Wicked by Any Other Name

by Linda Wisdom

  “Oh.” The word left her lips in a soft breath.

  Trev moved to stand behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders and rested his chin on top of her head.

  Tiny lights in the shape of pumpkins cast orange lights around the display windows in Stasi and Blair’s shops. Blair’s shop held two corn sheaves with black crows perched on them and a skeleton sprawled in the middle, while Stasi’s sensuous display was complemented by a jaunty black witch’s hat set in one corner and a small broom in the other.

  Stasi’s laughter held tears and joy all mixed up together. “There is no way Eurydice would have put those there.”

  Trev hugged her tighter. “Maybe she did. You stood up to the Fae without allowing the townspeople to be hurt. You were afraid. I could sense it, but you never allowed it to take over. You didn’t permit your anger to fight back when you could have with only a few words. You acted not out of fear or anger, but out of love. And…” he whispered in her ear, “no hiccups. No bubbles.”

  She reached up and curled her hands around his arms. Her tears trailed down her cheeks and dripped onto his sleeves.

  “I didn’t hiccup once, did I? And now the fear in the air is gone. The darkness is banished.” She looked up to see the full moon now shining bright and the sky filled with stars. “Everyone here will wake up in the morning and not remember a thing.”

  “You also had that choice.”

  She shook her head. “No, as I said I wanted to remember.” She turned in his arms. “Did you want to forget?”

  Trev’s smile was as warm in his eyes as on his lips. “Forget that I walked into a shop and met a fiery witch who knocked my socks off? That I hadn’t expected to fall in love with her?”

  Stasi’s smile grew even broader. “This all might be Cupid’s doing,” she suggested, even though deep down she didn’t believe that was all there was to it. She had fought against falling in love with Trev. As Eurydice said, witches and wizards don’t go well together, but Stasi knew now that she and Trev were an exception.

  “No, I think it was just a little push in the right direction. Come on, let’s test those wards,” Trev whispered, now being the one to pull her along. “And we’ll show everyone that witches and wizards get along very well, indeed. By the way,” he paused, “do you think when Eurydice replaced the building she also replaced your cinnamon lip gloss?”

  Stasi couldn’t help it. She threw her head back and laughed with sheer joy. She hopped into Trev’s arms and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  “I think we should write Cupid a thank-you note, don’t you?”

  Epilogue

  Fluff & Puff vs. Cupid

  “If Jazz finds out we did this we’ll be in a lot of trouble,” Fluff, a bit more timid than his furry cohort, said as he followed his fellow magickal bunny slipper down the street.

  “Naw, she’ll understand. The guy messed with Stasi big time.”

  “It all worked out.”

  Puff stopped, turning his head from right to left, while his ears lifted to full point. “We wish the land of sweet. It’s the land of love we seek,” he chanted. “Take us to the creep who does it neat, or else.”

  A curtain shimmered red and white in front of them and the slippers quickly slid past it and landed on a path paved with smooth, glimmering white stones. Soft music seemed to come out of the air, while on either side of the path, glittering red hearts sprang from the ground. Overhead, the sky was a soft illuminated white with fluffy red hearts for clouds, and the air was faintly scented with cinnamon.

  “Augh!” The slippers’ horror escalated as they recognized the singer. “Barry Manilow!”

  They gritted their razor-sharp teeth and forged on until the path ended in front of a three-story building shaped like a gigantic heart, complete with a red satin bow. A matching mailbox was set at the end of the pathway with “Cupid, One Heart Drive” written in elegant gold script on the sides.

  “Talk about subtle,” Fluff grumbled, pausing at the mailbox post. He sniffed the post and tentatively nibbled. “Hmm. Marshmallow.” Pretty soon the mailbox was on the ground and the post was resting comfortably in Fluff’s tummy, while Puff discovered the mailbox was chocolate.

  “A lot of cinnamon out here.” Puff used one of his ears to point out a display of cinnamon candies arranged in a heart shape. “Jazz wouldn’t want that from Cupid. Just chocolate.”

