Which Witch is
Wild?
The Witches of Port Townsend
Book Three
by
Kerrigan Byrne
Tiffinie Helmer
Cynthia St. Aubin
Cindy Stark
Which Witch is Wild?
Aerin © 2016 Kerrigan Byrne
Tierra © 2016 Tiffinie Helmer
Moira © 2016 Cynthia St. Aubin
Claire © 2016 Cindy Stark
All rights reserved
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1537701981
ISBN-10: 1537701983
Cover Art © 2016 Kelli Ann Morgan / Inspire Creative Services
Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Dedication
To everyone who feels like it’s the end of the world.
Because it isn’t, not until this shit starts happening.
You’re going to be fine.
The Witches of Port Townsend
Aerin
Tierra
Moira
Claire
Aerin
by
Kerrigan Byrne
Chapter One
Aerin de Moray was about to commit a cardinal sin. This decision stemmed from a biological imperative and, though she knew she would live to regret it, she was unable to avoid it any longer.
Her sisters just didn't understand. How could they? Her appreciation for the darkness remained a sensitive subject with them. One she didn't dare broach just now. She wished she could explain it to them, that she could make them see. That they would open their minds and just give her a chance to prove that her way wouldn't result in the acid taste of disappointment they all feared.
Sure, the darker you went, the more uncertain the outcome, but if things turned out the way she hoped they would, the way they should, then the result could be a miracle. And wasn't that worth the risk of it all?
Sometimes the first try of anything new left a bitter taste in your mouth, but that didn't mean you gave up like some weak-willed pansy ass. No. You learn to accept your new reality and, instead of fighting and fearing it, you acclimate. You evolve. You acquire an appreciation for the darkness, and learn how to use it to accomplish goals. To further your agenda. So you live to fight another day.
Aerin's deep, preparatory breath chilled her lungs as she stared straight ahead at the long portal through which her salvation would be found. Once she opened that door, there would be no turning back.
Fuck it. She was doing this.
Because if she didn't, she'd be useless and powerless.
Because no matter who, or what, she encountered down that shadowed corridor, she would get what she needed and be the better witch for it.
Because, though some might see this as a betrayal, she couldn't find another way.
Because everyone at the Mason de Moray mansion made weak-as-shit coffee.
And she needed something dark, strong, and black Goddess-damnit.
She'd stood in front of her fridge this morning glaring at its contents with disgust overflowing the brim of her tolerance and oozing down as rage on the other side like so much hot lava.
Then she'd looked into her full mug of coffee and the fact that she could still see through the liquid to the bottom of her mug nearly caused a bitchsplosion that would have rivaled the one that had left Ambrosia's Brews and Charms, their Cafe and Tea Shoppe, a smoking crater in the middle of town.
No more. She'd told herself. No more sugar substitutes. No more nut milks. (heh nut milk). No more coffee brewed to the same consistency as tea. Her identical sister, Tierra, was pregnant, and everyone else was indulgent. But this was the Apocalypse, and if there was ever a time to carpe the shit out of a diem, it was now. How was she supposed to save the world (or become one of its new benevolent overlords, she hadn't decided yet) on little more than coffee-flavored water?
Aerin stood in front of the glass door to Better Living Through Coffee, one of Port Townsend's premier coffee shops, and let a shiver roll down her spine caused by equal measures of guilt, need, cold, and humiliation.
Guilt, because even though Ambrosia’s was little more than scorched earth after the Devil went all Inquisition 2.0 in there, Aerin still felt like she was cheating on Tierra's cafe.
Need. Because coffee. ‘Nuff said.
Cold, because she’d overestimated the warmth of one of Tierra's flowy shirts—er knit poncho thingies.
And humiliation, because she was wearing one of Moira's micro-mini jean skirts and muthafucking flip-flops.
In public.
On purpose.
Aerin reached for the door, preparing to lunge in. It was that or yark on herself, which might improve the outfit.
"Allow me, m'lady," beamed a masculine voice as bright as the missing sunshine and smooth as his own velvet waistcoat.
Aerin tensed. It was im-fucking-probable that there were two men who spoke with such antiquated diction in a town of less than ten thousand. And yet, she'd known without a doubt that the gallant gentleman reaching to hold her door open for her was not Julian Roarke, known to the bible-reading types as Pestilence.
Because that elegant douche lord knew better than to show his perfect, ethereal face in her fucking presence. Lest she smite it mightily.
With a shovel.
Chapter Two
The perfectly symmetrical curls of the gentleman’s silver handlebar mustache lowered as his pearlescent smile lost some of its confidence, but none of its authenticity.
Aerin couldn’t decide if she was pissed or pleased that it wasn’t Julian Roarke.
"Forgive me if I overstepped one of your boundaries, dear lady, as I consider myself the most progressive of male feminists. But permit me to remind you that, whilst many of the folks who roam our streets are technically dead, chivalry is not." He made a wide gesture for her to proceed him into the shop.
