Thorn to Die

by Lacy Andersen

  Thorn to Die

  Half-Moon Witches

  Paranormal Cozy Mystery #1

  LACY ANDERSEN

  THORN to DIE

  Copyright 2017 by Lacy Andersen

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  lacyandersenauthor@gmail.com

  Cover design by Melody Simmons

  Book Interior by The Book Khaleesi

  First Edition

  Dedicated to A – my little monster

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Excerpt from A Bone to Pick

  About the Author

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  Chapter 1

  The important part of burning a witch, these days, is to get the details right. To extinguish such evil, attention to detail is key. The exact amount of wood in the pyre, the thickness of the ropes to bind the witch’s hands, and an angry mob to fan the flames. The little town of Uriville, Nebraska had them all. When it came to the art of witch burning, they were the best.

  As it was, I found myself in the midst of the angry mob on the first day of August. It was a Tuesday. Nothing special about the day. A light breeze from the south. Maybe a little too warm for my comfort, but I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t the one burning up in a bonfire.

  With as much effort as I could muster, I raised my hand above my head and tightened my fingers into a fist. “Burn her, burn her,” came from my throat in a raspy whisper. Nobody would be adding my name to the list of Academy Award nominees for this performance. “Burn the witch.” Still, it was the least I could do to save my job.

  As the woman on the pyre screamed, my gaze trailed into the laser beam focus of my nineteen year-old manager’s. Butch Hall – yes that really is his name - glared at me from across the angry mob, displeasure pulling down at the sides of his bass-shaped mouth. With a little shrug, I looked away.

  What was he angry about? I’d thrown on the 19th century bonnet over my long copper curls. A rather uncomfortable brown woolen matching dress hid my blouse and tight dark-wash jeans underneath. As far as effort went, today I’d probably have to give myself a solid B. B minus at the least. It wasn’t like I wanted to work in this tourist trap. My application had been for a temporary employee, at best.

  The beauty of Uriville came from its simplicity. A simple town in a quiet state, nestled between two busy cities with plenty of bored citizens looking for any distraction to fill their meaningless lives. Thus, the Uriville Witch Trials Reenactment Park was born. Boy, was that a mouthful.

  A cross between a permanent renaissance fair and a theme park, we had black smiths, vintage courthouses, roller coasters, and cheap hotdogs. It was all to commemorate the witch who had been burned here a hundred and fifty years ago. The only person to be tried and sentenced as a witch in the Midwest. A witch, who happens to be my ancestor.

  Magic tingled in my fingertips as I watched the actress on the fake bonfire wiggle and screech. All I wanted was to get back to my painting, but the daily performance of America at its brightest held me hostage. Michelle Dackery had been the Uriville witch for the past three tourist seasons. Dark brown eyeshadow and blush painted her narrow face, clearly not nineteenth century apparel. Still, the audience around me lapped it up. Nothing like fake violence to end a long day of tilt-o-whirl rides and stuffing your face with cotton candy.

  “And so, the town learned a fateful lesson that day,” Butch yelled, climbing the ladder to the mini stage left of the bonfire and wiping a hand over his acne scarred face. Michelle immediately quit the agonizing squeals and began to examine her hotrod red nails. “Anger and greed can be a powerful and destructive tool. Laramie Brunick was nothing but an innocent bystander. So we take a moment to pause and remember a fragile life, swept up in a tidal wave of suspicion and deadly intent.” His head bowed reverently for a moment, before popping up in a wide and toothy grin. “And thus ends the tragic tale of the Uriville Witch Trials. Thank you for coming. Tell all your friends about us.”

  A snort came from the ground below me. At my feet stood Kat – the twenty pound bag of bacon and pork chops that I’d come to call my own. I’d rescued the runty pig from a shelter a few years ago after renouncing animal products and deciding to make amends to the defenseless and furry among us. Kat was my starting point. He had a baby pink hide with large black spots from his snout to his curly little tail. Every proper witch had their own cat. Thus, Kat the pig became my witchy sidekick.

  “I completely agree, Kat. He has no clue what he’s talking about.”

  Enough was enough. Adding my own snort, I turned on my heel and made a beeline for the little shop I called Hazel’s Paintings.

  The reenactment park stood in the middle of Uriville, the pyre dead center. Scattered around it lay a dozen or so tourist shops, including my own, made to look like period appropriate buildings with rough wooden siding and whitewashed trim. The rides took up a significant portion of the northern park and a lazy river bordered it from the south. On the other side of the river, a majority of Uriville’s modern society took up residence in cookie cutter split-level homes.

  “Keep up, Kat,” I said over my shoulder. All I got was a disgruntled snort in reply.

  Stepping into my shop, I wasted no time in stripping off the bonnet and wool dress, tossing them onto the nearest wooden chair. At last, some comfort. Paint brushes and gobs of paint littered all horizontal surfaces. Sketches and half-finished paintings of smiling people papered the walls.

