by S. L. Prater
STREET WITCH
BOOK ONE
S.L. PRATER
Copyright © 2021 Stephanie L. Prater
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-: 9798718018776
Cover design by: 100 Covers
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
For Zach
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Someone had put a hex on her mother again, Marnie Becker was sure of it. She would bet all her savings—if she had any—that Jack was responsible. Her mother probably even deserved it this time.
At the pump sink, Marnie buried her arms up to the elbow in greasy dish water. She caught the scent of the hex as it wafted by. It smelled like maple syrup, a peculiar thing to find on the island with its tropical climate. Following the fragrance with her nose, she glanced over her shoulder.
“What happened to you?” Marnie’s gray eyes widened at her mother’s disheveled state. Annette Becker had tied her apron on upside down. Her usually primped red hair was an untamed mess, strands falling free of their pins. Marnie shared a creamy complexion with her, and both were flushed from the humidity of the night and the warmth pouring off the stove, but in contrast, Annette’s cheeks positively glowed.
“I’ve never been better, dear.” Her mother’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. She giggled at some imagined thing, then on wobbly knees, ambled out the kitchen doors. Marnie could not recall a time when her mother, the always efficient madam—housekeeper—of LaFontaine Manor, had ever abandoned the kitchens during a party. Certainly not one as well attended and highly anticipated as the current one.
Curious, Marnie dried her hands on her apron and followed. Her mother meandered down the corridor, dragging her booted feet beyond the side entrance and the servants’ staircase. Along the way, she missed two opportunities to bark orders at staff. As they shouldered by, Annette burped in their faces. They stared after her, mystified, and Marnie coughed to conceal laughter.
Annette made for the ballroom next, stopping briefly to chat up an oil painting of tropical fish. It looked as though her mother would join the party, and Marnie hesitated. She didn’t want to spend the rest of the humid night dodging gossips and drunks. She wasn’t dressed for it.
Marnie’s mud-colored curls, damp with sweat, were confined under a kerchief that refused to stay on straight. Her frock—a plain white linen thing—stopped at her knees, and while it did well in the heat, it was not meant to be viewed alongside elegant evening wear. She smuggled rolling papers and a pouch of foreign tobacco in her apron, tobacco she did not want confiscated by the watchmen officials in attendance.
Jack’s hexes were always harmless . . . usually harmless . . .
Marnie’s fingers tightened into fists. If she truly had a choice in the matter, she’d leave right now. She would return to the academy, secure her alchemy license, and be done with it. No more gossips, drunks, or parties to dodge. No more aprons and hot kitchens and bossy mothers. She would solve real problems with magic, not scrub pots. The fact that her dream could not be realized tonight—or for many nights to come—depressed her.
Tempted by the thought of hiding in the gardens, smoking away her impatience in peace, Marnie nearly left her mother to fend for herself, but the scent of the magic caught her. It had changed to something like wood smoke and lemon rinds. It pricked at her eyes and made them water. Without proper ventilation, magic could misbehave at times, and this enchantment smelled to her like it was evolving.
What sort of hex was it?
She chewed on the inside of her cheek, debating with herself. The furniture had not started floating—a sure sign of an excess of magic—so her anxiety could have been misplaced. She fingered the pouch of tobacco longingly and, with a groan, finally made up her mind.
Trapped in the heart of the party, string music reverberated up to the lofted ceilings. Marnie felt it in her pulse. The mechanized piano shot steam out of copper pipes during the crescendo.
Madam Becker had claimed a corner table for herself. She talked to an empty chair, holding a handbag that was not hers.
Marnie crossed to her slowly, trying to think up an enticement to draw her away. “Mother, come on a walk with me, would you? You look like you could use some fresh air.”
“Watch yourself!” the madam slurred.
Marnie jumped aside too late; chocolate pudding was sloshed down her front.
“Ugh.” She grabbed a cloth napkin and tried to blot the spill from her dress. The magic clinging to her mother smelled like a bonfire now. Annette sat the stolen handbag down in the pudding and snorted, laughing at her mistake.
Marnie chuckled. She hated to admit it, but she preferred her this way, giggling and out of her mind.
“Majesty,” Annette said to an empty chair, “this is my lovely daughter. She is on holiday from the academy. Marnie, tell His Majesty about your alchemy studies.”
“Mother, I really think—No, put that down. That’s a fork.”
Annette used the utensil to comb her hair. Prongs tangled in her tresses. After a quick tug, she left it to hang along her face, instantly distracted by some other imagined thing. The scent of magic sharpened: wood smoke and something rotten. Marnie used her height to scan the crowd. Guests ate, drank, and danced, none the wiser. No sign of Jack—odd that he would spell the madam and not stick around to enjoy its impact.
Marnie tugged on her mother’s sleeve until she met her gaze. “Do not go anywhere. Stay put.”
“What was your name again, dear?” Annette hiccupped, swaying in her seat.
