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For those of you who have already downloaded Candy Cane Conspiracy, the book was published without a critical chapter.�� All retailers currently have the correct version. If you have 19 chapters and an epilogue, then you���ve got the correct version. If you only have 18 chapters and an epilogue ��� BEWARE! You���re missing a critical […]

Raw and unedited, just for you! If you haven’t caught A Blundered Brew or The Mystery of Mattie, those are available here. This episode is just under 5k words, which is approximately 20 pages. 

***Web Serial Episode 3 Begins Here***

I woke this morning to the memory of another bad dream.

The smell of my mother’s perfume, the way she drank her tea, and how her hugs felt had all disappeared. In this dream, like all the others, my mother slipped further away from me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Lavender and citrus,” I muttered as I flipped the electric kettle on. “Scottish Breakfast with a splash of cream.” Unlike the English Breakfast I pulled from the cupboard and the small container of nut milk I retrieved from my pink retro fridge.

And her hugs felt like safety and love and acceptance.

I hadn’t forgotten, but the dreams foretold of a time when I might, and that scared me.

Pouring over my mother’s book of magicks, clinging to that last connection with her, I’d read well into the wee hours last night. The late-night hours combined with my recurring bad dream left me groggy and somewhat unmotivated this morning. I wouldn’t have been out of bed yet, but Clara and Hattie arrived on my doorstep promptly at ten thirty.

It was Wednesday, the first day of my week-long unplanned vacation. There was no room for bad moods on vacation—even vacations taken to solve magical mysteries—and there certainly wasn’t room for moping. Not with my friends waiting for me to get my rear in gear.

I peered out the window over my sink and into my backyard.

The sweetly wrinkled brow of a chubby yellow lab was impossible to resist when he placed a drool covered tennis ball at your feet and backed away. Mattie bounced then stopped to stare intently at the ball placed within easy reach of both Hattie and Clara. Unable to determine which woman was more likely to throw his ball, he’d done intricate canine geometry to establish the point equidistant between both of my friends.

Mattie would keep them busy for another fifteen minutes while I finished getting dressed. And he needed the exercise. The beginning of a plan was forming, one that would involve leaving Mattie at the house for a while.

All I needed was a little more caffeine and a speedy shower, then I’d firm up the thoughts rattling around in the fog of my just-woken mind.

***

“We need to visit the Home for Genteel Ladies.” I made the announcement as soon as I emerged from the bathroom. “Outside of the council, they have the greatest amount of collective knowledge about the town and everyone’s grudges.”

For sure, whoever had turned my neighbor Mr. Matthews into the sweet Labrador we called Mattie had a grudge against the formerly cantankerous man. Mattie’s soft brown gaze followed me as I walked into the living room. He didn’t get up, but his tail thumped solidly against the hardwood floor.

Dressed but for my shoes and socks, all I lacked otherwise was a refill of my tea and my friends’ cooperation and we could begin our investigation into Mattie’s mysterious—and highly illegal—transformation. I knelt down to pet him, because I couldn’t resist. He was such a good boy…now. As Mr. Matthews, not so much.

“Not to nay-say,” Clara said from her position curled up on my grey sofa, “but I’m naysaying.” She cocked her head. “Unless you ply me with mimosas first. Get me drunk enough, and I could be persuaded. Maybe. They’re awfully mean.”

“They” were the thirteen ladies who currently resided at the Home for Genteel Ladies. It was like they picked the name in hopes of convincing the world the residents weren’t nearly so awful as reputed. But they’d need more PR than a cute name could provide to offset rumors of their nasty natures. They chased off Letitia Pearl. To an entirely different state.

But no, mimosas weren’t a good idea.

With a final scratch under Mattie’s chin, I said, “It’s not even eleven.”

“Your point?” Clara blew her bright orange overlong bangs out of her eyes. “Mimosas are a brunch beverage. We’re conservatively half an hour past the beginning of brunch.”

“We’re not getting liquored up and visiting the Genteel Ladies,” Hattie said with a repressive look at Clara. She was at least standing, looking like she might be willing to leave.

The way Hattie acted, anyone would think she was the one who ran the virtual assistant business, and Clara was the writer. Hattie was much more of a rule-follower than Clara…and less of a day-drinker.

Clara pursed her lips. “Don’t judge me for my boozy breakfast beverage cravings. I’ve practically been working nonstop the last two days getting ahead of my calendar. I knew Agnes just needed a moment to adjust to her and Mattie’s changed circumstances, and then we’d go all Scooby gang on Mattie’s mystery.”

“Go all Scooby gang? I don’t think those words work that way.” I checked with our resident writer, but she was smiling like she thought Clara had an excellent point. Which might mean… “You’re in, aren’t you? You think interviewing the Genteel Ladies is a good idea.”

She tucked her cotton candy pink hair behind her ears. “Sure, just as long as we’re not doing it tipsy. I suspect we’ll want clear heads.”

I might be unfocused, even forgetful when it came to all things magical, but an interview that didn’t involve a single spell or potion? No problem. Regardless, Hattie wasn’t wrong. The mimosas would have to wait.

“We got this,” I said. 

Clara groaned. “I hate when you two outvote me. Who’s driving?”

“Not it,” Hattie called as she headed to the front door. “We’re stopping for a late lunch and margaritas after.”

Making me the designated driver. No problem. This was our first step in sussing out the wicked nasty who’d changed a nonmagical human into a dog. And who knew what Mr. Matthews would have ended up as if I hadn’t inadvertently intervened with my mood-altering potion. He could have been turned into a toad or a rat or a raccoon. Actually, not a raccoon. They seemed to have a lot of fun. Maybe a rattler. They always seemed to be sleeping or pissed off.

“You coming, Agnes?” Clara said from the front door.

I stopped long enough to give Mattie some pets and a condensed version of my typical leaving the house speech. Basically, don’t get into the trash (bathroom or kitchen), don’t eat anything, don’t chew anything except his Kong toy and his antler, and definitely don’t answer the door to any strangers.

Yeah, that last one was weird, but he was a man-dog, which I figured made him somewhere between a man and a dog, which maybe made him a little like a kid on four legs?

The logic wasn’t entirely sound, but the speech made me feel better.

By the time I got to my little Volkswagen Golf, Hattie had moved her car from behind mine and claimed the passenger seat. Clara was ensconced in the rear of the car.

My friends might have mixed feelings about this outing, but they’d support me one hundred percent. I loved my girls.

***

“Every time I drive by it, I think of those college movies with the big fraternity and sorority houses,” Clara said from the backseat.

I glanced up and down the street before pulling into the parking lot, but the Home for Genteel Ladies still stood apart from its neighbors in all its pseudo-mansion, red-bricked, white-columned glory. “This isn’t exactly Greek row.”

Hattie chuckled. “Not unless Rae’s Liquor Landing counts as a frat house. She’s painted since I’ve been out this way.”

The huge flying saucer that sat in front of the liquor store and propped up the store’s sign used to be gleaming silver. It was now a deep metallic purple with silver stars sprinkled across it. It was actually pretty. Rae had obviously had help, since she wasn’t the crafty, artistic sort.

“We should stock up while we’re out here.” Clara pulled out her phone and scrolled. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. Looks like I’m almost out of tequila. My home bar needs a top up.”

Not only was the Home for Genteel Ladies outside of Westerville city limits, it was also just barely outside the Wester county line. Welcome to Texas and dry counties.

“We grill the mean old ladies,” Hattie said with her hand on the door. “Reward ourselves with a booze buying trip, then a late lunch, then we head home for an afternoon libation and debrief.”

I frowned. “I feel like we’ve been drinking more since Mattie appeared.”

“Well, yeah. We’ve been hanging out more.” Clara shrugged. “It’s a natural result when three twenty-somethings with busy lives gather and socialize. Last one there has to knock on the door!” Then she shot out of the car and jogged all the way to the Home’s front door.

Hattie was hot on her heels.

I followed at a much more leisurely pace. Because I was an adult. Not because I wanted to delay the inevitable knocking on the door. I sighed, and really, did it matter who knocked? We’d all have to deal with the crotchety old ladies who resided within.

Clara elbowed me in the side when I arrived. “Go on.”

Hattie made an annoyed sound. “It’s not like would have hexed the door or anything.” She raised her hand to knock, then paused. “Would they?”

Ridiculous. I was pretty sure. I nudged her aside and rapped firmly on the door three times.

We didn’t have long to wait until the door swung open revealing an animated woman with wildly colorful medium-short hair. Fuchsia roots lightened to a pink then turned to a surprising shade of orange. Overall, it was surprisingly pleasing, like a sunset.

 

Then I noticed that her eyebrows had been groomed in such a way to brighten and open her face. Maybe that was where the impression of animation had come from.

“Finally. We thought you’d never arrive.” She waved us in with a little bounce to her step, her layered bright clothing fluttering with the gesture. Not just the eyebrows, then, that made her seem so energetic. “Come along. We’ve got brunch waiting in the breakfast room, and we’re all famished.”

This wasn’t who I expected in a senior living home. Not that I knew her. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. No, it was more that I didn’t expect a lively demeanor or brightly colored hair or a relatively warm welcome.

This was the home where all the cranky, unsociable witches with no other family went to live. This was the place housing the women who’d chased Letitia Pearl out of Westerville.

Except this woman was failing at unsociable and cranky, thus far.

I shared a look with Clara and Hattie, both of whom seemed equally confused. But since the sunset-haired woman was leaving without us, I made an executive decision and followed her. It didn’t hurt that food was involved. I’d missed breakfast.

We arrived behind Pixie—she’d introduced herself without pausing on her trek to the breakfast room—to find two witches seated at a table with six settings.

Pixie stopped suddenly and turned to face us. “You’re Hattie. We have the same hairdresser.” Pixie stopped to smile, like the thought made her happy. “But which of you is Agnes and which is Clara?”

We weren’t exactly easy to confuse, given Clara’s profusion of freckles and orange hair.

“Ah, I’m Agnes. This is Clara.”

“I’m Zelda,” a serene woman who didn’t look near old enough to be living here said. She had a mass of blue and green, barely-tamed curls that flowed past her shoulders and practically flawless tawny skin. She didn’t look remotely familiar to me.

“And I’m Greta. We’ve met before, of course.”

I turned to find Greta Hoffstetler sitting at the table. I hadn’t recognized her, only because I hadn’t really looked. Also, the impeccably dressed woman with the perfectly coiffed silvery-grey hair  and gorgeously applied makeup currently wore an expression I’d never before seen on her face: cheerful welcome.

Greta Hoffstetler had always been classy, stylish, and icy. Not a woman who’d welcomed conversation and certainly hadn’t encourage anything more. I’d always found her a little terrifying.

She leaned forward with a warm smile. “Have a seat, and I’ll pour us some raspberry lemonade sangria.”

Clara was settled before I could think twice, the champagne glass at her setting already claimed and extended. “I like you.”

Greta chuckled. “We live next to a liquor store. It would be bad manners not have a specialty drink available for visitors.”

Clara sighed happily. “Any interest in an adoptive daughter?”

“Clara,” Hattie whispered in a shocked tone as she sat down next to her.

I knew Clara was kidding. Her mom and dad were both still around and in her life, and while she didn’t have the best relationship with them, they loved her dearly. I settled in the seat on her other side but declined the offered drink. “I’m driving.”

Once we were all seated, Zelda spoke. “Unlike Greta and Pixie, I’m new to the area.”

Clara, Hattie, and I all looked at Pixie.

“I went by Peridot.” She wrinkled her nose. “Such a terrible name. Not sure what my mother was thinking. I had black hair? Worked at the diner when you were kids?”

Peridot Humphries. She’d been so…drab. And not just her appearance, but everything about her. She’d always seemed beaten down by life to me.

Pixie sighed. “I get it. I don’t look the same. I’m not the same.”

“Ah, at the risk of seeming rude…” Clara leaned forward and lifted her right arm.

I hadn’t a clue what she was doing until Pixie grinned and high fived her. “Thank you, dear. I’m rather pleased with the change, as well. But Zelda was saying… Go ahead, Z.”

Zelda smiled quietly. She seemed unruffled by Clara’s antics or the interruption. “Like I said, I’m new to the area. These lovely ladies took me in when I needed a place to live, and I couldn’t be more thankful. As a way of expressing my appreciation, I started a regular Sunday evening gathering. After a late lunch, we gather together and have a little reading, crystal-gazing or card-reading.”

“After a boozy late lunch,” Pixie added. “So it’s always a good time.” In a confidential whisper, she said, “We don’t usually drink during the week, so thank you for the excuse this week.”

Greta, looking shockingly at ease with the informality of our exchange, said, “Zelda is very good at prognostication.”

Zelda shrugged. “It’s my skill. Usually, not very helpful due to the vagueness, but you three…” She blinked. “You weren’t vague.”

“Wait,” Hattie said. “You’re saying that on Sunday, after having a few drinks, you got together for a reading, and we came up?”

Pixie nodded eagerly.

Zelda said, “It sounded like the beginning of one of my exes jokes. Three gorgeous witches walk into bar. A brunette, a red-head, and unicorn. That type of thing.”

Hattie smiled at being called a unicorn.

I thought “gorgeous” was generous, at least on my account.

“Except instead of a bar, you walked into our home,” Pixie clarified.

“Looking for answers,” Zelda added. She waited as if expecting us to jump in. When none of us did, she said, “You do have questions for us, right?”

Clara finished off the last of her sangria and placed her glass carefully on the table. “I do. How are you all so nice?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. The magical folk of Westerville might talk about the cranky old ladies living in the Home for Genteel Ladies—but not in their presence.

