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

by Sharon Saracino

  “Did you say doughnuts?” A gleam of interest sparked in her otherwise mostly dead eyes, and her blackened tongue snaked out to lick her lips. She re-focused her gaze on the half empty box of fried dough and sticky toppings that had somehow managed to cling precariously to the edge of my counter.

  “Distractible much?” I smirked.

  “What kind? I haven’t had doughnuts in decades.”

  “And that’s not about to change today.”

  “Fine, be that way.” With a low growl, she zoomed back in my direction until we were up close and personal again. This chick’s breath really could curl a bald man’s hair.

  “What do you want, ghost girl?”

  “Pul-eeze! What kind of witch doesn’t know a ghost from an Ekimmu? I have a message from Baba Yaga. You may come home.”

  “Well, maybe if you wore your mukluks and a parka, I would have recognized you right away. What if I’ve decided living without magic suits me just fine? Maybe I’d rather stay right here.” I shot back. Damn, my filter always seemed to fail at the most inopportune moments.

  “We both know that’s bull-hockey. But, you are, of course, free to choose. You are not, however, free from the consequences of your choice. Like weight gain. You’re already reaping the benefits of a love affair with doughnuts no longer mitigated by a witch’s crazy fast metabolism. Might want to give that some consideration, chubs,” she sniggered.

  “I’m not chubby, I’m bloated. It’s a direct result of water retention secondary to an unhealthy addiction to Chinese take-out. And to deliver this message you needed to trash my apartment?”

  “No, but a girl gets bored, and it was fun. Getting back to Hemlock Hollow is your problem. Travel by whatever means you find most expedient. Your magic will be restored when you arrive.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Actually, I wasn’t entirely certain I could get back without magic. Can we spell broke and directionally challenged? “How am I supposed—?”

  But, just like that, she was gone. Along with my doughnuts. Forkityforkforkfork.

  Chapter Two

  As soon as she left, Doyle sauntered out of the bedroom, sleek black fur gleaming in the late morning sun, and gazed around with a bored expression. His opinion of the new decor was difficult to determine since he simply stretched out on a cleared patch of floor, expelled a loud gust of wind from beneath his tail, and rolled over with a yawn.

  “Well, you were a big help,” I muttered. “Gotta love the every-man-for-himself mentality of cats.”

  Doyle opened one green eye and regarded me with an exasperated expression. At least it appeared to be exasperation. It might have simply been gas since he farted again, rolled over on his other side, and went back to sleep.

  “Does Baba Yaga really expect me to find my way home on my own? Without magic?” I sighed. “Obviously, that witch does not know me at all.”

  I emptied a dustpan full of shattered glass into the trash and propped the broom against the wall. I turned to start a new pot of coffee, before being struck by the horrifying realization I no longer had a coffee pot thanks to my unsolicited houseguest. Nor was there a doughnut in sight. I really hate when a day becomes a total suck-fest before it’s half over.

  Wait! Hadn’t Tina mentioned a pit-stop at the mall? Snatching my pay-as-you-go phone from the countertop, I quickly sent her a text and asked if she could swing by and pick me up a replacement pot for my antiquated coffee maker. I resolutely ignored the niggling little voice in the back of my brain warning she might show up with a professional grade espresso machine. And a barista. My pal has a tiny little shopping problem. Since we both make approximately the same hourly wage, I can’t imagine how she manages to keep up her credit card payments.

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and dropped my exhausted bones on the threadbare sofa. Cranking off the top, I took a long restorative swig, reflecting it was sadly lacking something. Oh yeah, that’s right. COFFEE.

  I wearily surveyed my apartment, which didn’t scream elegance at the best of times, and now resembled a landfill. Sadly, my cat had emerged from the bedroom unaccompanied by animated dancing creatures, singing annoyingly cheerful songs, and offering to clean my house. Considering Doyle’s sociability generally extended no further than a rabid affection for fast food cheeseburgers, and a resigned acceptance of my company, I shouldn’t have been surprised he had no friends. And given his non-existent activity tolerance, even if he did, he probably would avoid association with those who could dance. Or clean. Still, it happened to mortals in the movies all the time, and a girl can dream.

