A Very British Witch Boxed Set

by Isobella Crowley

  Scarlett smiled. “Thank you,” she said, sitting back.

  As Ronnie stepped out of the office to retrieve Jade’s client list, Scarlett turned to face Amanda. Her roommate had listened quietly to the exchange. Now, she stared back at Scarlett with an expression that could only be described as filled with contempt.

  “Will you be home tonight?” Scarlett asked hopefully.

  “Ronnie needs me,” Amanda said icily.

  “So do I,” Scarlett replied in a small voice. After all they had been through, the thought of hurting her friend pained her.

  “Don’t make me pick sides,” Amanda said.

  “I don’t want you to,” Scarlett insisted. “I’m not doing this to hurt you. Please, just keep an open mind.”

  Ronnie soon returned. “It’ll just be a moment,” he said, sitting back down behind his desk as if ready to plunge back into his work. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, not for the moment.”

  Scarlett gave Amanda what she hoped was a sympathetic look, before turning to the door.

  “Oh,” Ronnie said, standing again. “I’ll walk you out.”

  At the reception desk, Carla sat with the client list in hand.

  “Here’s the list,” Carla said, holding it out.

  Scarlett took it and saw that it was several pages long. “Thank you.” She looked back at Ronnie’s office, where Amanda sat sulking.

  Once they were outside, Ronnie turned to her. “Thank you, Scarlett.”

  “For what?”

  “For your discretion in front of Amanda. For not mentioning the wheelbarrow. And all the rest of it. You and me, we have to stick together.”

  Scarlett huffed. “Speak for yourself, Ronnie. I’m not a hundred percent on board with all of… this.” She waved her hand around indicating between the two of them, and including the other two in her reference.

  “Because you never really knew me,” he said earnestly. “Now you’re one of the few people who do. One of the few who know who I truly am. And I know you. We have to protect each other.”

  “You don’t know me,” said Scarlett defiantly.

  “I know what you are.” There was a dark edge to his voice that unsettled her.

  “A witch?” She heard the uncertainty in her own voice. It felt true, and yet false at the same time. There was a dreamy quality to it, like she could still wake up and just be a normal human again.

  “Now that you know who you are,” said Ronnie. “It changes everything. Now you’re in danger. As much as the rest of us.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d been warned, but she still didn’t understand. Ronnie, Karl, Tarquin and Cliff had all warned her of a mysterious danger before, but none of them had told her what to expect exactly. What was the danger they were all so afraid of? The normals? Society? If vampires, werewolves and witches were powerful creatures, then why should they live in fear?

  Scarlett took a hold of Ronnie’s arm. She wouldn’t leave without an answer this time. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He lowered his voice so that she had to step closer to hear his words. “If the military finds out what you know—”

  “Then what?” she asked impatiently. “They’ll lock me up? Experiment on me?”

  “No,” he said, leaning closer. “They lock up vampires. They lock up weres. But the witches, they kill. Just dead and gone. That’s it. Game over.”

  +++

  Malaprop’s Bookstore, Bicester, England

  The bell jingled, indicating the arrival of another customer. Cliff stepped through the door and closed it carefully behind him.

  There were a few customers in the bookstore, perusing the mainstream books in the front of house areas. Cliff found Tarquin at the register helping an old woman. He milled about in the aisles waiting. His anxiety was overwhelming. He meandered the shelves absentmindedly removing books, opening them, and returning them to the shelves without reading a single word. His thoughts were consumed with just one thing.

  His hunger.

  Cliff was rationing his meager blood reserves, and the lack of fresh blood was starting to give him withdrawal. Sure, he could drink normally what he had, but if that supply needed to last him for a few months, he’d be screwed in a matter of weeks.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw visions of violence and bloodshed. He felt the urge to hunt, to conquer, to subdue, and most importantly, to feed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to hold out before the instinct took over completely. Having half his normal intake kept it at bay well enough… but it was always there.

