THE WITCH’S BEAUTY
Book Four of the One Part Witch Series
IRIS KINCAID
THE WITCH’S BEAUTY
Copyright 2018 by Iris Kincaid
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design by Kerri Knutson
Editing by Valorie Clifton
ISBN - 13: 978-1984268136
ISBN - 10: 1984268139
CHAPTER ONE
The gray hairs were coming in faster than Lorna Sinclair could pluck them out.
“I hope you’re not pulling them out,” her friend Melody remarked, standing next to her in their small employee bathroom. Melody was a sweet-faced woman in her early fifties. She was far from glamorous or fashionable, but was scrupulously well-groomed. “You should go to my beauty salon, Millie’s. It’s not the fanciest, but it’s really affordable. And she does highlights so well. Subtle. I’ll find her number for you.”
Lorna shook her head at her helpful friend. The concept of going to a beauty salon seemed ludicrous. She would be embarrassed to walk through the door and to give the impression that she believed anything could be done to help her look prettier.
No, she would accept her gray hairs. It was completely irrational to be so disturbed by them. For many other people, the signs of age signified the end of beauty and the end of hope. But those things had been stolen from her some thirty years ago, and that really should have been sufficient time to come to terms with their loss.
A horrific car accident and explosion at the age of twelve had taken the lives of her parents and left her face badly scarred and disfigured. She was lucky to have been spared, or so she told herself repeatedly over the years. But no one who loses their parents feels lucky. Her father was a musician, whose work had kept him on the road, and she had barely known him. But her mother was the one who had given her a sense of warm belonging and filled her with dreams and possibilities.
It was a pivotal moment in life, twelve years of age. She was just starting to pull her nose out of books and take notice of boys. Just starting to care about what her clothes looked like. Just starting to experiment with different hairstyles. And just starting to envision the day she would walk hand-in-hand with her first boyfriend.
In the blink of an eye, that parallel universe of a wondrous future was gone. In its place, nearly a dozen painful operations, a retreat into isolation and solitude, and the loss of all dreams, save the ones that came to entertain her unconscious mind in the dead of night.
That was where he lived, that too good to be true, imaginary man who didn’t care about what she looked like. Funny, but her dreams weren’t about being normal or beautiful. They were about finding a man who wouldn’t care, who would love her in spite of everything.
But that’s not the way Beauty and the Beast was conceived. The beast was a man, and the one who was capable of loving him, in spite of everything, was a woman. It never could have been written the other way around. Wasn’t every fairytale princess and heroine a jaw-dropping beauty?
On the one hand, those were just childhood stories. But at some point, don’t they sink in and become expectation? Lorna had no illusions. She had met sweet, compassionate, charitable men throughout her life—none of whom had ever given her serious romantic consideration.
Her greatest social sustenance in recent years were her coworkers, who had provided her with an especially comfortable haven at Oyster Cove Public Library. Truth be told, they were a bunch of misfits, the lot of them. Eighty percent of the staff had never married, meaning that Lorna wasn’t the only one who seemed destined for a spinster grave. She was well aware that her colleagues would strenuously object to the term spinster. It was a harsh, old-fashioned word, but apropos for a gut-wrenching harsh reality. Who wants to spend the entirety of their life crawling into an empty bed and waking up to silence?
Sometimes, Lorna would scold herself for being such a sad sack drama queen. Her colleagues seem to be happily reconciled to their nerdy lifestyles. Yes, they were a bit clothing challenged. A bit socially awkward. And they proudly paraded a multitude of old-fashioned and eccentric hobbies, such as Bridge played while wearing one’s latest ComiCon outfit! They created annual awards for their Pictionary and Yahtzee game night champions. But it was their very unhip strangeness that made her feel perfectly at home. All were a bit out of step with the larger society, and all were welcome. Bad clothes, good hearts.
The Oyster Cove Public Library was a far grander institution than one might have predicted based on the town’s modest population size. It was only about twenty years old and had been created with a grant from one of Oyster Cove’s wealthiest citizens, who, as luck would have it, was also a devoted bibliophile.
It was a sprawling two-story building with an additional facility across the street, connected with a glass bridge on the second floors. The main building was filled with a generous selection of over 250,000 volumes, ten meeting and study rooms, a dozen computers available, in addition to the computer lab across the street, and all the desks and comfy leather reading chairs that anyone could possibly want.
It also had a satisfying little glimmer of celebrity association. A handful of notable authors resided in Oyster Cove, and the two biggest names in town were regular patrons of the library.
Elliot Guest had the most impressive literary credentials, having won countless prestigious awards. He managed to avoid the sophomore curse—his second book was even more warmly praised than his first.
His third book was looked forward to with great anticipation by a national audience. It was coming out a bit more slowly than he would have liked because of his teaching commitments. He was a creative writing instructor at the local community college. Being a great author may bring great acclaim, but not always great wealth.