All three looked amused, but it was Pixie who spoke. Eyes wide with false innocence, she said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Before any of the three of us could call them on their blatant subterfuge, a woman in her thirties wearing a navy fit and flare dress straight out of the fifties with a white apron over it came from the kitchen area. “Aunt Zelda, the egg casserole is just about done. I just wanted to check with your guests that they don’t have any allergies or dietary restrictions.” She turned to us with an inquisitive look. “I can whip up an alternative for anyone who can’t eat eggs, cheese, bread, and sausage.”

Hattie eyes widened. There was no faster way to her heart than food. Especially if that food included such items as eggs, cheese, bread, and sausage.

“Ladies, this is my niece Cordelia. She’s our fulltime housekeeper.”

Cordelia waved cheerily. “We don’t get guests often.” She fluffed her skirts, which was when I noticed she was wearing red Chuck Taylor’s. “I love the chance to dress up, so thank you.”

She was adorable, and she was feeding us. I felt like I’d stepped into an alternate universe.

The three of us murmured our thanks. I really didn’t think a single one of us could quite manage a proper conversation, so it was good that she didn’t linger. Also, now that she’d told us what was baking in the kitchen, I was catching the hints of our forthcoming meal, and it smelled amazing.

“You were saying?” Pixie leaned forward, her forearms resting on the edge of the table.

“Letitia Pearl.” Hattie, recovering first, was the bold soul to utter those two words.

They were the perfect two words. Letitia Pearl was proof that the Home for Genteel Ladies wasn’t all smiles, sangria, and casseroles.

All three of the older women laughed. When their shared amusement diminished in volume, Greta replied, “You’re familiar with The Princess Bride?”

Hattie and I nodded. Clara was a lost cause. She might seem like a party animal, but really, she worked far too much and consumed far too little fiction, books or movies.

“We, the occupants of the Home for Genteel Ladies, are the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

I had to process that.

Because…why?

But then I remembered that Pixie had been Peridot, and Peridot Humphries was her generation’s version of Clara, Hattie, and me. She’d been among the worst witches of Westerville.

And drab. Also, sad.

But living with the crotchety old women in the Home for Genteel Ladies, next door to the liquor store, with boozy Sunday lunches and crystal gazing and card readings…Peridot gained friends. Peridot became Pixie, and Pixie seemed very happy indeed.

“Who’s explaining The Princess Bride to me?” Clara asked. “And this Roberts pirate guy.”

“He’s a persona assumed by a very nice young man,” Greta explained. “He relies upon a falsely-developed fierce reputation to do the heavy lifting and then reaps the rewards.”

“Oh, that’s clever.” She pushed her glass closer to the Greta, who seemed to reign supreme over the Sangria pitcher.

Greta refilled her glass without comment, pushing it back again.

“Why?” Clara asked.

“Forget the why.” Hattie’s eyes narrowed, and she had that intense look she sometimes acquired when plotting a book. “The why is simple. Westerville isn’t always friendly to our own. A fierce reputation can provide cover and protection. I want to know how.”

“It’s easier than you might think,” Greta replied. “Choose an image, cultivate it, be somewhat consistent…and a reputation is created.” Looking directly at me, she added, “I’ve struggled with social anxiety in the past.”

The glacial and seemingly perfect Mrs. Hoffstetler had suffered from social anxiety.

Seen through that particular lens, the few interactions I had with her in the past took on an entirely different meaning.

“Don’t look so sad.” Her lipstick was still just as perfect as always, but now it covered lips that formed a beautiful, genuine smile. “I’ve found my people. I’m very happy here, and also much more confident. But my point is that it’s simple to cultivate a reputation.”

“And you,” Clara said, “like this pirate fellow, cultivated a reputation as awful-tempered shrews so that you wouldn’t be bothered by…who exactly?”

“Certainly not poor Letitia Pearl,” Pixie said with a disapproving scowl. “Shame on those women. Shame.”

“The council,” Zelda explained. “They knew she wasn’t at fault, but they needed a scapegoat to salvage Cora May’s pride when the actual culprit couldn’t be found.”

Cora May had been the recipient of twenty-four hours of bad luck, supposedly a spell of Letitia’s gone awry. Cora May was also an elder on the Westerville Witches Council.

“Letitia lives in Louisiana now, outside New Orleans,” Greta said. “I have a few connections in the area, and they found her a job so she could move away.”

Letitia had been falsely accused by our own governing body. And according to these three women, the council had known full well that Letitia was innocent of the crime she’d been punished for.

“Bullies,” Clara said with a dangerous gleam in her eye. Clara had never liked the council, but she hated bullies.

All three of our hosts agreed that, yes, the council was populated by a majority of bullies. At least four of the women were evil-spirited, nasty crones and three more too weak to stop them.

It was almost enough to quell my appetite. Almost. Cordelia appeared with a breakfast casserole that looked and smelled amazing, and I knew I was definitely going to enjoy it, regardless of what I’d just learned. Those council jerks weren’t ruining a fabulous meal for me.

“It looks like lunch is ready. You’ll have to tell us why you’ve come, but after we’ve had a bite to eat.”

***

The meal tasted as good as it looked and smelled. Hattie and I had seconds, and Clara had her third glass of sangria while thanking me for being a complete doll for driving.

“Remember how we were talking about sororities earlier?” Clara whispered not so quietly.

As Cordelia cleared the dishes and Greta refreshed our drinks, I explained how the Home for Genteel Ladies, with its red brick and white columns, brought to mind a sorority house when we’d pulled up. They agreed their home superficially looked like a sorority house, but more than that it was also a community of women. Instead of a house mother, they had Cordelia who was the fulltime housekeeper, and instead of charity work, they adopted the .

And now, having been offered their hospitality and a peak behind the curtain, the similarities were even stronger. I could only imagine what the energy was like with all thirteen of the residents gathered together.

“Where is everyone else today?” I hadn’t seen even a peep of another resident, only Cordelia.

“Wine-tasting,” Greta replied. “We skipped, since we weren’t sure when you’d show up.”

“Because you predicted we’d show up,” I said.

“Looking for answers,” Hattie clarified.

Clara still looked skeptical. “But you weren’t sure what sort of questions we’d be asking.”

They agreed that was exactly right.

I checked in with Hattie and Clara, because we hadn’t talked about this part. About what I was about to do.

I was about to trust these three women, who basically strangers to us.

Surprisingly, it was Clara who said, “Do it,” with Hattie nodding her assent.

I turned back to the three witches who claimed to be waiting for us since Sunday to show up on their doorstep and ask them questions. They’d waited—skipped a wine-tasting outing, even—because they’d wanted to be here to help us.

“I live with a man-dog named Mattie. He used to be my neighbor, Mr. Matthews.” And then I told them the whole story.

Eventually, when I wrapped it all up with Clara and Hattie providing details I’d glossed over, Greta said, “Fascinating.”

But not in a judgmental, what-nonsense-have-you-girls-involved-yourselves-in sort of way.

“Agnes thinks the best way to get Mattie back to Mr. Matthews is to find out who hexed him.” Hattie presented the conclusion as if it was mine, and I thought it had been ours, but otherwise that was spot on.

“And we’re here today,” Clara explained, “because we think the Genteel Ladies of Westerville are an excellent source of town gossip.”

“Well,” Pixie said, “you’re spot on there. And that was before you knew we wouldn’t eat you alive.”

I couldn’t help admitting, “We weren’t entirely sure that knocking on your door was a good idea—but we’re awfully glad we did.”

Clara and Hattie quickly and energetically agreed.

“Mr. Matthews… Abe Matthews?” Greta asked. “Lives over on Eternal Spring Road?”

I nodded. “That’s my street.”

“Oh,” Pixie exclaimed. “You have an excellent block party. I made the drinks year before last. No one can beat Greta’s sangrias, but I make a mean cocktail.”

Clara eyes widened. “Really? That was you?”

Pixie grinned. “Liked the Bear Bombs, didn’t you?”

“Oh my gosh, so good.” Clara rhapsodized over Pixie’s various drinks.

We gave them a few minutes to bond over booze, then Greta said, “You want to know who might have a grudge against a man few people liked.”

“A beef big enough to result in a curse that changed him into an animal,” I clarified. But she made a good point, Mr. Matthews made enemies left and right.

“She doesn’t need gossip.” Pixie looked Greta and Zelda for confirmation.

“You need to talk to Nathan,” Greta pronounced. 

Zelda nodded firmly in agreement.

Pixie said, “Most definitely.”

Clara, Hattie, and I all shared a look. Confusion was the prevailing emotion. “I’m sorry, but—who’s Nathan?”

All three women smiled, but it was Greta who replied. “Nathan is the purveyor of Westerville’s finest magical ingredients. He’ll know who has the requisite materials to have created the potion that turned Mr. Matthews into Mattie.”

“But we don’t have a local supplier.” Not that I knew of. And I would know. I was a witch, who lived in Westerville. Who’d lived in Westerville my whole life. And had witch friends who’d lived in Westerville their hole lives.

“Don’t look at us,” Clara said. “I don’t have a clue who this Nathan guy is. Hattie?”

“Not a clue. I drive to Austin for my supplies.”

“You need an invitation to get into Nathan’s establishment.” Greta arched her eyebrows. “It’s very exclusive.”

I was confused. “We’re too poor to be invited?”

I had a normal sort of job with normal sort of pay. Heck, I had benefits and retirement, which I considered a win these days. But Hattie came from family money, and I had a sneaking suspicion her supernatural thrillers made bank. And as much as Clara worked and as many employees as she was bossing around, I really hoped she wasn’t broke.

“No, no,” Pixie said. “It’s not that kind of exclusive. Witches with the council’s approval get invitations.”

“And y’all have the council’s approval.” I could believe that Greta had at one time, but the Genteel Ladies as a group? No. The council very much disapproved of the Genteel Ladies. They were outcasts. There was a reason the Home was located outside the county lines.

As for individuals… Pixie, formerly Peridot? No way.

And a stranger to town? A woman like Zelda who appeared and made friends with outcasts, who existed outside the council’s influence? Nope.

“Of course not.” Greta rolled her eyes. Mrs. Hofstettler just rolled her eyes. Not a sight I’d have ever expected to see. “The council despises us, but they also have little control over us. And after the Letitia Pearl incident, they may be more aware of natural inclination that we’d like. We’re not sure they believe the story that we chased her out of town.”

Zelda smiled, but it’s wasn’t serene version we’d seen thus far. No, Zelda’s smile was mischievous with a hint of wicked—the good kind. “Nathan likes us.”

“He doesn’t like the council,” Pixie clarified.

“The council believes firmly in the superiority of witches, and Nathan isn’t a witch.” Greta shrugged. “Simple as that.”

“But he is the purveyor of Westerville’s finest magical ingredients.” Even though he wasn’t a witch, and most of the local witch community disliked or was boased against him.

Greta considered her reply. “I’d say Texas, Louisiana, and Oklahoma.”

I shook my head, not understanding.

“Wow,” Hattie said. “This guy has the best goods in a three-state area, he lives in my town, and I’ve been picking through second-rate stuff in Austin when I shop. I really don’t like the council. And I really want to check this place out.”

“I’ll fetch my invitation, for you,” Greta said as she rose from the breakfast table.

As Greta left, Zelda promised, “You’re going to love it.” Then she looked at me and a funny expression crossed her face. “You’ll all love it.”

Then Pixie joined in, saying how excited she was that the Genteel Ladies had the opportunity to introduce us to Nathan and his wares, and that look on Zelda’s face—whatever it was—disappeared.

And while I was excited that we were further along in our journey to discover the witch behind Mattie’s transformation—and hopefully a cure—and especially excited to explore Westerville’s very own local magical supply shop, we still hadn’t determined which witch had done this very wicked thing.

***End of Web Serial #3!***

Raw an unedited, just for you! 

The Mystery of Mattie

My roommate was a man-dog.

A dog who’d only days previous been a person. A cantankerous loner of a man formerly known as Mr. Matthews.

The good news was that I hadn’t turned him into a dog.

The bad was that someone had.

He showed every sign of being much happier in his current state. Prior to his canine transformation, he glowered in response to cheerful smiles and waves. He put a trespassers will be prosecuted sign up on Halloween (and meant it). He slammed the door on little girls selling cookies for nonprofits. He blew leaves into neighbors’ yards. And five years running—that was counting the years since I’d moved into my mother’s house, but it could have been happening before—he’d called the cops with a noise complaint when we had our fall block party.

His attendance at this year’s block party had been my goal when I’d dosed him with a mood-altering potion. I’d hypothesized that in an altered (more amenable) state, he would see the draw of a block party. (Which turned out to be true, Mattie loved people and would enjoy the opportunity to socialize if he was still a dog this coming Saturday.)

In contrast to the irascible Mr. Matthews, Mattie wagged his tail frequently, lazed about my small cottage with intent (not melancholy), chased as many tennis balls as I’d throw, and generally exhibited every sign of enjoying his newly acquired canine life.

But he made a problematic roommate.

I’d encountered a great number of inconvenient and embarrassing situations in my life. Christmas dinners as a kid with my nonmagical father’s second family (he hadn’t a clue I was a witch and didn’t celebrate Christmas), my first date with a boy named Jimmy Sellers (nonexistent conversation, sweaty blushes, and sloppy kisses all included), and magical mishaps numbering in the dozens that I’d sooner forget.

The pinnacle of awkward, however, was living with a dog who’d recently been a man and would (hopefully) be one again.

We ate meals together, his plate on the floor, mine on the table. I’d done research to ensure that everything I served Mattie was edible by both dog and human. I didn’t put an entrée or side on his plate that I wouldn’t be happy to eat myself, though his meals were a little protein heavy for me.

