by Cindy Stark
THREE TIMES CHARMED
Teas & Temptations Mysteries
Book Three
By Cindy Stark
www.cindystark.com
Three Times Charmed © 2018 C. Nielsen
Cover Design by Kelli Ann Morgan
Inspire Creative Services
All rights reserved
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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 this author.
This ebook 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.
Welcome to Stonebridge, Massachusetts
Welcome to Stonebridge, a small town in Massachusetts where the label “witch” is just as dangerous now as it was in 1692. From a distance, most would say the folks in Stonebridge are about the friendliest around. But a dark and disturbing history is the backbone that continues to haunt citizens of this quaint town where many have secrets they never intend to reveal.
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Prologue
Stonebridge, Massachusetts 1689
With the sun hovering low on the horizon. Clarabelle’s mother climbed down from their wagon and joined Clarabelle and her father on the ground. She focused a stern gaze on Clarabelle. “Remember, head up. No emotion.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Mama.”
On the most horrific day of her life, her mother wanted her to act like she didn’t care. Like it didn’t matter that her best friend since she was four wouldn’t live to see her eighteenth birthday. Like Genevieve and her mother deserved to be punished for their blood and their religion.
Like her very heart wouldn’t die with them.
Those two women in contrast valued all life and had never hurt a soul.
Blessed Mother help them all.
Her mother grabbed her, her fingers curling tight around Clarabelle’s hand. They followed Clarabelle’s father and other solemn townsfolk along the dirt trail that led to Redemption Pond.
Clarabelle wanted to scream at the insane people in town, to run and hide. But if she didn’t show her face and support the laws of Stonebridge, she would likely be next. Especially since people knew she and Genevieve were friends.
Part of her wanted to die with Genevieve.
The other half wanted to live for revenge, to make those who caused this terrible suffering scream in pain. She’d promised Genevieve this much.
Families had gathered around the edge of the pond. A small boat staked to the shore floated on the calm, mirror-like surface. A large pile of ominous stones rested next to the stake.
Her throat clenched. Hot tears filled her eyes, and she glanced downward, lest someone notice. Oh, Blessed Mother. Those rocks would ensure Genevieve could not take another breath once she was pushed into the water.
“Head up,” her mother whispered harshly.
Clarabelle bit hard on her tongue until she tasted blood, hoping the pain would stave off the tears until they’d left this public display of insanity. She blinked quickly and lifted her head.
Thankfully, her father chose a spot toward the back of the crowd to stop, and she liked to believe he’d done this as a merciful gesture to her.
Electric tension charged the air, and the crowd grew silent. The distant, muffled cries of two women floated on the silent breeze. Clarabelle bit her tongue harder. The taste of metal coated her tongue. If she knew any blood spells to curse these putrid people, she’d mutter one right now.
The sobs grew closer. She hated herself for not glancing toward Genevieve one last time, but after Mary Brown had been tried and convicted only a week ago, they’d all promised to deny friendship if one of them was caught.
Powerful anguish from the two women ripped through the air, slicing deep into Clarabelle’s soul. She worked to shield herself from the piercing agony and failed. She and Genevieve had been friends for too long, their tapestries shared too many threads, and Clarabelle knew she would ache from this loss for the rest of her life.
The worst was Genevieve was innocent of the act for which she’d been accused. Their chickens had laid more eggs than other families in two weeks. In a jealous fit, one of the women in town had accused her and her mother of casting magic upon their chickens.
Those with power in town had agreed, and none dared argue. When they’d shaved Genevieve and her mother’s heads, they’d discovered birthmarks, known signs of the Devil.
“I’ll give you one last chance to beg for mercy from God,” a man’s voice boomed. The muffled cries grew to outright screams, and Clarabelle was certain they’d removed the gags from their mouths.
“Cursed be the day you were born,” Genevieve’s mother screamed. She followed with a string of words Clarabelle couldn’t understand, but she was certain they must be curses. Then she suddenly stopped, and Genevieve’s crying grew louder.
The horrific sounds slashed into her heart like razors, and she closed her eyes again, trying to block out the world.
“Please don’t kill us,” Genevieve begged between sobs. “We’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve hurt no one. Please.”
“Are you asking the almighty Lord for forgiveness?” the man asked.
“I-I’ve done nothing to need forgiveness. Please, please, you must listen.”
“Gag her,” called someone from the crowd, and Genevieve screamed again. She was immediately silenced.
Sounds of scuffling and increased muffled cries punched Clarabelle’s stomach, and she was sure they were loading the victims into the boat. Although Clarabelle had barely eaten that day, she feared she’d vomit anyway.