Ugh. Zombies. Another thing on her list of things to brood about over coffee.
He'd obviously mistaken her dark look conjured by thoughts of Pestilence as disapproval of his kind gesture.
"No, I appreciate it," she muttered, the thwack-thwack of her foot attire, for lack of a better word, ostensibly even more repugnant in his bespectacled presence as she shuffled through the door. What she wouldn’t give for her Manolo Blahnik pearl satin pumps in cobalt blue right about now… "I was just a little distracted," she offered by way of apology.
"It is of little consequence," he assured her. "I tend to have that effect."
Her eyebrows lifted at his audacity. Five apocalyptic seals had been opened. The world was experiencing conquest through the violent overthrow of governments (totally the fault of Nick Kingswood). War was devouring a fourth of the global populatio
n and repaving the streets in blood (Thanks a lot, Drustan Geddais). Virulent strains endangered the third world with devastating pandemics threatening to cross continental barriers and obliterate life as they knew it. (Eat a bag of dicks, Julian Roarke) And on top of it all, the blood of the fucking dead was rising up and crying for vengeance, creating pandemonium in the streets. And those whose souls were damned stayed behind to devour innocent flesh and pilfer souls for she-Satan (i.e. Zombies) How this walking anachronism thought her distraction had a THING to do with him was pure vain bullsh—wait a sec, was that a rapier hanging from his belt?
Aerin stopped in the narrow hallway to take him in, indeed distracted.
His silver hair and well-kept beard hinted that it once might have been gold, which must have been stunning next to eyes the color of rich, European chocolate. He was ageless in that enviable way of Patrick Stewart and Liam Neeson. Like a fine scotch whisky. An age defying fifty-five, or a well-worn thirty-five. It was impossible to tell.
He dressed like he'd waltzed out of the pages of an Oscar Wilde novel, but for the sword, which was more Shakespearean than Victorian.
"Permit me to introduce myself." He executed a perfect bow from the waist. "I am Sir Norman Barriston, a humble IT professional by day, but by night president of the Port Townsend Tourist Association, establisher of the local Arts Council, Historical Society, and the Victorian, Steam punk, and Sailboat festivals, respectively, and also the proprietor of the popular local Bed and Breakfast, Ye Olde Constabulary."
Aerin tried not to be impressed, but this guy wore more hats than just the stovepipe one he returned to his curls and expertly tilted at an angle that even she had to admit could be described as “jaunty.” Though she couldn't remember using that word before.
"Uh, nice to meet you," she said, unsure if she was losing her mind, or he had. She attempted the kind of smile you give to blabbery toddlers and people who want to sell you stuff at the mall. The one that says “no offense, but please leave me alone. It was nothing personal, she just hadn’t had her coffee. Turning, she followed olfactory senses toward the café.
"And you are?" he prompted, falling into step with her. They walked shoulder to shoulder down the narrow hall, and Aerin was half afraid that he'd offer her his arm as an escort.
She bit the insides of her cheek, for the first time in her life ashamed to own her name. It was the reason she’d worn this accursed getup in the first place. Up top, she was hippie bangles and one too many necklaces, her hair swept into a loose and feminine bun.
And her nethers were draped in pure haute de hillbilly.
She could maybe pass for her identical sisters, Moira or Tierra at a glance, and had she the foresight to pilfer a leather jacket from the hall closet; she could have added Claire to the mix.
"I'm…thirsty,” she answered, deciding that her “trust no one” motto had gotten her this far, she should probably keep it up.
“I see.” His cheeks, painted a doll-pink by the outside chill, lifted in another patient, indulgent smile. “A gentleman must leave a lady her mysteries. That I have learned in my extensive experience with women."
She nodded, trying not to feel awkward. “So Norm—”
“A great deal of people call me Sir Barristion. I’m not saying you must, just that a lot of people do,” he said in a voice that suggested she must.
“Sir Barriston,” she amended, deciding not to point out that she doubted he’d ever been knighted by the Queen, but hey stranger things had happened. Were happening. “What’s with the sword?”
“I’m so glad you asked.” He rested his hand inside the intricate cage, and Aerin had a sudden fear that he might draw it right there in the narrow hall. “I also teach combat fencing Tuesdays and Saturdays at the local community center, and a little bit of aerial yoga.”
Of course he did.
“My lady wife loves a man who can riposte, if you know what I mean.” He somehow was able to look naughty and innocent simultaneously. “Besides, you can't be too careful these days. The world has recently upgraded from dangerous to hazardous.” He punctuated his insinuation with a jolly wink and a tip of his cap.
“You’re not wrong about that, Sir Barrison,” Aerin agreed as they turned the corner into the café. “Not wrong in the least.”
Aerin was able to slide to the cafe counter under the radar as they entered due to the hearty welcome Sir Barriston received from the local crowd. He took a moment to pose in the doorframe, and modestly accept the well-deserved adulation.
