by Gwen Knight
Silence stretched once more, and just when she thought she was alone, the voice sounded by her ear, though she knew there was no one next to her.
“Think twice before messing with me or mine again, witchling. We’re not a coven to be trifled with. And you’d do best to go elsewhere for your bread. You’re not welcome at the bakery, or anywhere else Caleb is. Move against us again and you’ll feel what real power is like.
“As I will, so mote it be.”
Hilana couldn’t go back to sleep that night. She remained curled up, frozen from fear, until the morning sun. It would take her years, she knew this, but she would get her revenge. That witch thought she was all that, and could threaten her. Well, she had another thing coming. She’d make them kneel before her yet.
Phoenix Johnson is an award winning, bestselling, multi-published Australian author with a real passion for all things paranormal, dark and weird. A hot romance is also nice to really heat things up.
Find more of Phoenix on her Twitter
Sweet for Salem
by Elizabeth A Reeves
Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth A Reeves
All rights reserved.
Editing by Evil Plotter Author Services
If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity between actual persons living and dead is purely coincidental. Any uses of locales, establishments, or events are used fictitiously.
Dedication
All writers are ghosts in all worlds but those of their own making.
Sweet for Salem
by Elizabeth A. Reeves
The café was busy tonight, Luisa Miller saw with satisfaction. Maybe tonight would be the night that she would be able to add the rest of the money she needed to her account. She had been saving for so long, and now her dream was nearly within her grasp.
Luisa had never been a small woman. She was abundant in every way, with wide hips and a generous bosom. Her hair had added some salt and pepper now, though in her youth it had been black—black as the night sky, as her beloved husband of twenty years, Simon, used to say. Simon had been dead these past five years. Not a day went by that Luisa didn’t miss him.
Strangely, it was the arguing that she missed the most. Simon had been a stubborn man, Luisa remembered fondly. He’d get an idea in his head, and nothing could shake it loose.
Not that Luisa was any less stubborn, herself.
Luisa hummed to herself as she wrapped a large apron around her waist and tied the strings neatly in front. She scrubbed her hands at the sink, but her mind, her heart, was always flooded with music.
Her grandmother, a woman as broad as Luisa, though blond in the way of her Pennsylvania Dutch heritage, had been the one to discover Luisa’s gift for music. She had, Oma used to say, sung sweetly, even in her cradle.
Luisa smiled in memory as she launched into one of her favorite songs—an Irish ditty that Martin, one of her regular customers, had taught her. Martin was something of a scholar, though it wasn’t apparent exactly what kind of scholar he might be. Every night he carried in one of his big books and devoured it—his mind hungrier, at times, than his stomach.
Luisa shook her head to herself. There was no other man in the world like Martin, she was sure. She could already hear his voice from the dining room, regaling anyone who would listen with one of his fantastic stories.
Luisa shivered slightly, though the cook top was already bringing beads of sweat out on her forehead and upper lip. Martin’s stories were just a little too uncanny, she thought. He spoke as if he knew that they were absolutely true. And some of them, Luisa was quite sure, had never come out of a book.
Luisa rarely wondered what her customers did when they weren’t waiting for her to feed them. She wasn’t the type to speculate about other people’s lives. She had enough of her own life to worry about, without borrowing trouble.
One of her troubles, her granddaughter Marta, poked her head into the kitchen. “Hi, Oma,” she said cheerfully. “Sorry I’m late.”
Luisa narrowed her eyes at the clock on the wall. One of these days she was going to have to give in and get glasses. She shook her head, never interrupting her singing.
Marta winced. “I’ll stay late to make up for it,” she promised.
Luisa watched her bounce out of the kitchen again. Marta was just like her mother—lovely, energetic, and happy. She also had less sense than God gave chickens, at least when it came to the men she liked to date. The last one had been a complete brute.
Luisa, devoutly pragmatic, had even found herself wondering if he was human.
The café was decorated with all this witchy and kitchy—from antique brooms, to the cackling laugh that sounded every time someone opened the door. It had been Luisa’s idea, cashing in on Salem’s spotty history. However, that didn’t mean she actually believed in magic or hocus pocus of any sort stronger than the homey magic that turned ingredients into meals.
Lena, one of the waitresses, poked her head into the kitchen with a shy smile. “Martin is asking if you have a moment for him.”
Luisa sighed deeply. She would never admit it, but she was secretly pleased that Martin always wanted to talk to her at some point of the night. “When it slows down,” she said, breaking out of song. “If he wants to talk, he can wait.”
Lena flashed a grin and disappeared.
Luisa shook her head. Oh, those young girls. Young girls only had one thing on their minds. It was like young men, but different facets of the same coin. All young women could think about was love and romance.
