A Tale Of Two Witches: Magic and Mayhem Book Five

by Robyn Peterman

  “How about this?” she suggested through a gritted teeth smile. “Why don’t we table this traumatically fraught conversation and simply get to know each other instead?”

  “If you can’t be polite enough to speak English in my presence, I’m gonna crawl into your brain and disconnect all the freakin’ wires. I haven’t found a French teacher yet and I’m getting pretty sick of this bullshit.”

  Slapping my hands on my hips, I stared her down. Her absolute confusion at my statement didn’t sway me a bit. She was pulling the same crap everyone did when I spoke but I was onto her.

  And the delicious looking cookies she was holding weren’t going to make me cave.

  Hopefully.

  “Okaaay, sorry about that,” she said slowly, clearly still playing the bewildered card.

  Goddess, she was good. I almost believed that she had no clue what I was talking about.

  “Just lay off the French and I’ll stay out of your grey matter.”

  We stood in silence and glared at each other. Cookie Witch was clearly racking her brain to come up with conversation that wouldn’t end in an explosion. As much as I didn’t like what she had to say, nor did I trust her, I also knew I was being rude. Socially acceptable behavior wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse.

  The orphanage I grew up in hadn’t been full of loving caretakers. It had been loaded with cranky witches who weren’t fond of children. I learned at an early age to steer clear of authority figures. Cookie Witch was very much an authority figure. I knew her age was somewhere in the high three hundreds. Marge had been around the block a few times.

  “I like your dress,” she commented carefully.

  “I like yours too,” I admitted, testing the polite waters. And I did like her dress. She wore a blinding hot pink, figure hugging Prada that was totally my style. “What kind of cookies are those?”

  “Oatmeal butterscotch,” she said, dangling the bait as close as she dared.

  Shitmonsters, I loved oatmeal butterscotch.

  “Did you burn them?”

  “Goddess, no,” she said, insulted. “I never burn cookies.”

  “I like my cookies burned.”

  “So noted,” she replied, trying to sound upbeat when I knew she wanted to smite me where I stood.

  I realized she probably knew about my penchant for blowing up things and was moving cautiously. Dang it, I kind of liked her. Cookie Witch was smart. She could bake and dressed like a model right off the runway.

  But I didn’t want her job—at all—and had no intention of being her successor.

  Goddess, it would be a clusterhump of enormous ramifications if I was in charge of something so important for our kind. The loss of structural buildings and monuments around the world would be at risk if I was running the show. She was all kinds of off base thinking I would be the perfect fit.

  “You don’t want me,” I told her honestly. “I’m not the right witch. And I will eat those cookies even if they’re not burned… just so you know.”

  Lightly tossing the cookies to the ground at my feet, she smiled and shrugged. “The Goddess is never wrong.”

  “Unless she’s drunk, which she clearly is if she thinks I’m the one who’s supposed to help keep the magical balance in the world. I’d have to say the old bag went on a bender for a few decades to come up with that one,” I shot back.

  “Incoming,” Marge shouted as she dove behind a bush.

  I wasn’t as fast. The glittering lightning bolt of silver and fuchsia magic shot from the sky and landed squarely on my smoldering ass. The sizzle was positively brutal and my gorgeous Byron Lars now sported a large unsightly hole in the rump. The Goddess was a total butthole.

  Doubled over in pain, I bit back all the shitty things I wanted to yell at the Goddess. Where the hell was she when I was little and I was dumped at the orphanage? Why hadn’t she zapped the asses of all the mean witches who’d raised me… for lack of a better word?

  Now that she needed me for something, I had to deal with her crap? Well, I called bullshit on that one.

  However, the ass zap was wildly unpleasant so I decided to keep my thoughts to myself—at least for now. I wasn’t in the mood for my other butt cheek to be blistered. My newfound maturity would hopefully save my fabulous wardrobe.

  “Sorry,” I shouted up to the Heavens, keeping a firm check on my itchy middle finger.

  “Are you okay?” Marge sounded concerned as she hightailed it over and checked me out from head to toe. “We should put some ice on that.”