Her mother’s hand tightened around hers, and she forced herself to breathe.
Soft sobs came from somewhere in the crowd, and Clarabelle prayed they didn’t belong to Eliza or Lily. She’d seen neither of them since Genevieve’s arrest and had no idea how they fared.
Cries from the boat faded as the rower put distance between them and the shore. Clarabelle silently said a prayer that all of them could be strong and face whatever was coming. That Genevieve would find peace regardless of how she passed.
“Margaret Addison and Genevieve Addison, you have been convicted by a court of law.” John Henry Parrish’s words boomed over the water, and Clarabelle cursed his strong voice.
“You have been sentenced to death by drowning. May the Devil take your soul, and may the Father protect the god-fearing people upon this earth.”
Raging fear soaked the atmosphere. Clarabelle focused on the brown, woolen cloak worn by the woman in front of her and tried to push all emotion away.
A splash echoed across the distance, and she gasped.
Her mother dug sharp fingernai
ls into her flesh.
Clarabelle’s face grew hot, and she couldn’t breathe. She leaned against her mother for support.
Another splash.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was drier than old cotton.
The voices of those around her rose, and people turned away. The show they’d come to see was over.
But for her, it wasn’t.
Sensations of struggling for breath overwhelmed her, tightening her chest and leaving her lightheaded. Fear and anger collided.
Cold. And darkness. So much darkness.
Clarabelle fought to send love and light in the direction of Genevieve and her mother. Please be okay. Please.
Then peace. No more fear. No more pain. Only peace.
Clarabelle could breathe again.
When she did, fiery rage filled her lungs along with oxygen. They had stolen something precious from her, and they would pay.
With blood.
One
Current Day
Hazel Hardy entered her living room after a long day at work, teacup in hand, and found a fat orange tabby crouched on her reading chair, watching her with that sassy expression he always used.
The cat, with his odd, mysterious ways, had lived with her long enough to know that after work and dinner, she’d head for her favorite spot to read and relax. He’d proven to her time and again that he had an intelligence beyond most felines, and for that very reason she knew he lounged in her space on purpose.
She strode forward with a stern expression, hoping to intimidate him. She was the boss in this house, and he needed to learn that. “Get out of my chair.”
He yawned and regarded her with a bored expression.
She set her cup on the table next to the chair and reached out with both hands, prepared to pick him up and physically remove him from her spot. The moment her fingers were an inch away from his soft fur, he sprang up and ran for the cover of the couch.
She narrowed her gaze. “One of these days you’re going to give me a heart attack, and then there will be no one to take care of you.” Though, from the looks of him, he’d managed to eat well before he’d begun to stalk her.
Hazel turned to claim her spot, but her ancestral grandmother’s ancient book of spells now sat where the cat had been. That little stinker. He’d seemingly managed to open her underwear drawer, dig beneath all her panties and bras, and pull out her grandmother’s tome.
Apparently thinking that drawer might be the safest place in the house to hide one of her darkest secrets had been a mistake on her part. She could question how he’d managed such a feat, but that went along with wondering how he’d escaped her house when all the windows and doors had been closed and locked.
Where Mr. Kitty was concerned she’d learned not to question anything.
That didn’t mean she would take his sass without giving some back.
She lifted the book and then shot the cat, her cat, she supposed, a narrow-eyed glare. “Why is this here?”
The orange tabby stared at her as though he regarded an imbecile.
His attitude did nothing to ingratiate him to her. “Don’t you know it’s not polite for a man to rifle through a lady’s lingerie drawer?”
If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he lifted a sardonic brow.
She kept her gaze on him as she moved the spell book to the table next to her chair. She sat and picked up the thriller she’d been reading, instead.
She showed him the cover and smirked. “I don’t know why you think you get to tell me what to do in my own house. You’re the guest here. I’m the one who goes to work to make the money that buys your food so you can stay fat and sassy.”
He let out a long caterwaul followed by several short bursts of meowing that sounded an awful lot like he was telling her off. When he was finished, he shifted a suggestive gaze to the spell book on the table.
She flicked a glance at it and then looked back to him. “No.”
Yes. You must.
Of course, he’d pull the creepy mind communication when he didn’t get his way. She had so many reasons to boot his orange butt out the door, but this was why she kept him. He knew things she didn’t. Things she feared she’d need to know if she intended to stay in the town that had stolen her heart.
Must? Why must she read it? She’d certainly been curious enough when she’d first found it, but the darker than dark spells at the back of the book had left her…uncomfortable.
