A dark, musky male scent made her nostrils flare. She didn't have to look far for its source. A broad-shouldered man, with long, black hair and a pale face marked with sharp features maneuvered his yacht towards her. His eyes burned with a cold fire that sent chills up her spine. Instinctively she created a cloaking spell and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. He passed her without incident.
Ophelia loved Italian men. Heck, she loved all men. But that guy made her insides. His dark magic singed her nerves.
What a weird day.
Ophelia's heart skipped a beat as the Palazzo Luna came into view. The palace screamed decadence, luxury, and magic. It was built in the late 17th century when the world's wealthiest traders made Venice their home and spared no expense on their living quarters. It looked like something out of a fairy tale with its Renaissance features of symmetry, Gothic columns, and arched doorways. Time had not been kind to the palace. Sinking slowly into the canal, the fading-pink palazzo had lost its first blush of beauty but it kept its elegance.
It housed elegant rooms richly decorated in gold-painted panels. Renaissance paintings by Botticelli and Piero Della Francesca hung on the walls. Scattered about lay ornate gilded furniture from the seventeenth and eighteenth century and finely crafted Murano glass vases. There was even a throne room in case royalty visited. The Palazzo Luna was a living museum.
On the north end, a circular staircase connected all the floors to a courtyard below. From the palazzo's terrace on the roof, one had an unobstructed view of the moon, making it the perfect place for her ceremony.
The palazzo had been in the hands of mages for several centuries. Rituals of magic, regularly performed within its walls, made the rooms breathe with potent alchemy. Only adept mages could enter.
The entire hotel had been reserved by the court for Ophelia's initiation. Fifty guests would be waiting for her arrival. She bit her lower lip.
"And you don't feel special," said Hexy rolling her eyes.
Earlier in the day, Penelope had sent her a short video of the preparations. Ophelia's skin tingled with anticipation as she watched it. A fae string quartet practiced in one corner, as long tables covered with white linen clothes were set with the fine crystal and china. And There were candles—lots and lots of candles. It would be a night she would never ever forget.
Hexy's whiskers twitched. "Still feel unimportant?"
Ophelia squinted at the light reflecting off the water. Tonight, she couldn't hide from her destiny. All witches could perform spells, but only a Spellbinder could bind them with power. Only one was born in every century, so like it or not, she was about to become a really big thing.
The barge's motor sputtered again. Ophelia cursed and looked up at the sky to pray. Neither worked. Pushing aside a couple wooden crates, she made her way to the stern to inspect the outboard motor. It was covered in grease and bird excrement. If she attempted to manually fix it, her gown would be ruined. Who was she kidding? She had no freaking idea how to fix a toaster, let alone an engine.
Magic could work, but she didn't dare use it. She had promised her father she would save all her reserves for the initiation, and she had already cheated on that promise twice. Once to acquire the boat, and once to cloak herself. She didn't want to undermine her initiation ceremony by using more. This time sorcery was not an option.
Ophelia tried her cell phone again, but it didn't work, so she threw it overboard.
"That's going to help," said Hexy.
"Shush," she said. "We can sink, swim, or …"
Kaboom.
Ophelia grabbed the side of the boat to steady herself as a wave of energy blasted against her body, pitching her backward. The Palazzo Luna had exploded. Flames licked the sky in plumes. Sparks and debris flew in all directions. A searing heat flamed against her cheeks.
The palace? Her initiation? Her family …
Before she could fully comprehend the horror of the scene, a board of wood flew at her. She ducked, but not in time. It hit the top of her head and pitched her into the canal. Everything went black
Hexy arched her back and let out a screeching howl.
Chapter Two
"A hero is somebody who voluntarily walks into the unknown." Tom Hanks
Marcus Adesso, a barista in a small café on San Marco's square, had been following behind Ophelia in his small motorboat. He was thinking about his girlfriend's large breasts when the explosion interrupted his thoughts. Having served in the army, he hit the deck when he heard the blast.
"Madonna," Marcus yelled as a chunk of cement landed near his shoulder. He put his arms over his head. A flaming piece of wood hit his leg. "Cazzo!" As he reached back to smack at the flame, a shard of glass pierced his right arm. He howled in pain. "Porca miseria."
