Halfway Drowned (Halfway Witchy Book 4)

by Terry Maggert

  First published in USA in 2017 by

  Terry Maggert

  Portland

  Tennessee

  Copyright © Terry Maggert 2017

  Cover Art: Qamber Designs & Media

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Terry Maggert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review —without written permission from the author.

  Acknowledgements

  I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. No book is created in a vacuum, just as none of us live in one. This fourth book in the Halfway Witchy series is, for me, the most personal, because I’ve had so much wonderful feedback from friends and family along the way.

  My mother-in-law Gwen has an eagle eye and three decades of teaching experience- her reading of the manuscript was invaluable in producing the book you hold in your hands. If you ever want to publish a novel, sack a country, or herd cats, find a teacher and ask them for a lesson plan to achieve your goal. You won’t be sorry.

  To my bookfriends—thank you all. Jen Long, Kayte, the gang at Band of Dystopian and all of the amazing people who connect through my mailing list and Facebook page—thank you. You’re an endless source of quiet encouragement, and I see it all.

  For my fellow authors who are a constant source of tips, hints, and feedback, thank you. People like Staci Hart, Tiny Laslie, Mermaid Lady, and the entire crew of LibertyCon (The Bestest People Ever), thank you. I’m a better writer because of you.

  To my patient bride and incredible son, you’re the best things in a world filled with wonder.

  As always, any mistakes within are my own; I’ll try to do better next time. Send giraffes and pie. We’ll take over the world. Just watch.

  Terry

  Nashville, TN, Sept. ‘17

  This book is respectfully dedicated to Miss Dottie, President of the Greater Tennessee Super Scary Snake and Eel Appreciation Society, and in no way should be considered a hint that she has been given a membership in the Snake of the Month Club.

  Chapter One

  Juiced

  Lightning ripped through a maple tree to explode in the ground beside me, sending moss and dirt flying in a hail of singed debris. The stench of ozone and roasted forest filled my senses as I blinked furiously, trying to clear an afterimage that left me dizzy and shaken.

  “Okay, this guy’s toast.” My words were lost in a rumble of thunder that shook the air in my chest. Raindrops the size of baked potatoes slapped against my skin in a constant, frigid pounding, driven by the vicious wind. The howling rain felt like a car wash run by sadistic gods, determined to scour off my skin.

  At the moment, everything happening around me was unnatural, since the storm raging across Halfway Lake had risen in less than a minute and seemed to follow my every move like a bill collector. The surface of our lake went from glassy to a churning froth in less time than I had to run through the woods, dodging lightning bolts and hailstones that thudded into the ground close enough to shake loose tree limbs with a crackling chatter. It was, in short, a mess, and I was dead in the middle of it all.

  That’s a poor choice of words, but you know what I mean.

  I wiped my face with a frantic hand, trying to clear my vision enough to catch a glimpse of what caused our localized hurricane; in a moment I saw the telltale flash of his torn robe streaming behind him. He was up ahead in the trees, thrashing about on a limb he clung to while pointing his cudgel in my general direction and shrieking over the wind. It was a storm elemental, and he wasn’t in the mood for reason.

  The creature bellowed into the skies in a twisted voice that was ripe with arrogance and power. “I am Lord Reeshard!”

  It was all rather melodramatic, and I might have laughed had he not been so grotesque. He was a long, semi-human gray thing, with features that were washed out from his centuries of corrupting magic. His eyes burned with the fury of the storm, mouth a gaping black hole from which screams of wind burst forth as he expelled the magical contents of his lungs in long, howling drafts that shredded trees and tore the water of our lake into ragged spray. Bolts of rolling electricity slashed across the low clouds, darting into my vision with brutal white flashes as the elemental’s fury focused on me, and only me.

  My family magic defends Halfway, and, for that reason, I could not let him pass through our lands on his way to wage war against another family of shamans who lived to the northwest. His reign of--well, rain--would end here, or I’d be a crispy critter with hair standing on end and lungs filled with water.

  There would be no negotiation.

  Left hand raised, my charm bracelet glowed in the artificial dusk brought on by the magical storm. I selected a charm by the comfortable weight against my wrist, a smooth metal I used to hold spells that could implode elemental magic. The silver coin dates from the year 1623, minted in a kingdom of Eastern Europe during one of their times of unlimited war. I imbue the small disc with a spell that’s been in my family almost as long as the coin has existed. When necessary, I let the magic come out to play.

  A chain of vicious lightning came close enough to sear the tips of my hair, leaving the air around me filled with the scent of burning Carlie. I was unhappy enough that my hand flew up and out, hurling a bolt of my own through the space between me and the deranged elemental. My magic split the air with a crackling bang, throwing the forest around us into sharp relief and heating the raindrops into puffs of steam. The elemental, who I’d nicknamed Richie, shrieked again and tried to dodge the gyrating beam of energy that missed his body but turned his long, paddle shaped feet into clouds of ash.

