Four Witches and a Funeral (Wicked Society Book 3)

by Daisy Prescott

  Blurb

  If you’ve ever wished for the power of invisibility, I advise you to rethink your superpower.

  Sure, temporary invisibility might be cool. But what if it becomes your normal? Let me tell you, it’s not as fun as it seems. Neither is being a ghost.

  I miss kissing. I miss my boyfriend.

  If this is eternity, I’d like a refund.

  Someone or something powerful is coming. There’s a new coven in Boston and a new spirit witch has joined the Wicked Society.

  Good. It’s been forever since I’ve had some fun.

  Four Witches and a Funeral is the final book in the Wicked Society series of interconnected, lighthearted paranormal romances with a cozy mystery twist.

  Copyright © 2018 by Daisy Prescott, All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Renee George

  ISBN: 978-1-7321330-9-9

  First ebook edition: November 2018

  This edition is part of Love Spells. For more information and to see other books in the Love Spells collection, please visit www.lovespellsromance.com

  Thanks for reading!

  If you want to keep up with my upcoming releases and updates, please subscribe to my mailing list.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Other books by Daisy

  About Daisy

  Bonus Chapter of Get Witch Quick

  Bonus Chapter of Bewitched

  Prologue

  Hanging out in Boston is more interesting than loitering around an empty mansion. I’ve become fond of the little café on Charles Street in Beacon Hill. The owner is a cranky bastard, but the place smells of coffee, warm sugar, and butter. Heavenly. Not that I’d know from firsthand experience.

  The cute guy in line for coffee stares at me. After checking no one is behind me, I smile and give him a quick, friendly wave.

  He’s adorable with dark hair, dark eyes, glasses, a hoodie, and those skinny jeans all of the college guys are wearing these days.

  He acknowledges my greeting with a small curve of his full lips and a nod.

  Normally, I keep to myself. Not exactly shy, but not so bold as to make the first move when I meet a guy. Or anyone. I wait for them to initiate contact. Too many times I think there’s a connection, only to be rejected.

  I can’t help it. I’ve always been the kind of girl to wear her heart on her sleeve.

  Sweeping my hand over my long, dark hair, I make sure I’m not a mess. I’m glad I chose to wear it down today. With a glance at my vintage dress, I double-check that I’m not flashing a breast or have too much cleavage. Wouldn’t want him to think I’m trying too hard or only looking for sex. It’s been ages since I’ve even kissed a guy. I lost track of how long when days turned to weeks turned to months …

  The adorable guy in the hoodie picks up his coffee and strolls in my direction.

  My palms dampen and my heart picks up its pace as he gets closer to my table. The seat across from me is empty, and I say a silent prayer that he’ll ask me if he can join me. I can see the entire scenario play out in my head. We’ll say hi and introduce ourselves and then chat about coffee or coffeeshops. I’ll make a joke about how no one ever talks to each other anymore. He’ll make an astute observation about the lost art of conversation. A few lingering looks will be exchanged. Our fingers will touch when we both reach for our cups or the sugar. Perhaps his leg will bump mine under the table. The first time will be accidental, but the second won’t.

  I’ll touch my hair. He’ll press his fingers to his mouth or lick a spot of foam from the corner of his lips. He’ll catch me staring. I’ll blush. We’ll finish our coffees. He’ll offer to buy me another one. I’ll accept because I want to keep chatting with him, not ready for our encounter to end. He’ll surprise me with a slice of pound cake. I’ll thank him and mention it’s my favorite. He’ll say something about remembering for next time. I’ll make a coy remark about his presumption about a next time. He’ll ask for my number. I’ll give it to him. He’ll promise to call.

  He reaches my table. My heart catches in my throat when he stares at me, silently asking permission to join me. I nod and point at the empty chair. He sets his coffee down before peeling off his sweatshirt and hanging it over the back of the chair.

  Tattoos cover his forearm. Most are black ink, but a red semi-colon on his wrist catches my attention.

  When he sits, I extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Alice.”

  He ignores me.

  Of course he does. This is my life now.

  What’s a ghost to do?

  My table companion sips his coffee and stares through me, lost in his own thoughts or memories. I can stare all I want. A perk. He reminds me of a man I loved a long time ago.

  His mouth is full and dark. He drags his thumb over his bottom lip. Back and forth, slow and methodical. Unable to look away, I wonder if he’s remembering a kiss. Or dreaming of one yet to be.

  I miss kissing, especially a first kiss. The magic and promise of the initial tentative contact.

  He reminds me of my first and only love. When I take a moment to study him, he doesn’t compare. Not as handsome. Not as polished. The devilish spark I love is missing from his eyes.