He had his own room for privacy purposes. Mostly mine, but since I wasn’t familiar with the psychological needs of a man-turned-dog, perhaps his as well. I found him sprawled on the twin bed or the hardwood floor when I returned from brief errands. I’d removed the large area rug after determining he preferred the cool touch of bare wood. My kitchen was his favorite place to lounge, and after doing some research I’d concluded it was the chilled feel of the tile that he liked. Google and the ebook I’d ordered on Labrador Retrievers had informed me that labs were built to tolerate extreme cold and even to swim in icy water, so that made sense.

And then there was the bathroom situation. My new roommate and I had quickly come to an understanding. I was not to be disturbed in the bathroom (I was adamant), and he wouldn’t be observed during his potty breaks in my yard (he didn’t seem to care, but I did). I also made sure that he was indoors when I tidied the yard. Who wanted to watch someone clean up after them?

And that was the nature of our first weekend together. Me pretending that Mattie was simultaneously both a man and a dog, and Mattie behaving with the happy-go-lucky acceptance I’d expect of a well-adjusted Labrador Retriever. Per Google. I’d never actually spent much time with dogs of any breed, certainly not a lab.

Then Monday morning rolled around, and the reality of our situation settled firmly on my tense shoulders. I had to go to work; he couldn’t come.

Hattie, with her more flexible writer’s schedule, had agreed to stop by the house midday to give Mattie his lunch and a chance to stretch his legs in the yard.

“I have to leave now.” I clutched my keys in my hand.

Big brown eyes stared back at me. A chunky Labrador body stood between me and the door.

“You’ll be fine.”

He tipped his head and arched his canine eyebrows. This was followed by a slow wag of his tail.

“You’ll just sleep all day. Right?”

Those huge canine eyes of his gave rise to more guilt than any man-dog, especially one who was crashing in my guest room uninvited, should be capable of causing.

I hurried past him and out of the house, barely avoiding being sucked into the vortex of his soulful, guilt-inducing gaze again.

Then I had a terrible day at work.

Nine calls. I made nine phone calls to Hattie.

The first was to ask if she’d stop by earlier than the planned eleven o’clock, because I was worried about Mattie being at the house alone for so long. What if he hurt himself? Or got into something he shouldn’t have? It’s not like he had a lot of experience being a dog.

The second was to remind her to check the temperature of his food when she reheated it, since he ate like a hungry lab and not a grumpy old man. In other words, he inhaled his food, licked his plate, and then looked for more. Actually, maybe he ate that way as a human and that was why he’d lived alone? Hattie refused to reply to that bit of fanciful speculation and hung up on me.

My third and fourth calls she ignored, which made me frantic and snappy with the owner of the business. Good thing I was amazing at my job and normally very easy to get along with.

I found out on my fifth call that she’d been inside my house, her phone still in her car, when I’d called earlier. Also, Mattie had been “dead to the world” when she’d arrived. Upon hearing this, I had a mini-panic attack. The tightness in my chest only abated when she made it clear with further details that he’d been asleep. On my sofa. She recommended I invest in a couch cover pronto.

Not sure what happened to him seeking out the coolest areas to lie down, but I added slipcover to the ever-growing list of supplies that living with a hairy, drooling, odiferous canine beast required.

Around three, I tried to get away from work, but I’d been so thoroughly unproductive throughout the day that it would have been irresponsible to leave early. My sixth call was to beg Hattie to swing by one more time for another round of fetch since I’d be home later than planned. I promised cheese in return, since I was already in a bottle of wine for the lunch trip.

After the seventh call, in which I’d begged for an update on fetch (many balls were retrieved) and whether or not Mattie seemed to be in good spirits (definitely yes), she stopped answering.

And when she refused to take my eighth and ninth calls, I had to admit that I had a problem. And if I hadn’t already figured it out for myself, Clara’s text telling me to stop calling Hattie or I’d wake up tomorrow with warts and prematurely gray hair would have clued me in.

I had to take some vacation time. I couldn’t leave Mattie at home alone. The stress was killing my productivity at work, driving my friends insane, and generally making me a basket case. I hadn’t had a panic attack since those first few months after my mom died.

I had an ah-ha moment on the drive home, in which I realized my level of concern was in part attributable to never having had a dog before. But it had even more to do with the fact that Mattie wasn’t a dog.

In the jam-packed few days since Mr. Matthews had been turned into a lovable canine, I’d delved into dog dietary research, reorganizing my guest bedroom, shopping for supplies, learning about labs, and creating a new schedule to accommodate all of the sudden changes in my life. Like cooking healthy meals for two, long walks, bouts of fetch, and poop-scooping.

All of those tasks and changes had consumed me, not leaving much time for the reality of the situation to settle in.

The reality being Mr. Matthews was a dog.

I’d been side-tracked by details while ignoring the much greater problem that a man who existed outside and ignorant of the magical world had been magically transformed. An act that was strictly taboo and most definitely illegal, not to mention fraught with logistical difficulties, only some of which I’d attempted to handle. Yes, Mattie had a safe place to live, but what about Mr. Matthews mortgage? Any family he spoke with semi-regularly? Maintenance of his home? And even more importantly, his lawn, because the neighbors would begin to comment when it grew unchecked. And speaking of the neighbors, they’d certainly notice when the police didn’t swing by our block party, and then I’d have to lie and say I handled it.

I hadn’t handled it. I wasn’t handling it—not well, anyway.

Mr. Matthews had been transformed on Saturday, and today was Monday. Saturday, Hattie, Clara, and I had been in shock. It wasn’t every day that one of our neighbor’s was zapped into animal form.

But two days had passed with no indications the magic of the transformation was fading. My potion still had the potential to be effective for the next day, two at most.

What would happen when it wore off?

Would Mattie become an ill-tempered Labrador?

Or would be become a cranky chihuahua?

One result Hattie, Clara, and I had ruled out was that he’d return to his human form. Whatever had caused his transformation had been in place before I’d dosed him with a liberal topical application of mood-altering potion. Our best guess was that the original transformation magic had been slow acting. Probably set to trigger with a specific event or intended to trigger a certain amount of time after he’d been magicked.

And then I’d squirted Mr. Matthews with my mood-altering potion.

Magic being the unpredictable beast that she was, my potion could easily have triggered the dormant magic behind Mr. Matthews’ transformation.

Slow acting transformation magic like that could last…a while. Years even. Mr. Matthews could live in the form of a dog longer even than that dog’s expected life span.

I hadn’t turned my neighbor into a dog, but…maybe (most likely) I’d helped someone else’s magic along. My magic might have been (probably was) the precipitating event that had jump-started the transformation.

I wasn’t responsible for Mattie’s well-being…but who else could be relied upon to care for a man-dog properly?

So here I’d landed, responsible for a being who was neither man nor beast, but somehow both. And it was stressing me out.

As I turned down my street, I saw both Hattie’s car and Clara’s moped parked at my house. It seemed that we’d all three come to the same conclusion: present circumstances could not be allowed to continue. I was pretty certain that was why they’d shown up on my doorstep: for an intervention.

With any luck, they’d brought tequila, since Clara had used the last of mine for our prematurely celebratory drinks on Saturday. I wasn’t planning to practice magic in the next few hours, just talk about it. Booze were a definite yes, and tequila lifted my spirits, especially when delivered in a shaker along with the contents of a Mexican martini.

As I pulled into my drive, Clara lifted a bottle of tequila in greeting while sitting on my porch steps. Hattie, sitting next to her, lifted a jar of olives.

Definitely an intervention, but I’d convince my best friends that I didn’t need an intervention. I needed a plan.

***

Two hours later, I was tipsy, but feeling a little less overwhelmed. My friends had talked me off the proverbial ledge, convincing me that Mattie would be fine at home alone while I worked. And I’d convinced them that I needed a plan. They’d agreed that the three of us would tackle Mattie’s problem together.

Mattie’s thick tail swished reassuringly across the tile. He was sitting next to the kitchen table, staring longingly at either the drinks or the chips and salsa. Probably both, because I wasn’t sharing either one. Salt, peppers, and booze were not good for dogs, or so my internet sources had claimed. I apologized quietly to Mattie for my rudeness.

Clara, who’d had the most to drink by far and would be sleeping on my dog-hair-covered sofa tonight, tapped the kitchen table with the flat of her hand. “Almost forgot. No worries about that familiar thing.”

Familiar thing? Then I recalled that we’d had some concerns I’d unwittingly acquired a familiar since Mattie was a dog and everyone knew that a witch’s pet could be her familiar. Except none of us had known how a pet became a familiar.

“That’s right. You’re in the clear. Mattie is still a human, even if he looks and acts like a dog, so he can’t be a familiar.” Hattie scratched Mattie behind the ear and under the new collar I’d bought him. “I’d have told you on one of the many calls we had today, but I was sidetracked calming your irrational fears and forgot.”

I wasn’t working any sort of magic. I’d been busy with my new man-dog roommate and also, my last potion hadn’t gone to plan, so practice was on pause briefly. But as a result, I hadn’t had a chance to evaluate whether Mattie’s presence helped, hindered, or did nothing at all. Generally, the idea was that familiars helped witches work their magic.

Supposedly.

I didn’t know anyone with a familiar. I knew a few witches with barn cats, and one witch with a parrot she didn’t get along with (inherited from her cousin), but that was all. None of the witches of Westerville had familiars. Actually, that was odd. It seemed mathematically unlikely.

“What’s the current witch population of Westerville?” I asked Clara. “Somewhere around seventy-five, right?”

Hattie could remember a story she read in the fourth grade, but could barely remember her phone number, so I was surprised when, instead of Clara, she replied, “Seventy-eight.” She shrugged. “Kitty had a history lesson last week.”

Kitty was Hattie’s twelve-year-old, chocolate-loving cousin. Maybe if someone had bribed me with chocolate to regurgitate my witch lessons, I’d have remembered more of them. Probably not…but chocolate.

“I don’t remember having witch history or Westerville history.” Since I’d forgotten more than I’d remembered from my weekly witch classes, that wasn’t a surprise to anyone in the room. Even Mattie looked on with nonjudgmental sympathy in his sweet brown eyes.

“Up until about twenty or thirty years ago, the witch population had always been around one percent of the nonmagical population, somewhere between a hundred and two hundred. That seemed high, so I looked at the witch rolls, and found that the numbers have been dropping since then. Our current number is seventy-eight, about .78 percent of the total population of Westerville, since Letitia left.”

I’d have run far away from Westerville, too, if I’d lived through Letitia’s last tortuous year here. A whole year of community service working at The Home for Genteel Ladies, where the least genteel witches went to live after they turned fifty-five.

“It’s weird, right?” I hadn’t had that much alcohol. I was pretty sure that at least one witch in Westerville should have a familiar.

“Oh yeah,” Hattie agreed. “Seems shady to me. The population of the town has grown in the last ten years, but not the witch population? Something’s off.”

“No, I was talking about how there’s no familiars. Seventy-eight witches and—”

“More than a third of Americans are pet owners,” Clara declared, reading straight from her phone, then hiccupped. “That’s too much math for me, but zero of seventy is way less than a third.”

“Seventy-eight,” Hattie repeated absently. “You’re right, though. That is odd. I love dogs. I should get a dog.”

Mattie thought that was a fantastic idea, because he wagged his tail so hard his butt wiggled. Actually, he was licking his lips. He might have gotten a stray chip.

Clara topped up my drink with the last of the martini in the shaker, then headed for the counter to mix another. As she poured, she reminded us that we were supposed to be solving the problem of Mattie.

“There’s only one thing to do,” I pronounced. I’d given this some thought on the drive home. Dripping Springs, the town I worked in, was a good twenty-minute drive from my house and that was when I drove ten miles over the speed limit…which I would never do, because that was illegal.

Hattie sighed. “Spit it out already. Except, wait, whatever we’re doing, it better not involve me trucking my rear over here three times a day to babysit Mattie. I adore him, but I have to actually get some work done during the day.”

“Entertaining Mattie won’t be a problem,” I replied, “if we change him back.”

Silence followed.

And not the variety that said, “awed-appreciation.”

It was the sort that said, “You’ve gone off your rocker.”

No one messed with another witch’s magic. Ever. That much even I remembered.

“Can’t be done,” Clara finally said. Then she shook the shaker of Mexican martini in her hand like she’d shake me if she could get away with it: with gleeful determination.

“Sure it can. We just won’t be doing the magic part. All we have to do is figure out who did it…then use that information.”

Hattie blinked.

Clara stopped shaking.

Mattie yawned with a cute little growly squeak.

I pointed at Mattie. “This time you don’t get a vote.” Then I petted his head, and he wagged his tail.

“What you’re saying is… Let me get this right.” Clara set her shaker down on the counter, leaned her hip against it, and crossed her arms. “We find out who magicked Mattie. We then confront that sneaky nasty witch with the evidence. We then leverage that evidence to get Mattie turned back into Mr. Matthews. All while avoiding being turned into…well, whatever Mattie was intended to be before your magic intervened in the process. Ha!” She smacked the counter. “I love it. I’m in!”

Clara might wear multi-hued (vibrant) clothes, drive a moped, and drink like a college freshman with her first fake ID—all traits that led many a confused soul to underestimate her—but she was no college kid. She ran her own virtual assistant business with more full-time employees than the company I worked for. She was a savvy businesswoman with a teeny, tiny (but thoroughly vicious) competitive streak, and she always played to win.

“You’re crazy,” Hattie, who was much more risk averse, replied.

I wasn’t sure who she was talking to. “Does that mean you’re out?”

Hattie leaned closer to mattie and scratched his chest. “No, it means I’m in, but you’re both crazy.”

Clara whooped. “Drinks for everyone! We’re finding us a wicked witch of Westerville.”