Adrenalin spiked in his blood. Time slowed. His heart raced, and sweat ran down his face. His limbs trembled, and he groaned. "Cavalo."
As soon as the debris stopped hitting him, Marcus rose to his knees. Peering over the gunnels of his boat, he took in the scene. His throat tightened. He had lived in Venice his whole life and witnessed many strange things, but nothing in his past prepared him for this sight.
His hands trembled from shock as he climbed to his feet and shook scraps of metal, glass, and wood off his body.
All that was left of the Palazzo Luna was an enormous fire. Bright flames shot high into the sky, making a hissing and crackling sound. A thick layer of rubbish and ash floated on top of the canal. And the air tasted foul! Maybe a propane tank burst, he thought.
A dark mist swirled from the depths of the fire and spiraled around the surrounding area as if it hunted for victims. Marcus's gut clenched as he looked into it and saw five sets of blazing-blood-red eyes staring back at him. He grabbed for the closest life jacket, as if that could protect him, and watched as the mist chased a man dressed in an emerald robe running from the direction of where the place had stood.
The dark mist caught up to the man and circled him as if it were a pack of wolves. As the man screamed, the blackness entered his mouth. His body withered until all that was left of him was a skeleton wearing a cloak, and he crumbled to the ground.
"Mio Dio," whispered Marcus. This couldn't be happening. He shook his head. It wasn't possible. He shook his head again. Maybe, he shouldn't have drunk Aldo's homemade Grappa at lunch.
The mist turned and headed his way. Marcus dropped the life jacket and picked up an old wooden paddle. "Cazzo. Cazzo. Cazzo."
All he had to defend himself was a piece of rotting wood. "Mio Dio," he said. "I haven't been to church for a while…" Okay, a long while. And I've been banging a married woman or two. "But please, God, have mercy on my soul. I am a good man."
The darkness circled Marcus, sucking the air out of his lungs and squeezing him until his heart slowed. Just when he thought he was a goner, the strange phantom left him and floated over the water. Marcus swallowed. What had Aldo put in the damn wine? His legs trembled uncontrollably. His heart beat in a staccato rhythm.
Gasping for air, Marcus grabbed the gunnel to steady himself. As his lungs filled, he watched the black mist. It hovered over the water next to the supply barge ahead of him, and then it returned to the hotel, where it melded with the fire and sent blue flames stretching up the side of the red ones.
"Mio Dio," Marcus said. The tales of dark sorcery in the Palazzo Luna must be true. Marcus tried to swallow, but he'd run out of spit.
The air cleared, and his heartbeat steadied. Had others perished in the evil mist? He looked at the water ahead of him where the demonic cloud had hovered and noticed something below the surface glowed.
Glowed? Was he losing his mind? Nobody was going to believe his story, no matter how much Grappa they drank.
As people ran to the disaster area, Marcus motored towards the ominous glow.
The canal water, dirty with ash and rubbish, had little clarity, but as he neared the spot, he saw a body in the water. He put the motor in neutral. Reaching over the si
de of his boat, he pushed aside a Renaissance painting that had blown into the canal. He looked closer. Deep in the channel, a woman floated. And her eyes glowed. "Madonna!"
Without thought, Marcus dove into the water. As he swam down to her, his mind filled with concerns. The explosion must have knocked the woman into the water. Too many minutes had passed since the blast for her to still be alive. And why was she glowing? Could she be covered in a chemical? Or was she a demon? He considered saving himself while he still had a chance, but he didn't.
When Marcus reached her, he saw she was a young woman with long hair, delicate features, and nice curves.
He pulled her limp body to the surface. Her eyes remained closed, but she was still breathing. He rested a minute beside his boat before climbing in and looked around for help.
All around them, the canal and boardwalks were a flurry of commotion. Police and firemen had arrived, as well as many locals and tourists. It was chaos. Everyone crowded around the fire and shouted for survivors.
