Magic and Mayhem: The Witch Singer (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Witches of Mane Street Book 1)

by Heather Long

  Soft, silken, and so full of sweetness and vibrant life—I leaned into the kiss. The first brush of his tongue against mine sent a frisson of need and quenched the dryness in my being with a soaking rain of longing and affection.

  How long we drove along the road, our hands balancing each other and keeping the car on the road as the protection spell kept us from running off of it, I have no idea. All I heard were the trumpeters, the swell of music, and the sound of applause. Sure, it was all in my head, but if you’ve ever wondered what a first kiss in the movies should be like? Dude, this was it. Nirvana. Perfect. If I’d been in some hundred-year slumber, Martin would totally have revved my motor and woken me right the hell up.

  When he broke the kiss, two fingers touching my jaw lightly. I sighed. Serious, deep, feminine sigh. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He drifted the light caress away from my face then gripped my thigh again. Little bit by little bit, the real world bled back into the fantasy. I put both hands on the wheel, he released it, and the rising crescendo of music gave way to a perfect ambient soundtrack. We sailed onto the main strip of Assjacket riding a wave of hormone-fueled pleasure.

  Sliding into a parking spot between an oversized pickup and an SUV that looked like was on steroids, my bright pink convertible bug looked really out of place. There. We’d made it. A handful of people on the street glanced in our direction. While they seemed disinterested, I could feel the watchfulness of them all. We were strangers in the town.

  Newcomers.

  And one of us was mortal. Though they couldn’t know some type of magic worked within Martin or that less than a few hours earlier, he’d been a skunk.

  “So where to, witchypoo?” He ran his fingers through my hair, half combing, half caressing.

  “That name is never going away, is it?” Oddly, I didn’t find myself hating it anymore.

  “Nope.” The soft laughter in his voice buoyed me. I could do this. I could find the Baba Yaga and ask her—respectfully, of course, because damn the woman’s temper was legendary—about Nasty-Face’s issue then see what solutions we could work out. Afterward, I’d write it on a postcard and send it, along with a kiss off, back. Just because I thought Nasty-Face had been one hundred percent upfront with me about my freedom didn’t mean I planned to invite him to double-cross me, much less change his mind by going back in person.

  In fact, I’m never going to Texas again or any state bordering Texas—only that would mean no Mardi Gras, and New Orleans was on the way other side of Louisiana, so maybe just New Orleans, but nowhere else. That would leave out Arkansas, no loss. No more Oklahoma—great musical, not so great state, although the barbecue there was outstanding. Also on the strike list, New Mexico—bummer, as I loved skiing in Taos. Finally, I would stay away from everything in Louisiana except New Orleans. New Orleans I keep.

  “Witchypoo.” Martin gave my hair the lightest of tugs, and everything in my middle went all quivery and warm. Yes, tugging my hair was a total turn on, and I could see by the light in his eyes when I glanced at him, he’d just discovered the secret. Another sigh escaped me.

  Martin wouldn’t leave me much wiggle room. He’d already peeled way so many layers. It wouldn’t be long till he got down to the brass, base truth of it all. I was such a fraud. I could sing spells. Big whoopty-freaking-doo. I made bad choices, suffered from poor impulse control, and if one didn’t look at my last few years of servitude, one would see I still had zero idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up.

  “Hello!” A bright voice rattled me out of my mental cage, and I stared at the girl leaning against the hood of my Baby. Bitch was actually sitting on the hood. Her tiny ass was dressed in designer, way too damn bedazzled jeans. All that bling was going to scratch Baby’s paint job.

  Before I could let loose with the first spell that came to mind, Martin dug his fingers into my thigh. The squeeze grounded me and helped diffuse my temper enough to verbalize, “Get off the car. Please.”

  “The please was a nice touch,” Martin murmured, then he slid out of the car and stood. My weird ass outfit on his fine, masculine frame notwithstanding, he possessed the soul of a gentleman. Our visitor, had not removed her sassy ass from my vehicle, so Martin walked over to the curb then around to stand in front of her. With one hand extended, he eyed the girl. Yes, I said girl. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. “The lady requested you get off her car. Do it. Now.” Politeness laced with steel.

