Champagne Books Presents
Earth Witches Aren’t Easy
By
Heather Long
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Champagne Books
www.champagnebooks.com
Copyright 2012 by Heather Long
Previously published as Prime Evil
ISBN 9781927454497
January 2013
Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey
Produced in Canada
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Dedication
For Nan. She always told me to capture my dreams.
One
The earth crumbled, falling on my face. I closed my mouth to avoid swallowing any. Blinded, I scrambled against the sides. Dirt rapidly filled the hole, blotting out the sun.
“Chance!” a panicked voice howled. I wanted to respond, but soil threatened suffocation on all sides.
Quiet.
I must stay buried and quiet.
Dread curdled my stomach and a shiver raced up my spine. One hand on the doorknob, I breathed deeply. The taste of loam and clay lingered on my tongue. The scents clogged my nostrils and sweat made my palms slippery. Slowly breathing in and out, I counted my exhales, an exercise in serenity.
Pack the dream away. Pack it away and deal with the here and the now.
Too old to let a nightmare about a dead psychopath get in the way of my work, I focused on my location. The two hundred-year-old farmhouse on the edge of Loudoun County needed my help. Correction—the owner of the house did. I don't think the house itself cared.
My client, Mr. Adams, requested me—via a mutual friend—to put his house back in order. Unfortunately for Mr. Adams, his uniforms seemed to have become animated. He reported they unfolded themselves from drawers, climbed off hangers, and walked through the house of their own accord.
And yes, I think that's more than a little cool. I’m Chance Monroe. My family lived in the Leesburg area for generations. I'm a hereditary hedge witch with the prerequisite wild, untamable curls to match and my grandmother’s grey eyes.
Sadly, my nightmares possessed some element of reality. I'd stopped dreaming about the bastard who attacked me years ago, it took months of meditation, and sleeping with the lights on for two years to get them to stop. So why come back now?
Head in the game, whine later. I couldn't control my dreams, but I could control my reactions. And in this exact moment, I needed to focus on the job ahead—particularly when I didn't have any idea what caused Mr. Adams grief.
I stared at a closed, narrow door to the servants’ quarters, tucked away in the back of the pantry. Discreet, with easy access to the kitchen, and warm to the touch. The old Victorian style house, built in the early eighteen hundreds, featured narrow doorframes and solid construction.
I released the doorknob long enough to dry my sweaty palms on my jeans and took a moment to wrap the length into a ponytail. Like the earlier exercise at breathing, the simple action offered me a cheap focusing technique.
Delaying tactics over, I opened the door and stayed on the kitchen side of the entrance. Sure, I could walk right in, but the last time I leaped before I looked, I got my ass zapped. Better to assess potential trouble before jumping in the fire.
Follow your heart, but take your brain with you. Gran drummed that advice into me for years. Flexing my fingers, I stiffened my shields, blocking any interference from the latent energy in the room. The pins and needles racing up my arm from the doorknob, warned of fluctuating energy levels.
This wouldn't be so damn hard if my guardian were here. But he's not. Jaime served overseas and some duties needed to take precedence. I cut off that train of thought. I'd worked without a guardian for years. I knew how to take precautions. Cautious—my adopted middle name.
I wanted the information my five senses provided first. The mind and the heart perceive threats differently. I wanted to know what my mind thought before I got my heart and soul involved. I’d ask the Earth for her opinion momentarily.
I let my gaze roam over the contents of the room. The military uniforms stood at attention, literally. Mr. Adams mentioned his collection walked off, and apparently, he’d meant it. The uniforms stood in perfect formation, five wide and two deep, as though being worn by unseen bodies. Where their “feet” should be, men’s dress shoes lined up in formation, save for the last. A single pair of red strappy heels at the end of the formation definitely did not match the formal blues.
I couldn’t stifle the snicker escaping. I bet the red, strappy shoes were a bigger affront to Mr. Adams than the uniforms loitering in the room.
The decor suggested a classic, almost Spartan reserve—an escape for past generations meant resting or reading. No radio, television or other electronic device to distract. Gran kept her rooms as simple.
A twin bed occupied one corner, a writing desk the opposite corner. A small divan, probably used for reading, along with a pair of dressers with an ironing board propped between them filled the space. The dresser top was barren, empty, and one drawer partially pulled out. An ordinary room, sad and abandoned, it smelled faintly of patchouli mixed with wood soap and furniture polish. The scent suggested cleanliness with the barest touch of femininity.
Testing the empty space in the doorway with my hand, I waited for the tingling to become more electric or painful. The sensation gained no more strength than normal pins and needles. Closing my eyes, I relaxed my tight shields. Cool energy flowed over me like the promise of a breeze on a still day, but no hum of power eddied out to smack at me.
