Magic and Mayhem: Witchin' A Ride (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Sharon Saracino

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Robyn Peterman. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Magic and Mayhem remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Robyn Peterman, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Witchin’ A Ride

  By

  Sharon Saracino

  ~Dedication~

  Hugs and smooches to the amazing Robyn Peterman whose endless talent is exceeded only by her humor, generosity, and ginormous heart! Thank you for inviting me to play in your fabulous and zany world! You rock!

  ~TABLE OF CONTENTS~

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Amazing Magic and Mayhem Authors

  About the Author

  Cover Design by Authors On A Dime, LLC

  Chapter One

  “An exiled witch without magic, the former first lady of the Philippines, and a gaggle of giggling girls walk into a bar.”

  “For the love of peanut butter and bananas, give it a rest, Ella.” Tina, my friend from the small garden center where we both worked, regarded me across my kitchen table, and rolled her bright blue eyes. “You are not a witch, and I do not own as many shoes as Imelda Marcos. A girl can only aspire.”

  She got it half right. Tina may have been a few sling-backs shy of Mrs. Marcos, but despite the fact I found my formerly fine ass currently planted smack dab in the middle of mortal country without a spark of magic to call my own, I was indeed a witch.

  In exile.

  “A passel of semi-inebriated women and an unidentified denizen of the afterlife walk out,” I continued. I eyeballed the mostly transparent, utterly malodorous, and completely unwelcome figure hovering in the corner of my kitchen. The clearly departed had been stuck to me like pasties to a showgirl’s boobs since the wee hours of this morning, and didn’t appear to be in any hurry to leave. “Well, okay, maybe the denizen floated and the rest of us staggered. What do you think it means?”

  “It means you should have passed on those last three shots of tequila.” Tina plunked a glass of tomato juice garnished with a lemon wedge and a leafy stalk of celery in front of me. I assumed she made a grocery run before I crawled out of bed since fresh produce and my refrigerator rarely socialized. “Drink that. You’ll feel better.”

  “I feel fine.” Truthfully, my stomach churned like the agitator of a heavy-duty washing machine. But, the onset of nausea and my bad case of cotton mouth had nothing to do with the previous evening’s alcohol consumption. It had everything to do with the aroma tickling my gag reflex, and the hairy eyeball fixed on me from across the room. “Besides, so much nutrition concentrated in a small glass may kill me, so let’s go with the coffee. Ignore the big green ghost in the room if it makes you more comfortable, but I am currently the object of her rapt attention.” I raised a brow in the direction of the vaporous entity. “I’m not receiving guests today. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  The uninvited visitor offered no response.

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss her. Maybe she covets your footwear, and you could make a couple of bucks. You could use the income to buy something more presentable,” Tina suggested with a smirk. Since I knew she didn’t believe for a second there was anyone, or anything, aside from the two of us currently inhabiting my kitchen, I had to give her props for her ability to keep a straight face and play along. “It’s not like you’re drowning in marketable skills.”

  Tina, the Shoe Slut, had a rabid obsession with stuffing my feet into a pair of sky-high stilettos. Sure, they’d look great with anything, and enhance the contours of my long legs. But, though I’d remained relatively injury free lately, being relegated to a mortal existence had given me a well-earned reputationfor falling up stairs and being attacked by floors. Trust me, I’ve got the delinquent Emergency Room bills to prove it. So, despite the interesting opportunities for kink a couple of weeks in traction surrounded by hot orderlies brought to mind, further flipping the bird at the Fates by donning Hoo-ha Heels didn’t seem worth the risk.

  I thrust my flannel clad leg out from beneath the table and inspected my faux suede and sheepskin knock-offs through narrowed eyes. They’d been a second-hand thrift store purchase, and had seen better days. Then last week, Tina’s pocket pooch, a little Yorkie named Benson, had mistaken one for a chew toy. This resulted in several holes, a couple of bare spots, and numerous fraying threads. In an effort to put a positive spin on the loss, I taped black pompoms to the toes, drew a couple of eyes near the ankle, and repurposed them as bunny slippers.