Which she found absolutely hilarious. Hopefully, that attitude survived the hangover she’d have tomorrow, because Hattie and I were relatively sober and definitely in.

We were, in fact, going to hunt the wicked witch of Westerville.

***Keep an eye out for the next installment of the serial! ~Cate

Introducing The Worst Witches of Westerville, a new world featuring three less than adept witches. This is part of a project I’m working on in addition to my regular writing schedule, not in place of it. Agnes is a serialized fiction work, and the following is the first episode =) 

Raw and unedited, just for you! 

***Snip begins here.***

A Blundered Brew

I’d flubbed a spell.

It was a little spell but sadly a rather large flub.

A simple potion gone terribly—tragically, some might say—awry. Perhaps I’d allowed my attention to wander during the brewing process. Or added too much unicorn hair. Or too little white stag horn dust.

Or perhaps I’d overcooked it? There was the faintest hint of burnt hair and unhappy magick in the air of my small kitchen.

Whatever the cause of my error, I was left with the mess of my mistake. All eighty-plus pounds of drooling, shedding, mud-tracking mess.

A knock on my back door preceded the entry of my friend Clara. I’d texted her a 911 without going into the embarrassing and possibly criminal details.

Petite, freckled, and possessing both bright orange hair and a love of colorful clothing, Clara was my opposite in almost all things. My wardrobe was full of navies, greys, and blacks, my dark brown hair would never catch a second glance, and I was half a head taller.

We shared one important, unseen trait, however. One that had helped bring us and a third friend, Hattie, together through our school years, into college, and beyond. We were witches. Not particularly competent, not especially talented, but blessed with just the smallest touch of witch magick.

Her chin disappeared into her teal and purple infinity scarf as she stared at the beast reclining in the middle of my kitchen floor. “Agnes, why is there a huge yellow dog in your kitchen?”

“I believe he’s a Labrador. That’s what Google says.”

“Sure, if Google says so.” She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

I had just a little. I’d experimented with magick that was well beyond my skill level. I’d known it as I’d added the ingredients to the pot, as I’d brought them to a bubbling boil, as I’d infused the resulting concoction with my magick, and finally, as I’d let the resulting potion cool.

And still I’d dosed Mr. Matthews with it.

“You haven’t answered my question. Why do you have a dog in your kitchen? You don’t own a dog.” She frowned as she registered the untidy display of ingredients on my counter. And my mother’s book of magicks. She pointed at the checkered binder labeled recipes. “You didn’t.”

My gaze fell to the solidly built dog sprawled across the tile floor of my small kitchen. I did. I shouldn’t have—I wasn’t exactly adept at potions or any of the other witchy arts—but I did.

The dog’s tail beat against the tile with a soft, rhythmic thud. He was still a little overweight and definitely just as lazy, but he seemed much happier than…before. And friendlier. His tail thwacked the floor every time I looked at him.

“I did, and I’m planning to again.”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, I can’t leave him that way.”

“What do you mean? Leave him what way?” Clara scooted around the dog, giving him a wide berth as she made her way to my retro pink fridge. She retrieved a bottle of beer, immediately opened it, and gulped a third of its contents.

“He doesn’t bite. He seems to be quite friendly like this.”

“Like this?” Her eyes widened then darted to the array of potion-making supplies she’d spotted earlier. “Did you drug a stray dog?”

As if I’d harm some poor helpless animal. “I drugged Mr. Matthews.”

She squinted at me, then chugged the rest of her beer.

I sighed quietly. She was judging me.

Then again, I had turned my neighbor into a dog. I hadn’t meant to. The plan was to improve his temperament. The potion was intended to create a window of opportunity. To make him amiable and receptive to my argument that he attend the fall block party. It was happening in a week, and if someone couldn’t convince him to go, he’d likely call the cops on us, same as every other year.

I’d hadn’t been officially appointed, but it had been suggested by the planning committee (strongly) that I take on the task of persuading him, since I wasn’t helping with refreshments. I’d been barred from the potluck table after serving underdone sausages last year. Not my finest moment.  

It had occurred to me that I could use my chat with Mr. Matthews as an opportunity to test out one of my mother’s potions. I’d been spending a lot of time over the last few months studying her book of magicks, using it to tap into my childhood memories. Perfecting Mom’s potions had become my way of grabbing hold of those memories before they faded away.

Mom’s mood-altering potion had been the last she’d developed. Sitting in the kitchen, doodling in my sketch pad, and singing along to the radio while she’d brewed at least ten different batches of the stuff was one of my last memories of her. I’d been twelve and already well on my way to becoming a less than stellar witch.

I’d wanted to get this potion right.

Instead, I’d gotten drool on my kitchen tile and a hint of a doggy odor in the air.

On the bright side, turning Mr. Matthews into a Labrador retriever had made him much more agreeable. The dog once again wagged his tail when he saw I was looking at him.

“That’s Mr. Matthews, your grumpy neighbor. The guy who blows his leaves in his neighbors’ yards.” Clara tipped the neck of the bottle at the dog. “You turned him into…that.”

Obviously, but I nodded for the sake of clarity.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “No wonder it smells like magick gone wrong in here. Agnes, how could you?”

And I thought that odor was the dog.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” I nibbled the corner of my lip, because that was no excuse. Any magick I practiced was more than a bit of a gamble, or so the elders on the council claimed. “And I’m going to try to fix it. That’s why I’ve got Mom’s book of magicks and my entire supply closet emptied on my kitchen counters.”

“Seriously? I need another beer.”

Sounded good to me, but given how my last potion had ended up and the fact it was only about two in the afternoon, it was probably a bad idea. If I ended up with a fat, excessively furry canine while sober, then who knew what I’d get under the influence.

Now armed with her second drink, Clara looked calmer. “You can’t feed him some random potion and hope you’ll poof him back to his old grumpy self.”

I couldn’t leave him as a dog, however happy he seemed to be, and the other alternative… “I can’t go to the council. Those old ladies are mean. They’ll probably turn me into a bat or a toad or something and think that’s justice.”

Technically, mood altering spells weren’t forbidden; they were simply out of fashion. But I’d have to convince the council it had been a legitimate accident, and even then, I’d still be in trouble for my poorly executed magick.

Letitia Pearl, a witch with slightly higher standing than Clara, Hattie and me, accidentally cast a twenty-four-hour bad luck spell on one of the elders, and the council had levied a huge fine against her: five hundred and twenty hours of community service to be served within one year entirely at the Home for Genteel Ladies. Located just outside the Westerville city limits, The Home was an independent living community for women (witches, but the townspeople of Westerville didn’t know that) fifty-five years and older. In theory, not so terrible, but the Home was where all of Westerville’s most ill-tempered witches landed. Poor Letitia had moved not long after completing her community service. Westerville’s meanest witches were too much for her.

The council would not look lightly on my infraction.

One should know one’s limits, or so they’d told me in the past. Me, Clara, and Hattie. We’d all been given the same line.

Clara looked at me like she thought maybe a council-imposed stint as a small wild animal was exactly what I deserved.

“Do you really think I’d turn my neighbor into a dog?” When she hesitated, I added, “On purpose, Clara.”

“No, of course not.” She leaned against the fridge and squinted at me. “We should call Hattie. I bet she’ll know what to do.”

Great. That was just what we needed, the second and third worst witches in Westerville trying to crack the problem I—the absolute worst witch in town—had created.

Then again, my only alternative was to seek the council’s help. I didn’t want to live the next few months as a rodent or amphibian, and I sure didn’t want to end up at The Home, acting as personal servant to thirteen cantankerous witches. “Call her.”

Today was Saturday. Mr. Matthews didn’t have any close friends or family in town that I’d ever seen, and I’d know. He lived kitty-corner to me. It was possible, if we fixed him before Monday and managed a decent memory potion that he’d never remember he’d been a dog. Or that he’d camped out on my kitchen floor. Or that he’d had a run in with a witch at all.

All good things, since the witchy townsfolk would levy a hefty penalty on me if they had to mop up a leak of this size. Thus far, Westerville’s non-witchy residents had lived in ignorance of the town’s magick-wielding inhabitants, and the witchy folk had been here as long as the town.  

#

Hattie had a few ideas. She’d been studying with her younger cousin recently and had learned, among other witchy things, about animal transformation.

Clara, Hattie, and I weren’t intrinsically bad at witchcraft. I hadn’t been a motivated student and had frequently been distracted from my studies. Clara hadn’t ever had much interest. And Hattie had been a late bloomer, hence her studies with her younger cousin. She was trying to catch up now that she was exhibiting greater inherent ability.

We’d all attended the minimum once weekly witch class through junior high up into high school but had each quit when we’d turned fifteen. At the time, we’d all questioned the value of those weekly classes, since we’d been convinced we’d never become actively practicing witches.

Hattie had been the first to reconsider as her witch powers had gained in strength after college. She bribed her twelve-year-old cousin to repeat her weekly witch lessons, since adult witches weren’t welcome in the classes. Chocolate had done the trick, and Hattie had been learning on the sly ever since.

I followed in Hattie’s footsteps when I woke one morning in a panic. I’d dreamt I’d forgotten my mother’s voice, her scent, the way wisps of her hair would escape the bun atop her head when she became intent on perfecting a potion. How the steam from her bubbling brew curled those wisps as she hovered over the pot, watching, waiting, testing her newest concoction.

Lacking a twelve-year-old cousin who was easily bribed by chocolate, I’d fetched my mother’s book of magicks from high in the kitchen cupboard, wiped away the dust, and begun to study the contents.  

There was hope that we’d eventually become, well, realistically, moderately competent witches. We were never going to master the ultimate secrets of the universe. We probably weren’t up for the more sophisticated magicks, like energy balls and weather alterations, or the more nuanced, like love potions. Someday, though, I had faith that we’d all three graduate from terrible to mediocre, contrary to the council’s predictions.

Today was not that day.

Hattie crossed her arms as I explained for the third time the exact steps I’d followed to make my mood altering potion.

She’d shown up about forty minutes after I’d called. Westerville wasn’t very large, our population never quite hitting the ten thousand mark, and since we were far enough west of Austin not to be included in that city’s commuter growth, we’d remained a small Texas town. Ten minutes was more than enough to cross the city corner to corner, so I’d guess that Hattie had been holed up in her house for the last few days working on some project and hadn’t been “society-ready,” as she termed it. In other words, our girl hadn’t showered today and likely hadn’t washed her hair in a few days. Such was the life of a writer, or so she claimed.

I wouldn’t know, since my job was much more prosaic. As scattered as my magickal life might be, I’d settled incongruously into a work position that required focus and attention to detail. As an administrative assistant in a neighboring town, my workdays were neatly ordered and highly organized. I was the rock upon which my small office relied. It had taken several months for me to reconcile my magical and work lives, but now I simply accepted that magic made me scatterbrained, and I’d simply have to work harder at it than other aspects of my life.

Hattie’s relationship with work and magic couldn’t be more different. And her relationship with her hair, as well. No emergency was so great that there wasn’t enough time for Hattie to shower and wash her mass of pastel pink hair. If I had her porcelain skin, perhaps I’d consider a pastel color. Though… no. I liked my dark brown hair, even if wasn’t nearly as colorful and fun as my friends’.

“You’re not paying attention.” Hattie eyed me like she was trying to reach inside my head and pull out whatever distraction had led me astray.

“I was having hair envy.”

“Oh, well, normally I’d be okay with that.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Not today. If you’d been paying attention, you’d have heard me say that I think you got your potion right.”

“But…” I considered the dog on the floor. “Pretty sure I didn’t.”

Hattie frowned at Mr. Matthews, then knelt and scratched behind his right ear. Unlike Clara, she wasn’t afraid of dogs. “He’s awfully sweet. So, technically, the potion did work.”

“What about the magick-gone-wrong smell?” Clara asked from several feet away.

“Oh, no, that’s just overcooked unicorn hair.” Hattie sounded certain.

And yet—“If it’s overcooked, doesn’t it change the magick?” I should know the answer to that question. Should.

Hattie proceeded to share the wealth of knowledge she’d accumulated from her studious, chocolate-loving cousin. That certain ingredients, including those in my potion, enhanced each other. Adding magick bound and activated the constituent parts, but there was no alchemic changing of properties that occurred with the addition of either heat or magic or through interaction of the ingredients.

All information Hattie’s twelve-year-old cousin possessed, and now Hattie, and with any luck, me. I grabbed Mom’s book of magicks and a pencil and scribbled in the margins before the information escaped me.

“I don’t suppose you kept any of the original potion,” Hattie asked when I’d finished my notations.

“Uh…” Dang it. Only after Hattie mentioned it did I vaguely remember learning that all potions should be stored after their creation for some set amount of time. Something to do with making the antidote.

“Agnes.” Hattie’s eyes were kind, but I could see the frustration lurking. “If you’re going to experiment with potions, then be sure to store some of it when you’re done. Most mood-altering potions only last a few days at most, so you’d want to keep the original potion for about a week, just in case you needed—”

“To make a cure!” Clara pumped her fist. “I remember that lesson.”

“Too bad I didn’t.” I’d likely been daydreaming. “Can’t I just remake the potion and use that for the antidote?”

Turned out…sort of.

No two potions were alike. Even if created using the same ingredients from the same sources with the same recipe, and even if the same witch bound and activated the ingredients.

Welcome to the fun of magick.

Truly. I found that part fascinating. The inevitable unpredictability of magick, even when wielded by the most competent of witches, was where I found wonder and joy in it. It was a living thing, capable of changing and altering in ways we witches couldn’t always predict.

Not that a competent witch would turn a man into a dog using a temporary mood-altering potion. Only someone like me would do that.

