Close Encounters of the Witchy Kind
A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Fantasy Book Six
Amanda M. Lee
WinchesterShaw Publications
Copyright © 2018 by Amanda M. Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Alien Inspiration
1. One
Alien Inspiration
2. Two
Alien Inspiration
3. Three
Alien Inspiration
4. Four
Alien Inspiration
5. Five
Alien Inspiration
6. Six
Alien Inspiration
7. Seven
Alien Inspiration
8. Eight
Alien Inspiration
9. Nine
Alien Inspiration
10. Ten
Alien Inspiration
11. Eleven
Alien Inspiration
12. Twelve
Alien Inspiration
13. Thirteen
Alien Inspiration
14. Fourteen
Alien Inspiration
15. Fifteen
Alien Inspiration
16. Sixteen
Alien Inspiration
17. Seventeen
Alien Inspiration
18. Eighteen
Alien Inspiration
19. Nineteen
Alien Inspiration
20. Twenty
Mailing List
About the Author
Books by Amanda M. Lee
Alien Inspiration
Why would aliens choose to visit Hemlock Cove? We have a pewter unicorn store. That should convince them that we’re devoid of intelligent life.
Bay on the odds of aliens landing in town
One
A long time ago, in an inn far, far away … .
“I think you should put a big portrait of me right here, so when you’re working and feeling lonely you can simply stare at the wall and see the most influential person in your life watching you.”
I looked up from where I sat cross-legged on the floor — I was sorting through folders and documents for my new filing cabinet — and graced my cousin Thistle with a dark look. Her hair, a bright shade of pink that was more Pepto-Bismol than perky, was so bright it clashed with the lavender color I’d picked for the walls of my new office.
“Why would I possibly want a portrait of you?” I asked, legitimately curious.
“I just told you. I’m the most influential person in your life.”
Either she was delusional or trying to goad me. I leaned toward the latter. “Uh-huh.” I turned back to my organizational efforts. “I’m almost done. Once I finish with the files, The Whistler offices will be completely reorganized and all memory of Brian Kelly will be gone.”
“I bet you can’t wait for that,” my other cousin, Clove, enthused. Her dark brown hair hung past her shoulders. She was the shortest member of our terrible threesome, so she often felt the need to talk loudly to overcompensate. Today was no exception. “I know I would be throwing a party to get the stink off the building.”
“I think that would be a little juvenile.”
Thistle made a face. “Since when does that matter? We were taught how to be juvenile delinquents by the very best. Speaking of that, have you considered calling Aunt Tillie to do a cleansing of this place? I know the idea of letting her inside goes against your survival instincts, but in this one instance she might be some help.”
That sounded unlikely. My great-aunt was the sort to shorten my lifespan, not increase it. Sure, she was elderly and helped raise us and I loved her. She was also nutty, vindictive and occasionally so nasty that I preferred hiding from her. Yes, she’s just that powerful. Still, I got along better with her than Thistle. If Thistle was suggesting that I invite her inside my new business offices — yes, I, Bay Winchester, am officially a business owner — then she must have sensed something even worse than I’d initially envisioned.
“Why would I possibly invite Aunt Tillie here?” I challenged. “She’ll try to take over the decorating process.”
Thistle wrinkled her nose as she looked at the bare walls. “She couldn’t possibly make things worse.”
I scowled. “I’m still deciding how I want to decorate. It’s a big decision. There’s nothing wrong with taking my time and really putting some thought into decorating.”
Thistle rolled her eyes so hard she gave the impression that she was tilting to the side. “Whatever.”
“No, really. I agree with Bay,” Clove argued, shaking her head. “This is her space now. She deserves the right to decorate it how she wants.”
I beamed at my cousin. “Thank you, Clove.”
Clove returned the smile. “You’re welcome, Bay.”
“Oh, both of you are total pains in my backside,” Thistle complained loudly. “Why don’t you back up the mutual admiration train and actually look at this analytically? This office is purple — which I like — but the walls are empty. How can you work in a room that doesn’t have any art to inspire you?”
Sadly, she had a point. I was so excited when the opportunity to buy Hemlock Cove’s only newspaper arose — I grew up in town, so when I decided to be a journalist I cut my teeth at the facility with the former owner, William Kelly — I couldn’t see beyond signing the papers and closing the deal. Part of me believed I would never really own the newspaper and William’s weaselly grandson Brian would find a way to screw me out of what I so desperately wanted. So when the papers went through I was surprised. Now, several weeks in, I was starting to wrap my head around some of it ... although other parts remained elusive.