  “Cutlery as floor covering? Gee, love what you’ve done with the place.” Tina waltzed in fifteen minutes later without knocking, and plunked a glass carafe down on the counter. She dropped her purse next to it, and looked around. Furrows creased her forehead. “So, you had a party and didn’t invite me?”

  “Yes.” I picked up the glass pot and turned it in my hands, examining it from every angle. “What in the name of chicken gravy is this supposed to be?”

  “Well, duh. Fully cognizant of the emergent nature of the situation, I rescheduled both my hair appointment and my massage, and came straight here from the mall. It’s the replacement carafe for your coffee maker.”

  “I can see that. I guess I just expected something a little more…high tech.” I frowned. I shuffled over to the sink to rinse the pot, and then filled it to the brim. I dumped the water in the hopper, and set the coffee maker to brew an overflowing, and long overdue, quart of liquid love. “You know, like a Branford Barista Express XD-1000 complete with a pre-infusion cycle, and rocking idiot proof features like an integrated burr grinder, cup warmer, and removable tamper.”

  “That, of course, was my initial instinct.” Tina nodded. “In fact, I had one in the cart. However, in an effort to respect your abhorrence of my penchant for unnecessary spending, not to mention your inability to operate complicated kitchen gadgets, I put it back. Besides, we both know if I showed up here with a Branford Barista Express XD-1000, I would have to listen to you bitch about my extravagance for at least the next seven to ten days.”

  “Well, of course I would have bitched. You spend, I bitch, all the while secretly embracing the luxury you foist upon me since I can’t afford to splurge on it myself. That’s how we roll, sister.” Not that I didn’t adore luxury. And splurging. In fact, until my exile, excess and I were inseparable. Funny how having to actually perform manual labor to pay for things changes a girl’s outlook. “I hope this sudden concern for my finer sensibilities does not rule out silk sheets and those super-sized velour bath towels as potential candidates for gift giving occasions such as birthdays and Christmas. Despite my previous rants to the contrary, I love those suckers, you know.”

  Of course, I wouldn’t be here for my next birthday. Or Christmas. Or Tuesday.

  “Duly noted.” Tina smirked. “And for the record? Whatever I spend on gifts, I match with an equivalent monetary donation to the local soup kitchen. So, you may rest easy, secure in the knowledge the less fortunate benefit from your fine linen addiction. By the way, since today is neither Christmas nor your birthday, you owe me twelve ninety-nine for the carafe, which I feel confident you will grudgingly fork over as soon as you locate it in this mess. Should I assume your ghostly friend put up a fight?”

  “You may assume whatever you like, but be advised that green ghoul is no friend of mine. She trashed the place and high-tailed it out of here, taking my doughnuts hostage.”

  I poured two steaming mugs of coffee. I plunked one in front of Tina, and slurped down a hefty portion of my own. Of course, I burned my tongue and probably wouldn’t be able to taste anything for the rest of the day. Love requires sacrifice.

  “The nerve. Clearly, she has no idea who she’s dealing with.” Tina smirked.

  “Clearly. Also, she is apparently not a ghost. The carbohydrate thief claims she’s an Eskimo or something.” I set my cup carefully on the table while sucking in air thro
ugh pursed lips to soothe the scorched mucus membranes of my pie-hole.

  “As accustomed as I’ve become to your outlandish claims, that one doesn’t even make sense.” Tina’s perfectly manicured brows lowered, and then flew in the opposite direction to disappear into her hairline. “Wait, do you mean an Ekimmu?”

  “Of course, isn’t that what I said? I’ve lived in the northeast for the last year and am intimately acquainted with subzero and snow. It stands to reason I’d be familiar with the indigenous peoples who inhabit the northern polar region. By the way, I hope you won’t be insulted if I point out in some areas of Canada and Greenland that particular term is now considered offensive. I believe Inuit is the appropriate verbiage these days.”

  “Huh?”

  “However, I understand in the forty-ninth state, Alaska Native, a title which is inclusive of all the native Alaskan peoples, is also considered acceptable.”

