Night Shift Witch, #1

by Cate Lawley

  Night Shift Witch

  A Night Shift Witch Mystery

  Cate Lawley

  Copyright © 2017, 2021 by Catherine G. Cobb

  First edition published 2017. Second edition 2021.

  Cover designed by MiblArt.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  About Night Shift Witch

  1. One Step Closer to Financial Freedom, Two Steps Closer to Dead People

  2. Epic Fail Witch-Style

  3. Lessons Learned from Twinkles the Cat

  4. Beyond Epic Fail, or Could this Day Get Worse?

  5. How Dead Is Dead?

  6. My Ex-Knight in Less-than-Shining Armor

  7. Modern (Paranormal) Policing

  8. The Witching Hour…or Happy Hour?

  9. The Butler Did It

  10. The Ice Queen Did It

  11. The Mistress Did It

  12. Dancing with a Devilish Vamp

  13. Cooking Up a Corpse

  14. That Voodoo that You Do…that Isn’t Voodoo

  15. The Plan

  16. The Other Plan…

  17. Bullets, Bad Guys, and Lessons Learned

  18. My Hero, or Forms in Triplicate

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Star of the Party

  Note to the Reader

  Also by Cate Lawley

  About the Author

  About Night Shift Witch

  A witch with a side hustle

  Star needs another paying gig while she finishes up witch training. Why not at a funeral home? It fits her goth image, and the funeral director is sort of hot...even if he does wear a suit and tie.

  * * *

  The job seems perfect, until Star discovers one of their accidental death clients didn’t die accidentally.

  * * *

  Before she knows it, she’s neck-deep in paranormal intrigue and her completely human, way-too-nice-for-his-own-good boss is right there with her.

  1

  One Step Closer to Financial Freedom, Two Steps Closer to Dead People

  Austin, Texas – 1999

  I shifted in the hard chair and couldn’t help but pity the poor bereaved souls who usually sat in them.

  I would have thought a funeral home would spring for more comfortable chairs, especially given the cost of services.

  Appalling, really. With those prices, I’d have to start saving now, and I wasn’t even edging close to thirty yet.

  The man sitting across from me frowned and said, “I’ve been meaning to get new chairs. My assistant—former assistant—was going to take care of it before she retired, but time got away from her.”

  I stopped fidgeting and met the gaze of the too-young funeral director.

  He was almost cute—in a red-headed, quiet, laid-back kind of way. Not my usual dark and brooding type. Not my type at all.

  It was hard for me to look people in the eye these days, but I sucked it up and made myself. I wanted this job, and only sketchy people avoided eye contact. “That’s probably a good idea. So, about those hours, would that work for you?”

  He leaned forward and made a note on the legal pad in front of him. “Like the ad said, any time between seven p.m. and seven a.m. Seven to midnight isn’t a problem. So.” He looked up from his scribbling, and his blue eyes drilled into mine. “When can you start?”

  My breath caught.

  There was something there. Something that made my heart clench in my chest. Good, bad? I didn’t know.

  I blinked, breaking the connection, unwilling to see some secret truth buried deep inside a man I’d met ten minutes ago.

  Mastering magical sight was turning out to be tricky. Since I’d begun studying it, I’d had a few accidental, uncomfortable moments, but this was the worst so far. I had to figure out how to turn it all the way off—or never look anyone in the eye again.

  I didn’t want to know the hidden truths of every passing stranger.

  Sometimes the advantages of being a witch paled in comparison to the excess baggage one picked up along the way.

  But then I realized that in the midst of avoiding this man’s inner truths, I’d almost missed a very important fact: he’d just offered me a job.

  I tamped down a surge of excitement and squeaked out an overeager, “Tonight?” I took a breath and said in a much more normal-person sort of tone, “I mean, thank you for the job, and I can start as soon as tonight.”

  Miracle of miracles, my dyed black hair, pale skin, and dark clothes hadn’t nixed my chances of gainful employment. A little surprising this far out in the boonies. Buda, Texas, wasn’t exactly Austin.

  Then again, maybe my not-quite-goth look did bother my new boss, and there just weren’t that many people willing to handle bodies for minimum wage.

  Outside of the fact that I thought preparing the dead for their next phase of life was kind of cool, I also really needed the cash and the flexible hours that this job offered. And my witchy background helped me to see dead bodies in a more neutral light than regular, nonmagical folk.

  Now was probably the time to bring up the awkward question of dress codes and such, but I didn’t want to give this Kawolski guy any reason to change his mind.

  “I’ll be doing your orientation and training over this week, so let’s start from seven to ten. If everything goes well, I’ll get you a key and you can lock up at night when you’re done.” He rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Welcome to Kawolski Funeral Home, Stephanie.”

  My skin itched with unease at the thought of skin-to-skin contact, but if I was going to work with regular, unenhanced humans, I was going to have to get used to some contact—and the name. I didn’t go by Stephanie anymore, but Star didn’t seem like a name that would win over many employers, so I’d put my birth name on all my applications.

