by Mina Carter
She spotted oak for strength and protection... Gillyflower for energy. Narcissus, used in spells for fertility and love, sitting side by side with Orris powder for peace and harmony. Lilac, lily and snapdragons were all there. There were also medicinal herbs, like Witch Hazel for bruising, comfrey for knitting broken bone, and elderflower for chest and sinus congestion.
A bookcase was next to the shelves. Some books were old, bound in leather and hide. Others were modern, which would degrade within a few decades and not last nearly as long as their ancient counterparts. She read the titles silently to herself. Spells for Phases of the Moon. The Modern Witch: 1763 Edition (she just bet that was a hoot). The Wiccapedia. Magic in Your Garden: The Natural Magic of Herbs and Flowers. Hedgewitchery Basics: Seeing the Barriers between the Worlds.
She picked the last one up. Fuzzy had called her a hedgewitch, had said she could see the barriers between the worlds, but what did that mean? Perhaps this book would tell her... When she opened it, though, an envelope fell out.
It was lavender like the magic that had poured from her fingers back on the green. She leaned down to pick it up and instantly recoiled from the dull brown ink across the front.
Human blood. Her name was written across the front... in human blood.
Her eyes widened. Fuck! How on earth did she know that?
Stuffing the letter back into the book, she snapped it shut and shoved it back on the shelf. Retreating back across the room, she curled up in the big armchair, hiding behind a large pillow like a kid watching a scary show on TV.
She wanted nothing to do with any letter written in human blood, whether it had her name on the front or not.
But the book began to rattle on the shelf and emit a high-pitched whining. The sound was soft at first but increased in volume like a horde of angry bees.
“You should read it,” Fuzzy commented, big, scared eyes the only thing she could see of him in his basket. He’d buried himself completely under the pink blanket. Even from her seat opposite she could see him trembling. “They don’t like being ignored. Can explode. Yesyesyes!”
Great. She sighed. Magical letters that blew up... what next? Pots and pans that threw abuse if you didn’t like the food they’d cooked?
Grabbing the poker from beside the fireplace, she approached the bookcase cautiously. What use a hunk of iron would be against exploding magical ordnance she didn’t know. Shit, until a few seconds ago she didn’t know the damn things could explode. It would make ignoring spam mail a little more problematic!
The book rattled like a pinball between its two neighbors. She reached out, yanked it loose, and then dropped it on the floor with a yelp as the letter flew free.
The lavender envelope trembled with indignation as it rose to eye-level like a society madam pulling herself up to her full height to deliver a set down.
To Mistress Olivia Tatiana La Faye
She read the name on the front and winced. Oh my. Her full name... She’d usually only heard that when she’d done something wrong. When Nanna had used her full, Sunday best name, she’d known she was in big trouble.
The letter turned around. She frowned. It wasn’t an envelope, but a sheet of paper folded and sealed with wax. The letters BB were stamped into the smooth, red disc.
BB... Briony Burdock? Why was Bottomslick’s previous witch sending her letters?
Before she could say anything to Fuzzy, an old woman’s wavering voice filled the air in the cottage.
Bright Blessings be upon you, Olivia La Faye, as I welcome you to this, your new home. I must first apologize. I would have liked to have been there to welcome you in person. However, the knowing told me it wasn’t to be my path. So now I speak to you whilst I am gone into the next cycle.
The knowing said you would be a powerful witch—a hedgewitch—but that you would also be untrained. That you had yet to remember what you had forgotten, or what perhaps had been forgotten on your behalf.
To this end I have endeavored to collect manuscripts and books to aid you in your training. Notations I have left in my own books may help you, but the path of the hedgewitch is solitary and one you must learn alone. I wish you luck in that endeavor and hope you enjoy the cottage as I, and all those who have come before you, have done. You will find us all here, in a favorite mug, the mend on a sheet, or herbs planted in the garden. We are the witches who came before you, and we wish you well.
Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.
Briony Burdock
PS. By now you will have met Brock Tourak. He’s a bit stuck up, but he is a good man. Be gentle with him, please?
The letter ended with a snap. The sheet of paper folded itself back up again neatly and dropped into her lap. During the reading, she’d sat back down in the armchair by the fireplace. There was a cup of tea on the table, so she picked it up absently and took a sip. It was good, strong tea. None of this lap song slouching shit... But proper Northern, builder’s tea like Nanna used to make.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in the steam and tried to get her thoughts in order. She was a witch. A real witch. An honest to goodness real fucking witch.
Which meant one thing.
Her whole life had been a lie.