Things hadn’t changed much since she was a young girl, herself. Hadn’t Simon swept her right off of her feet, with those trips to the opera, always bringing her flowers and writing love notes to her whenever they were apart for even a day?
Luisa smiled at the memories.
They just didn’t make romance the way they used to.
Luisa had been married at eighteen. She’d become a grandmother at thirty-four. Sometimes it felt like she had become Oma before she was even used to being a Mama.
Luisa shook her head and focused on making scrapple for her customers. Her menu was strongly influenced by that Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother—from scrapple to apple dumplings and shoo-fly pie. The menu also offered classics like oyster stew and other local recipes, but the heart and soul of the place was firmly Pennsylvania Dutch, despite its location in the heart of Salem, Massachusetts.
She burst into one of her favorite songs, ‘Yesterday’ by the Beatles. It suited the mood she was in tonight.
What was it about this night that filled the air with nostalgia?
Maybe it was because Halloween was drawing close. Simon had loved Halloween with all the fervor of a young child. He had played pranks with full abandon—nobody was safe once he got started. Halloween had been a time for laughter, a time for family—the one holiday that never ended up with someone screaming at someone else and doors being slammed from every corner of the house.
Yes, Luisa thought. That was probably it.
She hadn’t told anybody yet, but this was going to be her last Halloween at the café. It was time to pass it on to the next generation.
Luisa had dreamed of traveling her entire life. She wanted to understand it all—to see it with her own eyes. She wanted to touch the stones that ancient people had touched. She wanted to walk down the paths that those people in Martin’s books had walked.
She’d been saving every penny she could, for so many years. Now, the dream was almost at the door.
There were so many reasons why she shouldn’t go, but she was determined. She needed to do this for herself. She didn’t want to die young, and with regrets like Simon had. He had rag
ed those last few days of life. Simon had always raged when he felt something wasn’t right. And dying was the biggest affront of them all. He’d been so bitter, so furious that he had never gotten around to doing any of the thing he had dreamed of doing.
It was a terrible thing, Luisa thought, to see Death standing in the doorway and be unable to do anything to stop it. When her own time came, she hoped that it was fast. She didn’t want to see that skeletal mask hovering over her for days, weeks, or months. Simon’s death had taught her that.
Simon had been ten years her senior. He’d been only five years older than Luisa was now, when he had lost his battle with Death.
Luisa was all-too aware that life could be senselessly cut short.
There was a lull in tickets coming from the dining room. Luisa washed her hands and dried them on her apron. She sang a soft aria as she inspected her pies.
Pies were Luisa’s specialty. Like music, it was an area of her life where she let inspiration take flight. Tonight she had cranberry meringue pie—a new treat sitting among the old favorites. She’d give Martin a slice of that, she decided, and a slice of her spiced apple pie. He always enjoyed that, when she topped it with her cinnamon-dusted hand-made whipped cream.
She carried her treasures into the dining room. She didn’t even have to look to know that Martin was sitting in his usual spot at the counter. He smiled and put down his book when he saw her coming.
“Magnificent,” he declared, as she slid the pies in front of him. “Luisa, love, you are as talented as you are beautiful.”
Luisa felt her cheeks turn red. She was too old for such nonsense, but somehow Martin always managed to make her blush like a giddy young thing. She leaned against the counter as Martin slid his fork through the fluffy meringue, and down into the brilliant ruby of the cranberry curd interior. He studied the forkful with his full attention—as if he was tasting a new, expensive wine, not a slice of pie from a little café. He slid it into his mouth and closed his eyes, chewing slowly. A smile crossed her face. He nodded and opened his twinkling eyes. “Lovely,” he murmured. “Just lovely.”
Another blush stained Luisa’s cheeks. She tried to hide her embarrassment by sliding the apple pie in front of him.
“What are you reading tonight?” she asked.
“Ah.” Martin looked down at the slim volume. “An old favorite of mine. Plutarch. I find his ‘Parallel Lives’ to be a fascinating study of morality and philosophy.” He shook his head. “But, tonight, I find him to be a little dry. I would much rather enjoy your superb pie and talk with you.”
Luisa glanced around the dining room. There was no real reason why she couldn’t spend a few minutes chatting with Martin. If another group of customers came in the door, she could always just head back to the kitchen.
“That sounds fine,” she agreed. She tilted her head, watching him eat. “All these books you read, they’re from all over the world, aren’t they?”
Martin nodded.
“Do you ever go to the places you read about?” Luisa asked. “Or are the books enough.”
Martin chuckled. “I’ve always been a bit of a traveler,” he said. “I enjoy visiting the worlds that I read about. What was Charlemagne really like? Did anyone actually expect the Spanish Inquisition?”
Luisa laughed. “It seems like you are here every night. How can you travel so much, and still manage to be a regular at my café?”
Martin’s expression turned serious. He studied her face. “I could show you,” he said softly. “Could we meet later? Maybe tonight, after you close?”
