Long Witch Night: A New Adult Urban Fantasy (Red Witch Chronicles 2)

by Sami Valentine

  It was uncanny how he seemed to know her…doppelgänger shenanigans aside. By someone, Kristoff meant Lucas. He had told her not to trust his sire. He should have told her to not develop a crush. Then again, Vic had, and look how much she’d listened.

  Red typed, Nothing is wrong, then deleted it. She paused, then typed, Enjoy sunrise. Thanks for the concern. She scowled and deleted it, then settled on: Try not to eat anyone. Goodnight.

  She turned off her phone and tossed it on the other side of the couch. Putting her hand on her forehead, she fell back on the couch with a huff. She didn’t need to think about how easy it was to talk to Kristoff. Or how much she wanted to talk to Lucas.

  Life was simpler before Los Angeles.

  3

  December 16th, Sunset, Hollywood, Los Angeles, California

  A fabricated street rose from the movie set floor in a sterile Hollywood styling of Victorian London. Storefronts of fake brick and gray wood sponged with grime loomed over her. An actress in a checkered historical dress walked by, talking to a young woman in coveralls holding a paint can.

  Red stopped, gripping the strap of her boxy leather hunter’s kit, and breathed deep. She knew it was all fake, but the historical accuracy brought up her doppelgänger. Dark, remembered words echoed through her brain: Juniper St. James was one of the most powerful dark witches of her age… Ever since she had come to Los Angeles, that woman had been like a shadow.

  Vic looked back and stopped his electric wheelchair. “What’s up?”

  She coughed to cover a slow reply. “I’ve never been on a movie set before. It looks smaller than I would’ve expected.”

  “The grandeur is added in post-production,” a British voice called out in confession, dripping with acidic wit. The shaman was a walking anachronism with his California tan, dangling crystal necklace, and sky-blue tunic shirt.

  “Basil, you’re giving away my secrets.” A harried man followed in a designer suit, sunglasses propped on his head. “Ari Goldstein—director and current poltergeist victim. Hello!”

  “Red, lovely to see you!” Basil pulled her into a hug and gave her a quick air kiss on both cheeks. The so-called Hollywood Shaman had guided her through a ceremony that had unlocked some dreams, but nothing else, from her amnesia. He had given her a freebie in exchange for a few IOUs. The piper had come to call. Again. Hopefully, this time, she wouldn’t end up painting a room of his vacation house in Tahoe again. She hadn’t realized when she made the deal it included manual labor.

  Vic rolled forward to give Basil a fist bump. “Bansko, old Bean. How’s psychic tricks?”

  Basil Bansko was the highest-priced shaman on the West Coast. Like most self-proclaimed shamans, he wasn’t one but unlike most, he had powers. He was a soulmancer, but shaman was a safer label to hide behind.

  Soulmancers had the power to sense, analyze, and influence souls. They could also curse a vampire better than any kind of mage. Over a century ago, most covens tried to recruit one. The first souling spell changed that by making them enemy number one for the undead. Even in a city ruled by a souled vampire, there were enough who wanted to stay soul-free. People like Basil had short lives if they were too chatty about their powers.

  Sweat dripping off his neck, Ari piped up in a panic that sounded straight out of Hell’s Kitchen. “Yeah, yeah, it’s lovely to see everyone. I hate to break up the meet-and-greet, but this production is costing thousands a day, and I can’t get my cast anywhere near this part of the set. Reshoots are past due. My producers are about to chop my balls off.”

  “A Christmas Carol is becoming The Nightmare Before Christmas.” Basil put a hand on his associate’s shoulder. “Ari is trying to save the day.”

  “I thought we’d gotten rid of the dead weight when I fired Nevaeh. I’m still unraveling that mistake.” Ari waved them over to go through the false storefront of Scrooge and Marley. “Now, I have a fucking poltergeist throwing priceless antiques in every god damn shot. Helen Mirren got hit in the face. Dame Helen Mirren!”

  Red stepped up on the porch behind Basil and Ari. Her face fell as she realized Vic couldn’t follow and turned on her heel to look at him in his wheelchair.

  Ari winced, his ears flushing. “Sorry, it’s not a handicap-accessible set, even with Tiny Tim in the cast.”