First positive sign of the day. The lack of maliciousness eliminated a ghosts or human remnants as the culprit. Those were tough to get rid of, and worse I’d need Pastor Tom to help me bless the house. It would cut into my fee, take twice the time, and earn me yet another lecture on the problems with my choices in life. I don’t do angry spirits if I can help it. Exorcisms are hell on peace of mind, not to mention a manicure.
Cautious, I slid one booted foot into the room and kept the other foot firmly out. Keeping one foot out of the room anchored me in case my senses lied to me and this was a trap.
A trap by what? Better to be safe than sorry.
I gave the unknown a few more seconds to reach out and bite me in the ass. When nothing happened, I held onto the doorframe and stepped fully into the room. Thankfully, no call for my anxiety. I ignored the mild sensation of letdown that nothing jumped up and said, “hi,” but I preferred the relief to an adrenaline martini.
Dropping my duffel bag on the floor, I inched further into the room. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor. The uniforms didn't move.
Empty, posed…waiting?
Not identical, each military uniform bore piping and stripes indicating different levels of rank, and some possessed medals. Son of a bitch—Imps. Pain-in-the-ass-Imps. Well, at least it's not something worse—like a Polterg
eist. Avert. I bit my tongue rather than invite more disaster.
Imps, lively little spirits, earned their name from their Puck-like behavior. Pranks were the thing with imps. Stolen jewelry hanging from trees, wood furniture sprouting leaves, wool coats that baa’d or leather coats that moo’d. Their behavior was annoying and troublesome but completely unrelated to their more demonic cousins. Personally, I prefer the former because demonic imps are reputedly mean for mean’s sake. Like poltergeists and remnant spirits, you need an ordained priest to get rid of them as mentioned before. I really didn’t want to involve Pastor Tom. I needed to cover this month’s bills and, upon occasion, my sardonic sense of humor irritated the ordained man.
I didn’t do it on purpose. I’m just not big on organized religion. I prefer my Sundays spent sprawled in a hammock with a good book or working in the garden at home.
Relax into the breathing, imagine the shape inside my skin, mesh it all together and balance. In an ideal world, centering kept me steady while grounding gave me the anchor I needed to handle the metaphysical energies that eddied through the world.
My body relaxed and my thoughts slowed. Random observations silenced as I reached outside of myself, beyond the room, beyond the house, into the land below the building.
The Earth welcomed my contact. Existential thoughts flickered by too swiftly to grasp and comprehend. Every time it was different. Every time it was the same. The hard-to-describe sensations, I likened to being snug in the womb, aware of the world beyond but sheltered from it.
The thick, heavy connection smothered. I am not the tree. I’m the thick roots that stretched out beneath the tree. I am the ant that made its home there. I am the foundation of the house, planted securely. Thoughts flickered through my consciousness, a guttered candle struggling to stay lit. Discipline maintained my sense of self against the onslaught of awareness.
When I opened my eyes this time, I saw not only the room, but the layers of the room, the construction of the house, and beyond that the Earth existed before all of it. The memory in the wood was a bare whisper compared to the trombone of the land around it, but I listened to the whispers.
Imps.
Just beyond the human optical spectrum, their footprints littering the room. Motes of energy marked their passage and floated through the air like glittering pixie dust. Their fingerprints glowed on the uniforms. I filtered the cacophony of sound—ants trooping about their daily activities, bees buzzing from flower to bush, birds singing, leaves rustling, grasses swaying, the worms wiggling through the layers of dirt, even the snap and crackle of the parched earth breaking apart—until I could hear the subtle shifts of the tectonic plates.
I strained to hear only the imps, caught between the spiritual and the physical. Here and not here. Though their connection with the room helped them to realize a stronger physical presence, they hadn't fully transferred into our world. Not yet.
Whew.
Mischievous and annoying, imps couldn’t cause real harm until fully realized in the physical world. I could bargain with them to remove their links to the physical room. If bargaining didn’t work, I could force the issue. I rather hoped to avoid the latter. Blood magic was always a painful option. The buggers needed an anchor to realize in our world. Let them settle too long in a man-made physical object and you get Imps Gone Wild.
With the same purposeful slowness, I began my contact with the Earth, my muscles softened. I couldn’t drop full contact, not when I needed to commune again soon, but I sequestered the connection away to the back of my mind. Once back in the boundaries of my body, rather than the Earth, I grabbed the duffel and went to convince Mr. Adams.
I found him sitting on his veranda in one of two chairs next to a table. He wore a pair of cream slacks with a dark blue button down shirt and dark brown loafers. His only concession to relaxing while reading the paper seemed to be the lack of a tie and the loose button at his neck. He close-cropped his hair, ignoring his hairline’s swift retreat. I appreciated the care his clean, clipped nails demonstrated. I looked positively scruffy in my well-worn jeans and loose flannel shirt over the plain white tank—always the shaggy sheep dog, never the prize pug.