  They skittered to the door and pushed it open. The sound of Barry Manilow crooning Mandy echoed throughout the entryway as they peeked in the rooms. Another voice joined in lustily from upstairs, clearly belonging to someone who was so tone deaf his singing could shatter glass.

  “Cupid’s got pretty cool digs,” Puff commented, stopping to try out a few chocolate-shaped hearts. “Too bad he’s such a jokester.”

  “Don’t let him get out the bow and arrows,” Fluff warned him. “I like being single.”

  “You think I want a million kids running around?” Puff made a gagging sound.

  “Same here. I’m too young to be a father. Okay, now that we’re here, the plan is we eat everything in sight while he’s in the bathtub and then run for it.”

  On their way out, the slippers gazed at the huge red cinnamon candy heart in the middle of the front yard, exchanged glances, and headed straight for it.

  When they left Cupid’s realm, the cinnamon candies had been rearranged to spell the words: Fluff and Puff Were Here.

  More witchy romance by Linda Wisdom now available from Sourcebooks

  50 Ways to Hex Your Lover

  Hex Appeal

  Read on for a sneak peek…

  One

  Pasadena, California

  The Year 2007

  How long are we going to sit here?”

  “As long as it takes.” Jazz Tremaine shifted in the Thunderbird convertible’s bench seat. She loved her 1956 aqua and white classic sports car, but there wasn’t much legroom for her five-foot-eight-inch frame.

  Nice neighborhood for a stakeout though, with its wide, posh swath of multi-million dollar homes set behind high iron fences and ornate gates. Still, Jazz hoped she wouldn’t have to wait all night for Martin “The Sleaze Bag” Reynolds to come home. Her left foot was falling asleep, and that large Diet Coke she’d had with her dinner was warning her that bathroom time would be in her near future.

  A scraping sound, a flare of sulfur, and a whiff of tobacco smoke from the passenger seat made Jazz’s nose twitch. “Irma, put that damn thing out.”

  Irma clicked open the ashtray and heaved a put-upon sigh. “I’m bored.”

  “Then leave,” Jazz snapped.

  “Ha, ha,” Irma snorted. “Very funny.”

  She sat in the passenger seat wearing her Sunday best, a navy floral-print dress with its delicate lace collar and navy buttons marching down the front. A dainty navy and white spring straw hat decorated with tiny flowers sat squarely on her tightly permed iron-gray hair. White gloves and a navy patent leather handbag completed her perfect 1950s ensemble. No surprise there because Irma had died in the passenger seat of the T-Bird on March 12, 1956.

  Irma was the bane of the 700-year-young witch’s existence and the sole drawback to the snazzy car she dearly loved. Her 100-percent success rate at eliminating curses had fallen to 99 percent when she’d failed, no matter what she tried, to remove the highly irritating Irma from the car. In the end, Jazz’s client refused to pay her, and Jazz ended up with the classic sports car instead; with Irma as an accessory.

  “I can make that lamppost disappear with a snap of my fingers.” Jazz gestured toward a nearby post standing at the corner and did just that. Another snap of the fingers and the post reappeared. “But with you…” She snapped her fingers in front of Irma, but nothing happened. “With you, nothing. Nada. Zip. No matter how many times I try, you’re still here!”

  Jazz glared at Ir
ma. Irma glared back at Jazz. The clash of witch temper and ghost tantrum lit the interior of the car with an unearthly silver light; then a gray Mercedes rolled slowly past the T-Bird, and Jazz swung her head away.

  “Good,” she said. “Martin is home.”

  The gates to The Sleaze Bag’s Spanish-style mansion swung apart. The Mercedes drove past them and up the winding driveway. Jazz pushed her door open and slid out of the T-Bird. She glanced up at the night sky and felt the pull of the slowly waxing moon. She sighed and fingered the moonstone ring she wore on her right ring finger. The milky blue stone glowed faintly at her touch.

  In two weeks she’d drive up to the small town of Moonstone Lake set high up in the Angelus Crest Mountains for the monthly ritual that kept her and her witch sisters centered. The lake and nearby town provided Jazz and two of her fellow banished classmates a much-needed sanctuary. While Stasia and Blair enjoyed living in the tiny mountain village, Jazz and several of the others preferred the darkness and grit of the city to breathing all that smog-free air.