Clara, Hattie, and I went through the recipe I’d used and recreated it. I erred on the side of generous with the unicorn hair and skimpy with the white stag horn dust. Clara, who had a fabulous nose, told me when it was time to add my magick based on the smell of the brewing potion. (I’d most definitely overcooked it.)

When we were finally done, I pulled out the spray bottle I’d used earlier—and that’s when Hattie put a stop to our reenactment.

She held up a hand, closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened them, she said, “You sprayed Mr. Matthews with the potion.”

“Yes. It says clearly in the notes that it can be applied topically as well as ingested. The delivery method only affects dosage.” That’s why I didn’t have any left. Topical applications require a much higher dose. Otherwise every little spill or accidental dribble would have us all magicking ourselves.

They both looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“What? What did I miss?”

Instead of answering that question, Hattie once again knelt next to the dog. “Are you absolutely certain this is Mr. Matthews?”

She had to be kidding. Like I’d bring some strange dog into my house, assume he was my neighbor, and start texting and calling my friends in a tizzy if I wasn’t sure the dog was my grumpy neighbor.

“I sprayed him. I blinked. I opened my eyes, and there was this sweetheart trying to crawl out of Mr. Matthews clothes.”

Hattie stood up after a last scratch and crossed her arms. “You blinked.”

“I did.” I flashed a weak smile. “It’s been a while. My last potion was maybe six or seven months ago.”

Magick flashed and banged. It wasn’t a big flash, and it wasn’t a loud bang, but much like learning not to flinch in anticipation when shooting a gun, witches were taught not to blink…lest we miss something important.

I was out of practice.

I blinked.

Had I missed something important?

No. The dog currently shedding on my tile was Mr. Matthews. I was sure of it. “Come on. It was a split second.”

Hattie narrowed her eyes at the dog and finally conceded, “You’re right. If the dog crawled out of a pile of Mr. Matthews clothes, then the dog is probably Mr. Matthews.”

“Probably?” Clara stared at the dog.

Hattie sighed. “Fine. The dog is Mr. Matthews, but Agnes, don’t blink. If you’re going to do magick, just, don’t blink.”

“Fine, we’ve established that the chunky yellow Labrador retriever occupying the center of my kitchen floor is indeed my neighbor. What has you both so freaked out?” I rethought my question, and added, “Besides my likely incarceration in the body of a bat or, worse, a lengthy stint as The Home’s new fetch-and-carry girl.”

Clara reached into the fridge for another beer, but this time she handed it to me.

“Cheers.” She clinked her glass with mine. “Mr. Matthews wasn’t transformed into a dog by your overcooked mood-altering potion.”

“I sprayed him. He turned into a dog. And yet you’re telling me it wasn’t my potion that did it. How does that work exactly?”

Magick could be weird, but this seemed like a Djinn wish gone wrong weird. I wanted a friendlier neighbor; my neighbor became one of the friendliest breeds of dog. Maybe guilt—and timing, I did literally just spray him when he transformed—had colored my perception, but it seemed clear to me that my spraying of the potion triggered the transformation.

Hattie replied, “Transformation can’t be accomplished through topical application of a potion.”

I didn’t know that. At all. As in, her telling me didn’t refresh any long-buried memory or half-learned lesson. “Are you sure?”

Clara and Hattie exchanged glances, and then they both nodded. From their behavior, this was one of those witch 101 lessons learned very early in childhood. Yet another foundation lesson I’d slept through, dreamt through, or flat out ignored.

I really was a terrible witch. My recent efforts had been heartfelt, but I’d missed so much of my early training. Their comments were a harsh reminder of all the lost opportunity behind me.

But witches hadn’t yet discovered a magick strong enough to combat or manipulate time, so I could only move forward from here. Studying, practicing, and always seeking to remember what I could, of my mother and magick.

One thing I’d learned through this transformation fiasco: the importance of continuing my studies, broadening both my understanding of the principles of magick and improving upon its practical applications. It was either that or abandon the last connection I had with my mother, and I wasn’t willing to cut that tie.

Still not fully able to embrace my good fortune, I said, “I didn’t turn Mr. Matthews into a dog.”

“Definitely not,” Hattie confirmed and then she wrapped an arm around my shoulders and squeezed.

My shoulders loosened, and for the first time in hours felt like I could breathe.

“We should celebrate.” Clara started to dig in my cupboards for the good stuff. Beer was all well and good for social sipping, but a proper party required liquor. Or so Clara believed.

As Clara retrieved my blender and a few bottles of liquor from the depths of my cabinets, Hattie continued to eye Mr. Matthews.

Oh, hell. Mr. Matthews.

I didn’t turn him into a dog, and yet here he was, in my kitchen. “What am I going to do with him?”

“Not your monkey, not your circus?” Clara said in a hopeful tone, her hand firmly fisted around a bottle of Titos.

Hattie glared at her. Pretty clear to see where the animal lover lines were drawn with those two.

Also, Clara had a screw loose if she thought I was going to just turn Mr. Matthews loose to run free in the world and play in traffic.

Which left one other alternative.

“I guess I have a dog?” I scratched his head, and the quiet thump of his tail on my tile floor became a hard smack as his joy over the attention I paid him escalated. “Yeah, seems like that’s what’s happening. I’ve got a dog. You good with that, Mattie?” His tail thumped even harder. Seemed like he was good with staying in my kitchen, surrounded by the scents of magick—gone wrong and otherwise—and also with his newly acquired name.

I didn’t know Mr. Matthews first name, so it would have to do.

Hattie eyed the two of us with an odd glint in her eye. “So that makes him your familiar, right?”

Hell, did it? I wasn’t sure if a pet immediately became a familiar or if it happened over time or if there was a ritual or a process. And Mattie was hardly a pet in the traditional witchy sense.

Looked like potions and spells weren’t my only weaknesses. “Guess I’ll be reading up on familiars, Mattie.”

His ears perked up and his tail continued to thump happily.

***End of Snip***

Keep an eye out for the continuing adventures of Agnes! 

Fatal Fudge is releasing on Friday!!! October 9th – only 4 days! Keep reading for the first chapter =) 

***SNIP BEGINS***

“Lina, meet Magic Beans’ new barista.” Bastian indicated the lanky man behind the counter.

I scrutinized the new addition. He was tall, lean, possibly early thirties, with light brown hair in a bun. But those details were unimportant. I waited for him to make eye contact. When he did, I didn’t spot any lurking vengeance in his soft brown gaze.

But it never hurt to ask. “You’re not secretly a murderer, are you?”

His eyes widened, and he shot Bastian a panicked look.

Bastian’s lips twitched. “And you wonder why we can’t keep staff? Quit harassing Boris. He only started yesterday, and he’s been in Boise less than a week.”

“What happened to Jami?” Jami hadn’t been the epitome of all things perfect when it came to baristas, but she’d been a solid addition to the coffee shop. Didn’t quite have the much coveted “feel” for coffee, but she’d brewed a decent light roast and remembered my milk choice. Macadamia nut with my morning coffee, because yum, and a dollop of cream with my afternoon espresso, because delish.

“Quit to…” He muttered something almost unintelligible.

“Did you say join the circus?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. As unlikely as that might seem. I’m supposed to tell anyone who asks that it’s a nontraditional circus focusing on performance art, and no animals are used.”

“Uh, okay.” I snorted. “You lost a barista to the circus. You guys really do have a staffing problem. You should use your revolving door as a hiring gimmick. Ready for your life to move in a whole new direction? Join Magic Beans! We may not have the perfect position for you, but you’re sure to find it when you leave us.”

“Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“I can always ask Sabrina to come back.” He cocked an eyebrow.

Even in jest, that thought created a twinge of discomfort. Sabrina used to work full-time for Magic Beans, but recently she’d joined me at Sticky Tricky Treats as a junior partner/sales assistant and only worked as the occasional fill-in at Magic Beans.

She liked Sticky Tricky Treats, the schedule and the work, so I didn’t anticipate her leaving anytime soon. Also, I suspected she had a teensy crush on our temporary addition. My cousin Bryson’s recent hockey injury had him on crutches, but he’d been regularly lending a hand at the register during peak hours…and Sabrina happened to be showing up for those same peak hours even if she wasn’t scheduled.

But regardless of Sabrina’s various motivations to stay, I was in the midst of my busiest month. I owned a Halloween-themed candy shop, and it was October. “You win. Not funny, and I’m very, very sad about your revolving door of baristas.”

“Better.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Aren’t we on a date? Shouldn’t you be trying to impress me?”

He grinned. “This is the pre-date. I’m saving my best conversational skills for dinner.”

Bastian and I had gone out a few times over the last week and a half. Today was Wednesday, just a few days before Halloween, and we were both enjoying the peaceful interlude we’d been granted. Not on the business front, but the criminal one. Boise had been free of murderous plots and misbehaving criminals, and it had been heavenly. The universe (specifically the local witchy lawbreakers) had allowed us time to squeeze in a few low-key dates between both our busy work schedules.

It’s funny how events will change one’s perspective. I considered the absence of demons and vengeful witches the equivalent of blissful low drama these days.

Having my cousin Bryson in town had been a blessing. (He claimed knee rehab could happen as easily here as in Austin, though I had suspicions of a secret motivation.) He was happy to help at STT, which meant I could occasionally sneak away early, like for tonight’s late dinner date.

Getting to know Bastian under less stressful circumstances had felt like a luxury after the, ah, hectic circumstances surrounding our introduction. Except I had a feeling that we were in the calm before the storm.

Since I’d spent every last minute that I wasn’t minding the shop either making candy or with Bastian pursuing my belated witch training, I knew better than to ignore that feeling.

“You have that look.” Bastian accepted the plain black coffee Boris handed him and my evening caffeine preference, espresso with a dollop of cream. He tipped his head in the direction of his office. “Let’s talk.”

Turned out, my intuition was spot-on, though not interested in giving me much of a head start. As we walked into Bastian’s office, Miles flew through the back door. “I have news.”

I sank into my favorite spot on Bastian’s sofa. Sitting would be best; I could already tell.

“I think I found a connection between two crimes.” He was panting, but not terribly. With prodding, he’d started running with Bastian recently. It was one, probably his only, attempt to offset the hours he spent behind his desk as the local International Criminal Witch Police research and transport expert. “A magical connection.”

“You ran here?” It was obvious he had, but I had to ask. If it was so pressing, why hadn’t he just called?

“Um, yeah. Faster than driving. Bastian has his ringer turned off. Was hoping to catch him before you guys went to dinner.”

Surprised, I turned to Bastian. “Your ringer is off?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Yours isn’t?”

I couldn’t help a small smile. He could be really sweet. And it was the small things, like not letting work disturb our scheduled date, that I appreciated the most. “I turned my ‘do not disturb’ on, but I’m not the lead ICWP detective.”

“Sabrina’s available. I double-checked when we arranged our date.” He flicked a glance at Miles.

It was a good guess that he’d told Miles to call Sabrina if there was trouble, but I couldn’t blame Miles. He’d worked with Bastian for years, and I knew for a fact that Bastian hadn’t had much of a personal life before I came along. It was probably hard for Miles to change habits after so long.

I reached my hand out. He was still standing in the middle of the office, so he only had to take a single step to grasp my fingers. I tugged, trying to pull him into the seat next to mine.

With a quick grin, he settled next to me on the sofa and draped his arm behind me. Then he was all business. “What crimes? And how are they magically connected?”

“A nun robbed a liquor store, and a kindergarten teacher punched a pedestrian.”

I stared at him. “Is that supposed to be the beginning of a joke? A really terrible joke?”

His breath was almost back to normal, a much-improved recovery rate over the last mad dash to Magic Beans I’d witnessed. “Joke? No. I’m totally serious. But it was their improbability that tipped me off.”

“A nun, not a person wearing a nun costume?” Bastian asked.

“No, real nun. Real kindergarten teacher. A local reporter saw dollar signs with the headline possibilities, which is how it came to my attention.”

“And you did some digging,” Bastian said.

“You know it, boss, and I found some unusual similarities in the cases. Both the nun and the teacher claim to have no memory of their illegal acts. They also seem confused about the crimes themselves. The teacher doesn’t have a history of violence.”

“And the nun no regular habit of theft.” Bastian looked at me.

I knew it. I’d had the feeling that a storm was coming, and this was it. “It’s my fudge.”

Bastian replied, “It’s possible.”

Miles winced. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Lina. After you and Bastian told me, I’ve had an eye out. These crimes were so unlikely, and then when I looked at the facts, they fit with your missing fudge.”

My missing mind-control fudge.

When I’d first learned of the latest in a series of magic candy mistakes, I’d immediately alerted Bastian and my great-aunt. Bastian was head of the local witch police force and my great-aunt was my magical mentor.

We’d put our heads together and tried to track the candy. We’d even used Bastian’s magical navigation app. I guess it wasn’t a huge surprise when it failed. The thing hadn’t alerted us to the fact that there were three demons in town instead of one when Bastian had been tracking the bloodsuckers on our last case.

Great-Aunt Sophia had still been impressed by Bastian’s ability to combine magic and technology, a wizardly trick she claimed no witch could master half so well.

I, on the other hand, just wanted my fudge back. Or destroyed. Either way, so long as it wasn’t being used by evil-minded witches. What was with the witchy community? They bumped into a little raw magic and automatically started plotting evil deeds. It was disheartening to think that was the world I lived in now.

“You have that sad unicorn look right now.” Miles frowned. “I thought you’d be happy that I found it. That’s good news, right? And no one’s dead.”

He said it with such enthusiasm, as if the absence of murder were as great a treat as a large bag of Holland mints. A lack of homicide shouldn’t be a bonus. It should be the norm.

But I needed to throw the guy a bone. He looked pretty disappointed that I wasn’t happier over his find. “You’ve done a great job, Miles. Thank you.”