  With a snap of her fingers an ice pack appeared. She walked me into my adorable house and settled me on the couch, plopping the ice pack on my bottom. It was nice to be taken care of, but she was the reason I’d gotten pissed in the first place. The Goddess wouldn’t have singed my backside if Marge had kept her redonkulous job offer to herself.

  And then it hit me. Ideas were rare for me so when I had one, I needed to go with it.

  “Won’t work,” I announced.

  Marge plied me with cookies and sat next to me on the couch while she rubbed my back. It was unfamiliar and a little odd to be taken care of by a woman. My mother, who I barely remembered, never touched me in kindness or love.

  “What won’t work, girlie?” Marge asked.

  “I can’t take your job. I can’t cook—at all.”

  “At all?” Marge became distressed and stared in dismay.

  “I burn water. I’m worse than Zelda,” I admitted, gleefully. Never in my life had I been so happy about my pathetic skillset. “Thank the Goddess that Jeeves is a chef. We’d all starve if I had to feed my rodents.”

  “You have mice?” Her nose scrunched and she cautiously lifted her feet off the floor.

  “Nope. Chipmunk Shifters. Four. I adopted them.”

  “Interesting. And where’s your familiar?” Marge asked, letting her Gucci clad feet settle back on the floor.

  “Don’t have one,” I replied, delighted to give her more reasons I was completely unacceptable.

  “The Goddess was right!” she trilled, kissing the top of my head. “No one in this position has ever had a familiar—very rare for a witch not to have a familiar.”

  Shit.

  “Still can’t cook,” I reminded her, not liking the direction of the conversation.

  Cookie Witch’s lips pursed in thought and she eyed me critically. Tilting her head to the left, she wiggled her fingers and repaired the hole burned into the backside of my dress.

  “There might be a way around it,” she murmured. “I’ll have to check on that and get back to you.”

  “Take your time,” I shot back sarcastically. I was grateful she’d fixed my dress, but I could have done that myself. I’d always fixed my own mistakes. I didn’t need some crazy witch pretending to be my mother figure.

  “Okay. So I have to meet my sperm donor now, and that’s going to be a shitshow. I’m a bit tied up at the moment and don’t have any more room in my brain for this shit.”

  “You don’t know who your father is?” Marge was surprised.

  “Oh, I know who he is—just never been formally introduced to the douchewad. I don’t have a mother either.”

  “She died?”

  “Nope, got rid of me when I was seven. I did just fine without the losers,” I said with bravado.

  Why was I even telling her this shit? It was none of her business and I hated it when people felt sorry for me. Marge definitely pitied me. I could tell by the look on her face.

  It was time for Cookie Witch to go home.

  “It was a long time ago,” I said, getting up from the couch and leaning against the door so she would get the message.

  Shit, bad idea. My dress might be repaired, but my ass was still on fire—yesterday my Virginia and today my butt. Not good.

  “Sassy, I think all of this will work out fine. I have a good feeling,” Marge said kindly, yet still clearly feeling bad for me.

  I realized in that moment that I had an ace in the
hole—or I thought I might. No witch in their right mind could trust the spawn of Bermangoggleshitz to protect our kind. The thought made me a little ill, so I grabbed a cookie and shoved it in my mouth.

  Was I loaded with dark magic like my sperm donor? Goddess, that ugly possibility hadn’t crossed my mind until now. Was that shit passed down by genes or was it a choice?

  Zelda… Zelda will know and she won’t lie to me.

  “Cookie Witch, with all due respect, you’re wrong.” I swallowed my sugary treat and pulled open the door so Marge could run when I hit her with the smelly news. “It will never work out. My father is Bermangoggleshitz—the stanky ass, black magic loser. Pretty sure that disqualifies me.”

  The look on her face confused the crap out of me. I expected her to run for the hills or poof herself out of my house, but no… she laughed.

  “I know,” she replied easily, but avoided all eye contact.

  Interesting.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Mmmhmm…” She nodded way too casually. Heat crawled up her neck and landed squarely on her lovely cheeks.