  Cheek twitching, Vic nodded. His head lowered for a moment before frustrated eyes met hers. Resigned, he gestured her away. “It’s fine. Give me the dirt later.”

  She swallowed down her guilt. Vic hated his chair, but he hated pity more. Asking him how he felt would only make him feel worse. Stomach sinking, she trotted after the others into the darkened maze of sets.

  Pointing at a hallway entrance, Ari rubbed his forehead with the other hand. He grimaced as if yearning for an antacid. “That’s where the sandbag fell through and nearly killed John C. Reilly.”

  “Naturally, that is where we are going,” Basil commented lightly.

  Leaving the store replica, Red followed them down the hallway, eyes darting up to see if there was another sandbag on the way. She peered around the wooden frames and set pieces using her third eye. Nothing but the usual flotsam of ether currents, natural energy from the environment itself. She snapped on her mundane vision. The spirit gaze made her feel spacey. Too many lights and energies twinkled in her side vision.

  When the three entered a far homier room, Basil waved her over to the center. “You see, my dear, Ari is one of my private clients. I’ve cleansed his aura, but this situation with whatever is haunting the set is beyond my skills.”

  “Don’t let him be modest.” Ari flapped his hands in exaggerated indignation. “He didn’t just clear my aura. It was like I took both Peyote and Ayahuasca and my brain exploded. Loved it. I saw my path and, most importantly, what I was doing wrong. The first part was Nevaeh Morgan. Hiring Emma Watson and getting the studio to agree to the reshoots was a bitch. Then I realized I needed to truly reconnect with my wife. Where did that crazy monkey love go…?”

  “Er…yes.” Basil put a hand on the director’s arm, chagrinned. “The set has always had mysterious incidents, but the ferocity has truly escalated.”

  Hiding her smirk at Basil’s conversation redirect, she looked over the homespun quilt on the bed, antiques along the walls, and the battered family table in the center. “This is the set of the Cratchits’ home?”

  “You know your Christmas Carol.” Raising a brow, Basil narrowed his deep-set eyes. Curiosity bloomed on his thin finely boned features.

  “Just hoping for an autograph from Emma.” Red smiled. Beyond the sporadic paint job, she had the feeling that Basil kept her number because he was still trying to figure her out. She was all ears when he did. Until then, they had a ghost loose on set. The walls were fake but some of the furniture looked authentic like a dinged up wooden bureau in the corner. “Where did this come from? Not a reproduction, is it?”

  “I think it was salvaged from a farmhouse in the south. That’s the only one on the set. Cost us a mint.” Ari waved an annoyed hand at the piece and turned away, covering his eyes with the other as if imagining the out of control move budget. “Our set designer got a deal at Coldwater Auctions. Country chic trended suddenly on set, so it was like Antiques Roadshow up in here with half the cast buying pieces.”

  “Even Nevaeh Morgan?” Red had the sickly feeling that she knew the answer. How many plantation ghosts were they going to have to cleanse? The hassle of tracking auction pieces could take weeks.

  “That southern troll is from Tennessee, so, of course.”

  Red quirked an eyebrow at Ari’s bile. Nevaeh hadn’t struck her as more than a ditzy actress, trying her best. She had almost forgiven her for ruining the adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma. “She always seemed bubbly on The Today Show.”

  “She puts on a solid first fifteen, I’ll give the little witch that.” His lip curled. “Sweet as cyanide when I had to recast her.”

  She hid her judgment, feeling bad for Nevaeh Morgan. No on
e liked to get fired, especially after dealing with a haunted set for weeks and a haunting at home. “She had a haunting at her house coming from another Antebellum antique. You’ll need to keep an ear out. Others in the cast might have had a spectral visitor coming out of a wardrobe.”

  He paled, grabbing his stomach as if the poltergeist was manifesting an ulcer. “Ugh, God, that is just what I need. More freaked-out actors.”

  Basil clicked his tongue in sympathy, putting a hand on Ari’s shoulder to guide him out into the hallway. “Let’s begin our work.”

  “Of course. Bust some ghosts for me!” Ari spun around and put his cell phone to his ear, then called over his shoulder. “Namaste.”