“But…?”

“Let’s say my fudge was used. Did the teacher lose her job? Is the nun going to jail?” I could see the light of understanding flickering in his eyes. Poor guy.

His job was mostly about solving the puzzle. It made him a great researcher, and he loved that part of working with ICWP. Also, he wasn’t without empathy. Miles was a really great guy. But the plight of the nonmagical victims of witchy shenanigans, even those that didn’t involve murder, wasn’t his first thought. Likely, not his second or even third.

“Wow, that really sucks.” He rubbed his scruffy jaw. “If they’re innocent, I mean.”

“Exactly.” And now he got it. “Do I really look like a sad unicorn?”

Miles and Bastian both made affirmative noises.

Bastian squeezed my shoulder. “Only when you’re disappointed by the witch world.”

“There’s a lot to be disappointed about.” I got a glimpse of what a sad unicorn might look like, because Miles was doing an excellent impression, except he seemed more puppy than unicorn to me. “Not that there aren’t wonderful things—wonderful people—as well. It’s merely the ratio of good to bad that I’m struggling with right now.”

“Ah. You’ve been exposed to a disproportionate amount of criminality due to your, ah—” Miles frowned, as if trying to find just the right word.

“Circumstances,” Bastian provided.

“My circumstances? You mean all the cursed candy I unleashed on the local populace?”

Miles shrugged, because that was exactly what he meant.

Bastian glanced at the chunky watch on his wrist. “If that’s all you have, we have a dinner date I’d like to get started.”

Miles’s mouth opened. Then closed. He blinked. “You can’t go on a date now. We have a lead.”

After a quick squeeze of my neck (which felt heavenly because I tended to carry a lot of tension there), Bastian withdrew his arm from behind me on the sofa and leaned forward. Giving Miles all of his attention, he said, “If you were leading this investigation, what would you do next?”

“Interview the victims. Um, I mean the perpetrators of the crimes, who are also quite possibly the victims of magical suggestion.” He shook his head and made a frustrated sound. “I’d interview the nun and the teacher. It’s really confusing when the people committing the crimes aren’t the criminals.”

“You’d interview the nun and the teacher.” Bastian raised his eyebrows. “Who are both nonmagical. At seven o’clock on a Wednesday evening. Where are they?”

Miles blinked again. “The teacher’s still in custody, though she should be out shortly. She just gave the guy a black eye. And the nun’s already been let out. She didn’t even have a weapon. Honestly, I’m not sure exactly how she managed to rob the store. The prosecution’s best bet would be for her to confess and then take a plea deal. What with her being a nun and all, you’d think that was a no-brainer, but if she doesn’t remember committing the crime, she’d hardly confess to ease the burden of her guilt.”

Actually, that was an interesting point. And if the nun was claiming memory loss, why hadn’t the cops put that together with the kindergarten teacher claiming the same?

“We can’t interview the teacher until she’s released,” Bastian explained patiently. “And I doubt a nun, or any nonmagical person who’s likely been swamped by media attention due to the nature of the crime, would be receptive to a visit from strangers at this time of day.”

Miles chewed on his lower lip. “I should come up with an interview strategy for both of them.” When Bastian nodded, he continued. “And continue my research to see if there is any link between the two victims. I mean, a connection between the nun and the teacher.”

“And also the victims of the crimes. Liquor stores are state-owned in Idaho, but look at the cashier.”

“Right,” Miles agreed. “I know that. And you’ll—”

“Go on my date with my girlfriend, because there’s nothing else she and I can do right now.”

I grinned at their conversation. First, because it was cute. Also, because Bastian usually just told Miles what to do; this time he’d let him work some of the details out himself. But mostly because Bastian had called me his girlfriend.

That was new. And adorable. We’d had the exclusivity conversation, so it wasn’t presumptuous on his part. But he’d never actually said the word “girlfriend.”

I really liked hearing him say it out loud, to other people. Well, Miles, but he still counted.

And while girlfriend seemed a little youthful for a couple our age, it did designate us as a couple, so color me happy.

“What’s got you suddenly in such a great mood?” he asked. Miles had already planted himself behind Bastian’s desk and begun to type on his computer at a freakishly fast pace.

“You. Our date.”

And that seemed to satisfy him. More than satisfy him, actually, since he grinned then kissed me.

“Get a room, people,” Miles said without a break in his rapid typing.

***SNIP ENDS***

Fatal Fudge is now available for pre-order, releasing October 9th!

 

Here’s the first chapter of Twisted Treats, RAW and UNEDITED just for you! I’m working on edits now, but this is from the draft version… Enjoy!

***SNIP BEGINS***

Bastian Heissman, owner of Magic Beans and local lead detective for the International Criminal Witch Police, had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Or at least from his place of work.

I knew that because I’d adopted Magic Beans as my very own favorite coffee shop, and he never seemed to be there. Since I stopped by most days, I should know.

Not that I was trying to creepy stalk him or anything. Really.

What I was doing was the opposite of stalking. For five days, I’d done my best to avoid my current house guest. Between work, running errands, and my newly discovered obsession with working my way through Magic Beans’ entire drink menu, I’d done a bang-up job of it.

Since Great Aunt Sophia was in town to train me, my avoidance of her was posing a teensy tiny hindrance to my witch training.

Miniscule.

And by that, I mean, huge. I’d done almost no training at all.

In my defense, Great Aunt Sophia had proclaimed all witch training to be done outdoors without clothing. I’m not terribly shy, but I do like my neighbors (most of them), and they like me clothed. Also, October in Boise, Idaho can be a little chilly.

Three full days passed before I realized she’d been kidding—or so she claimed—but by then, I’d established a habit of avoidance. Also, I’d gotten hooked on making my way through Bastian’s excellent variety of caffeinated beverages.

Miles had promised me a Magic Beans t-shirt if I finished the whole menu, teas and decaffeinated drinks included, before the end of the month. I did love a challenge, especially one involving food or drink.

Imagine my surprise when I received a text message from the mysteriously disappearing man himself after a week without a single sighting.

There’s been an incident. Need your help. Pick you up?

His text made my heart beat faster, and not in the good way. Yes, I was happy to hear from him. Yes, I did have the beginnings of a crush on the handsome German import who’d saved me from incarceration in a witchy prison facility.

But Bastian was perfectly capable of handling “an incident” on his own. And if he needed a helping hand or two, Miles and Sabrina were his International Criminal Witch Police minions.

If he was reaching out to me, then that meant the two cursed candy sticks that I’d failed to account for had surfaced.

The raw material for curses that I’d accidentally created by making candy while in the foulest of moods had no doubt been used in another murder.

I reread the text. Perhaps not a murder. What exactly constituted an “incident” when one was an ICWP detective? Only one way to find out.

I’m at Magic Beans.

Best to keep my reply simple. It wasn’t like he was going to debrief me by text.

The office door in the back of Magic Beans opened, and Bastian emerged. I shot the new barista a disgruntled look. Not that Jami would know to warn me of Bastian’s presence, since she’d worked at Magic Beans all of two days. But I wasn’t feeling fair-minded. I was feeling annoyed.

“Lina.” Bastian gestured to his office.

A man of few words. That hadn’t changed in the week he’d been absent.

Just to poke him, I said, “Hey Bastian. Good to see you, too. Hope your vacation was relaxing.”

“Vacation?” He closed the office door behind him, and then settled himself in the seat behind his desk.

“You haven’t been at work,” I reminded him. Unless he’d been hiding in his office.

Now that I thought about it, maybe he had been. Maybe he had cameras set up in the coffee shop and parking lot, and he made a mad dash for his office every time he saw me coming.

Nah. Bastian wouldn’t do that. Too cowardly.

“I haven’t been at work,” he agreed. “But I wasn’t on vacation. I was visiting family.”

The look on his face as he said “visiting family” mimicked my cousin Bryson’s expression when I’d taken him in for major dental work back before I moved to Boise.

I told him to get used it, since at the time he’d had aspirations of being a professional hockey player. And look at him now, a pro hockey player with only one crown. I was so proud. I was also currently ducking his calls and texts, but that was another story altogether.

“What are you thinking?” Bastian examined me with narrowed eyes.

“Just that your family visit doesn’t appear to be one you enjoyed.”

He sighed. “It never is.”

My eyes probably looked buggy. We’d barely spoken a dozen words to each other, and Bastian was spilling personal information. Color me surprised.

I considered my response and finally landed on, “I’m sorry.”

I might be avoiding Great Aunt Sophia like she had the plague, but that didn’t mean I didn’t generally enjoy her company…when she wasn’t trying to convince me of the advantages of nude witchcraft. And I liked the rest of my family, the less eccentric remainder, quite a lot.

“It’s fine.” He ran a hand through his hair, and it looked like it wasn’t the first time he’d done that today. “Actually, it’s not great, but I’m working on it.”

I nodded. Even if I did like my family, I understood that relationships with one’s family members could be complicated. “So about this incident…”

He closed his eyes. It hit me then how weary he looked.

“Bastian, when did you get back into town?”

He glanced at the chunky watch on his wrist. “About an hour and a half ago. I headed to the funeral home directly from the airport.”

No wonder he looked exhausted.

Wait…funeral home? Funeral homes meant dead bodies, and dead bodies when combined with the witch police… “Has there been another murder?”

“Not exactly. Not like you mean. But maybe yes. Probably.”

Bastian didn’t dither. Dithering couldn’t be good.

Sabrina, Bastian’s ICWP minion, his part-time barista, and my recently acquired full-time employee, breezed into the office. “It’s my day off, people. This better be good.”

Since Bastian hadn’t gotten further than “maybe yes, probably” a murder had occurred—and this from a man who liked all things well-defined—I waited anxiously for his explanation.

She took one look at Bastian and scrunched up her face. “Seriously? A murder? But we just had a murder.”

I raised my hand, like a guilty student fessing up to naughtiness. “I think that might be my fault.” Turning my attention to Bastian and his rumpled clothing and mussed hair, I said, “I assume that’s why you texted me? You think my cursed candy has something to do with what’s happened.”

Sabrina planted herself in one of the two armchairs in the corner, and I took my favorite seat on the sofa.

Bastian said, “I just came from the funeral home.”

“Our funeral home?” Sabrina asked. When Bastian nodded, she turned to me to explain. “We have a specific funeral home where we route all of the suspicious deaths, magically speaking.”

“Isn’t that convenient,” I muttered, because…yeah, that was weird.

“More necessary than convenient,” Bastian replied. “It takes a good deal of coordination. That’s why Miles isn’t here. He’s at home for the moment, monitoring the situation virtually.”

“And the situation is…?” Sabrina asked.

“Two bodies, both drained of blood.”

She blinked. “That’s ambitious.”

Ambitious? Ambitious! We’d been invaded by vampires, and she thought it was ambitious?

“It’s highly suspect,” Bastian countered. “One, could be a rogue demon. Two, implies direction and control.”

“Demon? You mean vampire?”

Sabrina made an exasperated sound. “Aren’t you supposed to be in training? Oh, right. You’ve been avoiding your mentor, the same mentor who would tell you that vampires don’t exist.”

“Demons, however rare, do, and they consume blood.” Bastian frowned. “Why are you avoiding your mentor?”

“Did y’all do your witch and wizard training naked in the backyard with all the neighbors’ curtains twitching?” I asked.

A faint hint of pink touched his cheeks. “No.”

Sabrina didn’t even answer, she just snorted.

“That’s why. Tell me more about demons. Also,” An uncomfortable fluttering in my stomach made me ask, “what exactly do demons have to do with my cursed candy?”

“Oh,” Sabrina said, as if a light bulb had gone on. “Oh, yeah, that sucks.”

“What sucks?” I didn’t yell, because I wouldn’t let my frustration with these close-mouthed clowns dictate the volume of my speech.

Okay, truth, I yelled a little.

After a brief pause in which neither of them jumped into the breech, Sabrina sighed. “You wanna tell her, and are you going to make me?”

Bastian leaned his elbows on his desk. “You remember I mentioned unfriendly beings could cross over when the dead are called forth?”

Hanna had called her mom from beyond the veil a little over a week ago. My great aunt had arrived in town since then and a few other things had happened—like life—so I didn’t exactly recall the particulars of that conversation.

“Refresh my memory.”

“That’s really the whole story,” Sabrina said. “An unfriendly being—a demon—hitched a ride with Rachael when she crossed over. It’s a risk when we call dead people forth, which is one of several reasons that we don’t do that.”

“And you know it’s a demon because of the two people in the funeral home who’ve had their blood drained.” I wanted to be clear. It’s not like I knew about demons and blood draining.

And to be fair to Great Aunt Sophia, I don’t even think she’d have gotten that far if I hadn’t been avoiding her the past five days. Demons and blood draining seemed like advanced education material.

“Well, one blood-drained corpse implies an accidental demon infestation.” Sabrina kicked her feet up on the ottoman and then rested her head against the back of the armchair. She looked like she was about to take a nap.

“Correct.” Bastian’s expression told me the news was about to get worse. “The blood of one human is more than enough to satisfy a demon for several days. Two bodies is evidence that someone is controlling that demon.”

“I don’t understand. What does an extra-hungry demon have to do with someone else controlling it?” In my head, I was conflating vampires and demons. If you sucked blood like a vampire, then my brain said you were a vampire. And didn’t vampires drain victims willy-nilly? That was sort of their MO. In fiction, because it appeared there was no such thing as vampires in real life.

“Demons are like most feral creatures,” Bastian explained. “They hunt to satisfy hunger, but once sated they don’t kill unless threatened. Even then, I doubt they’d drain a kill made in self-defense.”

