by Aline Riva
Black Magic Christmas
By Aline Riva
Black Magic Christmas by Aline Riva
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A Kindle Original 2017
Copyright © Aline Riva
Cover Design Copyright © Nathan David Ward 2017
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Black Magic Christmas
To Love, the real magic.
Because everyone deserves to be with the one they love at Christmas.
Because, dreams, wishes, defying the odds, brings another meaning to the magic of Christmas...
Born of inspiration and from a heart of secrets that still believes in fairy tales -
with just a little darkness, just because.
Black Magic Christmas
Chapter 1
The sky was slate grey and sunless, peppered only by the dry, forgotten autumn leaves that chased upward on a strong gust of wind. The trees were bare now, December had arrived and brought with it two falls of snow that had seen the last of the leaves stripped away under the weight of the chill and the ice. The second snowfall had come along with December, it had taken several days to thaw and even though a chill wind remained, all that was held up in the clouds now had been forecast as rain. But the rain had held off that morning, much to her relief as Cherry Brook caught the bus and headed into town.
The bus took its familiar route, passing the bridge and then the train station, the fields and then headed down the long straight road that would eventually lead through town and terminate at the final stop. Cherry smelled salt on the sharp air as the bus briefly stopped and the doors opened up to let on more passengers, then it was on its way again and the salt in the air grew stronger. The scent was being carried inland from the sea, the beach was close by and although cold and unwelcoming in winter, even though the pier was closed and so were the amusements, along the busy promenade the world buzzed with life:
The shops were still open, cafes still served tea and coffee and all day breakfasts, the hotels were still taking in guests and around the corner, where the road turned and opened up wide, the stores were open and Christmas lights were up and ready to blaze into the night, burning in multicolour and defiance against the freezing December air. Store fronts were decorated with lights and tinsel and Christmas bargain displays and further up the high street, the big Christmas tree towered high as rooftops, come darkness the white lights would be twinkling on green boughs, shining away the cold and the early creeping darkness of the shorter winter days.
But as the bus went past the turn off and stopped outside a bus shelter where a tall tree stood with bare boughs bent like giant skeleton hands, the shops were not on her mind, nor was the thought of taking a walk along the promenade past the shops and towards the pier – the sea looked beautiful as it crashed heavy driven by a rough tide and gusts of wind, it would have been worth braving the chill to enjoy the sight of it – but today was a day that would take her up the hillside away from the bus stop, past the shops and then up another short pathway – it was the route to a place that had stood for five years on the cliff side, but in all the time The Museum of Witchcraft and Oddities had been there, she had never bothered to visit. It was a place she had always promised herself one day, but every trip to the town centre usually involved shopping or in better weather, the beach and the pier - that big Victorian building with the red brickwork and the large, grand black doors with the fairground style sign above the entrance was a place she had put off experiencing. But it would soon be place she would know very well – that morning had seen the call come through to say she had the job of caretaker for the winter.
As she went up the pathway towards the steps that led to the doors of the museum, she recalled her first journey here a few days before, she had gone in to the main entrance and been taken from there to a small office room down a corridor, where Owen Stokes, one half of Ambrose and Stokes Museum of Witchcraft and Oddities, had interviewed her. Owen struck her as a friendly man, his blue eyes had sparkled and he had invited her to sit, given her tea and they had spent an hour talking mostly about the museum. He had asked her if she believed in magic and when she had said no, his smile had got wider.
“Good,” he had replied, “Because I don't want to employ believers – some of the stuff we keep here is valuable - and rare!”
He had told her the museum was closed from December through to the end of February, and her job would be to keep the place clean and free of dust and check the answerphone once a day because although they were closed, they did take occasional bookings for private parties in the winter season – for exclusive guests only.
“Any requests for private parties need to be passed on to me,” Owen had said, then he had paused, run his hand over his short fair hair and added, “Well actually the bookings usually go through Drake Ambrose my business partner – I'm just the investor...he does the tours, runs the place...but I think he might want a break this year. I'm sure he said he's got a holiday planned.”
“Have you been business partners long?” she had asked.
“Ten years,” he had replied, looking downward as he made some notes on a pad of paper, “And he's a bit of prick...” he muttered.
“Sorry?” she had said, wondering if she had heard wrong.
The smile he flashed didn't reach his eyes as he gave his reply.
“I said, I might have got the wrong end of the stick. Maybe it's not a holiday... He does ramble on I don't listen much, I usually switch off. He's very driven, very committed to this place.”
“But you must be too?”
“I have a life,” Owen had replied, then he had smiled again as she had begun to realise that perhaps he wasn't as nice as he had first seemed – there was certainly some friction between him and his business partner...