  Red flipped open her hunter’s kit to peer at the sage, salt, and other tools of the trade. “We did a standard cleansing at Nevaeh’s place. That ghost seemed a little less riled up than this one, but let’s try it.”

  “You’re really earning your IOU with this poltergeist.” Basil’s British accent disappeared, leaving only his natural voice, which held the tones of the Midwest instead of the Midlands. He must have been freaked if his accent had slipped.

  She was one of the few who knew Basil’s real name was Kevin. The English demeanor was as much of an act as pretending to be a shaman. He’d told her once that the accent made it easier to disappear if the vampires caught on to him, and it added ten percent more gravitas to client sessions. He’d increased his fee accordingly.

  She grinned. “Back into character.”

  “Noted.” He sniffed. “Anyway, I can’t get a bead on the energy. I’m used to living souls, but this feels very old. Older than Hollywood for sure.”

  Red closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She opened them and tried to follow the directions Kate had given her in the dream, looking past the physical to focus on the vague shadows in the room’s aura. She let herself relax into her third eye—the spirit gaze, as Kate had called it. Like a knife wound on pale skin, the red sigil written on the bureau stood out once she could see it. “Do you see that sigil right there?”

  “No, I can see souls, not sigils.” Basil scowled but then brightened, smiling. “You’re learning to harness your power?”

  Red flattened her palm and shook it. In the rush of the day and hearing from him, she hadn’t really thought about her dream visitor. “Eh.”

  She examined the bureau. Some sigils needed to be imbued with intention to ignite their power. Others could have consequences just by drawing them. She hadn’t studied enough to recognize this one. “It looks like a treble clef mixed with a hashtag.”

  He rubbed his chin. “That sounds like a personal sigil. Not a traditional one.”

  “Don’t tell me they salvaged furniture from some dead hoodoo priestess or something.” She tried to keep the disquiet out of her voice. Basil wasn’t a psychic, but he could read souls. It made him seem like a mind reader even to those in the know. She didn’t need him to read her soul this time. Despite her recent inheritance, she still winced at his prices. “This might’ve been the cabinet she kept her supplies inside. Either way. Let’s get it out and torch it.”

  “Ari might not like that.”

  “He needs to buy less haunted furniture then.” Red found a lift dolly in the corner and put it up to the bureau. “Can the famous Hollywood shaman give me a hand?”

  The heavy wood required them both to push the wheeled cart forward. It became tricky when they reached the fake porch on the street front of the set. She was glad the set was empty except for Vic.

  The Bard watched them with the air of a man chewing popcorn and enjoying a movie.

  Wood bashed against her shins as they moved the antique from the dolly off the porch. Pain ripped up her leg. She tightened her grip on the slippery cabinet. Basil certainly didn’t sound British when it knocked into his groin as they got it back on wheels.

  “I think we’ve got more spirit connected to objects. Half the cast bought antiques from the same old townhouse that Nevaeh did. This is one of them.” Red explained to Vic, huffing out an annoyed breath as she straightened the lift.

  Vic grinned, brown eyes sparkling with demented glee. “I’m sure that the director won’t mind if we torch it here. Can’t risk taking it to the office. Ghosts hate vampires.”

  Red eyed him, pressing her lips into a stern line. These were the times that she felt their roles of mentor and apprentice switch. For a trained Bard, he could be such a big kid. “Controlled burn, young man.”

  He shot ahead, nearly popping a wheelie in his excitement.

  “Deranged pyro.” Basil winced, pushing the cursed cabinet.

  She looked at the soulmancer, biting the side of her cheek. Even if he had failed to uncover her memories, he had shaken something loose in her brain. She couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth, they leapt forward like hungry dogs. “After the ceremony, I started having these dreams. I can’t hold onto them. Only flashes. But some of them are images from a time I couldn’t have been in.”

  “You have an old soul. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a few past lives ready to pop up and say hello. The block on your conscious memories only gives your subconscious more room to maneuver.”

  The old theory was that a vampire had mesmerized her to forget, not just the last few years but her entire identity. Not all vampires had that dark gift, but the one that did must have packed a wallop. The current theory was evolving…Red just didn’t like the direction.