Marnie motioned for a server to help her open more windows, relieved when a breeze pushed the smell of the hex away. Guests toasted near the slatted panes, wishing the master of the estate a happy twenty-second birthday, even though Master Bran LaFontaine was not present to hear it. He had spoken a quick blessing at the start of the festivities and was now off hiding somewhere.
A cluster of women gossiped over their wine about Bran, blocking Marnie’s exit. She swallowed impatience as they ranked him among other popular estate owners by wealth and fitness, ignoring her existence entirely. He was complimented for his height and good breeding but criticized for being a recluse.
Most of them agreed the master was being groomed by the emperor to rule one day. Marnie knew there were very few things in this world Bran would find more tedious than becoming emperor, but she didn’t bother correcting any of them. They wouldn’t want a witch’s opinion on the matter, anyway.
With a practiced politeness that came unnaturally to her, she sidestepped her way back into the hall, longing for a cigarette that had to wait. Marnie paused out of habit by the servants’ spiral staircase. She kissed her thumb and pressed it to her forehead, a traditional gesture meant as a reminder to humble oneself before walking up steps and rising closer to God.
On t
he second floor, the corridor was large and somber, painted in muted colors like the halls in a museum. Marnie always felt compelled to whisper in this portion of the manor. The dated wallpaper reflected the young master’s disinterest in chasing trends.
A circular mirror with a blackened frame sat collapsed on the floor, bowed with a deep crack down its center. She guessed Jack had chased a poltergeist out of it recently. The frame smoked gently.
“Jack?” Marnie hissed. Before her were servant quarters, a sitting room, and a small library. Gas lamps lit the dusty office space up ahead, a space occasionally used for bookkeeping and passing out wages.
She found Master Bran there, seated behind a pine desk in his best silk shirt, black over dark gray slacks that brought out the olive in his skin. A cup of tea steamed beside his elbow. His top button was undone, bowtie missing. His legs, crossed at the ankles, were propped up by several encyclopedia volumes. He balanced a large book in his lap, A History of Loreley’s Economics.
Bran blew black hair out of his eyes. “Is the party finally over, or is it just time to clear out the drunkards?”
“The party continues in your honor. With or without you, apparently.”
“Marnie,” he said, grinning over his book. Hair fell immediately back into his face. “You sound as though you disapprove—is that pudding on your dress?”
She spotted his bow tie in the trash bin and rescued it. When she passed it to him, he let it fall on the floor, frowning.
Marnie inhaled sharply. She fought against the urge to stomp her foot at him. “Do you have any idea how many salad plates—just salad plates alone—had to be washed in preparation for your party?”
“Oh, I'd rather not guess. Thinking about it makes my hands prune.”
There wasn’t room in the crowded space for another chair, so Marnie pushed his legs off his encyclopedias and sat on the stack. “The very least you could do is go downstairs and eat a salad. And while you’re at it, be sure to admire the centerpieces. It took the staff hours to weave in the orchids. Go and compliment one or two.”
“Compliment the staff or the flowers . . . ?” He found a pen in the mess of documents around his cup and began scribbling numbers in the book margins. Marnie recognized the summation symbol. Muttering grumpily, Bran crossed out his work, tore free a page, and wadded it up in his fist. “I'm sure most of them haven’t even noticed I’m gone.” He chucked the wadded page toward the trash bin and missed. It bounced wide and skittered off by the doorway. “Did you know you were doing an excellent impersonation of my late parents just now? I can see them judging me out of your disapproving eyes. A year away at the academy must have done a number on you. The Marnie I know would enjoy helping me hide from all this nonsense, so long as I shared my tobacco with her. If that is still an option, I’ll go collect my pipe right now.”
“An estate full of people count on you for employment and leadership. This manor is their livelihood. You owe it to them to make an extended appearance.”
“Good lord,” he said in mock horror, “my parents have possessed you!” His eyes grinned at her.
Marnie glared in return.
“Oh, very well.” He snapped his book shut and tossed it onto the desktop, rattling his teacup. “I will join the party. I will eat a salad, I will even admire an orchid, but I will not be forced to . . .” He considered her a moment, leaning back. “Given the right partner, I could be forced to dance.”
His warm brown eyes, trained on Marnie, suddenly felt like a spotlight. She moved to stand, but he caught her hand at the wrist.
“You love dancing.” His smile was conspiratorial. “I insist you keep me all to yourself. Spare me from the very, very boring people downstairs. What do you say? If you insist, I’ll even wear the bowtie.”
Marnie’s heart swelled. She bit her lip, knowing she could not—would not—let on how tempting the offer was. Not this time.
“You don’t want to dance with me.” Face burning, she took back her hand and escaped to the other side of the desk. “I’m actually good at dancing. I'd make you look clumsy.”
“That is very true, but wasn’t it you who said I needed more opportunities to ‘fall on my face and grow a reservoir of humility?’”
“That's not quite how I said it—”
“I edited out all of your curse words.” He stood and followed her to the doorway, shrinking the office space with his great height. “Come dance with me. You’ve been away, and I really have missed the hell out of you. Please don’t make me listen to one more guest blather about politics or trade or, heaven forbid, fashion. I will die of pure boredom right before your eyes.”