After the interview ended she had gone home to the flat she shared with her close friend Bess, who had asked her all about it and then said again how much she loved the museum.
“Do you think you've got the job?” she asked.
“I don't know,”Cherry had replied.
But she knew the answer now and as she went up to the main entrance and pressed the buzzer, she hoped this time she would be meeting Mr Ambrose, because clearly Owen Stokes wasn't as warm and friendly as he had first seemed, after the way he had spoken about Mr Ambrose, she wasn't sure what to make of him at all...
She shivered on the step for a moment, then noticed the door wasn't locked. No one had answered after she had pressed the buzzer twice, so she gave the door a gentle push, it swung on an oiled hinge and she went inside, hit at once by the smell of age and polish as the central heating on full bast banished the cold she had felt even through her thick winter coat.
The door closed softly behind her and for a moment she stood there in the entrance hall, on a black and white chequered floor, looking at the oak panelled walls and the high ceiling with its grand lighting where chandeliers hung sparkling. The walls were adorned with old fairground signs, the largest was painted and read Freak Show Emporium, behind the main reception desk was a wall mounted wooden sign that had once been over the entrance to a fairground. It read Ambrose and Flint's Travelling Fair, and the paint was bright and colourful but heavily chipped and weathered by time. Leading up to the main recepti
on, glass cases lined the way, each containing witch craft tools – blades, chalices, voodoo dolls. She would have taken the time to browse and read the information set beside each display, but she was yet to find her employer and looking through a wide archway where the museum opened up dimly lit to an area with dark walls and bare boards where on either side she saw more display cases each lit with spotlights, she guessed she would lose track of time and lose her way in this place without a guide...
“Yes, yes we've been over all that...Maybe you should come back here so we can talk about it? Because the way I see it is this, I have two choices, Owen – I either say what you borrowed - and lost - is yours to keep and call it me buying you out, or I have you stuffed and displayed and call your exhibit the worlds worst ever gambler, which is it? Just get back here and let's talk, okay?”
As Cherry heard a man's voice echoing from the corridor where the office was located, she turned her head. She heard footsteps and then he spoke again.
“No, I didn't mean that – not about having you stuffed...” he laughed briefly, then his tone became serious once more, “We've been friends too long to fall out over this. Just stop by tomorrow and let's have a proper talk about this. I don't want to buy you out. I want to help!”
Then he ended the call and as he slipped his phone in his pocket he came out of the corridor and looked in surprise at the woman who stood in the entrance. She had long fair hair that was tied back, her thick blue winter coat was a shade darker than her jeans and the pink scarf she wore added much needed colour close to her pretty face – she looked frozen.
“Are you waiting for the tour?” he asked, “Because you're early.”
Cherry felt confused now, partly because Owen had said the place was closed until the end of Winter, and partly surprised by how this man had struck her as so very handsome at first glance:
He was taller than Owen, his slender build perfectly flattered by the black suit he wore. The light caught on the silk lapels of his jacket and bounced off his highly polished black shoes. His hair was a deep shade of brown and his eyes were somewhere between green and brown, reminding her of leaves in Autumn as the season turned at the most beautiful time of the year. He was older than thirty-something Owen, she could tell by the tiny lines faint at the corners of his eyes and the way the light caught on tiny strands of silver in his dark hair. His eyes sparkled with warmth and as he smiled she smiled too, feeling her face flush despite the cold she had just escaped from.
“ I thought this place was closed for winter? Owen gave me the job of caretaker – I'm Cherry Brook.”
He blinked, then his eyes widened as he recalled her name.
“Of course you are! I'm so sorry, I've been very busy the past few days...yes, we are closed – were closed - I decided to open up again until the end of the week. We're closed after that and you can start work on Monday – we have a private party here on the 20th too. I took the booking today. By the way, it's nice to meet you and welcome to the museum, I'm Drake Ambrose and I mostly own this business and I run it too – I'm also the tour guide.”
He extended his hand and she took it warmly, their handshake lingered as their gaze locked, then he let go of her hand. He paused to check his watch, then looked back at Cherry.
“I've got a ten thirty group booked and I'm showing them around the museum – you'd better join us, it will be the best way to get to know the place... We've got half an hour, come with me to the office, I'll make some tea, you look like you need warming up, it's freezing out there!”
“Sounds good to me,” she agreed, then she walked with him back down the corridor, heading for the office.
This was her second visit to the office, but his time she was not sat across the other side of the desk and the atmosphere was certainly warmer and more relaxed than it had been when she had met Owen. They sat on a brown leather sofa that matched the dark furnishings of the room, a coffee table was in front of them and this visit couldn't have been more informal. There was warmth in the atmosphere, so much that she didn't like to think about the unkind words Owen had said about Drake, who she had instantly liked at first glance.