  Glancing again at the counter, he saw Tarquin was still busy with his customer.

  The sorcerer noticed him and nodded his head to acknowledge Cliff’s presence. He continued to chat with the old biddy, making no attempt to detach himself from her.

  From where Cliff stood, he could only see the woman’s back. She had silver hair and a pink shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She couldn’t have been taller than five feet, though her back was slightly stooped. Her voice quivered when she spoke.

  “A book of spells,” she said. “I want some spells.”

  “I understand,” Tarquin was saying. “You’re looking for magic tricks, yes?”

  “No,” the old woman said impatiently, like she’d been frustrated for centuries. “Not tricks. I don’t need any silly tricks. I need real spells.”

  “Ah, you mean witchcraft?”

  “Yes! The craft!” Her voice suddenly brightened, relived he’d finally understood her. “Witchcraft. The old ways. The old ways are always the best ways, is what I say.”

  “Very well put,” Tarquin agreed. “We might have something of interest. Come back this way, if you would. Careful, watch your step.”

  Tarquin led her to a distant shelf.

  The old woman scowled at the selection. “Fiction?”

  “Yes.”

  “These books are fiction. I’m not looking for fiction.”

  “My apologies. I don’t understand,” said Tarquin rather diplomatically. “But you said witchcraft, did you not?”

  “I did,” she replied. “But I meant non-fiction. The real thing.”

  “The real thing?” Tarquin put on an air of skeptical.

  At this, the woman grew indignant. “I was told you had actual books here. Are you saying you don’t believe in witchcraft?”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe in it per se,” Tarquin said, giving Cliff a sly look over the woman’s head. “I’m just more of a skeptic, you see. I prefer rational thinking.”

  “Rational, my tuchus!” she exclaimed. “Witchcraft is real, and you better believe it. Oh, yes. There really are witches.”

  “I suppose there must have been, once,” Tarquin said.

  “There were always witches, and there always will be. You can’t outwit a witch, you know. Not a master of the craft, oh no. Believe you me, there still are witches, even in a quiet town like Bicester.”

  “Oh?” Tarquin said, feigning surprise.

  “Oh, yes indeed. I saw it on TV.”

  “Mmm.” He nodded as she continued her ranting.

  “Wiccans, they call them. That’s the technical word for it, you know. Wiccan. Funny little word, but there you are. Do you have any Wiccan books here?”

  “Wiccan, Wiccan…” Tarquin said, rubbing his temples. “Oh, yes. I believe we do.”

  Tarquin walked further down the aisle they were standing in, his eyes locked on the rows of books. He pulled down a volume and handed it to her.

  She turned the book over several times in her hands in apparent study of the cover, the shape, and the title. Her intense squinting turned into a deep frown.

  “Oh, that’s not it.” She pushed the book back into Tarquin’s hands and puttered past Cliff on her way to the door. With her back to the proprietor, she waved a hand in dismissal. “Never you mind.”

  “If you think of a specific title,” Tarquin said, “I would be happy to order it for you.”<
br />
  She walked out without further comment.

  Tarquin smiled apologetically at Cliff. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Mrs. Pendill wants so badly to learn about Wiccans. She comes in several times a week, but never remembers coming in the last time, so it’s become a bit of a ritual for us, I’m afraid. It’s not the religion or the wisdom she really wants, you know. It’s spells. She thinks that they’re modern day witches that cast spells on people! Turned out all she wants is to cast a curse upon her ex-husband, you see. He’s long dead now, so I’m not sure what good it would do.”

  Tarquin made his way to the back office with Cliff following close behind him.

  When the door was closed, Tarquin opened his desk and removed a small glass bottle filled with a dark liquid. The lid of the bottle had a dropper attached.

  “It’s a tincture,” the bookseller explained. “You add three drops to a small amount of water. Take it twice a day.”

  Tarquin gave him the bottle of potion.