“If you ignored every eligible heiress who requested a dance to spend all your time with a pot-scrubbing witch, your guests downstairs would protest. They would throw food at us.”
“You already have food on you. What does it matter?” He was close enough that Marnie felt his breath in her hair. He smelled pleasant, woody like his pipe smoke with a hint of the honey he drank in his tea.
“They would form a mob. They would light torches to shake at me—don't say I'm exaggerating,” she added when he rolled his eyes. “They'd accuse me of bewitching you, even though I wouldn’t know how. If I could bewitch you, I’d be the one up here reading dull books and you’d be downstairs with your hands in dishwater."
A brown curl had broken free from under her overworked kerchief. He tugged on it. She thought he intended to be helpful. Instead, he tied it into a knot, letting it fall against her cheek.
“You are a bad animal, Bran LaFontaine,” she huffed. “Speaking of animals, do you know where Jack is?” Picking at the knot made it worse. The frizzy ends tickled her face. She tried tucking it into her kerchief, but it popped free again.
“I don’t know where he is, but I am willing to wager they do.” He pointed over her shoulder.
A single-file parade of yellow spiders and brown mice ambled down the corridor in an orderly fashion. Jack served as house magician, and spider legs and rodent tails were favored by God’s greatest spirits for spell work. He was always going on about the multifaceted magical properties of rodent tumors.
“When you find him,” Bran said, “be sure to remind him that your mother hates spiders and when Madam Becker is unhappy, everyone is unhappy.”
Turning to leave, Marnie stepped on his discarded book page. She picked it up, un-wrinkling it. The summation was hard to decipher over his scribbling, but she managed. His handwriting was terrible, rushed and urgent. He always seemed rushed and urgent lately. She pitied him for it.
“Your indexes are wrong. Adjust them, and you'll be able to graph your results correctly.” She pressed the paper to his chest. “And happy birthday.”
He trapped her hand there with his own. His heart thumped spiritedly under her palm. “You are never more beautiful to me than when you fix my math.” The showing of his teeth was utter mischief.
“I'm still not going to dance with you. You’ll have to find some other way to irritate the boring aristocrats. Now, go admire an orchid.”
“And compliment the staff,” he vowed.
She left the office to the sound of his laughter, the knotted curl slapping her cheek in beat with her stride. She was laughing too, just not loud enough to encourage him.
The parading spiders and mice moved ahead of her to the end of the hall. Just before the east wing staircase sat a parlor with a library nook. The room was a mess with spell books stacked everywhere in piles taller than Marnie. Scrolls and documents were strewn around strange stains she carefully stepped over. A gas burner boiled a brown mystery liquid on a bureau in the corner. Whatever the liquid was, it attracted natural magic. The room smelled like a corn maze. She could feel it, as thick as it was, like humidity on her skin.
A witch could cast loads of spells in all that.
A priest would declare the room a hazard.
She wrinkled her nose at a trash bin full of legless spiders, when Jack LaBuff finally appe
ared. He slipped between two towers of spell books to meet her, humming along with the music echoing up from the ballroom. It was an old hymn about the spirit Diridge, a spirit of dreams and the dead.
He grinned at her, maneuvering his thick chest and shoulders around more closely stacked books. Marnie frowned at his hair, messy and honey-colored. She still wanted to cut it for him, but it wasn’t worth a second argument. The magic that favored his skin wafted over her and smelled invitingly like rose water, so at odds with his strong, bear-like appearance. Marnie and Jack shared the age of nineteen, but he had always appeared older than her with his scruffy face and untamed hair.
String music and the hiss of steam from below rose to a crescendo and vibrated the floors. He tapped his bare feet to the beat, and Marnie’s cramped toes wriggled jealously in her heeled boots.
“Whatever you’ve done to my mother, it’s time to undo it,” she said. “She’s holding conversations with empty chairs and paintings of fish. She’s forgotten my name.”
“But I haven’t done anything to your mother.” His blue eyes were wide, innocent.
“My mother reeks of magic, and I saw her laughing. She was laughing, Jack. She’s definitely been spelled. I couldn’t tell if it was spirit or organic magic, so it must be both.”
“It certainly sounds like it, but rest assured, if I had hexed the woman, I’d stick around to watch. She threatened to break my feet the next time she caught me without shoes on in her house, said I was undignified.” He climbed a stack of books, wiggling his bared toes at her. “And I’d love to see her laugh. I didn’t know she could do that.” He thumbed through another stack. Selecting a book titled Animal Possession, he tucked it under his arm.
An open tome on the floor caught her eye. Its massive pages were dogeared on a chapter titled Identifying Demon Magic in Dimension III. Marnie flipped it closed with her boot. It snapped shut, creating a gust that sent spiders rolling across the hardwood. A picture of a menacing-looking ceiba tree, thorns dotting its bark, was printed on the book's cover under the lettering Death Magic.