“I’m going to put art up in here,” I repeated, finding my voice. “I want it to be good art, though. As for feeling inspired, let’s be honest, this is a small town. Last week’s top story was about the hybrid roses Brad Tolliver is planting in his greenhouse to liven up the summer festivals. Some things can’t be livened up no matter how inspired you are.”
Clove snickered as Thistle made an exaggerated face.
“I saw photographs of those roses,” Clove volunteered in an effort to change the subject. Ever the peacemaker, she was often uncomfortable when Thistle and I started going at it. “They’re called rainbow roses, and they’re amazing. They’re, like, eight different colors. They’re so cool.”
“I’ve seen photographs online,” I acknowledged. “I showed them to Landon and told him the next time he wants to buy me something to get me in the mood he should look in that direction.”
In addition to being my live-in boyfriend, Landon Michaels is an FBI agent. He was based out of the Traverse City office, but he’d recently convinced his boss that moving away from the office (and in with me) would improve his productivity. I wasn’t sure he would actually be able to carry through on that promise, but sharing a roof with him was more fun than I’d expected. Things were going well. Between my new living arrangements and becoming my own boss, I didn’t have much to complain about. But I’m suspicious and cynical by nature so that naturally means I believe something bad is doomed to happen.
What? That’s simply how I roll. If things are good for too long, I understand that they
will go bad ... and quickly. That’s the natural order of things. As a witch — yes, I’m really a witch and can cast spells and talk to ghosts (amongst other things) — I have faith there’s a natural order to the world. As part of that order, good must always follow bad. The universe is cyclical in nature. Things had been good for weeks, not a gray cloud in sight. That couldn’t possibly last.
“Landon will buy you a bouquet of bacon before you get rainbow roses,” Thistle argued. “His mind doesn’t work to include girly things like that. Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t mean to be a dude.”
“I’m not taking it personally.” I meant it. I didn’t need flowers. I was simply amazed by how pretty the rainbow roses were when I started researching them and couldn’t stop myself from showing them to my boyfriend. “Landon helped me buy The Whistler. I definitely don’t need flowers.”
“That’s true.” Clove was always optimistic. Her eyes gleamed when I reminded her exactly how The Whistler fell into my hands. “He also threatened Brian with great bodily harm if he messed with you again. That’s definitely better than flowers.”
“Bay didn’t need Landon to threaten Brian,” Thistle reminded her. “We could’ve done it ourselves ... and been a lot more inventive.”
She wasn’t wrong. “I’m just glad he’s gone. I thought for sure he’d come back and give me grief — or maybe try another trick like he did with the closing documents when he tried to screw me out of everything — but ultimately he just slunk away.”
“You almost sound disappointed about that,” Thistle noted. “Shouldn’t you be happy that he took off the way he did?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer the question. “I don’t know,” I said finally. “I expected more. It’s not that I’m disappointed he left without saying goodbye or taking another parting shot. It’s more that I can’t believe he’d simply give up the way he did. And I’m worried he’ll come back and try to pick another fight.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Clove said. “He’s too afraid of Aunt Tillie. He knows if he comes back to town that she’ll castrate him — without anesthesia — so he really is doing himself a favor by letting this go. If he wanted to hold onto the newspaper, he shouldn’t have tried to fire you the way he did.”
The memory still smarted. “Yeah, well, let’s talk about something else.” I dusted my hands off on my jeans as I finished organizing. “That’s it for the files.” I placed the folders where they belonged in the horizontal cabinet and slid it shut. “My office is officially organized.”
“And still devoid of art,” Thistle groused, earning a dark look from me.
“The art will come,” I fired back. “In fact, Landon and I are talking about going to that art show in Traverse City next weekend. It’s supposed to be cool, with a lot of local artists. He suggested it.”
“Because he knows an office without art is boring,” Thistle pressed.
I was officially at my limit and could no longer rein in my temper. “Do you want me to take you outside and fill your mouth — which you can’t seem to keep shut — with dirt? I’m willing to go that route for five minutes of peace.”
Thistle didn’t look particularly worried by my threat. “You’re all talk. I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Pfft. Whatever.” Thistle planted her hands on her hips as she looked around the room. “That art festival is probably a good idea. I’ll talk to Landon and make sure he doesn’t leave without forcing you to buy something.”
“Why are you so bothered by the lack of art?” I challenged. “This isn’t your space. You have a new house to decorate and a store you can gussy up whenever you want.”
“First off, I can’t gussy up the store whenever I want,” Thistle argued. “I don’t like that word, by the way. Gussy. It sounds like someone has eaten too many baked beans.”
“Ugh. You’re so gross.” Clove flicked Thistle’s ear as she passed behind her. “Do you always have to take it to a crass place?”