Marcus looked for someone on a boat to help him. Amid the canal traffic, an expensive yacht filled with long-haired men who looked as if they had just stepped off of a Medieval movie set wove its way to the scene. When the rogue at the helm saw Marcus holding the woman, he straightened his back. "Togliti di mezzo!" Get out of my way, he snarled at the boats around him. With his black eyes fixed on Marcus, the creature sped in his direction.
"Mio Dio," muttered Marcus under his breath. I have to stop drinking so much.
With a herculean lunge fuelled by fear, Marcus pulled Ophelia onboard his skiff. Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm. Her eyes were open and glowing yellow. He jumped to his engine and headed his boat towards his home.
Looking over his shoulder, he spied the boat of warriors gaining on him. His small craft was no match for their yacht on open water, but this was Venice—his Venice. While the woman lay still on the deck, Marcus maneuvering through a network of smaller side canals.
Seeing the weirdos gaining on him, he swerved out of the traffic into the basement of a palazzo. He sailed through to the other side into another side canal, took three more turns, and hid beneath an old church. After a few minutes, he inched the boat back into a side canal and, seeing the coast was clear, sailed for home.
Marcus docked beneath the much-delipidated palace he called the Palazo Abbanonato as everyone had been evicted long ago. Only he and the rats remained. The strange woman should be safe here.
She lay as still as death on the bottom of his boat. The color was returning to her cheeks.
Marcus bent over to pick her up in his arms, thankful that his muscles had stopped shaking. Carrying the comatose woman in his arms, Marcus kicked open the wooden door to his tiny apartment. He jumped at the sound of his mother's voice.
"Marcus, what are you doing?" Her hands gestured in the air. "Another woman?"
He kicked the door closed. "I can explain."
She smacked him on the side of the head. "I hear stories about you. My son! Everyone is talking about my son, the local stallion, the Romeo of Venezia." Walking closer to him, his mother peered at the woman, Marcus held in his arms. "Mio Dio! This one isn't even awake! Marcus!"
"Mama, she almost drowned."
"Is that wine I smell on your breath?" His mother smacked the side of his head again.
"Mama, I had to save her."
Marcus carefully lowered the woman's body onto the sofa. He pulled a blanket over her and stared at her heart-shaped face. She was gorgeous, but she should be dead. Any human in the canal that long would be dead. A cold shiver spiraled up his spine with tendrils that clawed at the sinew of his senses. What have I brought home?
In the distance, a bell tolled eleven times.
Something scratched at the door.
Excerpt - The Perfect Brew
The Perfect Brew
When a witch inherits trouble …
When evil rises one clumsy witch must save the world. Cassie Black is a sorceress who can’t even boil water. She inherits a sentient coffee-house, complete with an inter-dimensional portal and a side of ancient curse from her great-aunt Ophelia. When Cassie attends her funeral, she discovers her aunt’s death is suspicious.
Cassie hunts for the murderer. There are many unusual suspects, and some tempting hurdles. A tall, dark and annoying detective keeps getting in her way, and a seductive warlock offers his assistance.
Will Cassie catch the villain before he kills again? Can she protect the portal and still free herself from the curse? Will Sid, her snarky cat familiar, convince her to play dirty with the boys?
This is the first story in The Perfect Brew series, which can be read as a stand-alone. If you like stories with quirky characters, cozy-styled mystery and humor, you’ll love this one. There’s no sex or violence on the page, but be prepared for some serious romance, mystery, and magic.
Buy The Perfect Brew today to start your own magical adventure in the small Pacific Northwest town of Mystic Keep.
Chapter 1
“Human nature runs on coffee.”
One hour before sunrise on the thirteenth day of March, Cassie Black searched for signs of dark sorcery. She drove along a narrow, windy road above a small town perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Cassie’s rental car, a cherry-red Mustang convertible, offered a grand view of the rugged coast, but she wasn’t there to sight-see. She searched for evil. The mystery of the untimely death of her great-aunt Ophelia weighed heavily on her shoulders. If she could find out what happened to the old witch, then her family could find peace. But could she do it? Cassie wiggled her nose. She couldn’t even boil water with her magic, and her only training in the art of detection came from her love of reading mystery novels. Worst of all, she was accident-prone. No, she wasn’t suited for the job. Her determination would have to be enough. She breathed in the fresh air. How hard could it be to find the truth?