  “Ya think?” I glanced over and wiggled my foot temptingly in the direction of my filmy new friend. She continued to stare at me silently, one might even say hostilely, not sparing so much as a glance at my sad, bedraggled bootie. Apparently my footwear did not impress her. Maybe she was annoyed I hadn’t offered her a cup of coffee? Well, she was going to have to make a little more of an effort to be sociable if she expected me to share my Columbian Dark Roast.

  “Sure.” Tina slugged down the last mouthful of her coffee and pushed back her chair, hopping up to pour another cup. “Who wouldn’t die to get their hands on wearable road-kill?”

  “Well, clearly she’s mistaken me for someone else.” I glared in my visitor’s direction. I tucked my insulted bunny wannabee under my chair and slid my mug across the table for a refill. “And I have skills, I simply refrain from flaunting them.” Mostly because, for the time being at least, I couldn’t.

  “Maybe she’s a troubled spirit with some unfinished business or something,” Tina speculated. She frowned in the direction of my horrendous houseguest and offered me a fresh cup before parking her khaki Capri-clad butt back in her own chair.

  “Maybe,” I squinted at Silent Sally. No maybe about it. She definitely had unfinished business. And I had a sinking feeling I knew the exact nature of said business. Me.

  “Isn’t there someone you can call? You know, like Ghostbusters?”

  “Very funny,” I muttered. The phone book didn’t list a Hotline for Smart-Mouth-Witches-Who-Open-Their-Trap-Before-Their-Brain-Kicks-In. Believe me, I looked. If they did, I’d have put those suckers on speed dial years ago. It’s not as though I don’t always mean what I say. I just don’t always mean to say it out loud. I sighed, pushed myself away from the table and rose to my DIY rabbit-wrapped tootsies. “Are you planning to stick around for a while?”

  With her new boyfriend, whom I’d yet to meet and approve of, otherwise occupied for the weekend, Tina found herself at loose ends. Hence the reason she’d deigned to slum it and crash at my place last night. I hoped she had something pressing on her agenda for today. Otherwise, the outcome was inevitable. My meagre cash stash, maxed out credit card, and sunny disposition, could not survive one of her excursions into retail hell.

  “Hair appointment at eleven, manicure at two, and somewhere in between I’m heading over to the mall.” Tina ticked off each task on her long, professionally pampered fingers. “Care to join me?”

  “About as much as I care to eat glass and die, but thanks ever so much for asking.” I slugged back the rest of the coffee in my cup. “Besides, I ha
ve a spiritual crisis to attend to. Apparently.”

  “Yeah, well good luck with that,” Tina offered magnanimously. She shot a threatening look toward the corner where my uninvited guest lingered. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she headed for the door. “If you manage to rectify your, um, problem before noon and change your mind, call me and I’ll swing by and pick you up for lunch and shopping.”

  “You betcha.” I waved her off with a smile, and absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. I rose from my chair, circumnavigated the table, and rinsed my cup in the sink. Upending the mug on a stack of folded fast food napkins to dry, I turned and propped my butt against the counter, regarding my thus far unfriendly new friend.

  “So, do you plan to just hover there all day taking up space, or is there something I can help you with?”

  My generous offer of assistance was met with stony silence. And narrowed eyes. And a slow and peculiarly sinister grin. Then, the green gremlin started to twirl. Slowly at first, but quickly gaining momentum, she picked up speed until she whirled with the preternatural force and energy of a small, angry tornado. Curtains whipped in the wind, dishes and small appliances sailed through the air like deadly missiles in my formerly semi-neat abode, and the small pots of herbs I’d coaxed to maturity crashed to the floor, scattering soil and injured plants everywhere. Thank Goddess I hadn’t wasted any effort cleaning this week, because the effort would have been, you know, wasted.