He perused a newspaper with a half-smoked cigar wedged between two meaty fingers and rose with casual grace at my arrival. From our first conversation on the phone, Mr. Adams presented himself as utterly proper and respectful of the rules of society. When I arrived at his Victorian home, his demeanor furthered that opinion.
Standing, spine erect, his pale blue gaze met mine. Despite a natural skepticism, Mr. Adams waited with an air of expectation for my report.
“I’m sorry it took so long.” A quick glance at my watch showed more than two hours passed since I’d arrived.
“That is quite all right. I admit I thought ascertaining the source of the disturbance would take significantly less time than it did, but as things stand, I would rather you did the job right.”
“As would I. So, let me begin by saying you definitely have imps.”
“Imps,” he repeated. His expression said he either considered the idea or was calling me a lunatic.
“Imps.”
The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the breeze. I resisted the distraction. Heightened awareness, precarious as dangling a squirming baby while walking a tightrope, snagged at me, pulling the threads of my concentration.
“In a way, that’s good. Imps are really just mischievous buggers, and we can probably get rid of them relatively easily. If we don’t do something soon, though, they’re going to multiply and you might lose your house.” Multiply translates better than realized when talking to clients.
Mr. Adams frowned as he considered my words. “Imps.” Perhaps the effect of saying it twice allowed him some measure of belief. I couldn’t offer him tangible evidence, but he wasn’t asking for tangible evidence. In fact, despite the doubt in his words, I didn’t see doubt in his face. “Very well. What exactly do we need to do to get rid of these…imps?”
His reaction made me wonder what he’d seen. The question formed on my tongue, but his levelheaded acceptance killed the words before I uttered them. Mr. Adams respected my assessment, so I’d respect his response.
“I won’t lie. There’re only two ways to get rid of them—the hard way and the easy way. You’ve got a lot of them, we really just need to get the attention of the First One, the leader, and send him on his way. The others should follow, but—yes, another but—that could take some time. They’re very happy with the situation here.”
Putting the cigar to his mouth, Mr. Adams drew on it until the tip glowed red. “How long?”
Is he regretting his quick acceptance?
“A day or two. A lot is going to depend on how quickly I can get their attention and what it’s going to cost to convince them to go elsewhere. I wish I could give you an exact timeframe, but it doesn’t work like that.”
I waited a beat to see if he asked for more detail. It’s hard to explain what I do in words, but I’d try if it made the situation easier for him.
“I see.”
Those two words carried a great deal of meaning. I waited and allowed him to mull over the idea.
“Will there be any property damage?” He puffed on the cigar, punctuating his words with little wisps of smoke.
“Not if I can help it. The work itself shouldn’t require damaging anything at all. It’s just going to be time-consuming.”
“And you are paid by the hour…” He continued to mull the idea for a moment longer then nodded. I wished I were a psychic so I could see the wheels turning in his head.
“I investigated you, Ms. Monroe. You come highly recommended.” I didn’t doubt that he’d done a thorough job of checking my credentials. Mr. Adams was too sure of himself, too set in his ways to have just called me on a whim.
“Thank you.” I resisted the urge to ask by whom. He fixed his pale blue eyes on me. He nodded, and I relaxed.
“Very well. Do what you need to do,
Ms. Monroe. I will make sure the house is available to you. Will you require any supplies?”
“I brought my own.” I patted the duffel still slung over my shoulder. “I should be able to do everything I need right there in those rooms. That should minimize any disturbances.”
“Please invoice me when you have completed your task. I will need your services to be totally, completely successful, with no more disappearing acts performed by my clothing.” He accepted my estimation of what needed to be done without real argument.
“Absolutely.” Nice. I didn't do shoddy work. Odd that I'm so mysteriously well recommended, but irrelevant. Time to work. I excused myself from Mr. Adams, and headed back into the house.
Time to get to work.
My connection to the Earth hummed quietly. Waiting. Patient. Maintaining this level of connection kept a steady stream of sensory input flowing, but I couldn’t slow the streaming data down. A hedge witch shared a natural connection to the Earth around her. She communicated with it, became one with it, shared with it and took from it. Imagine trying to tune into every channel on the television at once, it just became so much noise. The stabbing silence of tuning it out was worse.
Pushing other thoughts aside, I focused on the present and got down to business. In the servants’ quarters, I removed three candles and a bottle of scented rose oil from the duffel. I set a green candle near the door, a blue candle on the dresser and the yellow candle near the window. A small matchbook served to light them. I rubbed a few drops of rose oil around the seal of the window and each doorway.
Returning the rose oil to the duffel, I pulled out a length of silver chain with a large crystal dangling from it. Sliding it over my head, I settled it into place where it dangled against my breasts. The candles, the oil and the chain helped me focus more than anything else. We all needed our rituals, and this one helped me just as the act of grounding and centering helped earlier. It put my mind in the right space and anchored me, should I need to retreat rapidly to the here and the now.
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