  My heart aches for the love I’ve lost and the boy who is no longer mine.

  How do you know you’re alive?

  I ask myself this question every day.

  My answer is always the same.

  I don’t know because I’m dead.

  Insert a rimshot sound here because I’m hysterical and I’ll be here all week.

  This is the worst joke ever.

  For anyone who has ever wished for the power of invisibility, I advise you to rethink your superpower.

  Sure, temporary invisibility might be cool. But what if it becomes your normal? Let me tell you, it’s not as fun as it seems.

  Fellow humans are more than a little gross. There’s a lot more farting and nose picking than I ever thought possible. And please, for the love of typhoid, please wash your hands.

  An involuntary shudder ripples through my body.

  No longer visible or tangible to the living, my body is still mine. Ten fingers, ten toes, and everything in between. Just as it was when I died, for the most part.

  Not even in death do I have the perfect body, or the one I dreamed of having.

  People have all sorts of ideas about ghosts and spirits. We wear white sheets. We rattle chains. We bring the gifts of truth and self-reflection to assholes. None of these things are true. Not even a little bit.

  For the most part, we’re loners. Rarely do I ever hang out with another spirit. Majority of th
e time, I only see humans who rarely notice me. Most days, I’m not sure they even see each other.

  This is my reality. Same Alice as I ever was, and apparently, same as I’ll ever be.

  If this is eternity, I’d like a refund.

  One

  The Past

  Today didn’t begin any different than the countless others that came before it.

  “How do you know you’re alive?” I asked myself when the sun crept over the horizon, sending streaks of orange and purple across the clouds in the pale sky.

  “I don’t know because I’m dead,” I answered. For some reason, I laugh this morning.

  I’ve been dead almost as long as I was alive. Yet I haven’t aged. No wrinkles or gray hair or saggy arms or droopy boobs or a wobbly neck. This saddens me.

  Aging is fascinating to me. How the decades change a person, thickening them, slowing them down. Some people age well, becoming more of themselves. Others lose their self in a desperate, pointless battle to remain young. Fillers are fooling no one.

  There’s only one way to remain young forever. The secret, my friends, to aging well is to die young.

  I know. That’s horrible advice. Don’t listen to me. Morbid and bored aren’t a great mix.

  Today is going to be one of those days, I can tell.

  Whenever I get the blues, I visit one of three places: a day care, a nursing home, or an animal shelter. I’m less likely to be invisible at these places. Toddlers, the elderly, and cats are always good for a moment or two of connection.

  Some days I make my rounds at all three. Babies in the morning, old people during their afternoon nap time, and the kittens in the evening when they won’t freak out the workers with their odd behavior.

  Having a schedule helps me keep the blues away.

  In the early days of this half life, I could nap away several months or even an entire year. Sometimes I still zone out for long periods of time. Take 2003 for example. No idea what happened that year. Skipped it completely

  As a ghost, I can only visit places within a certain range. No popping over to Scotland and wandering the moors or hanging out with the gargoyles at the cathedral Notre Dame in Paris. Pity. Sadly, I’ll never backpack through Europe after college like I’d planned.

  The Boston area is where I died, and therefore, it’s home base. Once I tried to sneak down to New York City only to find I felt empty and fuzzy the farther away I got from home. As if I were disappearing altogether but still conscious.

  It’s not a sensation I want to experience again. Do not recommend. I’d give it one star on Death.com.

  I stand against a hundred year old maple tree near the chainlink fence of a playground. The bark is rough and grooved under my cheek as I lean into the strength of the tree.

  Soon enough a little girl with dark hair and round, brown eyes too big for her face toddles over to the fence. About four or five, she’s wearing a fuzzy, red jacket and rain boots with ducks on them. I assume she’s searching for the purple ball in the corner, half-buried in a pile of leaves. Instead, she surprises me when she stares right at me.

  “Hi,” she says, her little voice barely more than a whisper.

  I know there’s no one behind me because my back is up against the tree.

  “Do you want to come and play with me?” She smiles, shy.

  When I don’t respond, she continues. “Mommy won’t care. She’s talking to the other mommies. All of the other kids are big and they don’t want me to play with them.”

  I glance across the fenced park. A group of three older boys, probably ten or eleven, have taken over the fort, sitting on the railing and trying to push each other to the ground. From this distance, I can tell they’re up to no good.

  “Okay,” I tell my little friend. “But let’s stay over on this side.”

  She nods, a grin lifting her cheeks. “Are you going to use the gate?”

  “I don’t need to. I can do magic.” I step through the fence and stop beside her, squatting down to be on her level.

  “That’s so cool.” She’s not freaked out by me at all. Kids are the best. “What’s your name?”