Cassie had done her research. The town called Mystic Keep lay on the west side of Soteria Island, southwest of Seattle. It had a population of two thousand, a hodgepodge collection of fishermen, artists and shop keepers. Tourists flooded into the area during warmer months of the year and disappeared when the winter rains started. Little statues of the town’s Keep, along with paintings of seagulls and nature poetry written by the town’s librarian sold well. One hospital, three schools, and a city hall provided basic services. Mystic Keep sounded by all accounts like a pretty little seaside town.
Sid, her familiar, sat in the passenger seat and yawned loudly. While she thought of herself as the most beautiful black cat in the world, others did not see her that way. A black cat with tufts of hair sticking out of her coat here and there, she looked as if she had just jumped out of a clothes dryer or lost a fight with a tom-cat. Sid spoke in Cassie’s mind, “I don’t care what the town looks like, as long as they have fish.”
Cassie found no mention of magic. Not in the tourist information, which focused on hiking, fishing, and camping and made Cassie buy bear spray; not in the historical records, which chronicled who begot who until Cassie fell asleep on her keyboard; not on social media posts, which focused on where the fish were biting, and made Cassie eat a lot of salmon sandwiches; not anywhere. It made no sense. Few, if any, places on earth held so little magic. Why did Ophelia choose to live here?
In front of them, on the side of the road stood a sign, “The Lookout.” Cassie eased her car onto the shoulder and stopped. “We may as well stretch our legs and have a look at the town.” With Sid at her side, Cassie followed a dirt path through fir, cedar and arbutus trees until she came upon a platform made of cedar planks built in the side of the cliff. The view was magnificent. The bay, with its tiny hamlet, lay snuggled below in a blanket of morning mist. In the shimmering pre-dawn light, the fog began to dissipate, and the distant coastal mountain range appeared, rising high above the blue ocean.
While she had expected to find an evil sorcerer, or at the very least a coven of black witches, this town appeared
perfectly normal. That is human and without any supernatural influence. But that couldn't be, she thought. She couldn't go back to her family and tell them Ophelia died a natural death in an ordinary town. No, something lay hidden here. She was sure of it. Beneath the mist and the well-cultivated tourist image, something sinister lurked. How else could Ophelia have died the way she did?
Cassie and Sid went back to the car and followed the road down the mountainside into the sleepy town. The ocean breeze tasted salty and tingled Cassie’s face. Seagulls canvassing the water’s edge for food screeched above her. The high-pitched sound of an eagle calling to its mate echoed through the morning stillness. The beauty of the Pacific Northwest seeped into her very being giving her a sense of peace, but she shook off the thought of nature being so powerful. Must be jet lag.
In the growing light, they drove along quiet side streets lined with brightly painted houses and well-kept yards. She continued her tour. The back streets, with rambling, ranch-style homes and chickens roaming in large yards had more of a rural feel. Over all, everything looked tourist-guide-perfect. Nowhere did she detect a whiff of sorcery.
They reached the center of town. Small, quaint shops built in the last century lined the main street. Cassie cataloged a spa, two bakeries with display windows filled with decadent delights, a convenience store, and a travel agency offering deals to tropical locales. Cassie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she inched along. A group of six joggers whizzed by them, with sweat glistening on their tanned faces. The place had an enchanting charm that would fit nicely in a Norman Rockwell painting.
That was the problem. It was far too ordinary a place to draw in someone with Ophelia’s wild temperament. In the only photograph Cassie had ever seen of her great-aunt, she stood on top of a New Orleans bar in a silver-sequinned gown with a microphone. Ophelia’s sultry voice drew people and put them into a euphoric trance-like state, or so Cassie had been told. Undoubtedly, the tales of the grand dame had grown over time, but the common thread in all the family stories was Ophelia’s witchy version of joie de vivre.
3 Reasons To Not Kiss A Warlock: Beware, Bewitched, Bewarlocked (Mystic Keep Universe Book 2) Page 8
