The Book of Spells and Such
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The Book of Spells and Such
Jacquie Underdown
The Book of Spells and Such
Copyright © 2018 by Jacquie Underdown
All rights reserved.
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any 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 publisher, Jacquie Underdown.
All Characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
The Book of Spells and Such
Jacquie Underdown
When destiny knocks, do you invite it in?
When a spell book lands on Ariana's doorstep, her world is thrown into turmoil. That's nothing new for her, except this time it involves bizarre and terrifying creatures who attempt to kill her. Then there's the little fact that she now has the ability to perform magic.
Hadeon is another new addition in her life. He happened to drop in at the same time the spell book appeared. He's dark, sexy, and mysterious as hell, and Ariana doesn't know if she wants to kill him or love him.
But all this chaos is nothing compared to what destiny has in store for her. A future is promised of royalty and immense power, palaces and undying love. But hers is a destiny that is not easily won. She will have to fight to the death against those who want to take it all for themselves. And when the real battle begins, just who the true enemy is will surprise everyone.
Contents
About the Author
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
More by this author
After Life
About the Author
Jacquie lives in Central Queensland, Australia, where it's always hot and humidity coats the skin, summer or winter. When she wrote her first novel ten years ago, she was working as an accountant. But it didn’t take long for the writing bug to take her over completely and she happily did away with her business career. Now she spends her days wrapped up in her imagination, creating characters, exploring alternative realities, and meeting a host of characters who occupy her mind at first, then eventually her books.
She has a business degree, studied post-grad writing, editing and publishing at The University of Queensland, and earned a Master of Letters (Creative Writing) from Central Queensland University.
You can find out more on her website at: http://www.jacquieunderdown.com/
Chapter 1
Ariana flinches when a heavy knock sounds at her front door. She knows who it will be and the rumbling of nerves in her belly entices her to ignore him. The knock beats again, echoing through her apartment like loud drums of warning, and she groans, knowing that she is going to have to face him sooner or later. Ariana rushes to the door, opens it wide, and is met by the enormous barrel chest of her landlord.
Her head tilts back until she meets his angry glare, and she gulps. “I’ll have the money by tomorrow morning. I promise.”
Her landlord crosses his thick arms and narrows his gray eyes further. “Not. Good. Enough.” His voice is deep and gruff.
Ariana’s heart beats faster. Her breathing quickens. “I know. I know. But I’m good for it. I promise with the tips I earn tonight, I’ll have the full rent money by tomorrow morning.” She holds her finger up, runs back inside to her purse, and pulls out this month’s rent minus the eighty dollars she hopes like hell she’ll make tonight.
She thrusts the cash into her landlord’s huge palm. “Here. See. That’s almost all of it.”
After counting the money, he crunches the dollars in his fist and shoves it into his pocket. “I told you last time—no more chances.”
“I know,” she says, trying hard to hide the cracking of her voice. Damn voice. She can’t lose this apartment. Despite its tiny size and her scrappy possessions, she has made it her home. The first real home she has ever had. This is the one thing in her life that is stable. The only place she feels she belongs. “Please. I’ll have the rest to you tomorrow morning. Please.” She hates to beg, but some things are worth humiliating herself over.
Her landlord releases a long, agitated breath. Jaw tight, he says, “Tomorrow morning. By nine AM. Or you’re out. You hear me?”
She nods.
“I’ll not be putting up with this anymore. I don’t care if you have nowhere else to go. I don’t care if you end up on the streets. I don’t care. You get that?”
Again she nods.
He smacks his palm against the doorframe. Ariana flinches at the sound. He all but growls at her like a dog before he spins and marches away, yelling over his shoulder as he does, “Nine AM tomorrow or you’re outta here.”
Ariana shuts the door with a shaking hand and leans back against it. As she looks around at her home, she sighs with relief. She has bought herself some more time. More time is all she needs.
Her clock on the wall beeps in the silence to notify the new hour. She looks for the time. Five o’clock.
“Shit,” she hisses and jogs toward her bedroom to get ready. She has half an hour before her shift waitressing at a local club is to start.
Fifteen minutes later, Ariana swings the front door open. The late afternoon sunlight, pink and gold, spills across her apartment, caressing the dying day’s warmth into her skin. A current of cars blows past, rumbling and whooshing in an unbroken stream, leaving their dusty, acrid plumes in the air.