  I was in love.

  The squee thought preceded a flash of panic searing my internals until I wanted to melt. Shoving aside the hormonal over-reaction, I scrambled out to join them.

  The girl with the blue hair actually blushed under all the layers of cosmetics she’d plastered on. Why she fought to look so much older than her perfect as a baby’s ass skin needed to be escaped me. As it was, I held my ground by the driver’s side door, stuffing all that emotional jealousy that Martin held some kid’s hand down into the ugly place it had come from.

  He was getting the little interloper off my car. Priorities, woman, priorities.

  “I’m Rika Tallelujah Smythe.” The blue-haired demon released Marin and bounced over to me. Hand thrust out, she beamed the sunniest smile I’d seen outside of a toothpaste commercial. “I’ve been here forever waiting for you.”

  Was I being punked? “You’re who?”

  “Rika Smythe. Sorry, I know the middle name throws people. I’m waiting on you. You’re Bridget, right? No last name? Like Madonna, only witchier?” Well, why didn’t she just pull out a bullhorn and announce to every Tom Cruise, Dick Van Dyke, and Harry Potter who walked by that I was a witch and I was in town?

  “I’m Bridget.” I folded my arms, lest I do something inappropriate like smother the child. “Why are you waiting for me?”

  “Oops, got ahead of myself.” Rika fumbled and swung her backpack off, hitting the side mirror in the process. I flinched. Martin hurried over and fixed the mirror before I could say anything. In the meanwhile, Rika dug through her backpack. I started forward and, between my narrowing the distance and Martin joining us, we managed to back Rika Tallelujah Smythe away from my car, and onto the sidewalk. With a flourish of triumph, she pulled out an envelope and held out to me. “Here you go.”

  “Shall we go into the diner?” Martin suggested. I appreciated his eagerness in wanting to get her away from my car.

  I accepted the envelope carefully, much like one would take hold of a bomb. The last thing I needed was for it to explode all over me. “You can’t go in the diner, Martin dear. You have no shoes on.”

  “Indeed.” He frowned.

  “Oh, I can fix that.” Rika snapped her fingers and Martin suddenly wore a pair of flaming pink keds. Neither one of us moved. I liked them, but I was pretty sure he didn’t. They really just didn’t go with the man. “Though, to be honest, that’s a terrible outfit. Let me fix you up.” Weaving her fingers together as though she were sewing, Rika added, “Needles and thread, scissors and cloth, weave the best suit for the man dressed like a sloth.”

  My favorite shirt and shark week leggings vanished in a cloud of Brut and Old Spice, to be replaced with a silk suit, and beautiful pinstripe tie. The look suited Martin. Well, except for the pink shoes.

  “I like it.” Rika framed her hands as though making a picture. “You need a haircut, ‘cause, dude, you are seriously rocking the 80s mullet. But beyond that, looking good.”

  “I appreciate it,” Martin said, his voice crisp and smooth. “Do not do that again.”

  Rika’s whole expression collapsed. “But it looks good, and you needed shoes. Now you’ve got a whole new outfit.” She clapped her hands together and a poof erupted.

  I tackled Martin before the spell hit him, so I took the brunt of it. My beautiful jeans shredded and my tank top ripped right at the middle leaving me bare at the midriff. I’m not sure who looked more appalled—the teenager who clasped a hand over her mouth or Martin, who I’d managed to
knock right into a puddle.

  Still clasping the letter, I pointed a finger at Rika. “Not another word or spell, or I’ll sing your mouth shut. Everyone be quiet a moment.”

  Nonplussed, Martin rose, then offered me a hand. I let him pull me to my feet and tried to ignore how the gorgeous suit looked all droopy and plastered to him. Really was an unfair thing to do to his nice outfit.

  Behind him, Rika met my gaze and gave me a solemn nod, one hand still affixed to her mouth.

  Head pounding from the restraint it took not to retaliate for the ruination of not one, but two of my outfits, I slit the letter open. Glitter exploded everywhere.

  Perfect.

  Just perfect.