An exception to this rule was Stella Kirby, who had only written one book, and it had brought her enormous wealth, not to mention a humongous advance for her next book. Unlike Elliot’s highbrow artistic rendering, Stella’s book, the suggestively titled Lobster Bay, After Hours, fell into the realm of salacious gossip. She wrote about the affairs and scandals and crimes of the thinly disguised citizens of an artsy beach town called Lobster Bay. It bore too many resemblances to Oyster Cove for anyone to mistake her intention.
More disturbingly, or entertainingly, depending on one’s viewpoint, was the fact that all her major characters seem to be based on living people and their real-life foibles and entanglements. Of course, Stella would never want to be sued for libel, so real names were never used. But real initials were! It wasn’t that difficult to figure out who was who, although there were a few mysterious initials that were hard to match up and had Stella’s local fans clamoring for more information.
The two authors were not friends. They had briefly belonged to the same book club that met at the library, but Elliot soon found Stella’s influence intolerable. He’d watched the book club that he’d loved turn from a salon of artistic and philosophical discussion toward a tawdry den of gossip, with everyone fawning over that so-called author. The fact that Stella had earned thirty times as much as he had for their first books played no small part in his resentment. The book club was simply not big enough for the two of them, and he’d departed in an angry huff.
He still came to work in the library several days a week, as did Stella, but he did his best to stay clear of her, and the librarians did their best to keep the peace. After all, the public library should be big enough to cater to the widest variety of human persona
lities and needs. Although if pressed, just between themselves, none of the librarians was overly fond of Stella. Not only was she a bit loud and insensitive, but she also had this annoying habit of constantly licking her fingers to get them to stick to the pages as she thumbed through library volumes. Eesh! It was not a pleasant prospect for those who had to handle the pages after her.
*****
Sometimes, Lorna would go for an entire day without setting foot outside the back office. It was just such a safe retreat. Everyone was used to her, everyone was kind, no one stared, and she didn’t have to feel like a monster. Not that tactful adults would ever treat her like that, but they often did a double-take, which never failed to make her heart sink. And children were the worst. They are constantly pointing and asking their parents what was wrong with Lorna. The embarrassed parents would always shush them and say they would explain when they got out to the car.
But today, she really felt the need of fresh air. Just a little stroll around the block. It would only take about twenty minutes. Then she could buckle down and try to make headway on a bit of tedious paperwork.
It was a lovely neighborhood. Oyster Cove had a well-deserved reputation as a city of artists, and it was evident in almost every yard. Creative color combinations. Gorgeous gardens. Statues, fountains, murals, and birdfeeders that looked as if they belong in a museum. Elegant deck furniture, and bushes and hedges sculpted to resemble a wide variety of the animal kingdom. Whenever Lorna made time for this walk, she was always well rewarded.
As she returned and neared the library entrance, she saw something that should have warmed her romantic heart but instead filled her with sadness and despair. She saw a very plain, nondescript middle-aged couple walking back to their car. She had seen them before on at least half a dozen occasions. But they never saw her—they were too wrapped up in one another.
She had seen them gazing lovingly at one another across a study table, hands touching underneath it. She had seen them whisper to one another and the ecstatic response of the listener. It was so evident how lucky they felt to have found one another.
And now they were headed back to their car, hand-in-hand. What did it feel like to have your hand held like that? Lorna wouldn’t know. Her hands had been clasped in sympathy by a compassionate nurse. But never by a man. Nor had her cheek ever been caressed. Nor had her lips ever been kissed. That plain, unremarkable looking woman had all the happiness that Lorna had ever dreamed of.
But she would never have that experience of love—any experience of love. When she was younger, she could indulge in all kinds of fantasies about miracle surgeries and a face that allowed her to live in the world as an ordinary woman. She didn’t have to be a remarkable looking woman, as this fortunate woman was living proof. Finding tremendous love was within the realm of possibility even for an ordinary looking woman. But not for the monstrously deformed.
At the age of forty-two, she was close to the halfway mark in life. Her youth was gone, such as it was. It had been devoid of the giddy frivolity and romance that accompany most youthful phases. Instead, hers had been a life devoted to hiding in the shadows. She chose her profession very carefully. She would never have wanted to be a typical librarian, with all the never-ending contact with the public that it involved. But she very carefully developed her skill base to qualify for the administrative side, a role that would allow her to remain largely out of sight.
Just accept it! Just accept it! she told herself sternly. That will never be you. That grim, horrible resignation caused the tears to flow so heavily that Lorna failed to notice the kindly white-haired, older gentleman who had stopped beside her.
His name was Dr. Svenson, and he was a transplant specialist. Most of his career had been spent anxiously waiting for suitable organs to become available for his patients, who were in dire need of lifesaving operations. But this past year, his career had taken a turn that he never could have foreseen in his wildest dreams.