  You’d think that losing your feet would cause someone to pause and look at where his life was going, but not Richie. He opened his mouth to howl, spitting another cyclone of wind that snapped branches and lashed me in the face with flying debris. I took a cluster of little pinecones to the side of the head in a rat-a-tat-tat motion that made stars flash in my vision. Since they were tiny, sap covered missiles reminiscent of oven cleaner, I was both relieved and horrified to find that they stuck in my hair after knocking me to the ground where I lay, chest heaving and wondering if I was actually going to get killed by a creature I called Richie.

  I’m sure there are nice guys named Richie--somewhere, maybe, but the three I’ve known were all massive tools who wore jean shorts and unlaced hightops like they were auditioning for the role of someone on the run from child support payments. I interrupted my moment of social commentary to see Richie floating over me, smiling and giggling into the storm that he continued stoking with every wave of his stupid staff. He was shouting in a language I didn’t recognize, and since I’m a witch that means he had to be really old. Witches are more or less expert in dead languages, so I placed him in the realm of old ones who predate the world I live in. No wonder he was so powerful. Elementals are like trees. They grow stronger with age, but can rot from within.

  But, like trees, they have weaknesses, and these are most often found in the crotch. Since Richie was almost strai
ght up, I fell back to the ground, crossing my arms and locking my fingers around a space that quickly began to fill with nothingness. Spells of destruction aren’t legal in my family, but stealing a spell of that nature sure is.

  I cast a rune of exchange, the small charm flaring into a cold point on my wrist, then opened my hands to welcome the compact ball of magic I’d pickpocketed from Richie’s flowing gray rags. The spell seared my palms with hints of the unknown, leaving my arms weak and rubbery. That was fine with me, since I didn’t plan on keeping it around for long.

  In fact, I didn’t want it at all.

  I pushed upward with my power, sending the tight sphere of darkness into the night. It cut through the rain, struck Richie in his shortened left leg, and entered his long, tortured body with a sizzling discharge that sent robe fabric and the remains of a knee-length tube sock hurling away into the wind. Seriously, what kind of person wears knee-length tube socks? With colored rings at the top? An elemental who’s a rowdy asshat, that’s who.

  “How’s your leg, bub?” I yelled, feeling good about my chances despite having aimed for his groin and missed wide right. The limb in question was dancing around on its own, more or less in the process of breaking itself into pieces-- which only worsened Richie’s mood. He threw his staff at me before I could stand up, and the heavy wood knot on the end smashed into the knob of my shoulder like a meteor. Or meteorite. I’m never sure which word to use if the object in question doesn’t hit the ground, but in this case, it hit me, and it hurt like hell.

  He began to descend, his fingers growing into curled wisps of fog that glowed a dull red in the storm. They resisted the wind, staying in shape and looking more solid with each passing second. Electrical pulses ran up and down the length of his Fingers of Doom, and I somehow understood that the heart of the storm lay within each of them. If I wasn’t freaked out before, this little detail succeeded in pushing me over the edge. I noticed he was growing teeth as well, and they didn’t seem to be made of fog at all. In fact, they were shiny and pointed, another detail that made me wish for something like a pet dinosaur who was trained to eat elementals, but since I didn’t have one of those, I settled on a tiny spell that I’d almost forgotten.

  Last year, I found a creepy little doll at a garage sale. I know--all dolls are sort of creepy, but this one took the ick factor to new heights. After I held the little thing in my hand, I realized it wasn’t a toy at all, but a fetish of some sort. I paid fifty cents, took it straight to my cellar, and cast a spell of discovery on it.

  Inside the ceramic body, with its unblinking eyes and mutilated silk hair, rested the heart of a Wight. Someone had imprisoned an undead frozen ghoul, thinking that a doll was the safest place to put it. Why they didn’t simply kill the beast, I don’t know, but people who collect dolls march to the beat of a different drummer, so I didn’t bother asking around. The doll was less than three inches tall and held together with the kind of magic that can be dissolved with a word. I’d never made anything smaller before, but thought that a spell of shrinking would leave me with a valuable tool to use in a pinch, and stars above, do I get in pinches. I’m like a fat kid with rosy cheeks at a family funeral. I’m going to be squeezed.

  The spell worked, and I now had a tiny, creepy doll on my charm bracelet, just itching for the right kind of problem to solve. On that note, Richie howled again as his descent brought him to within ten feet of me, his eyes a malevolent red that did not bode well for me or any other beings of light. In a rasp, his voice cut through the storm as he began to laugh.

  “Only the heart of winter can stop me, summer child.” His glee was truly icky, and I don’t like nicknames. Only my Gran, Tammy Cincotti, or my boyfriend can give me nicknames. Call it a personal preference, like my favorite brand of ranch dressing or boots.

  “Challenge accepted.” I smiled through gritted teeth. My shoulder was a flare of pain, and the rain was pounding me into a sloppy mess of mud and grass that filled my mouth with the flavors of summer and storm.