  Butch had hired me to do caricature drawings of the guests. In all, it wasn’t a bad gig. I kept a portion of my profits and at the same time got to spend my day doing what I loved. Well, not exactly. Painting big noses and overlarge teeth on hyperactive children hadn’t exactly been my dream. But it kept me painting.

  Kat waddled on through the doorway and straight to his cushion in the corner. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his bulging belly onto the fluffy seat and splayed out his legs in a comical imitation of Bambi on ice. I laughed and tossed one of my leftover baby carrots his way, which he gobbled down in two swift bites. Nothing like having a pig for a companion. Lightyears ahead of a cat.

  I moved toward the back of my shop and pulled a canvas from its slot. Splays of red and yellow danced across the surface, each fighting for dominion. I surveyed it for a moment, before placing it on the easel.

  “Today’s the day, Kat. I’m going to finish it.”

  He looked at me with his beady little eyes, but didn’t lift his head from the cushion.r />
  “I mean it. This thesis is going to be completed. By the time I go back to the Witch Academy for the Arts, Hazel Brunick’s senior thesis will be better than ever. Just you wait.”

  Ignoring his disbelieving snort, I pulled a paintbrush from the clay pot on my left. Work day was over. No more interruptions and no more cheesy drawings. This was it. I’d put off the work for more than a year now. I was already twenty-five years old. If I ever wanted to complete my degree, I had to finish it. Today was the day.

  Magic tingled in the pads of my fingers. With my index finger and thumb, I grasped a bit of formula from the pots of colorful powders next to the brushes. Every proper witch artist created her own paints. It was part of the magic. A pinch of turmeric yellow. A dab of boysenberry purple. Two drops of lichen orange.

  A magical hum swept through my body and into the mixture. When the color reached the perfect shade, I’d instantly know. It was a gift I’d had since childhood. Every witch had a magical gift or talent that she nurtured. Art was mine. The magic flowing through my blood picked up on the fine vibrations of my subject. As a result, every picture I created contained a bit of the subject’s essence.

  It was the only way I knew how to create art. It made the paintings seem alive, even to the clueless non-magical folk who strolled through here every day. They loved my work and the honesty of the pictures, but didn’t know why.

  Seconds away from dipping my paintbrush in the perfect purple shade that had begun to form, a knock at the door ripped through my concentration like a needle scratching across my vintage Barry White vinyl record.

  “Shop’s closed,” I snarled, whipping around to glare at the intruder.

  My body froze when I caught sight of the offender. A police officer stood in the doorway, wearing a dark blue uniform that hugged him in all the right places. The black belt that clung to his athletic waist held a gun and a shiny pair of handcuffs in place. My eyes drifted upward to his face. He had a square jaw, with a hint of stubble, and closely cropped blond hair that fell above baby blue eyes.

  My stomach did one somersault before I forced it back into place and set my mouth in a grim line. “Hello, Officer Larson. How can I help you?”

  Ian Larson was a small town treasure. All-state quarterback, prom king, and college graduate who returned home to protect the citizens of his alma mater. The bachelorettes of Uriville practically drooled in his wake. Not me, though. I was immune to the likes of Officer Pretty-Boy.

  “Hazy, we’ve talked about this.” He walked into the shop, using the nickname I’d hated since childhood, and crouched down in front of Kat, scratching the spot right behind his flappy ears. The little traitor squirmed with delight, kicking out his back feet. “Section 4B, subsection C of the town ordinance. You can’t have a farm animal in city limits.”

  I huffed and dropped my paintbrush. “Kat’s not a farm animal. He’s my pet. You allow dogs and cats and all kinds of furry little rodents. You can’t kick him out. It’s practically racist. It’s pig-ist.”

  He sighed and turned his baby blue eyes toward me. “According to the ordinance, farm animals include those of the swine variety.”

  In a display of ultimate feminine grace, I rushed to stand my ground and ended up tripping over my own feet. He caught my arm and righted me as I swore under my breath.

  If Hazel Brunick had been born with a curse, klutziness was it. I could trip over a speck of dust. It didn’t lend any confidence to my swagger. With cheeks burning, I steadied myself and pulled away from him. “You’re going to hurt his feelings. Kat’s not swine, he’s family. I can’t believe you’d make such a rude comment.”

  “Hazel, I’m being serious…”

  “So am I. The pig stays.”

  He pulled a small notepad out of his pocket and scribbled on it. I stood and crossed my arms, waiting for the next assault. Mom and I had been back in Uriville for only four weeks now, but this wasn’t the first time Ian Larson and I had clashed over Kat.

  Attention from law enforcers was the last thing I needed right now. The mess I’d left behind in Arizona hung over my head like a guillotine itching to slice. Mom’s emotions were as fragile as a nest of robin’s eggs in a storm. She wouldn’t be able to handle any more drama. In Uriville, Mom and I had a fresh start. We needed to keep it that way.

  Ian tore the sheet of paper off the pad and shoved it in my hands. “For violation of Section 4B, subsection C, you’re being ticketed. If you feel this has been given to you in error, you can present your case in court on the 10th.”