  Even more interesting.

  Why would the mention of my father make a powerful witch like Marge blush? Unless she… Ewwww, gross.

  “Did you do him?” I asked, reaching for the most obvious answer in my mind. Something was very off here.

  Her eyes snapped to mine and narrowed. “You’re impertinent.”

  “And you’re a well-dressed cookie baking butthole who may or may not have played hide the salami with my sperm donor,” I shot back, eyeing her closely. “I think you did bang the barely perfumed ball sac. Gotta say that’s pretty gross.”

  “He wasn’t always bad—or smelly,” Marge insisted and then shrugged. “You don’t have any regretful relationships in your past?”

  “Tons… and I wouldn’t call them relationships. I’ve never had a relationship until Jeeves. I love him and he loves me—even though I don’t love myself.”

  “And yet another reason you’re perfect for the job,” Marge muttered, trying to throw me off the topic by handing me more cookies and making cryptic statements.

  Almost worked. The cookies were delicious.

  “If I didn’t know better—and I usually don’t—I’d have to say you’re still carrying a torch for my odiferous, evil, douche-knocker dad.”

  “Done here.” Marge stood up, straightened her dress, and scooped up the cookies in her hurry to get away from me and my prying questions. Of course in her haste, she promptly dropped the cookies in her panic and swore like a sailor. Damn it, I was really beginning to like her. I had no clue that shit-titties was even a swear word. Point for Cookie Witch.

  “Your father is a deplorable, hateful, deranged piece of shit on a pointed stick. Whatever I felt for him hundreds of years ago was a grave mistake. The bastard almost sabotaged our world. I’d as soon smite him where he stands than give a second of thought to our shared past.”

  “Whoa,” I said with an impressed laugh. “Was all that in English?”

  “It was.”

  “I thought so, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Definitely English,” Marge confirmed.

  Ideas were coming to me fast and furious today—first time in my life and I wasn’t sure I liked feeling smart. However, I loved the thought of getting out of taking over for Cookie Witch. A lot.

  “Mmmkay, I have a deal to purpose.”

  “You mean propose?” Cookie Witch questioned.

  “Same thing,” I told the now confused woman with a wave of my hand and a roll of my eyes.

  “Actually it’s… never mind. What’s the deal?”

  Marge was wary and quite honestly she had every right to be. It wasn’t a nice thing I was about to purpose-propose. But, I knew she would say no and I could happily say goodbye to Cookie Witch forever.

  “You go on a real date with my father and I take your job.”

  “What?” Marge screeched, and then accidentally—or possibly on purpose—blew up my couch.

  Damn it, why the couch? I’d just replaced it.

  “So I take it that’s a no?” Grinning from ear to ear, I wiggled my fingers and replaced my couch for the second time in as many days.

  “You’re a horrible little witch,” Marge hissed, pointing at me with her perfectly manicured nails. “You’re evil.”

  “Possibly—Bermangogglefucker is my father after all,” I agreed with a shrug. “But clearly the Goddess gave me a good sense of perspiration.”

  “You sweat?”

  “Everyone sweats. What in the hell are you talking about?” I demanded. She wasn’t going to trick me now. I had her by the balls—even though Zelda said she didn’t have them, I wasn’t so sure. There was no way on the Goddess’s green earth that anyone would get close enough to my father to go on a date. His aroma was nose searing and every kind of gross—plus the bastard had horns.

  “It was nice to see you,” I said, finding my politeness and dragging it out of hiding. “Thank you for the cookies and for fixing the hole in my ass. I suppose I’ll see you around if you ever visit again.”

  Cookie Witch looked like she had a whole bunch of things to say. She was obviously disappointed that I didn’t want the job, but I was truly doing her a favor. I knew my limitations—they were enormous unless it had to do with demolishing large structures or getting into other magicals’ brains. Someday she’d thank me, but for right now, I’d let her yell at me for a bit. I was used to authority figures yelling at me.