  I took the doll from my bracelet and tossed it upward to strike Richie in the middle of his chest. I know, I’d hoped for something more dramatic, but the last thing I saw was the freaky little smile of the doll as it sank inward like a blueberry in waffle batter.

  I really should eat before I do things like fight an elemental.

  Richie froze. As in, he froze. Solid. His shadow began to wail and scream within the solid, crystalline outline of his body that hovered in the sky just above me. Then it clicked that being underneath an evil floating iceberg might not be the best decision, so I rolled to the left with an effort that shot stars through my vision in bursts of white and red.

  Richie’s body hit the ground, shattering like glass, and the final scream as his soul released made me shrivel in my own skin. It was the long, dying cry of a much younger man than had been above me moments before, and I wondered how long he’d been trapped in that casing of evil. I also wondered what kind of demonic presence would make one choose knee-high tube socks, but that thought passed as the pain in my shoulder blossomed again.

  The winds died. The waves began to calm. As usual, killing left me awash with pangs of unconnected grief, despite the vile nature of the being I had to dispatch. My tears flowed, hot and plenty, and I turned to force myself to my feet. I needed home, and Wulfric, and rest.

  I took my first step, and the ground squished underfoot as I looked around to survey the damage. Our forest would recover, but I could never forget the noise of someone who’d been tortured by magic. For yet another moment, I wondered if witches could be trusted, since so many of us ended up making creatures like Richie, whose whole life was nothing but pain.

  I walked away from the melting shards, each step taking me closer to the inevitability of my own doubts. No matter how deep I slept, the burden of killing would visit me like whispers in the night.

  Sometimes, being a witch is a lot sadder than I dreamed it would be.

  Chapter Two

  Sawdust

  As a witch, smells mean everything to me, and burying my nose in Wulfric’s shoulder was a treasure trove of the best things in life. His smooth expanse of skin smelled like spice and wood and man, a mix that left me giddy. After the third deep inhalation, I admit, it got a little weird, but he pulled me tight to him and kissed my cheek with a tenderness beyond his size.

  “Hi. I’m not a waffle, dear.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest, tinged with a hidden laugh. I squinted in the brilliance of morning sun that was too much, too soon. Why did Adirondack summers have to be so unreasonably cheerful? The view wasn’t all bad--I took a long moment to appreciate Wulfric’s body, sprawled over my bed like a rather elegant crime scene photo. He’s well over six feet tall and tanned like someone who spends all his time outside, which he does. To my horror, he also seems to enjoy being outside all the time, but, because I love him, I’m willing to forego certain faults. His long blonde hair spilled over my pillow, leaving the odd fleck of sawdust behind. I looked up into the angular planes of his face, marveling at the blue eyes that were at odds with his Mohawk heritage. He’s part Norse, part something else made from centuries as a vampire, and the child of a Mohawk or Huron woman who remains unknown to me. For now.

  None of that mattered. Morning breath or not, he was magnificent, and he loves me. “I know, just needed to anchor myself for a minute. Things got weird out in the forest.” I paused, then added, “Weirder.”

  He sat up, but kept one massive hand in the small of my back so as not to dislodge me from the harbor of his chest. He’s considerate like that, and it also helps that I think he could lift me with one arm. Actually, I know he could, but he’s so gentle that I’m never threatened by his raw power. As to the skritch of his beard, that can wound me, so I pulled back to look into his eyes. He lay quiet, waiting for me to explain.

  “A weather elemental. Some kind of storm being. He’d been a human once, and I k
illed him.” I winced at saying it out loud. I can’t stand death, even if it is part of my job description. My gran is the head of the show, so to speak, and a witch of such unlimited power that I wonder why baddies even bother passing through our land. It’s fatal, every time. We never show mercy to the evil or undead, because it’s part of our covenant with Halfway.

  That’s my town, although I don’t own it. The McEwan women are more than sheriffs and less than angels. We’re witches, and human, and filled with a sense of responsibility that leaves me feeling the way I did just then- sad and a little bit nauseated from killing something that had once been an innocent human being. During moments like that, the only thing to do is hitch up my big girl pants, drink some coffee, and move on.

  But first, Wulfric.

  I kissed him, and he kissed me back in that not-so-secret code that meant we weren’t leaving the house for a while. I let him fill my senses, pushing back the memory of the storm with his warmth and touch, and in a few minutes, the sounds of crashing thunder were only in my heated breathing, and I forgot about everything except the love of my life, reveling in the delicious tangle of our morning.

  Chapter Three

  Shipwreck

  My morning walk into town was like a damage survey; I saw evidence of the storm’s power at every turn. Huge limbs, the odd tree, and sprays of greenery chewed up by the elemental’s fury were everywhere. I saw bent signs, cracked windshields on cars, and the curious divots in lawns from hail that had been spectacular and terrifying. There was a lush scent of incipient decay from the torn vegetation, although I can’t say it was unpleasant. To my witch senses, the aroma was alive and vibrant. It was a promise of renewal.