8
Livvy was still stunned as she traipsed up the stairs. They were narrow and winding, with deep stone steps worthy of any castle. The candle in her hand flickered, casting grotesque shadows on the wall as she and Fuzzy made their way upstairs.
The second floor proved less expansive than the first, with two cozy bedrooms and a small bathroom boasting a claw-footed bath. She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been worried she’d have to go old school and fill a tin bath in front of the fire.
Sure, she could have tried a spell to add a bathroom if there hadn’t been one, but in one of the strange quirks that marked the universe, no spell slinger would ever mess with indoor plumbing. It was one of the few trades whose practitioners could make a living in both the magical and the normal worlds. Sorcery if ever she saw it.
In her arms she carried all the ingredients for a ritual bath. Another of Nanna’s little wise woman habits Livvy now realized were more than just the routines of an old woman. Cleansing her body and soul, Nanna had called it, saying it did a body well when in a new place. Washing off the dust of the road and all that.
With how well stocked the cottage was, it had been easy to find everything she needed. Placing them all on the little stool by the bath, she turned the water on. The tub filled quickly, the splash of water soothing to her soul. Humming to herself, she threw in a handful of Epsom salts and used her ever present hip flask to add a few drops of sacred water. Rose petals and rosemary sprigs followed, tossed in to float on the surface.
Anointing the candle with rose oil, she lit it. For a moment she breathed in the fragrant scent that filled the room, but then she shook herself and quickly disrobed to lower herself into the water.
The warmth enveloped her, and she murmured in pleasure. The pokey little flat she’d shared with Rupert back in London only had a shower. Not even a good one. Just a trickle of lukewarm water. A dog could piss harder.
She sighed and closed her eyes, the knots in her muscles easing as she sank into the welcoming embrace of the hot water. This... this was glorious. Perhaps with her newfound powers, she could find a spell that would let her bottle the feeling and pop it out whenever she needed it.
If wishes were horses, though... Her nanna would still be alive and they’d all be living it up in some swanky house in the middle of the English countryside.
Putting the thought from her mind, she relaxed in the water and thought about all the bad things that had happened to her. Allowing herself to drift, she let the ritual waters cleanse her, staying there until she felt words bubbling up from her soul again.
“Negative energy may not stay,
I release it and send it away,
Negative vibes, I banish thee,
and by my word, so mote it be.”<
br />
The words filled the air, ringing with power, and for a second the water she lay in sparkled purple.
A smile crept over her face. This was... Fucking awesome.
Pulling the plug, she stayed in the tub as the water drained away, taking all her stress and the bad vibes with it. Again, she was glad of indoor plumbing. If she’d been forced to use a tin bath, the water would have had to be cleansed under moonlight before being disposed of in her garden. No one wanted to store negatively charged water. It was bad juju. And that much she knew from Nanna, not from her newfound knowledge.
Watching as the last of the water drained away, she stepped from the tub feeling a thousand times better. Lighter somehow. Reaching for the large, fluffy white towel, she wrapped herself up in it, the love of all her witch sisters before her like a warm hug, and padded through to her room.
She got ready for bed in a haze, still not able to believe the events of the day. Her ruined suitcase was gone, her clothes having all been placed in the drawers and wardrobes of the master bedroom. Magic, she assumed. There was nobody but her and Fuzzy in the place. The movies had gotten it all wrong. It wasn’t woodland animals that did the cleaning and the cooking, but invisible magical servants instead.
She was so down with that!
The dog’s delighted squeals from the other room made her smile tiredly as she settled into the huge four-poster bed with its deep feather mattress, pristine white sheets and thick blankets. Forget modern memory foam and duvets, medieval bedding was definitely the way to go.
Closing her eyes, she felt herself drifting off, but she then heard claws tapping across the wooden floor on the landing.
“Gotta pee! Yesyesyes!” her familiar called out.
She smiled to herself. Since she’d told him off for peeing in the stream, he’d taken to announcing when he needed to go. It was cute, in a gross, TMI sort of way.
“Okay, love.” She sighed. “Do I need to take you outside?”
“No... Oh my god! There’s a grass patch in here! Talk about all the mod cons!”
Huh. Another pricey bit of magic. Self-cleaning grass patches were a new-fangled thing just sweeping the city back home. She wondered briefly whether Briony had had a familiar... She must have. All witches did. So what had happened to it when the elderly witch had died? She made a note to ask Sheriff—Ass-Sheriff Tourak, she corrected herself quickly—in the morning. Comfortable and warm, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
He’d been an ass. A complete and utter ass. The sort of ass that would have gotten him a cuff around the ear from his father, if the big, gruff alpha had still been alive. Especially since a lady had been involved...