Stepping onto the landing, her three-inch heel sinks into something unexpected on the porch step. She stumbles and flings her arms out to find something to hold to, but there is nothing. Her ankle rolls with a crunch. Pain gouges and her knees collapse. Gravity drags her down, her backside smacking as it collides with the cold concrete step.
Mother fuc…
She bites her lip, breathing deeply through her nose. “Ouchie!”
Reaching to sooth her throbbing ankle with a gentle rub, she spies the offender—a brown paper package. Ariana grips the heavy parcel. Her name is scrawled in big, black letters across the label. She purses her lips and flips the package over. N
o return address, no other markings.
Using the door handle for leverage, Ariana eases from the ground, placing pressure on her good leg. She groans like an old woman easing a timeworn body from her sick bed. Hot with frustration, chest squeezing, she chucks the package inside her apartment and slams the door behind her before hobbling off down the street.
* * * *
Nearing the end of her shift, Ariana curses under her breath as she limps a tray of bourbon mixers over to a table of burly, straight-faced men. Her ankle is hot and puffy with deep purple bruises blooming across the flesh. Tears prick her eyes with every bumpy step.
At the table, she plunks the tray down with a loud cry, slops of liquid spilling over the glasses. The strobe lighting flickering from the dance floor doesn’t help the reeling and growing nausea, nor does the strong scent of cologne and stale alcohol. She lowers her head, sucks air between her teeth, and rests both hands against the table to take the pressure off her ankle.
A tall man stands and holds her steady with an arm around her waist, the other on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She takes a moment to answer as she wills the throbbing, which beats all the way up her leg, to lessen and the dizziness to go. When the agony morphs to a dull ache and the world straightens, she lifts her head. The table of ten, all dark haired with dark brown eyes, are looking at her with stern brows.
Tough crowd. “I’m fine.” Ariana presses her foot to the floor. Pain smashes her like a knuckle-dustered fist, and she winces. “No. I’m not.”
A towering, more brutish male with tight biceps and broad shoulders rushes to her side. He slides a hand around her back, the other under her legs, scoops her into his arms, and sits her down.
For a moment, Ariana stares. Not because he’s handsome because that’s not the case. No way can he be called handsome. But he has appeal: a primal, beastly quality. Thick, dark brown, almost black, hair hangs around his neck and face. Coarse black stubble covers a strong, square jaw. His nose is long and a little crooked—been broken once or twice.
Kneeling on the sticky floor, he lifts her foot onto his strong thigh. Ariana tugs down her short skirt as he rolls her leg from one side to the next between his enormous, gentle hands. His dark brown gaze rests on her face and he grimaces.
“You shouldn’t be walking on this,” he says with a deep, harsh tone as he takes her stiletto off. He holds the shoe in the air. “And you shouldn’t be wearing these ridiculous things.”
Of course she shouldn’t be walking on her ankle. She would love nothing more than to be resting back on her couch at home, watching the television, heelless. But that doesn’t pay the rent. Work does.
Ariana grips the side of the leather booth. Her first instinct is to stand, but she stops herself; she can’t place pressure on her ankle again regardless of this man’s arrogance pushing her away. She flicks away strands of hair that have fallen across her forehead and offers a scowl, just as obvious as his. “You gonna pay my rent?”
“No.”
“Then don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t be doing.” Then she regrets reacting so harshly, but some people, this man included, underestimate what it takes to be a self-reliant nineteen-year-old girl. “I’m fine,” she says more gently. “If you could help me over to the bar.”
He slips her shoe back on and places her foot on the floor.
She gasps. “No! Take the shoe off again. Please.” Tears wet her cheeks.
He slides off the stiletto and frowns with his long, full lips. “Now what?”
Ariana peers around the darkened space. Unnatural rainbow lights pulse in time with the music. Her stomach churns. Acid finds her throat and she has to swallow hard to keep it down.
“Um, my boss Johnno—he’s the big guy behind the bar—can you tell him what’s happened please?” She drops her head into her hands and mumbles, “He’s going to lose it.” Because she promised him she’d be able to manage this shift, sprained ankle or not.
“Then I’m driving you home.”
She lifts her head and holds her hands up. “Oh no, buddy. Not so quick. You aren’t taking me anywhere.”
He lowers his coarse brows and narrows his eyes. “What are your other options?”