  “Alice. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Madison.” She studies me. “How old are you?”

  “I’m not really sure anymore.”

  “Are you more than ten?”

  I nod.

  “More than twenty?”

  I nod again.

  “Wow. That’s old.”

  This makes me smile. “How old are you?”

  She shows me five fingers. “I’m five. And a half.”

  “Nice to meet you, Maddy, who is five and a half.” I smile at her.

  “Do you want to play a game?” She grins at me, her new friend.

  “Sure.”

  “What games are you good at?” Her wide, brown eyes shine with excitement.

  I think for a moment. “I’m really good at hide and seek.”

  She jumps and claps. “I’ll hide and you can find me! But first you have to count to twenty. Can you count that high?”

  Confirming I can, I tell her I’ll turn around while she goes to hide.

  “No peeking!” she scolds. “Cover your eyes with both hands. If you look, that’s cheating.”

  After covering my eyes and swearing I won’t cheat, she runs off.

  At twenty, I open my eyes and search for her in the park. It’s not a large area and I quickly spot the toes of her yellow boots behind the slide. Of course, I pretend to look everywhere else while slowly walking the perimeter of the area. The boys laugh and jostle each other, thankfully unaware of me. One of the taller ones in a New England Patriots sweatshirt mutters under his breath about the weird girl hiding under the slide. His sneer reminds me of how cruel children, and people, can be to anyone they see as different. It’s hard not to hate people.

  Once I’ve looked everywhere but the slide, I stand at the bottom, tapping my toe. “Wow. Maddy is the best hider ever.”

  “I’m here!” Her giggles erupt as she jumps out at me. “You couldn’t find me! I win!”

  “You win,” I confirm.

  “That means you’re still it. Try to find me.”

  We play a few more rounds, Madison winning every time to her endless delight.

  “I’m the best at hiding,” she gleefully declares. “We should play something else now so you can win.”

  If she only knew how easy it is to hide when you’re invisible.

  “Madison,” one of the women calls out from the benches near the gate. “We need to go.”

  Maddy’s bottom lip curls into a pout. “I have to go home now. Will you come play with me again?”

  “I’ll try to come back.” I won’t make a promise I can’t keep. “I hope our paths cross again someday.”

  “Try, Alice. I can let you win next time.” She reaches for my hand before I realize what she’s doing.

  Her eyes widen when her fingers pass through mine and then she nods with understanding. “You can be my special friend. Mommy says it’s okay to have imagination friends.”

  “Imaginary friends.” I correct her. Plastering a smile on my face, I step away from her. “I hope I see you again, Maddy.”

  “Me too. Bye, Alice.” She waves with her whole arm as she runs toward her mom.

  “Bye.” I watch as she greets her mom, animatedly telling her about our game.

  She turns to face me, pointing right at me. Her mom frowns and narrows her eyes. “Sorry, honey. I can’t see your new friend.”

  This truth always saddens me. Most people lose their ability to believe in magic as they age. Imaginary friends are forgotten. Ghosts regulated to scary stories and horror movies.

  I wave one more time at the little, dark-haired girl.

  “I hope you don’t forget me, Madison,” I whisper, too soft for my voice to be heard by anyone but me.

  Guess it’s time to go hang out with some kittens.

  Two

  The Past

 
“I know someplace we can go where we won’t be interrupted.” Mischief sparks in his eyes.

  “Are you suggesting we sneak away from my family’s stuffy, hideously boring Victorian themed holiday soiree to make out?” Widening my eyes, I cover my mouth with my fingertips in mock outrage. “Why, Mr. Gardener, the impropriety of such a suggestion! I’ll be banished from every society event for the rest of the season. How dare you! What about keeping up appearances? What of my virtue?”

  “Are you finished?” His hand dips from my waist over the curve of my hip, down to the very lowest sliver of territory that could still be called my back and not my ass.

  “Should I mention all of the children present at this festive occasion?” I peer up at him, so handsome and dashing in his tuxedo my heart flutters with appreciation.

  “You could, but most of them have been ushered out by their nannies and either put to bed or forced to watch Christmas movies until they fall asleep from boredom.”

  The orchestra wraps up their current song, a classic waltz, and the crowd politely claps. Their restrained appreciation barely creates a ripple of noise. Perhaps all those elbow-length evening gloves are partly to blame. Glancing around the room and through the opening to the grand foyer, I realize he’s right. Not a single small human in sight. Nor do I see either of my grandparents who typically prefer to be in bed by nine sharp.

  The grandfather clock in the corner shows the hour to be well past ten, which is practically two a.m. for these people. As soon as the clock chimes eleven, a mass exodus will clog the front door and driveway with revelers.