.”

  I place a hand to my temple, which anyone who’s used one of my potions before would recognize as a signature move. “Don’t be surprised if you and your Regina are restless for a few days. That’s the natural side effect of the binding spell taking hold.”

  “Restless, yes.” He looks down at his hands, which are showing a psychosomatic tendency to twitch already. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Only this, Mr. Worthington. You’d better take good care of her from now on. Provide her with extra love, lavish her with extra attention.” My voice picks up a hard note, and I stare at him until he’s forced to blink in return. “A spell like this can only work if your intentions and your actions remain pure. If you mistreat Regina in any way, she could fight the spell. It won’t break—it’s much too powerful for that—but it may turn darker and more sinister than even I can control.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.” He can’t drop the box or the empty vial fast enough after that. After a few muttered promises to provide all the love and care Regina requires, he places the envelope of money on the table and beats a hasty retreat. He tries to leave the way he came in, through the back kitchen door, but Beast still blocks the way. The front door is the only way to go.

  Since my cottage is located on a remote road between a bona fide English castle and the small village I’ve only recently begun to call home, there’s little chance of him running into anyone he knows. Still, he casts a suspicious look in either direction before dashing out the door and down the lane, determined to put as much distance between us as possible.

  “All this trouble for a runaway pig,” I mutter, standing in the doorway as I watch him go. “He could have saved himself a lot of time and effort if he’d just fixed the fence himself.”

  Not that I blame him too much. That fence had been broken in three places. It took me almost as many hours to repair it.

  Mr. Worthington’s feet leave a trail through the mud-soaked earth, but I’m sure it’ll be washed away by the rain before the hour is up. I’d been warned that springtime in Sussex was a wet affair, but nothing could have prepared me for just how damp everything would get—or how poorly an ancient thatch roof would stand up to it.

  “Well, that’s one more satisfied customer.” I shut the front door and sag against it. When I’d envisioned my life in a quaint English village, I’d pictured long, drowsy days under handmade quilts and cups of tea by the bucketful. Although it’s true that I’ve consumed more caffeine tha
n is wise under current health guidelines, sleep hasn’t been as forthcoming as I’d hoped.

  And not just because of the stream of foot traffic at my back door, those hesitant knocks and wringing hands, the whispered requests for health, money, affection, love. No, it’s the other thing that keeps me lying awake at night.

  Nighttime is usually when my sister, Winnie, visits me.

  My dead sister, I should say.

  A not-so-hesitant knock at that same back door almost causes me to jump out of my skin, a tiny scream emitting from my lips. Beast casts a disdainful look at my cowardice, but I ignore her. If I took to heart the judgment of every creature—living or dead—around here, I’d be crying into that bucket of tea right now.

  Lifting a hand to my head, I make a quick adjustment to my ornate coil of braids. I also check my reflection in the paned glass to make sure my blood-red lipstick is still intact. One of the most difficult parts of being the resident psychic-cum-village-witch is that I always have to be “on.”

  “Enter,” I call in a voice I hope is deep and mysterious. It needs to be both for me to effectively sell my trade around here. The quaint cottage I call home doesn’t exactly exude mysticism, since it’s all cheerful calico and farmhouse chic, complete with an AGA stove taking up most of the kitchen.

  Still, I like it. It’s cozy. And since the previous owner had to sell in a hurry, I got a great deal on the purchase price.

  “Oh, good. You’re home.” The door flies open to reveal a beautiful young woman so layered up under her raincoat that she barely fits through the door. As soon as she crosses the threshold, she starts shedding those layers, unwinding scarves and shrugging out of sweaters. “Your house is always so hot, Ellie. How can you stand it?”

  “Hello, Rachel.” I lean forward and accept the girl’s hug. Her tawny hair tickles my nose, the light scent of my signature lavender water not far behind. “I see you’re wearing the attraction elixir. How’s it working?”

  “Like rubbish,” she says and laughs so merrily I can’t take offense. “Not a single boy asked me on a date all week. But I sold three bottles to the other girls at the art gallery. Are you sure you did the spell right this time?”

  I heave a sigh. “I danced naked under the full moon for two hours. If that didn’t do the trick, I don’t know what will.”

  “Perhaps four hours are required. I’d be happy to help next time.” The other voice that appears at my back door is just as familiar as Rachel’s. It also causes another tiny scream to leave my lips.

  “Nicholas!” I cry and launch myself into his arms. “You’re home early!”

  My reward for such an unbridled show of enthusiasm is to be lifted up off my feet and soundly kissed. I’m never sure how appropriate it is to use tongue while in the presence of a man’s niece, so I pull away before our embrace becomes unseemly.

  I might be the village witch, but I’m also a lady.

  “Why is it that the naked moonlight dancing always seems to take place while I’m away?” Nicholas murmurs as he sets me back on my feet. “Just once, I’d like to witness this particular ceremony for myself.”

  “Alas, you can’t,” I say in the same mock serious tone as his. “It’s a sacred ritual conducted between me and the lunar goddess.”

  “Pity. The lunar goddess has all the luck.”

  I don’t allow myself to be cast into too much alt at this comment. Although the great Nicholas Hartford III’s work means he’s rarely around when one wants him, I’ve been seeing him long enough to know that it’s never a good idea to take him at his word. He sounds solemn, yes. He looks solemn, too, what with his dark suit and tie, his well-lined face drawn into an expression of inscrutability. Even his eyes are a steely, impenetrable gray. But woe to the woman who assumes there’s anything trustworthy about that deadpan exterior. No one commits to irony quite like him.