  “Ella!” Tina snapped. “What in the name of toaster strudel are you rambling about?”

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so huffy.” I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly knocked myself over, then drew my brows together and glared. “We were discussing Eskimos, er, Intuits. I’m simply providing you with the politically correct terminology to keep your well-shod foot out of your mouth should you ever travel to the great white north. That’s what friends do. You’re welcome.”

  I sniffed loudly, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared down my nose at my friend. My unspoken reprimand probably would have been more effective if she’d been looking. But, her big, blue eyes were scrunched closed as she counted to ten in a tight, measured tone. People frequently exhibit this behavior in my presence. Go figure.

  “I didn’t say Eskimo, I said Ekimmu.” Tina slowly opened her eyes and sighed.

  “I say po-tay-to, you say po-taw-to. I heard what you said. I just didn’t think it would be polite of me to call attention to that infinitesimal little speech impediment you’ve apparently worked very hard to overcome. I mean, I’ve known you almost a year, and until now, I never even noticed it. Go you!”

  “Focus, Ella.” She reached out and gripped my shoulders, giving me a little shake. “I’m not referring to the indigenous peoples who inhabit the northern polar region. I’m referring to the vengeful wind spirits denied entrance to the Underworld, unable to find peace, and doomed to walk the earth for eternity.”

  “Oh, them. My bad.” Seriously, who ever heard of them? “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Um, took a class in ancient Assyrian and Sumerian mythology last semester.” Tina shrugged and tentatively sipped her coffee with far more caution than I’d exhibited.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve given up on psychology?” Tina loves psychology. Truthfully, I suspect her belief that I’m a case study she can develop into a thesis for her degree—or a best-selling book—is the reason she hangs around. And while I have to admit she has an impressive grasp of all that crap, it frequently results in her explaining the deeper meaning of my behavior to me. I find this exceedingly irksome. What makes it even worse? She’s usually right.

  “Never.” She grinned over the rim of her cup. “But, I’d already taken all the psych courses they had to offer last semester, so I decided to branch out and try something new just for fun.”

  “Well, aren’t you a special little snowflake? Okay, assuming you’re on to something, what do you know about these creatures?”

  “The Ancient Assyrians believed a person became an Ekimmu as a result of a violent death, by dying before love could be fulfilled, or by having an improper burial.” Tina dumped a hefty portion of cold milk from the fridge into her scalding brew before taking another taste. “The potential also existed if the deceased left behind a mutilated or unburied corpse, or if no one tended the grave or cared for the soul. Instead of moving on, these dead became roaming phantoms, thriving on torment and death.”

  “No wonder they resort to following people home from bars and hover in corners glaring with evil intent. That’s not only stupid, it’s completely unfair.”

  “It’s also unfair Fettuccine Alfredo is loaded with carbs and there isn’t an extra day between Saturday and Sunday.” Tina shrugged and flipped a curtain of butterscotch blonde over her dainty shoulder. “I don’t make the rules. What did she want?”

  “Um, my doughnuts,” I hedged. “Okay, smarty-pants, how do I get rid of her if she shows up again? Maybe I can talk her into crossing over?” Because I really couldn’t afford actual damage to this place. I totally needed every penny of my security deposit back for my impending road trip.

  “She can’t cross over. Told you, Ekimmu are denied entrance to the Underworld. Just one of the many reasons they’re perpetually pissed.” The pointed toe of Tina’s right kitten-heeled sling-back commenced an agitated tap-tap-tapping on the worn linoleum floor of my kitchen.

  “Why?” I persisted as she rose to her feet. I moved right behind her as she progressed toward the door. She stopped with her hand on the knob, and turned to face me, her usually smooth forehead wrinkled with pleats.

  “What are you, two years old all of a sudden? I don’t know why. Anyway, Ekimmus are angry, bitter creatures who feed on misery. And doughnuts, apparently. Promise you’ll be careful.”

  “She does not have the monopoly on angry and bitter. She annihilated my coffee pot. Maybe she’s the one you should be worried about. You’re getting pretty good at this humoring the crazy stuff. You actually sound as though you believe me. Just remember, I get a cut of the royalties when the book comes out.”