  Blowing out a breath, I tugged out the single sheet of obnoxiously bright green paper and unfolded it. The writing was curvy, and full of flash with letters highlighted and even boxed in places.

  My dearest Bridget,

  So happy you’ve finally decided to take life by the balls and come find me. Sadly, I got tired of waiting. Five years is a very long time to keep the Baba Yaga in suspense, so remind me to punish you for that later. Rika has keys to the cottage for you and your young man. She’ll be living with you both for the interim. In the meanwhile, I’m going to be late for the Madonna concert, so I wanted to write you this quick introduction to Rika. She is to be your new apprentice. I trust you will train her and raise her with style, class and control. Granted, you possess none of these attributes, but I’m a firm believer that teaching her will be an education for you.

  Toodles Songstress,

  Baba Yaga

  P.S. As for that other problem, I will provide you with the answer to your question once you’ve completed this task.

  P.P.S. Oh, and you need to sing at the weddings of two couples you help to unite. Remember, helping others find joy will allow joy to blossom within you.

  P.P.P.S. If you say aloud all the things you are thinking right now, I’ll give you another task, and trust me when I say you will like it even less.

  I read. Re-read. Then read the letter again.

  I couldn’t possibly be reading it right. Nope. Not possible.

  So, one more time, I crossed my fingers and read it again. Still said the same damn thing.

  “Witchypoo?” Martin said softly next to my ear.

  I thrust the letter at him and walked away from them both, not quite stomping my feet. Hands on my hips I fought to get my temper under control and my tongue silenced. The Baba Yaga wasn’t kidding. If I said everything on my mind right now, it would get back to her and I’d be more screwed than I already was.

  “Maybe I’ll get us a table at the diner?” Despite Rika’s whisper, her question carried.

  “That would be fine,” Martin replied. “Order fresh coffee for us both, and something non-caffeinated for yourself.”

  “Non-caffeinated?” Argument bubbled in the teen’s voice, but Martin didn’t respond or, if he did, it was non-verbally. A minute later, she huffed and stormed off. Well, at least Martin was good with kids.

  A moment later, he joined me, and rested a warm hand against my nape. “You can do this, Bridget.” The absolute confidence in his voice suffused my troubled spirit and buoyed me.

  “Don’t do that,” I begged him. Or maybe I begged myself.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t believe in me.” It was better he understood from the get go. “I’m so not worth it.”

  “Of course you are,” he said, then nuzzled my cheek. Somehow I went from standing with my hands on my hips, full of piss and vinegar, to the next being wrapped in his arms and soaking up the adoration in his embrace. “You’re my witchypoo. You can do anything. If you’ll let me, I’ll help.”

  “You going to take over with the brat child who destroyed my favorite shirt?” Even though his clothes were damp and now held a vague scent of motor oil, it couldn’t blot out the sexy scent that was all his.

  “I can show you how to teach her,” he chuckled, then gave me another gentle kiss. “I can be here for you, and I can believe in you until you believe in yourself.”

  Well, fudge nuggets. That did it.

  I lifted my chin and met his gaze.

  I was in love.

  Chapter Eight

  In the diner, conversation halted when we joined Rika. The teen’s sullen disposition vanished at our arrival. She’d chosen a table near the window. The cracked vinyl didn’t look appealing so much as homey. While she’d taken up residence on one side, I slid into place on the other. Martin waited until I’d taken a seat, before he joined me.

  It was so classy how he smoothed down his suit and completely ignored the neon pink shoes. Staring at him, I fought the need to smooth the curl away from his forehead. When he caught me gaping, he didn’t do anything more than smile. My heart did a little flip-flop. It was like all those things in a romance novel, even the soundtrack playing in my head started spitting out a dopey ‘falling for you’ montage score from a John Hughes film.

  “Welcome to Assjacket, darlings.” A waitress with huge, hazel eyes and a sweet demeanor greeted us. The genuine warmth in her welcome settled my rattled nerves. She slid two coffee cups onto the table. Freshly brewed, they released the perfect scent and it went a long way to soothing my temper. She set a tall glass of what I supposed was apple juice in front of Rika, then swept a gaze over all of them. “The specials are on the board, and we can make just about anything.”