  I looked down at the flimsy piece of paper. In hasty scrawl at the top was the three hundred and fifty dollar fine. My jaw hit the floor. “Three hundred and fifty dollars? Are you kidding me, Ian? For a pig?”

  He tilted his head to the side as if to say I’d left him no other choice. I wanted to hate the sympathetic look on his face and the way he raised his hands in defense. The least he could’ve done was acted smug about it. Then, I could’ve had a real reason to hate him.

  Chatter came through the radio attached to his shoulder. A woman’s voice burst through the noise, sounding less than enthused. “Officer Larson, we have a ten-fifteen at the corner of Cherry and Roosevelt. Andy Jenkings and Allen White are at it again. Something about water rights.”

  Ian cursed through his teeth and leaned into the radio. “Ten-four, Cindy. I’m on it.” He rolled his eyes and looked at me. “This is the third time this week. I swear, all those two do all day is argue about water waste.”

  I shrugged, the ticket still hot in my hand.

  “Leave the pig at home,” he pled on his way out the door. “Please, Hazy, for my sake.”

  As he walked out of sight, I hurled my ruined batch of paint on the ground and stuck my tongue out at his back. Kat grunted in agreement, turning over to his back to settle in for a short piggy-nap.

  Chapter 2

  The ramshackle front of Brunick Manor towered above me as I made my way home from work, Kat wheezing next to my ankles from the mile and a half jaunt. Twisting my fingers into a good luck sign, I threw a prayer out to the elements that my mother, whom I’d called Momma Tula since before I could remember, would be up and about this evening.

  It was four weeks ago today that we showed up on Grammy Jo’s doorstep, two stray dogs looking for sanctuary. She’d taken one hard look at us and stepped aside, making room for the proverbial lost children. No questions about Arizona or why we hadn’t called. Just a hot cup of herbal tea and vanilla wafer cookies shoved in our hands.

  Not ten minutes after we arrived, Momma Tula had buried herself in her old bed and refused to move, unless coerced by me or one of her two older sisters, Aunt Piper and Aunt Viv. And that was how she remained, a hollow and empty shell of the mother I used to love.

  Returning to school was out of the question. She needed me now, more than ever. For the time being, Uriville was my home. As much as it killed me to stay in this one-horse town, leaving her was worse. I could suck it up for her.

  A deafening roar sounded behind me. Kat and I both turned to watch my cousin, Raven, ride in on her sleek black Buell motorcycle – her mom, Aunt Viv, called it a modern day broomstick. She tore off her helmet, revealing a headful of straight dark brown hair that stopped at the middle of her back. Her thick black lashes didn’t need an ounce of mascara, so she didn’t wear much makeup, except for her customary dark brown-red lipstick. Standing at 6’1” in a tight-fitting black tee and jeans with matching killer heels, she was something fierce to behold.

  Not two seconds later, my other cousin rolled into the drive in her vintage baby blue VW beetle. If Raven was dark and menacing, Blythe was the exact opposite. Petite and girly, with a Dolly Parton figure and the clothes to show it off. Popping out of the vehicle, she practically tap danced her way toward me, a big grin plastered on her face.

  “What’s for dinner? Lasagna? Eggplant parmesan? No, wait, is that enchiladas I smell?”

  She didn’t give me the chance to answer. Flying pas
t me in a cloud of an annoyingly girly perfume, she followed the scent straight into Grammy Jo’s kitchen.

  “Hey,” I said to Raven.

  “Hmph,” she returned with a slight nod of her head. Not a big talker, this one.

  We followed our cousin into the dining room, where my aunts and Grammy Jo already bustled around a crowded table. A giant cauldron bubbled and stewed over an open flame on the stove. Could you say stereotypical?

  I took one glance around the room and headed up the stairs, into the bedroom I shared with Momma Tula. Everything was bathed in darkness. I snapped my fingers and a small flame appeared above my hand. It was one of the few witchy tricks I could do without a wand and an intricate spell. The flickering light chased the dark away, revealing the contents of our bedroom. Sure enough, a small bundle lay hidden beneath the faded paisley comforter. I yanked it back, revealing her thin frame that used to be athletic and strong, like mine.

  “Dinner time.” My voice was abnormally loud. “You need to eat. Let’s go.”

  It took nearly 10 minutes to drag her out of bed, into something that didn’t resemble flannel PJs, and run a brush through her wild blonde hair. By the time we made it to the dining room, everyone else was seated and an argument had already started.

  “They’re not getting into your castor bean plants, Grammy Jo. I asked them myself.” Raven splayed her fingers in front of her face as if to hide behind them. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “All I know is, some critter’s been digging in them plants.” Grammy Jo motioned toward the cauldron boiling on the stove. “I need them to create my castor oil potions. If I catch a raccoon in there, you can be sure it’ll be turned into a hat before I can snap my fingers.”

  A pocket of hot air caught in my throat. For as harmless as Grammy Jo looked in her loose blouse and eccentrically patterned leggings that clung to her chicken legs, the old lady could pack a wallop. I set a mental reminder to make sure Kat never ended up on her bad side. Grammy didn’t mind a side of bacon with her morning coffee.