  “If you’re not here to sing my elixir’s praises, to what do I owe this honor?” I ask.

  Aware by now that anyone living at Castle Hartford is sadly undernourished, I unwrap a plate of sandwiches and place them in front of Rachel. My neighbors might be wealthier than the rest of the entire village combined, but they’re not known for serving haute cuisine. Or any cuisine, really. Rachel barely waits until Nicholas and I join her at the table before digging in.

  Around a mouthful of chicken salad, she says, “Grandmother sent me. She’s supposed to help plan this year’s spring fête, but the first meeting is tonight. She can’t make it.”

  I blink first at Rachel, and then at Nicholas. “Um, okay. Are you taking her place?”

  Rachel laughs. “Are you joking? Sitting around with all the village biddies, discussing how many tea cozies we need to knit this year? I’d rather be dead.”

  Catching Nicholas’s gaze and all the meaning contained within it, she sobers. There’s already been enough death around this place—and in their lives—to make the topic a sensitive one.

  “What I mean is, it’s not my style.” She swallows a bite of her sandwich and turns a pair of pleading, violet eyes my way. A striking girl even without the purple-tinted irises, that extra bit of color makes her downright gorgeous. “Besides, I’m busy with my new internship at the gallery in London—I’m up to three mornings a week now. And Uncle Nicholas is always flitting around for work, so Grandmother thought perhaps you’d like to go instead.”

  “A family emissary of sorts?” Nicholas suggests dryly.

  A smile brightens Rachel’s face. “That’s it! Seeing as how Ellie is one of us now.”

  “The last time I checked, my name was still Eleanor Wilde,” I say, repressing a strong urge to laugh. This family can’t even volunteer for a local tradition without turning it into a battle of strong wills. “Not Hartford.”

  “Well, obviously, but everyone knows Uncle Nicholas is nutty on you. Well, you are, Uncle Nicholas, so it’s no use looking at me like that. Besides, they don’t actually care which one of us is there, just as long as someone goes. They’ll be glad to have you.”

  Her words are kind, but not a single one of us believes them to be true. I’ve only lived in the village for a few months, but one would hardly call my welcome a warm one. Invitations to parties haven’t exactly been forthcoming, and the stream of clients to my back door is really more of a trickle.

  But, “If it’s important to Vivian, of course I’ll do it,” I say. I made the decision to move here and embrace the full pastoral lifestyle—adopted cats and leaking thatch roofs and all—and I intend to stick to it. “But I can’t knit, and I doubt they’ll want me to be in charge of making the punch.”

  The relief that moves over Rachel’s face wipes a good half a decade off her already young eighteen years. “Oh, you don’t have to do anything but raise your hand when they call for a vote and praise Mrs. Cherrycove’s biscuits when they’re passed around. But no matter how hungry you are, don’t eat them. Grandmother chipped two teeth last year.”

  Her errand thus discharged and most of my sandwiches in her stomach, Rachel rises from the table with a bright smile. “You’ll have to leave in ten minutes if you want to make it on time. Uncle Nicholas can walk you.” She waggles her fingers in farewell and heads toward the back door. She pauses long enough to call over her shoulder, “I’ll just leave this open, shall I? We wouldn’t want you to be late to your meeting.”

  “You Hartfords,” I mutter, rising to shut—and lock—the door behind her. “All alike, commanding every situation to suit your own needs and then making it look like you’re doing me a favor. She gets that from you.”

  Nicholas watches me from his seat at the table, a smile playing on the edge of his lips. “You don’t have to go. It would serve my mother right for sending Rachel to do her dirty work.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. Not really. It’ll be a good opportunity—I need to drum up some more business if I want to pay the gas bill next month.”

  Nicholas opens his mouth to speak, but I forestall him with a glare and a shake o
f my head. “Don’t say anything. That was an exaggeration. I’m fine.”

  “It does seem a pity for all that space in the castle to go to waste.”

  I cross my arms and glare harder. “I like it here, thanks.”

  “And my mother is always saying how much she misses having you around.”

  “I had tea with her last week, and she literally told me how much better she likes me when she doesn’t have to see me every day.”

  He chuckles obligingly, but his expression is one of painful—and rare—earnestness. “You’ll tell me if that changes? I mean it, Eleanor. After everything you’ve done for the family, offering you sanctuary is the least I can do.”

  The sanctuary he’s speaking of is both literal and metaphorical. Literal, because he would gladly coerce his poor mother into having me as a permanent houseguest up at Castle Hartford despite her protestations. Metaphorical, because all it would take is a few firmly worded hints, and every home in the county would fling its doors open to me.

  In a way, I suppose it could be considered a bonus—an extra payment for the job I did last year removing a ghost from his home. Nicholas Hartford III had little idea what he was getting into when he hired me to travel from New York to England and rid his castle of its restless undead, but there’s no denying I accomplished what I set out to do . . . even if his ghost did end up being nothing more than your usual, garden-variety murderer.

  I had little idea what I was getting into, either, especially since I’ve given up my wandering lifestyle for a taste of something more sedate. Not too much more sedate, obviously, but there’s no denying that my life has undergone a drastic change. I’m no longer Madame Eleanor Wilde, spiritual medium dedicated to eliminating the world of its phantasmagoric plagues. Now I’m just a potion-pushing village eccentric everyone is a little wary of during the full moon.