He had in his possession the organs of Lilith Hazelwood. In life, she had been Oyster Cove’s most powerful and fearsome witch. In death, she was one enraged ghost who was determined to uncover the identity of the villain who had engineered her untimely death. Whereupon, she would seek the vengeance to which she was undeniably entitled. While Dr. Svenson was not unaware that Lilith’s restless spirit was monitoring the destinies of her remarkable organs, he chose only to concern himself with the magical and lifesaving qualities of the body parts that were now his to bestow.
Dr. Svenson did not flatter himself that he was an overly sensitive or empathetic man. Often, he found the realm of emotions downright baffling. But there was no mistaking Lorna’s depth of pain. And as his eyes followed the path from her scarred face to the cozy scene of the love-struck couple, there was no doubt in his mind which remedy was required.
“My name is Dr. Svenson,” he said, trying to give her a moment to collect herself. “I’m a transplant specialist. I see that you have already had a number of operations. The extent of the burns is very severe. Who is your doctor?”
Lorna had spoken about her medical condition to so many doctors and nurses that this line of questioning didn’t feel strange to her. “Dr. Allison Gordon.”
Dr. Svenson nodded. “She’s very good. The best available. But . . . there are some experimental skin graft procedures and collagen extract serums that she may not have access to. In fact, I know with certainty that she does not have access to them. I have the feeling that you have been through a very long, hard road. Are you willing to travel one last mile to reach your destination?”
The physical pain of these operations and the emotional torment of the aftermath when Lorna discovered time and time again that her face could not be repaired . . . all of these failures were flashing through her mind as she contemplated the possibility of embarking on yet another hopeless quest. But what was it about this doctor? His confidence. His certainty.
“I don’t know if my insurance will cover any more operations,” Lorna whispered.
“Pro bono,” the doctor said firmly. “Tell your employer that you will need three days off. Talk to Dr. Gordon and any other specialists you’d like to confirm the success of my recent transplant record. And call my office tomorrow to schedule the operation.”
He left Lorna clutching his card in her hands as if it were an invitation to see the Queen, a Powerball winner, and Willy Wonka’s golden ticket all rolled up into one. Was this her dream of love and happiness, coming to her at her darkest moment of despair?
*****
“Skin grafts? Have you ever done that kind of thing before?” Dr. Svenson’s earnest young assistant, Ruby Townsend, asked incredulously. “I thought that you only did organs.”
“But the skin is an organ—the body’s largest organ. And it has been some time since I did a graft. Since before you came to work for me. But I don’t anticipate any difficulties. I have excellent recall and the mechanics of the operation are not difficult.”
“But the compatibility between this woman and our unusual donor—”
“It is because of our donor that I have such confidence. Have you noticed that of all the young ladies who have received organs from Lilith Hazelwood, none of them have had any rejection? None of them have had a failure. In almost all cases, they disobeyed my orders and discontinued their medications, and they suffered no ill effects.
“In the same way that someone’s blood type can make them a universal donor, Lilith Hazelwood’s body has a universal compatibility, a tremendous adaptive power to thrive wherever it is planted.
“At first, I was filled with hesitations and doubts. Now, I have a one hundred percent expectation of success. I know the burn can be repaired. I know it. As for the collagen extract, that is, of course, quite experimental. But these past transplants have given me every reason for hope. And while I know very little about this woman, I care about this result very much. When you meet her, I think you will feel the same way.”
Ruby nodded. She h
ad seen miraculous things happen in the aftermath of these organ transplants. Though she and the doctor had bent every transplant law in existence, neither of them had regretted the lives they had been able to transform.
Lilith Hazelwood had become quite accustomed to her new bodiless existence, her death having occurred quite some time ago. She listened to the doctor’s plans with great interest. At the time of her very untimely death, she’d had the unblemished skin of a twenty-five year old, despite her ninety-two years, and the outward appearance of a woman in her late thirties. And a gorgeous appearance at that, owing to natural gifts heightened by magical enhancement.
As she watched the newest transplant patient, Lilith could see that this young woman could use all the help she could get. And if the operation was successful—and wasn’t Dr. Svenson the cocky one to take such credit for the magical strength of her body parts?—Lorna would owe Lilith a very great debt.
There was only one currency of repayment of any value to Lilith—revenge. She had been killed by a bolt of lightning. It was no act of nature but a weapon of the dark arts. Who had exercised it and cut her years short? Lilith fully expected to make it to 120 or 130 years of age. Perhaps longer. The immensity of her powers dwarfed those of any witch in town. There was every reason to assume that her longevity would have done the same. But now, she would never know.
The only thing she had to look forward to was finding out the identity of her nemesis and making sure they died a slow, torturous, and well-deserved death. And for that, she would need earthly assistance. Dr. Svenson was supplying her with a number of transplant heirs, one or more of whom she intended to press into service to help her claim of her vengeance. With that end in mind, she kept a hopeful eye on Lorna.
CHAPTER TWO
It was just as well that Lorna was still under heavy sedation when the doctor came in to check on her progress. His loud cry of surprise was not enough to wake her, and he was free to assess the transformation of her appearance at great and astonished length.
The Witch's Beauty (A Cozy Witch Mystery) Page 1