  “Do you really believe in that stuff? Reincarnation. Can someone really come back? Can they make themselves be reborn?” Pushing the bureau out of the large door into the sunlit parking lot, she cringed at the last sentence, nearly whispering it. Michel de Grammont had captured her on the cusp of victory, risking everything, because he believed she could bring back his lost love. The conviction still chilled Red in her nightmares.

  “It’s beyond my pay grade to know how the average joe can make themselves come back, but some spirits are too plucky to hop off the mortal coil.” Basil wrinkled his nose, peering closer with a confidential air. “Problems with a glamourous-yet-dramatic past life?”

  “I don’t even know what kind of problems I have—doppelgänger, reincarnation, who knows. It’s gotten more complicated since Nevada.”

  “It was complicated enough then for you to crash my vacation in Tahoe.” He shot her a dry look before closing his eyes, lips pressing together. “I can sense a vampire. No, two are involved. Then you have your worry with Vic.”

  Vic glanced at them from yards away with matches and lighter fluid in his hands.

  Basil waved to the hunter, smile fixed. “Hey buddy!”

  Forehead crinkling in confusion, he waved the matches back.

  “Can’t even explain the juju wafting off that guy,” Basil murmurred to Red. “I could try?”

  She shook her head, feeling like she was invading Vic’s privacy. The man didn’t even use Google, he was so paranoid. A soul reading would mortify him. “Focus on me.”

  “You’re an open book, girlfriend. Classic millennial trying to find herself.” Basil grunted, pushing the dolly toward the center of the parking lot. “You might not know who you are, but you can still be whoever you want to be. I started off as a farm boy in Bumfuck, Wisconsin, now look at me!” He finished the sentence in his natural accent before releasing his hold on the lift. He wiped his brow, retreating into his British façade. “It’s what we do that matters.”

  Red nodded, digesting his words. She didn’t know if he was worth as much as he charged, but she had to admit he knew the right things to say.

  “Great pep talk, coach.” Vic held up the bottle of lighter fluid. “Let’s get the fireworks started!”

  “Fire safety, people. We don’t need to burn down the studio.” Basil walked to a spigot and coiled hose on the wall while the other man squirted the flammable liquid on the cabinet.

  She pulled out a bundle of sage and lit it as she walked around. At any moment, the spirit could come
back, sensing that the object attaching it to the material world was in danger. She had a cold iron dagger and salt in her kit ready for it. Cold iron could repel or bind a dark being, while the salt was to protect themselves. They didn’t always have the luxury of sending a spirit to rest with a hug and a chant.

  Vic grinned, lit a match, and tossed it. Flames climbed the side of the wooden bureau.

  Red braced herself and looked around. No screaming ghosts or furious paranormal activity appeared to defend the cursed object. Spirits protected what anchored them to this realm. No howling skulls or ghostly chains appeared over the sigil. It merely burned. Normal smoke wafted off the expensive antique. She lifted an eyebrow. “Huh.”

  “What the hell are you people doing?” A husky security guard jogged over to them. “This is wildfire country!”

  She flinched, backing up from the blaze.

  “Oh shit!” Vic cursed, cringing and nearly dropping his matchbook.

  “Go on, I’ll take care of it.” Basil flapped his hand. “I’ll let you know if anyone else in the cast complains about their interior design.”

  They rushed off to the Millennium Falcon, leaving the increasingly indignant argument behind. She got the engine running as Vic rolled into the wheelchair lift and strapped his wheels in place. The van roared out of the studio lot to join the inching crush of LA traffic. Her heartbeat had evened out by their second red light. She called into the back. “Could you look up this antique sale? It was through Coldwater Auctions.”

  After a few minutes, Vic let out a low whistle.

  She didn’t like the sound of that. He wasn’t impressed by much after spending most his life as a hunter. “What is it?”

  “The farmhouse they salvaged the furniture from was in northwest Robertson County, Tennessee. It’s near Red River.” He whistled again.

  She peeked through the rearview mirror at him. “Do we communicate in whistles now like dolphins?”

  He slapped his knee, grinning. “I think we’re dealing with the Bell Witch.”