  I grabbed my massive black cat, Doyle—okay, I heaved the uncooperative slug over my shoulder—and dove behind the lumpy sofa. My unappreciative feline repaid my courageous shielding of his squirming bulk from the airborne projectiles by rapidly and repeatedly rabbit-kicking me in the stomach with his back feet—claws extended—and sinking his three remaining teeth in my wrist. It wasn’t the first time I wished I’d left his mangy carcass lying half dead in the dumpster where I’d found him on the night I escaped. Perhaps escaped is too dramatic a term. I’d been allowed to leave. Okay, technically I’d been thrown out on my injudicious ass into a pile of trash in a dark alley reeking with the nose-hair-wilting scent of Eau du Stale Pee. Without my magic. But, at least I’d been exiled with a change of underwear and a pre-paid credit card. Go, me.

  Historically, witches hook-up with witches. Frequently, passionately, and often with no strings attached. This works for me. At least it used to. I’d rarely been with anyone I cared to attach strings to anyway. And if I’d been experiencing a bit of a dry spell? I didn’t lose sleep over it. I had my students, I had my research, and frankly, sometimes it felt as though there simply weren’t enough hours in the day. But, then my mother’s uncle’s sister-in-law’s stepbrother’s fifth cousin twice removed—some witch named Zelda—assumed the mantle of Shifter Whisperer—the magical healer of Shifters—in some Goddess-forsaken place in West Virginia, and mated with a wolf. The Council of Witches decreed this consummation, er, combination of power between a witch and a Shifter a good thing. Hoping to project a modern and progressive image, the Council then convened a subcommittee to assess the advantages of inter-species magical alliances.

  In retrospect, screeching in the face of Baba Yaga, the most outrageously dressed and powerful witch in the world, and proclaiming I’d rather live as a mortal for a year than acquiesce to Council orders to accept a blind date with a Shifter may have been slightly reckless. Imprudent, even. So what if the Fates decreed him perfect for me? Still, I may have gotten away with it if I hadn’t felt compelled to add I’d heard the eighties sent a search party out looking for Baba’s wardrobe. Hell of a time for my brain-to-mouth filter to go on the fritz. Bottom line? Big-haired Baba, in her pink leggings, blue leg warmers, and white off the shoulder tee shirt emblazoned with Let’s Get Physical, called my bluff.

  Doyle wriggled from beneath me, streaked across my apartment with more speed than I believed him capable of, and disappeared into the bedroom. I figured I was relatively safe hunkered down behind the sofa for however long it took my visitor to wind down from her snit. I’d just wait her out. That struck me as a dandy plan until my coffee carafe sailed over my head and exploded against the wall. It was the final straw. Bad enough she’d injured my plants. Thou shalt not screw with the coffee.

  I shot to my feet just in time to bat away a roll of paper towels taking lethal aim at my head. I doubted I could raise my voice loud enough to be heard over the deafening roar of whistling wind and shattering glass, but dammit, I’d had enough. I planted my hands on my hips and roared through the maelstrom.

  “Who in the hell do you think you are? You spooked my cat, you trashed my house, and then you Broke. My. Coffeepot. What in the name of cherry vanilla ice cream is your forkin’ problem, biotch?”

  She stopped dead—no pun intended—in the act of upsetting my silverware drawer into the turmoil. The cutlery crashed to the floor, unheeded. Eyes wide, green-tinted hair floating around her head like Medusa’s snakes, she regarded me with an incredulous expression.

  “Did you just call me a bitch?” Her voice had the lilting and melodious quality of nails on a chalkboard.

  “Do you see any other sickly green home-wreckers with bed head twirling around in here?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest—in case she decided to send a steak knife or random shard of glass hurtling directly at my heart—and lifted my chin with as much arrogance as I could muster considering my chattering teeth.

  My stomach dropped into my fake bunny slippers as she zipped across the room, until we stood nose to nose. Well, I stood. She hovered. Clearly, she was unacquainted with the term personal space.