Aerin shook her head as she ordered the most obscenely large Shot in the Dark Latte with extra foam. She worried for people like Norman Barriston, a man on the fringes of society who sought their solace in this haven for the extraordinary, the bizarre, and the extraordinarily bizarre. When people were taking to the streets with AK-47’s and such, what good could his one foil sword do? He was charming as fuck, but not very effective…and if she, Moira, Tierra, and Claire didn’t figure their shit out soon; lovely people like him would be the first to die.
Chapter Three
As Aerin waited for her drink order, she took a moment to peruse her surroundings. When had the lumberjack look come back? Had she missed something? It was like Nirvana’d had sex with Paul Bunyan and squeezed out an alarming number of beards and man-buns.
A great deal of the women in this particular coffee shop wore Birkenstocks and expensive fleece, or presumably their boyfriend's oversized flannel shirt.
Aerin shuddered as she retrieved her order and weaved her way through the crowd. She never thought that she'd yearn for the urban gypsy feel of Ambrosia's with all its fringe and tassels and eclectic clutter. But this place smelled of sandalwood and weed, and if it messed with her palette as she enjoyed her first decent cup of coffee in days, she was going to be I-fucking-rate.
Lifting on her toes to slide into a tall barstool facing the window, Aerin allowed the din and bustle of the busy coffee shop to fade into her periphery. The multitude of dizzying problems she faced hustled and clamored for her undivided attention like day traders at the stock exchange. All she needed to do was pluck one from the rapidly spinning rolodex and get to work. After she hunched around a mug roughly the size of a soup bowl with the darting eyes of a suspicious addict, she pondered the white caps of the Puget Sound out the window as they were tossed about by a growing wind.
She was a fucking problem solver wasn't she? The goddamned President and CEO of a multinational corporation. She'd been taking names and kicking ass all over the place since before she’d accidentally helped to bring about the apocalypse. All she needed to do was approach this from a familiar angle.
This whole Apocalypse thing was like an impending merger, really. Or maybe more like a hostile corporate takeover. The players nothing more than an amalgamation of the good, the bad, and the ugly.
The good: Aerin and her sisters. Well... goodish. Like, she kinda did read from the back of the Grimoire and use forbidden dark necromancer powers and stuff, but it was to save her sisters from being eaten by a horde of zombies so it totally counted in the good column. Right?
At least Claire thought it did... But Moira and Tierra? Not so much.
Pausing to contemplate, she took a sip of her latte, already feeling the vasodilating effects of the copious caffeine wash through her veins.
Fuck it, this was her list, and in her list she went in the good column. Her actions, however reproachable, were well-intentioned, and she would apologize to no one about them. Her sisters were alive in no small thanks to her, and she'd do whatever it took to keep them that way. She had to admit, that using dark necromancer powers had been a risky move. And that the zombies she'd briefly controlled were the corpses of the dammed, because the remains of those souls who were not under the thrall of the devil could not be reanimated buuuuuuut...
It was probably fine.
Deciding that self-introspection might, at the moment, illuminate more shadows than she was prepared to face, she moved on to…
The bad: Top of that list was the Princess of Darkness, her-fucking-self, Lucifer. Six hellish feet of pure blonde bombshell bitch. Powerful, sexual, and utterly ruthless, she would do anything to get the four of them to break the seals and bring about the end of the world. All she-Satan wanted was to wait for humanity to implode and swoop in like some cosmic vulture to pick over the bones. According to every myth, religion, and story, she'd coveted this pile of spacerock from the beginning, and she'd stop at nothing to get it.
Hell, she'd already done plenty to put herself at the top of the de Moray shit list. You know, aside from being the reason for all suffering and evil and stuff. Like, taking over the local coven and turning them into her own personal army of succubitches who now called themselves the Sisters of the Serpent. Then there was trying to poison her pregnant sister, Tierra, with brimstone kryptonite. Or, trying to burn Tierra at the stake. A foiled attempt on her life that left Ambrosia's the aforementioned crater of nothingness in the middle of town.
Who knew brimstone was so flammable?
Boy, now that she thought about it, Lucy really did want Tierra dead, didn't she? Maybe because her earthy sister was carrying death's super seed and may or may not spawn the biggest badass that ever lived. Aerin considered that if her niece or nephew was powerful enough to make Satan nervous, she'd better start thinking of great birthday presents now to get on his or her good side. What did one buy the possible antichrist? Maybe that was a list for another time... she needed to get them all through the fucking apocalypse first.
So now that the zombies she'd once had in her thrall had been entirely dismembered when she'd sicced them on the Horsemen, the only person who had any control over the undead was Lucy. As far as they understood it, dear old Beelzebitch owned the undead's souls, and it would be a cold day in hell before she coughed them up. Their only chance of regaining a soul for their empty meat sack was to ingest it through vital organs and brains.
Which Witch is Wild? (The Witches of Port Townsend Book 3) Page 1