  “What does it do?” Cliff asked.

  “It should curb your hunger and allow you to survive on less blood. It won’t last forever, of course. You’ll want to ease off of it when your supply problem is solved.”

  “Are there side effects I should know about?” asked Cliff.

  “Oh, there always are. Different people have different tolerances and reactions. I’ve never prescribed this particular potion for a vampire, so it’s a bit of test, you see. I’m relying on theory.”

  That didn’t offer Cliff much comfort, but he was running out of options. Cliff studied the bottle, holding it in the light and letting the liquid swish around.

  “What’s your best guess?” Cliff asked.

  “Assuming your digestive system can handle the dosage, you may actually experience a few positive effects.”

  “Positive?”

  “Off-label, as it were.”

  Cliff tore his eyes from the bottle and looked at Tarquin, waiting for him to continue.

  “Oh, let’s see. Improved decision-making, for one,” said Tarquin. “Less risk-taking. More willpower. You might have more control across the board.” He laughed. “That would be good for all of us!”

  Chapter Ten

  Rogers Residence, Bicester

  Cliff drove home from the bookstore with the potion tucked safely in his pocket.

  Hungry as he was, Cliff felt tempted to pull over and take the drug immediately. But Tarquin had told him to mix the potion with water, and so he’d decided to head home where he could take his dosage in relative comfort.

  He wondered what would happen if he just put the drops on his tongue, but he didn't want to risk messing it up. He had mentioned something about whether his digestive system could handle it OK. Taking it neat hardly seemed to be a good idea from that regard. No, everything had to be done according to a specific set of instructions.

  Tarquin had mentioned positive side effects, too. More willpower? More self-control? Cliff felt he had plenty of self-control already, so he doubted there would be much of an added effect either way.

  What he really needed was a way to curb his hunger. The botched blood buy at the hospital had stuck a wrench in his plans, and now it threatened to ruin his life and force him back to the old ways.

  With a dwindling supply of blood, Cliff knew that he would be tempted to hunt. Hunting came naturally to him, as it did to all apex predators, but as a vampire in the modern world, his base instincts had to be suppressed. Cliff knew that if he acted on his ancient urges, and hunted humans for blood like his ancestors did, then surely his secret would come out and he himself would become the hunted.

  That's what had happened to his ancestors. That's why there were so few vampires left in the world. They had been hunted to near extinction. Once, it was said, there were many others like him. Now there were few. Cliff had no idea how many there were. If the race of vampires was to survive, they had to change their ways. They had to adapt. Cliff understood that more than anyone. He had been one of the first to innovate, to use technology. New tools to solve old problems. He was at the vanguard of the new generation of vampires. He wasn't young, by human measure, but in the vampire world, he was the new generation. Cliff believed it fell to him and others in the younger generation to make changes so that his species could survive in a dangerous new world where the humans were in charge.

  Cliff pulled into his driveway and parked.

  As he stepped out of his car, distracted by his fevered thoughts of annihilation, he almost didn’t notice the glass bottle slip free from his jacket. Luckily, his reflexes were still fast, and he was able to snatch the falling bottle out of the air before it could shatter on the hard cement of the driveway.

  That was close, he thought, gripping the bottle tighter.

  He felt like he was losing it. That was a clumsy mistake. What if he hadn’t caught the bottle in time? What then?

  Already, his hands were shaking. Cliff had only consumed half the normal amount this morning. The hunger was upon him now, and he desperately needed to slake his thirst.

  Cliff went inside his house, locked the door quickly behind him, and rushed to the kitchen. He set the glass bottle on the counter, and retrieved a drinking glass from the cupboard to fill with cold water from the fridge. With a fresh glass of water sitting on the counter before him, he was ready to measure out his dose. He unscrewed the cap off the potion bottle, and put three drops of the potion into the water. The black liquid roiled in the clear glass like storm clouds. Cliff used a spoon to stir the potion and water mixture until the color was uniform.