Sabrina lifted her head and gave me a sympathetic look. “What the boss is dancing around and not saying is that only the person who opened the door for the demon should be able to control it.”

“Hanna.” I frowned. “She’s locked up. Can she do that from jail?”

“No,” Bastian replied. “And before you ask, Sabrina, I’ve already contacted the facility. She’s safely contained.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Sabrina rubbed her eyes, highlighting the lack of her usual makeup. Sabrina usually looked like she was ready for a photo shoot.

“I don’t understand.” It seemed to me that Sabrina was confused about Hanna’s continued incarceration, because we really didn’t want Hanna and her murderous urges loose in the world. “Hanna being still locked up is good news. Are you feeling okay?”

“Better than you will be in a second,” she muttered.

“She’s hungover,” Bastian said.

Hungover didn’t explain why she thought I’d be feeling less than stellar. Then it hit me. “You have got to be kidding me! I’m a suspect, aren’t I? Because it wasn’t just Hanna’s magic that opened that door. It was Hanna’s and mine.”

Bastian and Sabrina both stared at me, like they were waiting.

“You don’t think I did this.” Because they shouldn’t. Really, really shouldn’t.

They knew me. They knew I wasn’t a demon-controlling murderer. Outside of not being fond of killing people, I also didn’t have the knowledge to control my own magic, let alone a demon.

Bastian shook his head as Sabrina murmured a quiet, “no.”

But they both gave me sympathetic—or perhaps pitying—looks, and that’s when I realized the raw magic I’d turned loose in the form of two unaccounted for cursed candy sticks had come back to haunt me.

I sighed. “You think someone is using my magic to control the demon.”

One head nod, then a second.

“To kill people,” I added. Because we might as well be clear about the details. My candy was once again in the middle of a murder investigation.

How was this my life?

**END SNIP***

Twisted Treats is currently available for preorder, releasing August 28, 2020!

If you’re a fan of Fairmont Finds Canine Cozy Mysteries and have read the dedication of the first book, then you know the canine main character is based on my dog Vegas. Vegas is no longer with me, but my love for him lives on in my heart – and now in this series. 

Fairmont Finds hasn’t been quite as popular as some of my other series, and normally I would end it with three books…but I can’t. I love these books (even if they sometimes make me teary), and I’ve had such positive feedback from the people who have found and enjoyed them. Thank you! You know who you are! ❤️

I decided to give Fairmont Finds a makeover in hopes that the series would find more readers. I’m committed to writing 6 books, regardless of the sales, but I’d love to be able to keep writing beyond that to the series’ natural conclusion, however many books that may be.  

If you love cozy mysteries with a touch of romance, stories with search and rescue dogs, whodunits with silver sleuths, or small town mysteries with charm, Fairmont Finds might be for you! Here’s the new line up:

On the Trail of a Killer, the first book in the series, introduces Fairmont and his owner Zella as they embark on a new life in the hill country of Central Texas, near Austin. A new town, a new life, and a new house …with its very own body in the backyard.

The Scent of a Poet’s Past, the second book in the series, has the sleuthing gang back together again to prove their friend’s innocence in the murder of a visiting poet.  

Sniffing Out Sweet Treats, the third book in the series, sees the loss of a town treasure, everyone’s favorite baker. Fairmont and his people are on the case! 

And the fourth story in the series, Tracking a Poison Pen, is now on pre-order. (Coming shortly to Amazon.)

New readers to Fairmont: I hope you give this adorable spotted dog and his companions a try! 

Loyal Fairmont followers: I hope you enjoy Fairmont’s makeover!

~Cate

 

 

 

The first chapter of Fairmont Finds #3! Raw and unedited, just for you =)

***Snip Begins***

CHAPTER 1

Some days can only be improved by deep fried dough.

Or creamy icing atop deliciously moist cake.

This was one of those days. And since Helen was my best friend in White Sage, she’d offered up herself on the sacrificial alter of empty calories and a prolonged sugar high and agreed to accompany me at this ridiculously early hour.

It didn’t hurt that she could eat like a teenage boy and not gain weight, but I knew she was here for me and not the baked goods. Well, she was here mostly for me.

Catie’s Cupcakery didn’t officially open until nine, but everyone knew that Catie started baking as early as five and never later than five-thirty. At six-thirty, she was guaranteed to not only be there, but also to have at least a few batches out of the oven, cooling, waiting for icing.

“Oh, my,” Helen muttered from the passenger seat of my Grand Cherokee.

I knew that tone. That was the tone my dear friend assumed when she recognized an impending event of some importance. I hesitated to use the word crisis.

I was typically good in a crisis. I’d raised two children, and during that time had encountered my fair share of them.

But I wasn’t up to it. Not today.

We were approaching Sally’s Sandwich Shoppe, just two stores from our end destination, Catie’s Cupcakery.

I didn’t have time for a crisis. I needed sugary treats, and I needed them now. Not that the world revolved around my needs…but it was a nice thought for a few seconds.

I’d just pulled even with Sally’s store front, when Helen yelled, “Stop!”

Not stopping when a passenger you trust demands it would be foolish. I’d used up most of my allowance for foolish when I’d lingered overlong in a failing marriage, so I stopped as soon as I knew we wouldn’t be rear ended.

“Back up. We need to turn down Bluebonnet Lane.”

Bluebonnet Lane was a small side street that led to a neighborhood but also to the Cupcakery’s rear parking. I’d passed Bluebonnet without slowing, because I preferred the store front parking at Sally’s and Catie’s over their shared parking behind the stores.

“Is your back bothering you?” Because back pain was a very good reason Helen would want to turn down Bluebonnet Lane. The back entrance of Catie’s shop had no steps, unlike the front.

She made a disgusted sound, as if the very thought that she’d be laid low by something so trivial was unthinkable. “Just back up and turn.”

Instead of checking my rearview mirror for irate drivers—I had just stopped without apparent reason in the middle of the street—I turned my whole body to look over my shoulder. Not a soul was behind us.

No irate drivers…but in my backseat was one very agitated German Shorthaired Pointer. I wasn’t backing up, because backing up was a very bad idea.

I knew what that vibrating tail and intense focus indicated, and I wanted no part of it.

“No. I am not turning down Bluebonnet. We’re calling the police.” I didn’t usually call Chief Charleston when I was in a pinch, but desperate times…

“You mean the sheriff.” She corrected me with a placid expression.

Helen knew exactly why I didn’t want to call the sheriff, aka Luke McCord, aka my something complicated, aka not my boyfriend.

“I didn’t mean the sheriff. I meant Chief Charleston.” And now someone was behind me. Since this was small town central Texas, that somebody didn’t honk the horn of their massive truck. They waited patiently for me to sort myself out…while I was stopped in the middle of the street. Bless White Sage residents and their very un-Austin-like driving behavior.

I waved for the driver of the truck to pass me, and a very polite farmer (I assumed based on the mud on the truck and the driver’s John Deere ball cap) lifted his hand in a pleasant wave as he passed us.

When I didn’t immediately back up, Helen said, “We’re not calling Luke or Bubba Charleston. Not until you turn down Bluebonnet and see what has Fairmont in a tizzy.”

A “woof” and the scrabbling sound of claws on the interior of my door followed.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that dog spoke English.

I shouldn’t turn down Bluebonnet Lane. I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t see a sound alternative. If I did call the Chief, what would I say? “Fairmont was acting oddly. Can you please come and investigate, because I don’t want to find a dead body?”

Another dead body.

There really wasn’t a choice. I needed to follow my dog’s nose and see if something untoward awaited us. Something untoward. Now there was a nice euphemism for a corpse. I shrugged my shoulders in an attempt to release some of the tension that had gathered there.

Maybe there was a squirrel. Fairmont had a special love-hate relationship with squirrels. And if a particularly cheeky squirrel had taunted him, he could get agitated.

Probably not this agitated—Fairmont was such a gentleman, the very best of dogs—but I held out hope.

Or wallowed in denial.

Whichever.

And I wouldn’t get emotional over how wonderful Fairmont was. How much he meant to me. What an important part of my life he’d become.

My eyes burned, and that was not how one approached a potential crisis. I inhaled a cleansing breath, tucked away my feelings for the dog who had become such an integral part of my life, and focused on the squirrel angle.

I stuck with my sassy squirrel hypothesis as I backed up a few more feet and then turned down Bluebonnet Lane.

I tossed it around as a very real possibility as I drove a short distance on Bluebonnet Lane with an excitedly vibrating dog in the back.

And I even clung to it as I turned into the shared back parking lot of Catie’s Cupcakery and Sally’s Sandwich Shoppe.

Reality snuck in with a stray thought: Why did it have to be Sally and Catie’s parking lot?

But then the barking started, and with the sharp, repetitive barks, the tenuous illusion I’d created of capering squirrels was shattered.

As calmly as I could, I parked. I ignored Fairmont’s excited woofs until I’d safely engaged the emergency brake. Then I turned around in my seat and called him. Once I had hold of his collar, he quieted.

That’s when Helen spoke, confirming what I already knew to be true.

“There’s a body here somewhere. The question now is, do we wait in the car and call Luke? Or do we let Fairmont find it and then call Luke?”

Nowhere in that equation was the option of calling Chief Charleston.

And as frustrated as I was right now with Luke—or my relationship with Luke…or the dynamics of my relationship with Luke—I also wanted his big, comforting, capable presence here. Right now. Before either one of us left this car.

“Helen Granger, don’t you dare open that door.” I pulled my phone out of its handsfree cradle.

“So, we’re calling Luke?”

I didn’t answer, but I did call Luke.

He picked up on the first ring. “Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure when I’d hear from you after last—”

“I think Fairmont just found a body.” I bit my lip.

“Are you safe?” he asked.

And I hated that my heart went pitter patter over the fact that the very first question he asked was whether I was safe. Silly, because that was probably just basic law enforcement training.

“I’m safe. Helen’s with me. We’re in my car, parked behind—”

Oh. Oh, no. A cold wave washed over me, and my vision narrowed. I was parked behind Sally’s place. Sally, who was Annie’s mom, my friend, but most importantly, Luke’s sister.

“Zella?” Luke’s voice, firm and calm came across the line. “Where are you?”

I tried to speak, but a frog stole my voice. I cleared my throat, thinking as I did, formulating words. The right words. “Luke, I’m sorry. I’m gonna call you right back. Helen and I are safe. I’ll call you right back.”

And I hung up on him as he protested.

I shared a quick glance with Helen, who—clever woman—understood immediately. We both got out of the car at the same time. I pointed to the entrance of the parking lot.

Not that many cars would be in the area at six in the morning, but I wanted to be sure that Fairmont and I were safe.

Once she placed herself in a position to redirect any cars headed into the lot and I made certain that my cell phone was in the back pocket of my jeans, I opened the rear hatch and attached Fairmont’s leash. He didn’t seem to mind that my hands shook.

A week ago, I’d started lifting him out of the back of the SUV after he’d tweaked his elbow. He was better now, but I was glad I’d kept the habit. Holding an armful of warm dog settled my nerves a little. I set him carefully on the ground, held his collar, and then let out the leash slowly as he pulled on it. My hope was that he’d remember I was still attached and not drag me willy-nilly across the pavement.

It seemed to work. Moving at a steady trot but no more, he made a beeline for the dumpster that Sally, Catie, and one other business shared. He circled it, then jumped up and put his paws on it. He lingered just long enough for me to see that there was trash and only trash inside, then continued on past it and into the alley behind the parking lot.

I jogged behind him, not minding my footing as well as I should, because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I stumbled once, then again, but never feel to my knees.

I was terrified of what he’d discover. Who he’d discover.

And not in a general sense, though having happened upon more than one dead person certainly hadn’t made me immune to the horror of it.

I’d never seen the body of someone I cared for outside of a funeral home. And I very much wanted this poor person, whoever they might be, to be a stranger.

Someone unknown.

Someone I didn’t care for.

Not Luke’s sister.

I gasped for breath. He would be devastated.

Fairmont and I followed the alley for a short distance—perhaps the length of one or two shops, then crossed it.

Fairmont slowed to examine some scrubby vegetation, then he darted for some overgrown shrubs.

And barked.

I’d swear my heart stopped with the sound, and when it started beating again, it fluttered like a frantic, trapped bird as Fairmont’s barks continued to sound in the otherwise quiet morning air.

I had to look. I had to know who he’d found. And I had to keep Fairmont away, just in case… The word murder fluttered through my mind and then escaped, because I was reeling in Fairmont, hushing him, kneeling, looking—

“Oh, Catie. No. No.”

Fingers trembling, I dialed Luke.

“Where are you?”

“I found Catie Smithart. She’s dead, Luke.”

With more patience than I would have had in the situation, he repeated, “Where are you?”

“Uh,” I looked up, because I hadn’t a clue. “A dentist’s office. The one that’s across the alley from Catie and Sally’s parking lot. That’s where I parked. Helen’s still there.”

I recognized the sound of his work SUV starting as he replied, “I’m on my way.”

***End of Snip***

Fairmont Finds a Baker is available for preorder now! Releasing June 24, 2020.

This is the last Cursed Candy Mysteries chapter-by-chapter blog post! All Cutthroat Cupcakes content will be posted to a web page after this post (easier nav, all in one place). The link is available to all my newsletter subscribers, so be sure to keep an eye out for that link, and if you’re not a newsletter subscriber you can sign up on my website. 

Chapter 2

I was going to die.

Murdered in my favorite place in the whole world, surrounded by my lovingly crafted candies (with the exception of the pumpkin toppers and the candy sticks, naturally).

Thirty-seven years old, never married, and no kids. I’d never even been to Canada! I’d lived in Idaho for five years, and I’d never been to Canada.

I’d meant to go. I’d even planned a train trip across the country, starting in Vancouver and making my way west until I landed in Montreal.