  I swallowed a sigh and stuck out my hand. I really should have worn gloves.

  A brief look of amusement passed over his face as he shook my hand. Maybe my reluctance had shown—oops.

  His hand enveloped mine. He was a big guy, and I was a midget, but it still surprised me. He briskly shook my hand and released it.

  And the second shocker? I didn’t get anything from him.

  No emotions, no vibes, no energy.

  I also didn’t get that creepy sensation of having my personal bubble invaded.

  Weird.

  Could this guy actually be good, old-fashioned nice?

  The genuine, bland variety that meant he wasn’t picturing me naked or lying to me or trying to take advantage of me?

  Was it possible that he was basically feeling and thinking nothing bad? Nothing that leaked out through skin-to-skin contact and made me feel like I’ve touched something dark and slimy?

  Whoa. That really was a first. It felt like just about everyone I touched these days had some deep, dark, hidden nasty just waiting to be revealed to the light of day.

  Touching people had become exhausting.

  This Kawolski guy was a pleasant change.

  “I’m looking forward to working here, Mr. Kawolski.” And I was only a little annoyed that I meant it. Dead people didn’t creep me out, and I was in need of a little cash, but mostly I liked the vibe of the place and the guy. And since this guy’s job, all day long, was to deal with grief-stricken people, maybe he was actually as nice as he appeared.

  “Call me Ben, please. You can save the formalities for the clients.” He hesitated briefly, then added, “Not that you’ll be inter
acting with the clients.”

  Aha. I knew he couldn’t be that perfect.

  I smiled, striving for an innocent expression. “Oh, no. You wouldn’t want the clients to meet the night shift.”

  His lips twitched as his gaze dipped to the rips in the knees and thighs of my jeans where my black tights peeked through. “If you don’t mind wearing dark slacks and a white button-down shirt, I’d be happy to have you assist with late services. We can always use the help.”

  After delivering that zinger, he walked around his desk and motioned to the office door.

  Not only had he called my bluff, the guy didn’t leak an ounce of deception. The invitation was genuine. My lip ring, black hair, and pale skin were apparently welcome, and not just in the back with the dearly departed. I could understand having to ditch the ratty jeans and tights.

  I walked to the door, confused. No one was as cool as this man seemed to be, and especially not someone wearing a dark gray suit, the blandest tie imaginable, and a practically military haircut.

  He escorted me through the back to a service exit. “I’ll give you a call if I have any questions about your paperwork. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night at seven.”

  I nodded, since I didn’t know what else to say, and walked to my old Civic with a smile on my face.

  Next stop, my mentor Camille’s house. I needed a debrief and a glass of wine or three.

  The interview—the evening as a whole—had been unsettling, and there was only my mom waiting at home.

  Since I’d moved out of my ex’s place, I’d been living with her. She was the last person I could talk to about what just happened in my interview or anything else that hinted at witch business. She didn’t know magic was real and hadn’t the faintest idea her only daughter was a witch.

  She would not approve.

  Mom thought that the Society for the Study of Paranormal and Occult Phenomena was just a bunch of nuts out hunting ghosts. A glorified ghost hunting club.

  I could hardly tell her they were actually the governing body for the local paranormal crowd. She’d think I’d lost my bananas.

  And if she didn’t think I needed immediate psychiatric care? That would be so much worse. The Society kept local magic on the down low. They had a sort of hide-or-die attitude that they were slowly growing out of.

  It hadn’t been all that long ago that the villagers had chased magically enhanced people, like vampires and witches, with pitchforks.

  So, no sharing my witchy woes with Mom. Not unless I wanted the Society’s designated memory wipers to slice those memories out of her brain. The Society wasn’t exactly modern in its view of civil liberties, and not all of the memory-wiper witches were as handy at their trade as they should be.

  I rubbed my forehead. A low-level throb was pulsing behind my eyes.

  Slicing and dicing, even of the magical variety, shouldn’t be anywhere near my mom’s mind. The woman was annoying, but she didn’t deserve that.

  Speaking of being annoying… She was totally going to freak when I told her about this job. For so many reasons, and only one of them had to do with me handling dead bodies.

  I shook my head as I navigated the long drive of the funeral home. Mom was hopeless.

  Camille kept telling me to give her a break, but she didn’t have to live with the woman.

  Thank goodness for Ben Kawolski. The extra income from this job should have me out of my mom’s place and into my own apartment in just a few weeks.

  Mom would be out of my hair, and I’d be far enough away that I might be able to avoid exposing her to magic…and the slice-and-dice of her dear, but much-too-maternal, brain.

  2

  Epic Fail Witch-Style

  As I pulled into Camille’s driveway twenty minutes later, I had the same thought I had every time I drove through her neighborhood: welcome to suburbia.

  But Camille’s hood wasn’t just some suburb with a bunch of commuters and an HOA. Her neighbors were seriously committed to the lifestyle. Minivans, immaculate lawns, carefully trimmed hedges, and everyone in everyone else’s business.