  “You could leave the radio on,” Irma called after Jazz in the raspy voice of a long time smoker.

  “Bite me,” Jazz growled, moving silently across the street toward Martin’s house.

  She easily blended with the night in her black leather pants, black silk t-shirt, and black, waist-length leather jacket. Her coppery hair hung in a tight single braid down her back. Tonight she was Scary Witch, the better to teach Martin a lesson.

  She paused long enough to flick her wrist at the gates, which opened just enough to allow her to slip through before they swung shut again.

  Her nose wrinkled against the overpowering scent of heirloom roses lining the driveway. Malibu lights bathed a lawn that had been trimmed with mathematical precision.

  “You pay a landscaping service a small fortune to keep the grounds looking perfect, and yet you dare cheat me,” Jazz muttered, stopping a short distance from the house. She drew a breath, lifted her hands and murmured, “Resume.”

  A faint flicker traveled from her fingertips to the house. When the witch light slid through the windows, a woman’s shrill, shrieking voice erupted within, so loud Jazz could hear it standing a hundred feet away.

  “What have you done to this house?” Martin’s harpy ten-years-dead mother-in-law screamed. “There is no way you can tell me my daughter had any hand in the decorating in here! What did you do? Hire one of your bimbos to design this interior like a brothel? Or did the slut do you instead? I told my baby not to marry you! You’re a pig, Martin Reynolds! A pig!”

  Jazz smiled and sauntered up the driveway to the front door. Figuring Doreen Hatcher’s screaming inside would be too loud for Martin to hear the doorbell, she leaned on it long enough to be downright annoying.

  “You just can’t live without the booze, can you, Martin?” the voice shrieked. “Your liver ought to be pickled by now! Pickled, do you hear me? If not pickled, you should at least be dead from all that alcohol, you drunken slob! If I didn’t know I had died from a heart attack I’d think you arranged my death.”

  Martin Reynolds flung the door open, wide-eyed and grim-lipped, a highball glass in one hand, a cordless phone tucked under his chin.

  “Hello, Martin,” Jazz purred.

  “Jazz! I was just—uh—calling you,” he said, stepping quickly backward, unease flashing across his face, though she noticed his forehead didn’t move, even if his lips did. She guessed his Botox job had been fairly recent. “Your spell didn’t work. You said she would be gone, but she isn’t, and she’s back with a vengeance. She showed up all of a sudden, just now. I walked in the house and bam, she’s here, ten times worse than she was before.” He waved his hand toward the other room. “You’ve got to take care of her.”

  “Come back here and face me, you coward!” Doreen screamed from the confines of the cookie jar she’d been cursed into before her death.

  Martin flinched. Jazz did not flick an eyelash, but she wondered how a man reputed to be a driving force in the television industry could fail to connect her unexpected appearance at his front door with the return of his curse. A curse she’d effectively eliminated—until the sleaze tried to cheat her.

  “Maybe she came back,” Jazz said, “because you were a bad boy.”

  Martin looked wary. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You stopped payment on the check you gave me.” Jazz stepped into the foyer, plucked from her pocket the check with its giant red Stop Payment stamped across the surface and waved it under Martin’s nose. “Not a smart way to do business. Especially with a witch.”

  “I wouldn’t do that!” Martin cried, aghast. “It must have been my wife who ordered the stop payment!”

  “Oh, that’s right! Blame it on my sweet, precious Lenore!” Doreen’s voice cried out. “You are such a worm, Martin Reynolds! You won’t even take responsibility for your own mistakes.”

  “Don’t be shy, Doreen,” Jazz said. “Please join us.”

  She waved a hand at the closest wall and Doreen’s features—high forehead, hawklike nose, and sharp chin—bulged out of the stucco. Her sightless eyes zeroed in on Martin and he shrieked.

  “Did you think you could get rid of me so easily, you slime?”

  “You miserable bitch!” Martin threw his highball glass at the wall.