  “I believe you believe it. I have evolved from a committed skeptic to a dubious cynic with a slightly open mind.”

  “Are those two different things?”

  “Possibly. Let’s say I’m no longer convinced supernatural phenomenon is completely out of the question. But, I’m also far from persuaded it exists. Come on, Ella…you don’t honestly expect me to believe you’re a witch in exile. I’ve opened my mind, I haven’t lost it.”

  “Some story, huh? Maybe I should try my luck in Hollyweird.” I wondered if my cheek-cramping grin looked as forced as it felt. What in the name of coconut macaroons ever possessed me to share my life story with this woman? Oh. Yeah. A platter of deluxe nachos, five Cosmos, and eight shots of fine Kentucky Bourbon. My bad.

  “Indeed.” She grinned. “Anyway, if you really were a witch, wouldn’t you be prohibited from sharing that information with me, a mere mortal?”

  “Of course, but I have to talk to someone. I plan to come back and erase your memory of all incriminating conversations once I get my magic back.”

  “Good to have goals,” Tina responded with a frown. “Listen, I um, have something to take care of and might be out of touch for a while. Try to stay out of trouble, huh?”

  I blinked back tears, and swallowed over the lump that rose in my throat as Tina pulled me into her arms for a fierce hug before making her escape. She usually did, but this time it was good-bye. I knew it, even if she didn’t. I hadn’t made many friends during my time in exile, but despite our overwhelming differences, Tina had been good to me. I’d miss her.

  She pulled away and grinned, then leveled her usual parting shot. “Watch your back, okay?”

  I waved her off, flattered, as always, that she believed I possessed the flexibility to rotate my head one hundred and eighty degrees. Just as well I didn’t. If I really could watch my back, I might get a decent look at my ass and scare the hell out of myself.

  Chapter Three

  A direct flight would have been quicker. Teleporting infinitely better. But, since I had only slightly more money than magic at my disposal, the antiquated station wagon with mismatched fenders and one dangling taillight I purchased from Lucky Leon’s Used Cars would have to suffice.

  Given the selection of vehicles on display, I thought Lucky Leon’s Car Cemetery would be a more apt description of the place. I’m also not exactly sure where he got the nickname since his greasy comb-over, asphyxia
ting body odor—a colossal challenge to my overactive gag reflex—and pendulous, button-straining gut pretty much guaranteed he didn’t get lucky often. Or ever. I doubted my newly purchased clunker, which I christened Ronald, would even make it to the next corner, but at least the roomy back provided a place for Doyle and me to sleep. I barely had enough cash left to feed us on our little jaunt, let alone cover the luxury of a hotel, should the need arise.

  Six miles later, pleasantly surprised Ronald’s engine continued to chug along—and even more impressed that I remembered how to drive—I pulled into a service station near the on-ramp to the interstate and topped off the gas tank. I climbed back behind the wheel, retrieved the stained and wrinkled map of the United States Lucky Leon had thoughtfully left in the glove box, and spread it open on the steering wheel.

  I estimated with six miles down, I had about six hundred and fifty left to go. Of course, the actual distance was an educated guess since Hemlock Hollow, Kentucky appeared on no map. Also, to my eyes, the entire diagram looked like a jumbled collection of colored string stretched over a topographical representation of North America. Goddess help me.

  “Well, as nearly as I can determine.” I ran my finger along a squiggly line. “We need to start out on this blue line until it tangles with the red one, and um, and then navigate this knot and head right.”

  Doyle, regarded me with reproachful eyes through the bars of the cramped pet carrier in the passenger seat. I wasn’t sure how my familiar would feel about an addition to the family when I brought him home, but despite his obvious lack of affection for me, the mangy beast had been there when no one else had. He’d listened to me rant about the injustice of my situation, burrowed under the blankets with me to share his warmth when I avoided turning on the heat to save money, and curled up in my lap on those rare occasions when it sometimes became too much, and I succumbed to my misery and cried. I couldn’t just leave him behind to fend for himself.