Luisa hesitated for only a moment. This was Martin. She knew in her gut that he meant her no harm, no matter how mysterious he might be acting at the moment.
“That sounds fine,” she said.
Martin grinned. “Excellent! Now, tell me, dear lady. What are the places that you have always wanted to explore?”
Luisa had never been so eager for closing time to arrive. She hurried the wait staff out of the door and cleaned her kitchen in record time. Perhaps it was a little haphazard, but she could do a better job in the morning, she decided.
The idea of seeing Martin outside of the café was both terrifying and titillating. She couldn’t be sure if her heart was pounding with excitement or nerves.
She popped into the bathroom and pulled her hair out of her customary fifties-style beehive. It was the best way to keep her hair out of her face when she was cooking, but she rarely wore it that way outside of the café. Her hair was thick, long, and wavy. She quickly gathered it into a braid.
She didn’t want to keep Martin waiting.
What if he grew impatient and left?
Luisa hurried through the front door and locked it behind her.
She turned around and Martin was waiting for her.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked.
Luisa nodded. She could feel a smile spreading across her face. He had waited for her.
Martin held his hand out to her. She took it, feeling the same electric shock she had felt all those years ago, when she had first held hands with a young man.
They were no longer young, either of them, but the magic was still there.
They walked along the sidewalk towards the little stretch of woods that everyone called the Park. The trees there had seen countless love stories acted out under their branches. And, Luisa knew, at least one terrible tragedy.
It was not far from here that the little waitress, Lena, had seen her mother murdered.
Luisa shivered and drew closer to Martin. She was a curvy woman, and he was a slight man, but she felt immediately safer, with him beside her.
They turned off the path and into the woods.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Martin turned to her, his face serious, though his eyes sparkled with excitement. “You know that I would never lie to you, Luisa?”
Did she? After a brief moment of consideration, Luisa nodded. She was surprised to realize just how much she trusted this man.
“I will not lie to you,” he said gently. “But, you will think that I am. Please, try to believe what I say.”
Luisa nodded steadily. She had decided to trust Martin. She wasn’t going to back down now.
“There are places,” Martin said, “where times overlap. And there are people—travelers—who can cross through those places.”
Luisa stared at him silently.
“I am one of those travelers,” Martin said. “You have known others. I suspect Lena is one, though I doubt she knows that herself.”
Luisa shivered slightly, but she didn’t speak.
Martin stepped closer to her, still holding her hand in his. “I want to take you with me,” he said. “I want to explore the world by your side. I want to show you the wonders of this world, not in the places that only echo with memories, but when they were still alive.”
Luisa drew in a sharp breath.
“Will you come with me?” Martin asked softly.
Even in the dark, his eyes were alive. Luisa gazed into them, trying to read his soul.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was barely more than a breathless whisper.
Martin grinned. “Well, then… where do you want to go first?”
Elizabeth A Reeves is a mother, a sister, a daughter, a wife, and a writer. She tries to balance all the aspects of her life. She is the author of Adrift (The Last Selkie), Running, and the Cindy Eller Cupcakes series. She is also the author of the Goldie Locke and the Were Bear series
She is a very prolific author and has nearly twenty titles under her belt at this point—with up to six titles per year currently being released.
You can reach her at the following links:
Website: http://elizabethreeves.com/
Twitter @SelkieHorse
Blog: CindyEller.blogspot.com
Pandemonium's Keeper
by Hope Welsh
Copyright 2016 © Hope Welsh
Editing by The Evil
Plotter Author Services
Dedication
To all those that love magick—and those that believe in love over all else.
Pandemonium's Keeper
by Hope Welsh
Chapter One
300 years ago…
Micah Reynard sat with Elizabeth, smiling at the woman who would soon be his wife. It was nearly impossible to believe that she had consented to become betrothed to him.
Elizabeth was the most beautiful of women. She also was one of the most powerful witches in the Coven. Her magick was only rivaled by his own. Together, they would have children more powerful than any magickal couple he knew.
“What are you thinking, my lord?” she asked him, a dimple showing in her cheek.
Micah smiled indulgently. “Just how lucky I am, my love. I find it nearly unbelievable that we are to marry on the morrow.”
Elizabeth flushed prettily. “I would kiss you, my lord.”
He grinned. “Would you, now?”
She flushed a deeper read which made him chuckle. “Oh, my sweet. I forget how innocent you are at times. There is no reason why you cannot kiss your betrothed,” he assured her. “After all, we are here at your home with plenty of chaperones around.”
Elizabeth leaned over and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Only one more night.”
“Yes, just one more night. Will your brother return in time for the nuptials?”
A cloud crossed her features. “I’m not sure, Micah. My father told me that he should have returned to the manor yesterday.”