  “Look, why don’t you just float back over there to the corner and tell me what you want? I’m sure we can take care of whatever has your knickers in a twist, assuming you own any. Then you can disappear back into whatever armpit of the afterlife you crawled out of, and I can open a window and air out the stench,” I cajoled in a calm, reasonable voice. Actually, I screamed it in her face while my gaze darted frantically around the room in search of a weapon. If I had my magic, I’d have zapped her skanky ass hours ago. Without it? Frankly, she was a little intimidating.

  “Seriously?” She cackled. “You’re going to pretend you don’t know why I’m here?”

  “Yes, yes I am.” Because what if the Yaga, in a hairspray induced frenzy provoked by maintaining a hairstyle the size of Texas, sent a proxy to say she’d changed her mind? What if, approaching the end of my year-long exile, no get-out-of-jail-free card was forthcoming? What if I’d gone too far by implying both she and the Council of Witches were bat-shit crazy? “By the way, green is not your color. And you smell like shit on a stick. Clearly you’ve been hanging around so long you’re moldy. Maybe you should get to the point and get out of here before things actually start to fall off.”

  Her eyes widened, and then quickly narrowed. Her thin, green lips peeled back in a wide grin. While I’d ordinarily take that as a good sign, the tartar-caked fangs, blackened tongue, and breath rank enough to dissolve Santa’s beard didn’t exactly foster the impression she meant it in a friendly way.

  “Surely you’re aware of the date?” she spat. “I can’t believe even you’re that clueless.”

  “Just goes to show you don’t know me at all, or it wouldn’t surprise you in the least.”

  Of course I knew the damn date. I obsessed about the date. Each night I implored the Goddess to make the days fly by so I could go home. I also begged the Fates to reconsider my future and forget all about some magical alliance between a Shifter and yours truly. I missed my familiar, my house, my life. I yearned for the warm caress of magic flowing over my skin and erupting from my fingers.

  “Let me guess. You’re here to deliver a Public Service Announcement that disturbing dust bunnies may be harmful to my health?” I scratched my nose, and punctuated my question with an impressive sneeze that started in my toes and worked its way up through my body. It spewed forth with enough force to blow my visitor halfway across the room. “I mean, I reali
ze the dust bunny population in this place probably violates some official Department of Health regulation or something, but they weren’t hurting anyone. Even dust bunnies need a place to be. You couldn’t have just left me a note, or something equally non-destructive?”

  “Sorry, Cookie, that’s not my style.”

  “Fine, then can you get on with this and get out of my hair? Why are you here?” Yes, I can play dumb as well as the next girl. In fact, sometimes it requires absolutely no acting on my part, whatsoever. “I planned on doing laundry today, and now, thanks to you, I have to clean, too. You’re screwing with my agenda.”

  “Laundry? You?” Apparently, my love for laundry had attained legendary status even in her little corner of the afterlife. “Eleven months and three weeks in the mortal world and you still haven’t figured out how to use a microwave. Here’s a hint, sweetie—push the button. As for me getting out of that rat’s nest masquerading as your hair, purple isn’t your best look.”

  She had a point. While many women wear the color well, sadly, I was not one of them. My own rich, glorious brunette faded to a dull grayish lavender within days of losing my powers. I’d been struggling to rectify the situation ever since. The last time I’d tried, the box promised the eye-watering solution would result in rich burnished mahogany number thirty-four. The box was a big, fat liar. Sure, I’d tried natural remedies, but the flora and fauna in the mortal world didn’t have the same kick. Especially when I lacked the requisite supernatural boost. For the record, non-magical beauty maintenance is a motherhumper.

  “Says the girl with weeds growing out of her head. Look, just spit it out and hit the road.”

  “There’s no call to be rude,” my uninvited entity sniffed.

  “Seriously? You follow me home, glare at me for hours, and then trash my apartment. You expect a warm welcome? You want polite? You think I should offer you coffee and doughnuts or something?”