Ariana glances around at the thriving bodies—hot, sweaty guys and girls, laughing, chatting, groping, and dancing. She doesn’t know any of them, not enough to ask for help anyway. She can’t afford a cab. And Johnno is not going to drop everything to drive her home.
Ariana blows out a long breath and assesses the height and breadth of the brawn in front of her. Two Tasers would be needed to shut down someone his size, and she only owns one. She shakes her head, pushes against the booth, and heaves herself into a standing position. As the blood rushes to her ankle again, the throbbing re-ignites, but she breathes through it.
“I appreciate your help, ah…”
“Hadeon,” he says.
“Hadeon,” she repeats, momentarily distracted from her pain by the way his name slides across her tongue, teasing. “I’m—”
“Ariana,” he says.
She nods. “How’d you know?”
“I just know.”
Wary now, she watches him through narrowed eyes as she says, “Okay. As I was saying, I appreciate your offer, but I think I’m going to catch a cab home.” Limited funds or not, it’s her only option.
Hadeon takes his seat again. “Suit yourself.”
* * * *
The taxi ride home is torture. Each bump in the road amplifies a thousand fold in Ariana’s ankle. By the time she arrives at her house and manages to half-jump, half-limp with one shoe off into her apartment and fall onto the couch, she’s crying.
She grabs a couch pillow from behind her back and stuffs it against the opposite armrest, slides off her remaining heel, and groans as she rests her ankle on the pillow. Black and blue bruising has stained her skin, competing with the swelling. The damage looks so much worse than she realized. Perhaps broken.
Her heart thrums and that familiar stressful ache settles in the muscles between her shoulder blades. No way can she afford to take time off work, nor can she pay expensive medical bills if she has to get a cast. Especially after she had to use the last of her grocery money paying for the taxi home. She fluffs another couch pillow, places it behind her, and lies back, huffing.
Something sharp jabs into her ribs. She rolls to the side, careful not to disturb her ankle and digs behind her back only to find the brown paper package from earlier. She’d forgotten about this heavy little troublemaker and, looking at it again, all the resentment she felt for this unwanted parcel returns.
Her first instinct is to throw it across the room, but a restrained band of inquisitiveness twangs, stopping her. Ariana sets the package on her stomach and tears at the paper until her fingers touch something smooth.
She pulls out the contents.
A book.
She sits up and lowers the book onto her lap. The scent of honey, old leather, and time drifts around her. The cover is worn black leather with a pink-painted enamel cherry blossom pushed into it.
She opens to the first fusty, yellow page.
It reads Spells and Such.
The name is intriguing—the type of book she’d want to read and lose herself in. A smile creeps onto her lips, her dislike for this tripping hazard fading. Each embossed black letter of the title is entwined with twisted limbs, ripe buds, and flowers of a cherry blossom tree painted with wishy-washy colors similar to ancient Japanese artwork.
She giggles. “What the…? Who would give me this?”
Ariana flips to the next page.
Blank.
She turns to the next page, the next, and the next—all blank.
And then she opens to the most beautiful image and she sucks a sharp breath in. Unfurling in the forefront is a field of white grass, as though a winter frost has kissed each individual blade. The grass shimmers so brightly it almost burns her eyes. Nestling within the grass ar
e speckled flowers and plants of blood red, dark eggplant, vintage green, pale blue, and marbled with gold and silver. All are luminescent and lush. Unique varieties she has never before seen.
Her chest heaves with a yearning to experience such loveliness.
A glowing gold pathway, crossing a moat of liquid silver, slices across the landscape and wends toward the grand front door of a palace. The palace is ethereal with shimmering pale pink and mother-of-pearl towers, tall spires, alcoves, and archways. So imposing as it soars into the sky. A sky shaded with crimsons and purples, hanging with puffy clouds of fairy-floss pink.
The picture is bright, slick, and textured like an oil painting. She runs her fingertips across the surface of the page—silky smooth. Ariana’s heart squeezes.
Tears swell—the type when you are so overwhelmed by the beauty of something—and fall onto her cheeks, but she palms them away and continues to stare.
“What is this?” Her voice is loud against the silence of the room.
“Hhhhhh-aaaaaa-rrrrrr-mmmm-ooooo-nnnnnn-yyyy,” hisses in the air around her.
Ariana’s heart punches blunt blows to her ribcage.
She shakes her head and listens harder. Soft, so soft is another rustling whisper then the voice fades to silence.