Her mother had pounded the message to stay away from black magic into her brain so often during her childhood that she’d become annoyed. We are not the type of witches who tap into that power. To do so is to invite things into your life that you don’t want.
Like she would ever consider messing with danger. She’d lived her whole life using her magic to help and heal people. It wasn’t in her to do otherwise.
But she’d also never had it thrust right into her face like this, either. And the whole “must” thing stirred the worry inside her. Stonebridge might look quaint on the outside, but she’d discovered it also had a shadow side, which left her anxious.
She looked back to Mr. Kitty who still watched her with a serious yet annoyed expression. “I’ve already looked at this. I’ve learned everything I need to know.”
Look again. You need to learn.
“There’s nothing in there that will help me with my life. I know all about brews and potions, and I use those in my teas to make people less stressed, fall in love, and feel better. My life is happy the way it is. I don’t need to learn anything else.”
You need to protect yourself.
His understated warning sent chills skittering across her skin, but she still couldn’t honor his request. “No, I don’t. I know the rules and the cautions of living in Stonebridge. Cora gave me a concealing spell if I ever need to use magic. Which I don’t intend to do.”
She wanted Mr. Kitty to help guide her, but not when it came to dark magic.
She pointedly opened to where she had left off reading the thriller, and did her best to ignore the intense energy that blasted from Mr. Kitty’s direction. She wouldn’t be controlled by a cat. A crazy one at that.
She was in charge of her destiny. “Maybe someday I will want to go back through it, but not now. Today, I want peace and to lose myself in a world of murder and mystery. So, bug off.”
If you don’t learn, you’ll have no peace. Dead or alive, you will find no peace.
Again, his ominous warning stirred the anxiety inside her until it boiled. She growled her frustration at him.
Mr. Kitty crawled from beneath the couch, not threatened at all by her outburst, and jumped onto the coffee table in front of Hazel where he proceeded to look her directly in the eye. Don’t make me tell your grandmother.
Son of a crunchy biscuit. The last time she was at Clarabelle’s house, she’d had something of a conversation with her ancient grandmother’s ghost. Hazel had innocently managed to trigger unfounded fears for her grandmother. The last thing she wanted to do was upset her further.
If she didn’t appear to try to learn, Mr. Kitty would make sure she couldn’t visit her grandmother again without repercussions. Not only that, Hazel intended to purchase Clarabelle’s house, and she’d hoped to make a good life there. For that, she needed a happy grandma ghost.
Hazel sighed and shot a disgusted look at her cat. “Fine,” she said in a snarky voice. “I will read it tonight, but tomorrow, we’re back to the thriller. Understand?”
Her cat watched her until she picked up the book of spells and opened it. Then he jumped off the table, crawled back under the couch, and curled himself into a ball where he would likely fall asleep.
She opened the cover to the front page and caught sight of Clarabelle’s quote again. Better to follow your heart, or you’re already dead.
Had her grandmother meant that about life in general, to a man, or to following the prompting of her heart where spells were concerned? She wished she knew that and so much more
.
Except not about her dark spells.
Hazel hesitated, wondering if Mr. Kitty would hear her switch the books again and then decided he’d know if she did. Instead, she flipped to the page she’d marked with a kiddie bookmark she’d obtained from the library.
The Wrath of the Damned.
Two
The title of the spell gave Hazel shivers. “The Wrath of the Damned,” she whispered. Sounded horribly ominous to her. She supposed that was the point.
This would be the spell that her grandmother had used to create what the residents called the infamous Witches’ Wrath. The nor’easter storm Clarabelle and her cohorts had created ravaged Stonebridge every year around Ostara as punishment for the town who’d persecuted the them for their beliefs.
On the next page, she found instructions for evaporating water.
A hair from each of the witches.
Blessed water from Redemption Pond. The place where the pious townsfolk had laden Clarabelle’s pockets with stones before they’d ruthlessly pushed her and her friends overboard and left them to drown. Her grandmother must have known what was in store and had given survival her best shot.
She wondered if they had tried the spell out in advance, or if the moment they’d sunk to the bottom, they’d had no idea whether their attempt would work.
And worse, what it must have been like to realize they’d failed. The thought left her sad.
Blood of the accuser.
Three simple ingredients. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how they’d thought they could manage to collect blood from their accusers.
She wished there was an easier way to learn more about her ancestor’s history. Maybe Hazel needed to reconsider fully reading the book. Maybe then, she’d find clues as to what had happened during those last few days before Stonebridge’s citizens had tried and convicted her.