“I don’t believe I’m talking to you,” Thistle shot back. “As for the store, I share it with this one.” She jerked a thumb in Clove’s direction. “Our decorating tastes don’t often mesh. Re-decorating the store is a bad idea because it will result in weeks of fighting.”
“That’s because you want to decorate with skulls. Your taste is morbid and annoying,” Clove said.
“Sugar skulls,” Thistle corrected. “I want sugar skulls. They’re cute and awesome, and I’m convinced they’ll draw more tourists into the store because everyone loves sugar skulls right now.”
As loath as I was to admit Thistle was right, I always wanted their magic store to thrive, so I couldn’t help agreeing with her. “You know, Thistle has a point,” I supplied. “People do love sugar skulls ... and catrinas ... and anything Day of the Dead-ish. All that stuff is really big these days.”
“Oh, I see you’re on her side now.” Clove’s tone was withering and I recognized she was about to blow a gasket. “I see how things are.”
“Oh, geez.” I threw up my hands. “I give up. Let’s go back to arguing about decorating this office.”
Thistle snickered. “I think you should let me decorate.”
“You have a new house to decorate,” I reminded her. “Your boyfriend recognized you were weird enough to jump at the chance to move into a converted barn. I thought you were having a field day decorating that.”
“I am.” Thistle’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “It’s just ... Marcus doesn’t always appreciate my decorating fervor. I was going to bring that up when we started talking about the store. That’s why I said ‘first off.’ I had a second off. You distracted me and I forgot about it.”
“Fine.” I recognized the tone. Thistle was about to unleash one of her world-famous moods on us. It wasn’t going to be pretty. I was familiar enough with her work to understand that. “Are you saying that Marcus won’t let you decorate your own house?”
“It’s not that,” Thistle hedged. “It’s just ... does Landon want to be involved in decorating the guesthouse with you? I mean ... is he interested in picking out art and knickknacks for the shelves?”
I tilted my head to the side, considering. “I don’t know,” I answered finally. “He doesn’t push me on things like that. We just got all our stuff arranged how we like it. We haven’t talked much about decorations.”
“Well, Marcus and I have,” Thistle said. “He wants to have a say in everything I put up. I think that’s ludicrous. I’m an artist, for crying out loud. He’s not an artist.”
Marcus was so easygoing I had trouble imagining him doing anything of the sort. He tended to dote on Thistle, while still reining her in when she threatened to get out of control. He was the best possible match for her, and I couldn’t imagine anyone else ever handling her as well as he did. “You’re a store owner who dabbles as an artist,” I corrected. “I’ve seen your work and it’s beautiful. What doesn’t Marcus want in the house?”
“I might have made a sculpture he doesn’t like,” Thistle admitted.
Oh, well, my interest was officially piqued. “What kind of sculpture?”
“Yeah, I want to know, too,” Clove interjected, her eyes lighting with potential mayhem. She could sense when things were about to shift, and she was always looking for an edge in her ongoing battle with Thistle. “Spill.”
“I thought he would like the sculpture,” Thistle said. “I thought he would take one look at it and cry or something. Okay, maybe not cry. There was a chance for him to turn misty. That’s how cool it was.”
I was practically salivating. There was a reason she wasn’t describing the sculpture. I had to know what it was. “And what did this cool sculpture look like?”
“It’s a woman. Actually, it’s a witch, although she looks like a normal woman because witches don’t have horns or anything to differentiate them.”
“Uh-huh.” I stared hard into her eyes, willing her to admit the part she was so de
sperately trying to keep hidden.
“Fine. It was a naked woman.”
I bit back a laugh as Clove’s cheeks reddened and Thistle folded her arms over her chest, practically daring me to push the issue.
“Naked?” Clove sputtered. “You made a sculpture of a naked woman and put it in your new house?”
“Marcus won’t let me put it in the house,” Thistle countered. “He didn’t like it from the start — I mean, he looked at it and then just walked away without saying a word — but then he accidentally thought it was a burglar when he got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and he said it had to go.”
It took everything I had not to burst out laughing. “So ... where is this sculpture now?”
Thistle narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. “I’m not telling you. You’ll steal her.”
That was hardly what I had in mind. “I simply want to see her. I’m sure Marcus is overreacting. I can’t take your side in an argument if I don’t have a basis to form my own argument.”
“Yeah, what she said,” Clove echoed. “Also, we want to see the naked chick. I mean ... did you go into really fine detail? Is it like ... pornographic?”
Thistle glared so hard I was surprised laser bolts didn’t shoot out of her eyes and disintegrate Clove. “It’s tasteful, you ninny. I know you don’t understand what that means, but I spent a lot of time on that sculpture.”
Close Encounters of the Witchy Kind (A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Fantasy Book 6) Page 1