  Before it could explode in a shower of glass splinters, Jazz flicked her fingers again. The glass floated down to stand neatly on a nearby table, and Doreen’s face instantly shifted to the boldly splashed oil painting over the fireplace. Jazz thought it might be a Picasso; a real one.

  “What a cheap painting,” Doreen sneered. “Bought this at one of those starving artist sales, didn’t you?”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Martin screamed at Jazz and flung a pointing finger at the fireplace. “That’s a Picasso!”

  “I told you what would happen if you stiffed me, Martin.” Jazz shrugged. “I told you the curse would come back ten-fold.”

  “All right, you win.” Martin pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his perspiring brow. “I’ll write you another check. Anything to get rid of that miserable old bitch.”

  “Ah, ah, ah, no B words, and no more checks. Now it’s cash.” Jazz held out her hand. “Five thousand dollars, please.”

  “Five grand?” Martin howled. “Our deal was for five hundred.”

  Jazz smiled. “That was before you cheated me out of my fee, Martin.”

  “I don’t keep that kind of cash here at home.”

  “Yes, you do. There’s twenty-five large in the safe in your office,” Jazz said. “The safe your wife knows nothing about. Would you like me to open it for you? I can from here, you know.”

  “No,” Martin snarled, spinning on his heel toward the back of the house. “You wait right here.”

  “The first number is four!” Jazz called after him, always ready to help.

  Then she grinned and headed for the kitchen. A handful of chocolate chip cookies lay scattered on the countertop where Doreen’s angry face distorted one side of the cookie jar sitting in the center of the counter.

  “Good grief, Doreen. You blew your top.” Jazz picked up the lid and helped herself to a cookie from the jar. One bite urged her to take a second one. She could never resist chocolate chip.

  “I told her he was no good, but did she listen to me? No,” Doreen seethed. “She should’ve divorced him before the network started canceling his shows. And I’m sure he’s hiding money in off-shore banks.”

  “Too late now.” Jazz gave Doreen’s Gingerbread Girl decorated lid a sympathetic pat. “Lenore will have to figure that out on her own.”

  Martin stalked into the kitchen and thrust a packet of bills at Jazz. “Here. Now get rid of the old bitch.”

  “No name calling, Martin.” Jazz moved her fingertips over the money, c
ounting it by touch to make sure the bills totaled five-thousand. Fool witch once, shame on you. Fool witch twice, oozing sores and an eternal rash in private areas.

  It was all there. She tucked the cash into the inside pocket of her jacket, glanced at the scowling cookie jar and said, “Be gone.”

  Doreen’s face vanished as Jazz’s final word lingered in the air. Martin blinked and his mouth fell open.

  “That’s it?” He glared at Jazz. “You say two fucking words and she’s gone? No fancy fireworks or arcane rhymes? No waving a wand around?”

  “You’ve been in television too long, Martin.” Jazz opened a drawer, pulled out a meat hammer and smashed the cookie jar to smithereens.

  “What have you done?” Martin screamed, clutching at his hair. “My wife treasured that damn thing!”

  “Blame it on the maid,” Jazz said. “Or find one just like it on eBay.”

  Martin moaned and wiped a hand over his face. His stress etched on his face was warring with his Botox job. “Lenore is going to kill me when she gets home.”

  “Had to be done, Martin. The cookie jar carried the curse. Now you need to bury the pieces. And you have to bury each piece separately, at least three feet apart. Be sure you say, ‘Be gone,’ over each one as you cover it with dirt.”

  Martin gaped at her. “There’s a million pieces here!”

  “Hm, not that many. Maybe only a thousand, but you’d better get started right away, hadn’t you?” Jazz turned to leave, paused in the kitchen doorway and looked back at Martin, staring at the shattered cookie jar. “One more thing, Martin.”

  “What?” he asked, not bothering to look at her.

  “It’s never good to cheat people. It only messes up your karma.”

  When Jazz climbed into the T-Bird, Irma quickly extinguished her forbidden cigarette. “Lands sake, I could hear screaming all the way out here. What did you make this one do?”