As soon as he set the tea down, he took a seat beside her and began to talk of his passion for the museum.
“My great great grandfather was a showman,” he told her, “Owned a travelling fairground with a business partner. They travelled for more than thirty years, he built up a freak emporium – the main display of vintage freak show items are all fakes by the way, cleverly made but none are real. I thought I'd mention that because some of the two headed babies in jars can be a bit disturbing. They're dolls and over a century old. I've got a mermaid too – that's monkey and fish bones held together with wire. But we don't tell the customers that. We have a couple of Egyptian mummies too – they're real. All of the old freak emporium items are in the back room past the voodoo exhibits. The rest of the rooms are dedicated mainly to witchcraft through the ages. There's a tea room out the back that opens between May to September. From March through to November we have a girl who works on reception, her name is Melissa. But it's all quiet in here during winter – being so close to the sea means customers don't linger down this way long enough to come and take a look around when it's freezing out there. But I had a few enquiries last week so I said I'd open up and run a few tours until Friday.”
She sipped her tea and put it down again, then recalled the fairground sign she had seen on the way in.
“So this kind of life is in your blood, the strange and mysterious?”
He laughed and that sparkle was back in his eyes again.
“Oh, I do love it! I'm a bit of a showman like my great great grandfather – I love doing tours around this place! I think I would have enjoyed living back in his time, in the old days of the fairground. This museum used to be travelling – we used to take it around the coastal resorts every summer, then we made enough money to set it down somewhere permanent and I bought this place.”
“You and Owen bought it?”
“No,” he replied, “Owen holds twenty five percent of the business – as an investor. I'm in charge and it's mostly mine. I also do all the work. But I don't mind because I've made it my whole life – the museum took years to build up, I'm very proud of it.”
That pride he had just spoken of shone in his eyes, then he paused to drink his tea and as he set it down again he suddenly recalled something and that sparkle was back in his eyes, making her feel even warmer towards him.
“Here's an interesting fact for you...Some people think it's creepy, but I think it's very fitting, given the nature of this place – I've had a glass display cabinet custom made, it's in storage at the moment...it's for me, when I die.”
She stared at him.
“For you?”
He laughed softly.
“Yes, Cherry – for me. I've made a will and in it I've said that when I die I want to be preserved and sit on a chair inside a display case in the entrance hall. That way I'll always be here.”
“Wow...”
It was all she could think to say. She drank the rest of her tea and tried to banish the image from her mind of this warm and likeable man one day cold and lifeless and in a display case.
“But it won't be for many years!” he added, “I'm in good health and I intend to stay that way.”
“I'm glad to hear it,”she replied.
Then he changed the subject entirely, pausing to check his watch again and then setting aside the now empty mugs.
“Owen told me you didn't know much about witchcraft...I take it you've never heard of Raine The Magi Zinck?”
She shook her head.
“He's a famous wizard... well, he calls himself a male witch... I don't get that, I always thought it was witches and warlocks or wizards, but that's what he calls himself...he's well known online. Got an army of female fans, he does demonstrations of spells and rituals. He's hiring this place on the 20th, bringing a party in for a buffet and some wine and they're u
sing a spare room out the back for a ritual - personally I think he's using it to score with a few ladies...he's never without a woman on his arm. Let me show you one of his videos.”
He got up and went over to the desk, picked up the laptop and brought it over to the coffee table and sat down again. Cherry watched as he switched it on and hit a link on book marks that led to his channel.
“This is Raine,” he said, and the video began to play:
The background was dark, save for the light of flickering candles. Raine sat down in a black shirt that was partly open, he was a young man in his mid twenties, his hair was dark as his eyes and his neat beard only added to his allure as he looked into the camera.
“Good evening ladies...I mean, fellow witches,”he said in silky smooth voice, “Today I am going to show you how to anoint a candle...”
Cherry watched, listening as he talked about spells and moon phases and oils and their purposes, then as he worked his oiled fingers around an unlit candle he spoke again.
“...Like this, gentle finger tip strokes...if it feels right, just keep rubbing it...”
“I don't know what they see in him!” exclaimed Drake.
Cherry smiled.
“I do.. sort of...” she admitted.
Then he checked his watch again.
“Ten minutes till the tour party shows up – I'd better get out there, a few are bound to be early.”
He stopped the film and closed down the lap top, got up and so did Cherry, then he led her out of the office and back down the corridor.
“I hope you like the tour,” he said as they approached the entrance, “You've got a good tour guide...probably the best!” his eyes were sparkling again, his face lit up with a big smile, “Almost show time!” he added excitedly and opened up the main door, letting in a blast of December chill.