  Martin frowned briefly, but said nothing. Worried by his troubled expression, I gave the waitress a quick smile. “Do you mind if we take a minute?” I wanted to know what was up with him before we ordered.

  “Not a problem at all. Just holler when you’re ready.” With that, she left us alone, and Martin glanced at me.

  “Problem?” I kept my tone light, very aware of our third wheel audience across the table.

  “I think you should eat, but the financial situation is not settled.” A polite way of reminding me we were broke. I did have the credit cards, but all my reasons for not using them remained.

  “It’s okay,” Rika said before I could answer. “We have a line of credit. I’m pretty sure a bank account, too.”

  Neither Martin nor I had a response to that, so we just stared at her until Rika began to squirm.

  “You know, payment for being my tutor—or mentor—or whatever title it is you’d like.” Apparently she could read my disapproval. We might get along well. “It’s a paying job, you know. That’s why there’s a cottage and an account.”

  “All right then.” Give me free money to spend so I wouldn’t gag the brat? I’m down with that. “Let’s eat, then.”

  We waved the waitress back over, and this time I actually got a look at her nametag. Dee Dee seemed very nice. She wrote down what we wanted then went back to get our orders started. One by one, the other tables in the room resumed their conversation, or maybe they pretended to so it wasn’t so obvious they all stared at us. I was used to the attention on stage, not so much in a diner.

  “Okay, child. Spill. What did you do that required me to be saddled with you?” What? Don’t look at me like that. I have a lot of problems of my own. I don’t need hers. Still, the Baba Yaga left the letter, and I was still wearing her glitter bomb to prove it.

  Rika fidgeted, spinning her soda glass around and ducking her chin. The deep blue of her hair appeared radiant in the sunlight spilling in the window, as did her too-wide eyes. She exuded innocence until it seemed to pound at my pores.

  “And stop the glamour.”

  The order brought the child up short. She opened her mouth, as though to deny the charge, then snapped it shut. All at once, the light around her dimmed and her features became far more ordinary. She possessed a fine bone structure, but she hadn’t quite matured into her good looks as yet.

  “I don’t have the greatest control over my magic.” Well, thank you, Captain Obvious.

  “You don’t say?” I took a sip of my coffee and ignored Martin
’s not so subtle tap of his foot against mine. “I didn’t notice when you tried to blow Martin’s clothes off or the glamour.”

  Flushing a deep red, Rika looked down. Contrition roiled around her and sympathy pulled at me. No, the kiddo really had no idea what she was doing.

  Draining the cup of coffee, I focused on the kid. “Do you want my help?” Baba Yaga aside, and even ignoring my own issues, I wasn’t going to foist my magic on her without her permission. I glanced around to make sure BabaYoMama wasn’t watching me make such a call. If she was there, she was keeping an unheard of low profile.

  “Yes. Please.” Rika reached a hand over toward me but seemed to think better of simply grabbing me.

  Approving of such a good call, I grasped her fingers. “A troubled pleasure is waiting for you,” I sang. “A trouble pleasure from a trebled song. A trouble bubbled great feeling, making you realize, your magic is in a bubble just for you. Trouble fresh, trouble free, trouble nowhere anyone can see. A trouble-free pleasure is waiting for you, a trouble-free magic in bubble is waiting for you. Enjoy the bubbled feeling, till you master your magic, three wishes on a raindrop dew.”

  The bubble coalesced around her, summoned by the song. It shimmered in the morning light and, as I released Rika’s fingers, the bubble settled along her like a second skin before it vanished. The rush shivered through me. That had been a pretty difficult spell on the fly, and I loved it.

  “Did you just jingle your magic at me?” Rika gaped.

  “Yes. All controlled and perfectly formed. Now, when you mess up or blow off a spell, the only person who will suffer is you.”

  “No way!” The teen’s voice crested in objection and the poof of purple and blue smoke encapsulating her made me want to laugh. Of course, when she reappeared she had striped skin in the same colors and her hair had gone a vicious shade of green. After grabbing her phone, she pulled it up to examine the results. Her shriek of outrage sent silence through the whole diner again.