  He set the spoon down and raised the glass to his nose. He sniffed it, but there was no smell that he could detect. He didn’t like taking potions, because he was no master of that art. Ingesting a potion meant he ceded control to someone else, who might trick him into consuming something that could harm or even kill him.

  But this time, he had no choice.

  Down the hatch, he thought.

  The glass was half-full, and he drank it in one large gulp.

  He set the glass down on the counter and braced himself with two hands on the edge of the counter. Cliff closed his eyes and looked inside himself. He didn't feel any change. He still craved blood.

  Maybe Tarquin’s potion didn't work.

  He just gave me a placebo, Cliff thought, though it was too soon to be sure. Or maybe it takes a while to take effect.

  Cliff went into his living room and sat down to wait it out, but his anxiety remained and he soon grew too restless to stay seated for long.

  He got up and went to the hall, pacing back and forth and cursing his fate.

  +++

  Bicester Vintners, Bicester, England

  Scarlett stood at the register of the wine shop. Karl was in the back office with the door closed. There was a customer wandering the aisles, somebody she hadn't met before, likely a tourist.

  Scarlett had the list of Ronnie's clients in her pocket, and was hoping to make some calls. With Karl's door shut, now would be a good time, but not with the customer in the shop.

  "May I help you with anything?" she asked.

  The woman who was browsing shook her head. "No, just seeing what you have."

  Scarlett stood and waited. She took the folded paper from her pocket and opened it. She scanned down the list of names to see if there was anyone she recognized, but she didn't know any of them. This wasn't particularly surprising, since she didn't know anyone who was looking for a new house or apartment.

  Except for Tim, she thought.

  She looked through the list of names again to see if she had missed his name, but he wasn't on the list. That surprised her. Tim had been talking with Jade when she died. Perhaps they hadn't spoken on the phone before he came in, so he hadn't yet been added to the list of prospective clients.

  The little bell on the door jingled. Scarlett looked up to see the lady leaving.

  "Bye," Scarlett said.

  The woman made no reply and wal
ked out into the street.

  When she was sure she was alone, Scarlett picked up her phone and dialed the first number on the list. It was a woman named Kate Welch. The names were not in alphabetical order, but categorized by date.

  The phone rang, and went to voicemail.

  Scarlett decided to leave a message. "Hello, my name is Scarlett Slater and I'm calling in connection with Jones’s Estate Agents. Please call me back at your earliest convenience at this number." She gave her telephone number and hung up.

  The next three calls also went to voicemail, and she left the same message.

  The fourth call was to a client named Emily Branch.

  The phone rang, and a woman’s voice answered. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Mrs. Branch?"

  "Yes?"

  She sounded like a younger woman. Scarlett wondered if perhaps she were a newlywed, but there was no personal information about her on the list. Just her name and number. She was listed as Mrs. Emily Branch, but her husband's name was not mentioned.

  "I'm calling in connection with Jones’s Estate Agents," Scarlett said.

  "Oh, yes. Are you from the office?"

  "I'm working with them on a private matter. Ronald gave me your name and said I could speak with you. Do you have a few minutes?"

  "I'm just doing my laundry at the moment," Emily said. "I suppose so. This isn't about the Whitfield place is it?"

  "Not exactly, but it might be related. I wanted to ask you about Jade Hogarth."

  "Oh yes, Jade. She has been helping me find a place."

  "Yes, that's my understanding," Scarlett said. "When was the last time you spoke with her?"

  "Last week, Thursday, I think. She said she was going to call me back today about an open house this weekend. But she hasn't called me back yet."

  "Did Jade ever talk to you about leaving?"

  "Leaving? I don't know what you mean,” said Emily. She sounded puzzled. “You mean leaving to show me the Whitfield place?"

  "I mean leaving Jones’s to set up her own business."

  There was a pause at the end of the line. "No, I don't remember anything like that."