  “I’ll do it.” She clutched her chest, let out a strangled cry and dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  Not exactly what I’d been expecting. Shitballs, I needed to keep my ideas to myself from now on. I was screwed six ways to Sunday…

  Son of a bitch. I might have just killed Cookie Witch.

  Chapter Seven

  “Where did you get that dress?” Zelda asked, admiring the shocking pink Prada lying on my coffee table.

  “Cookie Witch was wearing it.”

  “Holy shit,” Zelda shouted, gaping at me in shock. “Tell me you didn’t blow up the Cookie Witch for her dress.”

  “What do I look like to you?” I demanded.

  She continued to stare at me wide eyed.

  “Never mind. Don’t answer that. If I’d blown her up, her dress would have been torn to shreds. So logically speaking, I couldn’t have blown her up if I have her dress. Unless I made her strip, stole her dress and then blew her up. But that’s not my style—too many steps.”

  Zelda dropped to the couch and narrowed her eyes at me. “Call me cray cray, but you just made an argument that made sense. Are you alright?”

  “I did?” I asked, wildly impressed with myself.

  “You did. Now explain how you got her dress.”

  “Technically, I didn’t get it… yet.”

  “And now we’re back to the land of confusion. I was only gone for an hour,” Zelda muttered and ran her hands through her wild red hair. “I see Marge’s dress, but I don’t see Marge.”

  “That’s because she’s wearing one of Chunk’s t-shirts and a pair of Chip’s PJ bottoms.”

  “Go on.”

  Huffing out a huge sigh, I plopped down on the couch and idly fingered the gorgeous dress. “I cut a horrible deal and now I’m fucked.”

  “Still doesn’t explain the dress.”

  “This is true.”

  “Spit it out, Sassy Pants, or I’ll hang you upside down, zap a beard on you, and take pictures.”

  “You wouldn’t,” I shot back.

  “Try me. Now talk.”

  “Fine. Cookie Witch wants me to take over her job. No way in hell that’s gonna happen. The world needs its buildings, ya know? And then the freakin’ Goddess got pissed when I called her a drunk hooker and now I have a hole in my left butt cheek that I want you to take a look at. Marge used to do the horizontal mambo with my father so I told her that I’d take the job if she dated the reeking turd-ass
and she said yes. I really, really thought she would say no.”

  Zelda stared with wide eyes and said nothing. Whatever. I still had more to say.

  “So I’m a little worried about a couple of things. One—if I’m Bermangoggleshitz’s spawn, does that mean I’m full of dark magic? Two—is it okay to not hold up my end of the deal if Marge gets it on with the horned fucktard? And three—would it be terrible if I hid her dress and pretended I don’t know what happened to it? I think I would rock that Prada so much better than she does.”

  Zelda looked dazed… and very confused.

  “Dude, you okay?” Waving my hand in front of her face, I snapped her back into the moment.

  “You called the Goddess a drunken hooker and you’re alive?” she whispered.

  “I didn’t actually say hooker,” I admitted, glancing up to make sure there wasn’t a lightning bolt blasting through my ceiling. I stepped away from the couch just in case. I didn’t want to replace it again. Standing near the armchair, I felt better. I hated the armchair. If the Goddess wanted to set it on fire, I’d be good with that. “I just said she had to have been wasted to think I could do a job where the future of our kind was on the line.”

  “That is a good point,” Zelda agreed, also cautiously glancing up.

  “Right? I mean who’s gonna trust me with maintaining the magical fucking balance for the world. Not to mention I can’t cook—at all.”

  “I’d trust you with anything,” Jeeves said, walking into the room and laying a kiss on my lips that made me forget we had company. “And I can cook—you don’t need to. Hi Zelda.”

  “Jeeves, my man,” Zelda said and gave him hug. “Congrats on the mating and the engagement! Have you told Mac yet?”

  “Just came from telling him,” Jeeves said with a grin so wide it made me giggle.

  He bounced on his toes and took my hand in his. Zelda’s mate, Mac, was Jeeves’ dad even though they were different Shifter species. He’d adopted him and raised him and loved him. Mac was the King of the Shifters and was all kinds of fair and awesome, and a little scary, too.