  My mom would love it.

  Camille’s neighbors, nosy though they might be, lived in blissful ignorance of her true nature. Bad enough she was a hippie with a delinquent friend who visited all too frequently—that would be me—but if they found out she was a practicing witch? The horror.

  I swallowed a chuckle as I parked next to Camille’s silver Jetta.

  In the short time it took me to exit my car and spot old Mrs. Feathers across the street peering through her window, Camille had beaten me to the front door. She was waiting with a glass of red wine and a grin. “You look like you need it.”

  “Are you sure you’re not psychic?” I accepted the glass gratefully and took a sip as soon as her front door closed behind us. “Lovely.”

  Waving me into the living room, she said, “It doesn’t take a psychic to predict you’d need a drink after a job interview. What was this, your fifth?”

  “Fifth and final.” I shot her big fluffy gray cat, Twinkles, a warning look as I sank into the sofa as far from him as possible. “I got the job.”

  She clinked her glass against mine before sitting in the armchair nearest me. “Congratulations. Here’s to being one step closer to your own apartment. Which one did you land? The pizza delivery gig or the cleaning job?”

  “Neither, thank goodness. The funeral home.”

  Camille tipped her head and examined me. “Really? I’d have thought your angst-filled look would have been a bit much for a funeral home.”

  “I don’t look angst-filled. I look…” I wasn’t sure exactly. Mostly I was going for “not like myself.” I pointed a finger at her and said, “Artistic. I look artistic. Besides, I’m working in the back: cleaning, doing makeup and clothes, and handling some basic paperwork.”

  She eyed my black ripped jeans, tights, and T-shirt. “Your coworkers still have to look at you. You could wear something besides black for a change. It’s depressing, and no one working in a funeral home needs more depressing in their life.” She leaned forward and tugged a lock of my hair. Probably the silver streak right in the front. “And how about letting your poor hair recover from all that bleaching and dying?”

  We’d had this conversation before. Camille was five foot seven and had thick, gorgeous dark brown hair. She just didn’t get it.

  “You try being five foot two and blonde for a day. See if anyone takes you seriously.”

  Twinkles made a sound that was suspiciously dismissive. That cat did not like me.

  “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think you’d be surprised. You’re not fifteen anymore.” She held up a hand when I scowled at her. “Just think about it.”

  Fifteen was when we’d met. When she’d seen a hint of the witch that I might become and taken me under her wing.

  I’d been about a year into my experimental, not-quite-goth look. For the first time in my life, I’d felt seen and not in a way that diminished me. I felt strong and independent, not cheek-pinching adorable.

  I didn’t want to lose the strength I’d found by altering my appearance. So what if my reasons were fear-based. Who wanted to feel small and insignificant? Not me.

  I scowled harder.

  Camille tucked her hair behind her ear. “Well, if you’re going to be that way, I’ll go ahead and point out that you’re only five two in your dreams or in heels.”

  Ouch. She got me there. And Twinkles was smirking. I glared at him.

  “If you’re done maligning my wardrobe and crushing my dreams of becoming a runway model, can we do some training?” I followed my request with a taste of the wine she’d offered me.

  “Since you refuse to fire me as your mentor, we probably should.” She took another sip of her wine, but I could still see the grin behind the glass. “Nah, let’s take the night off. Tonight we’re celebrating.”

  Camille was proud to have me as her mentee.

  A few othe
r witches had tried to poach me, and I’d stood firm. I was what they called “a talent.” After my transformation in my late teens, my powers had blossomed and I’d far outpaced Camille in sheer witch wattage. But even if Camille wasn’t the most powerful of witches, she was mine and I wasn’t letting her go.

  She still had more skill and knowledge than I could hope to gain in several years of study. But more importantly, she was kind and understood me.

  Ugh. I wasn’t usually so sentimental. First my teen witch beginnings, and then getting maudlin over Camille’s role in my life. Please. Dwelling in the past wasn’t like me at all.

  “We need to work on my magical sight. I had another of those incidents.” I thought back on the fleeting moment of eye contact I’d had with my boss Kowalski. Ben.

  Hmm. Not sure how I felt about him.

  Actually, I was sure. I just wasn’t sure I trusted how I felt about him. Was he the nice guy he seemed to be, or just a bunch of false advertising? I guess I’d find out in the coming weeks, assuming he didn’t fire me.

  I sipped the excellent wine Camille had provided. Someday, I too might afford better than Target’s boxed variety. I had lofty goals. But my own apartment was the first step.

  “When you say ‘incident,’” Camille asked, “do you mean like you had with your ex? When you almost looked inside his head?”

  I agreed that it was exactly like when I’d almost accidentally looked inside his head.

  It was one thing to peek inside someone’s brain. Not fun, but a skill that witches could—and should—develop. If there was ever a legitimate need for me to do it, I needed to do it right, with as much precision as possible.