Two weeks, three if I made a few stops. I’d planned to write and enjoy the scenery and write some more. Maybe, hopefully, finish the book I’d started before I opened Sticky, Tricky Treats.

Except, I didn’t really write much these days. Who had the time?

And three-week-long trips were prohibitively expensive.

And then there was the question: did I go by myself? Bring a friend? Try to find a date?

But that was all moot, because a crazy man came into my shop. He was going to murder me dead. I wouldn’t be around anymore, and I definitely wouldn’t be going to Canada.

He headed toward me, but his path veered and he landed once again in front of the candy sticks. He removed a pair of gloves from a pocket. Dark black, like the ones my colorist used when she bleached and dyed my hair.

Then, gloved up, he gathered my orangey-brown candy sticks and deposited them on the counter in front of me.

Next he retrieved the pumpkin cupcake toppers and placed them next to the candy sticks.

“A bag?” he asked, and then had the gall to look at me as if I’d produce one for him.

When I failed to comply, he leaned over the counter and grabbed one himself.

As he leaned forward, I leaned back. An ounce of self-preservation kicking in, perhaps.

He stuffed the offending candy into the purloined bag. “Do you have an employee you can call to cover for you?”

I didn’t have a clue where he was going with that, because as soon as he said “call” I remembered my phone. The fingertips of my right hand were still touching it. “Hm?” I said as I slipped my phone from my back packet. “Oh, I think you missed a few orange candy sticks.” I tipped my head in the direction of the candy stick display, away from me.

“I got them all.” Level Eight crossed his arms. “Your phone won’t work.”

And I thought I’d been subtle.

Wait, my phone wouldn’t work?

Right. This from the guy who accused me of cursing my candy, so he probably thought he’d` put a spell on my phone, and hocus-pocus, abracadabra, he was going to prevent me from calling.

But if he thought that was true, then maybe he wouldn’t lose his bananas at first sight of my phone. I lifted it and dialed 9-1-1 like my life depended on it.

Or I tried to.

A solid black screen greeted my frantic efforts.

The crazy man had not abracadabra’d my phone dead. He hadn’t. I must have forgotten to charge it last night.

I inched closer to the phone next to the register. Yes, my store had a landline. And as much as I begrudged that bill each month, right now I was doing a little dance over the fact that I had another way to reach out for help.

Level Eight arched his eyebrows. “Go ahead. Try it.”

Dead. Just like I was going to be, because I was trapped in my candy shop with a murdery wizard.

Or a guy who planned really well.

Taking out both of my phones would definitely have required a lot of planning. Ugh. I’d almost prefer a murdery wizard to someone who plotted my takedown with such meticulous care.

“Okay. I’m super confused right now. I should call someone to cover for me, but not really because my cell is dead and you’ve cut my landline somehow.”

He retrieved a cell from his cargo pants. Yeah, he’d woken up this morning and had a moment when he looked in his closet and thought that cargo pants were a good choice.

And yet, I still found him attractive. Maybe he was an eight-point-five level hotness, since I’d initially looked right past those tragic pants.

He lifted the phone. “You have someone you can call?”

Strange man with a fake badge who was stealing my candy and had locked me inside my own store, wanted me to take his phone and call an available employee—which I did not have—so that my store could remain open while he murder-kidnapped me.

“Uh…” I was having a hard time fitting everything that was happening right now into my brain and making it come together in a way that made sense.

“An employee?” He prompted once more as he jiggled the phone in his hand.

“I’ve only got one part-timer, and she’s got midterms right now.”

He shrugged, as if that was just fine with him. It probably was, since he could murder-kidnap me even more easily without an employee wondering why they’d been called in last minute. “You’ll have to close the shop, then.”

Since he’d already done that when he flipped my sign to closed and locked the door, what was I supposed to say?

Except I was feeling contrary, so I said, “No.”

Because…no.

I would not be complicit in my own kidnapping. And since this whacko had yet to pull some kind of weapon out of one of those many pockets of his, I was calling his bluff.

He frowned, as if my behavior confused him.

My behavior. Me, the sane person who refused to be complicit in her own fake arrest. Except, I wasn’t entirely sane, because I’d accidentally refused the use of his phone, which I could have used to call for help.

I’d smack my head, but at this rate, I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t give myself a concussion. That was just the kind of day this was turning into.

“Before we leave, I need to see your logbook.” When I stared at him in confusion—because what logbook?—he said, “Your logbook? Where you record the names and contact information for the recipients of magical items.”

‘Kay. First, I was skipping the issue of “magical items.” I don’t curse candy, and I don’t sell magical items. Just because my candy store was Halloween-themed, that didn’t mean I believed in ghosts, witches, and warlocks.

But this guy apparently believed in all the magical things, and I wasn’t about to tip his world view off its axis right now—if I even could.

As for the logbook?

“You’re kidding me, right?” I flashed him an incredulous scowl. “We’re not selling guns in here, mister.”

“Bastian.”

“Sorry?”

“Bastian Heissman, regional representative for the International Criminal Witch Police.” He pulled a wallet from yet another pocket. How many pockets did those terrible pants have?

His wallet contained a shiny badge that he was now displaying with a great deal of confidence.

Did delusional people have props?

This was news to me. I’d never been cornered and locked in my shop by a lunatic intent on arresting me for made-up charges. Then again, he had done enough prep to take out my cell and landline, so a fake badge fit in nicely with his careful planning.

“I want to see your badge.” Mostly because I wanted to mess with him just a little bit. My risk-taker side popped up at the most inconvenient of times.

He handed it over without hesitation. Freakishly, it looked and felt real. Solid. I’d expected something like a child’s wild west tin badge, I guess. It even had International Criminal Witch Police stamped on it.

And since I had his wallet in my hand, I flipped through it. I’d been right about his slight accent. He had a German identity card in his wallet, as well as an Idaho driver’s license. There were also a few credit cards. Each card had his name, Bastian Heissman, printed on it.

I returned it and then held out my hand palm up. “Your phone.”

“No.”

“Worth a try.” I leaned on the counter. “You know you’re going to jail.”

“Prison. Jail is a temporary holding facility where convicted criminals sentenced to a term less than one year serve their time.”

He sounded a little like a cop. Or a guy who knew cop-like stuff.

“So you’re saying you recognize what you’re doing is illegal and that it’s serious enough to warrant a longer sentence.”

He sighed. “I don’t have time for this. Are you familiar with the International Witch and Warlock code of conduct?”

“No. No I am not.” Honesty seemed like the best policy. I wasn’t denying the existence of magic or anything, just knowledge of some fictional rule book with fake rules that Bastian seemed to think I’d violated.

My response didn’t elicit a sigh this time. Rather than annoyed, frustrated, and generally impatient, now he looked concerned. “Who was your mentor?”

“Uh, Cat helped me set up my books. Betty, my super cool elderly neighbor, she helps with taste-testing. Oh, and Brian,” I wrinkled my nose, because even saying his name made me want to scream or eat a lot of milk chocolate caramel with sea salt. “My ex, Brian, helped with—”

“No, your witch mentor.”

And here it was. What I’d been trying to avoid. “No witch mentor, Bastian, because I’m not a witch. Because witches aren’t actually real.” I waved at the Halloween décor in my shop—witches, ghosts, and vampires, inclusive—and said, “Not real. Any of it.”

A determined light sparked in his eyes, and then he whipped out a pair of handcuffs from one of his gazillion pockets. Yet another reason to hate those pants.

Wait—handcuffs? No. No-no.

Except, yes. Bastian Heissman, regional rep of some imaginary witch squad was snapping handcuffs on me. How had that happened so fast?

“You can’t arrest me for…for…whatever you’re arresting me for!”

I couldn’t have an arrest record. I was no criminal.

No, no. That was wrong. So wrong. I would not be brainwashed by the crazy man. This wasn’t about being arrested. “You’re definitely going to murder-kidnap me now, aren’t you?”

The counter still separated us, which made Bastian’s cuffing skills freakishly good. I really couldn’t recall exactly how the cuffs had gone from his hands to around my wrists.

Then he pulled out his cell and made a phone call.

“I need transport.”

“I’m not getting in your murder van.” Pretty sure I screeched that loud enough for whoever was on the other end of the line to hear it.

“Yeah. Give me a five second delay.” Bastian tucked away his phone in one of his various pockets, grabbed his bag of purloined candy with one hand, and then leaned further across the counter to grab my upper arm with the other.

Then the everything went black.

Available on YouTube, but fair warning, it’s me reading ;-) 

Hi! 

I’m posting chapters (raw & unedited, just for you!) as I’m writing them. I’ll be adding them to this web page as they’re draft and also to YouTube as audio files, if there’s interest. Enjoy this pre-Halloween treat! ~Cate

Chapter 1

I didn’t profile my guests.

Not exactly.

But on days when I wasn’t swamped wi

th in-store shoppers and filling online orders, I liked to guess at the motivations of the people who entered my shop.

Every type of person came into Sticky, Tricky Treats, my year-round, Halloween-themed candy store. Not an exaggeration, because everyone either loved sweets or knew someone who loved sweets.

And since I offered the best specialty, handcrafted candies in town, I saw the sweet-tooth regulars, the occasion shoppers, the apology gift buyers, and the seasonal crowd.

The past hour or so had been a lull, with online orders that didn’t need to go out until tomorrow and only a customer or two in the store at a time, so I’d been entertaining myself playing the “why candy, why today?” game.

There’d been the harried mother of three who just needed a little something special for herself on a tough day. The kids had been absent, likely in school, but something about the large purse and comfortable clothes said busy mom, and the tired look in her eyes spoke volumes as to the type of day she’d been experiencing.

I placed a handful of lavender-lemon drops as an extra surprise for her inside her bag.

Then there was the PMS’ing thirty-something. Well aware that the sugar would give her a happy high for the moment, but that she’d be suffering for the indulgence later.

I slipped a tiny packet of dark chocolate-covered almonds and hazelnuts into her bag. If she didn’t like nuts or dark chocolate, so be it. But she’d probably feel slightly less terrible after eating them as a snack than she would after eating the milk chocolate caramels with sea salt. No judgment though. I loved those salty-sweet candies during certain times of the month myself.

A few others passed through my shop, and I gave each of them my best effort. I was fairly confident in my guesses. Sussing out shoppers’ motivations was one of my superpowers.

I looked at a customer, focused on what they needed, and poof, their candy motivation popped into my head. If they didn’t come to my checkout counter with the candy I thought they needed, I slipped a little something extra into their bag. I could afford it. The shop had been on solid ground for about three years now. And it made me happy to give my guests a little something to make their day better.

Occasionally, a lone shopper whose candy motivation eluded me would cross my threshold.

Today was one of those rare instances.

I surreptitiously studied the man who whose motivation would not be named. Still, nothing poofed into my head.

Tall, solidly built, scruffy-jawed with dirty-blond hair and a good sprinkling of grey in his short beard, there was nothing about him that should have prevented me from making a good guess.

It was possible I was distracted by his level eight hotness, but I’d had the occasional nine come in the store and still managed to pinpoint their candy motivation.

He walked through my small shop examining each display. He paused in the sugar cupcake topper section, scrutinizing the pumpkin tops.

They weren’t my favorite item. Once they were gone, I wasn’t planning to make more. The idea had been for them to look like the sliced off top of a pumpkin, like a pumpkin hat. The result wasn’t entirely up to my standard, and I’d been in a bit of a mood when I’d been working on them. My ex had sent me a stream of less than friendly text messages that evening.

Not those poor pumpkin toppers’ fault, but the product had been forever tainted in my mind.

Level eight didn’t pick up the pumpkin toppers. Rather, he continued his perusal of my wares, stopping only once more to give my candy sticks a thorough gander. Another, non-favorite of mine, or at least the orangey-brown ones were. The evening I’d made them, I’d been a bit peeved about some offensive behavior perpetrated upon my innocent lawn. My friend Betty, who happened to live a few houses away, had sent me video evidence of my least favorite neighbor blowing leaves into my yard.

Level Eight, with his unknown candy motivation, toured my entire stock of treats and happened to land on two of my least favorite candies, both made when I’d been in a particularly poor mood. I didn’t have a lot of foul moods, so they truly were standout items in my shop.

And then he headed to the exit.

I was about to be offended—not many people entered Sticky, Tricky Treats without purchasing at least one small goody—when he paused at the door and flipped the sign to closed.

“Excuse me!” The words flew from my mouth before I’d considered the danger factor.

A man had just isolated me in my own shop.

That could not be good.

I slid my hand casually to my rear jeans pocket, where I’d stashed my cell phone.

He paused, as if surprised by my objection. “The sugar pumpkins and the candy sticks are for sale?”

What? No, I put them out on the shelves with price tags for fun.

But I didn’t voice my inappropriate thought. Instead, I replied calmly, “Yes. All of the candy on the shelves is for sale.” Then again, I did give my customers little extras at no charge, so I added, “Though I do sometimes give samples.”

Candy for sale and for sample, shocker, since this was a candy shop.

As evidenced by the sign on the door and all of the candy.

“Sophia Emmaline Dorchester, you are under arrest for the illegal sale and distribution of cursed candy.”

Oddly, it wasn’t the “cursed” part of his impossible statement that first struck me.

Or even the arrested part.

It was the odd inflection in Level Eight’s speech. I thought he might possibly be German, though his English was practically native.

Then I realized some strange (possibly German) man was attempting to arrest me.

And then I realized he’d accused me of selling “cursed” candy.

Clearly, a crazy person was having a break with reality inside my candy store.

Oh. My. God.

And that crazy person was flipping the lock on my shop door.

***If you want to hear me read it… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7K4c... 

Chapter 2

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