Reaching the heavy wooden door of the witch’s cottage, Brock paused before knocking and groaned. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment in shame. He’d been more than an asshole. He’d also hit her with his truck, thrown her in a cell and accused her of not being a witch. If he wasn’t careful, his da would return from the next adventure to slap him silly. Especially if he knew Brock had nearly hurt a lady.
It was a good job she was a witch. They were damn near impossible to kill. He shuddered, ice dripping down his spine at what would have happened if she’d been human...
His bear howled within, as distraught as he was at the thought, and he shoved the mental image of her mangled body away quickly. No, it wouldn’t have happened. The town wards might be failing, but they were still in place. And she’d been on foot. That first family had only gotten through because they’d been in a car. Sometimes modern technology could fool weak magic. Particularly if it was going fast enough.
Thunk... thunk... thunk....
He looked up at the noises. It sounded like something hitting a pane of glass. He shook his head. Sure enough, three dragon flies had flown into the door and even now staggered to their scaly, little feet next to his boots, looking confused.
“Go on, get out of it, you dumb little fucks,” he said, shooing them away. One took exception, roared and tried to blast his foot with a tiny gout of fire.
He sighed, tempted to punt the fiery little fucker but instead settled for a deep snarl from his bear. The dragon fly squealed in terror and ran off, following its friends as they flew away.
Bottomslick... The only place on earth they didn’t get dragonflies but dragon flies.
Noises within the cottage caught his attention but rather than just open the door and walk in, he knocked and waited. Dealing with witches 101. Never invade their personal space. Not without an invitation and preferably a signed note of permission. As long as it was witnessed.
He and Mackenzie, his best friend since childhood, had made that mistake when they were boys. Daring each other, they’d broken into Mistress Burdock’s (as it was then) cottage through a back window, stolen some cookies and escaped through the front door.
They thought they’d gotten away with it, hiding down by the river with their ill-gotten gains. Then, one after the other, they’d both turned into frogs. Full on, green-skin, fly-eating, slimy frogs.
Brock shuddered. The very memory made his skin crawl. He’d been trapped as a frog for a week as punishment for his crimes, his da only letting Briony turn him back when he’d well and truly learned his lesson.
Lesson one: never steal.
Lesson two: never steal anything from a witch.
Before he could knock on the door, it opened. He covered his surprise as Mrs. Oakenthorpe filled the doorway.
“Lovely girl!” She beamed at him, showing a mouthful of sharp teeth. She was still in her bear form, complete with mop cap, shawl and glasses. “Well done for finding her through that advertisement.”
“Err... Thank you?” Brock replied, trying to peer around Mrs. O’s furry bulk in the doorway. He had no idea if Mistress—shit, he didn’t even know her goddamn name—was used to Shifters or not. So he half expected to see her stretched out cold on the floor. Not many Shifters like to parade around in their animal form like Mrs. O.
“Be nice,” Mrs. O warned, clutching what looked like a jar of honey possessively in clawed paws. “We need to keep her. She gave me something for my congested chest.”
Brock gave her a firm look. “I don’t know what you told her, Mrs. O, but honey? You know that’s not good for you!”
That bloody little yellow shit and his stories had put bearkind back hundreds of years.
“This?” She blinked at him innocently. “It’s not honey. It’s tea. For my chest. Mistress Livvy said it would help me.”
Livvy... That was her name. He wondered if it was short for something.
Brock put that thought to one side as Mrs. O cracked the lid and he realized she was right. The sickly sweet smell of honey was absent, replaced instead by the sharp scents of pine and nettle.
“Be nice,” Mrs. O reiterated before ambling off down the path.
What? Did everyone expect him to be an asshole to the woman or something?
Yes, his inner voice exclaimed. He ignored it. That had been yesterday. Today would be a whole lot better.
“Ahh, you’re here. Perfect!” the purple-haired witch announced as he stepped through the door. She swept past him, basket in hand and head held high, her ratty little dog familiar at her heels as she walked up the dirt track like a queen walking before her court.
“Wait! What? Where are we going?”
“Well, I don’t have a license to drive over here... Or a car for that matter. So I’m afraid you’ll have to be my chauffeur.”
She cast him a glance over her shoulder and he was stunned into silence. Moon, what witchcraft had the woman done on her eyes to make them so alluring? Her lips quirked and he bit back a moan. Crap. He’d said that out loud.
“It’s not witchcraft, handsome. It’s called eyeliner,” she told him, amusement coloring her voice. “Been a thing since, oh... at least ancient Egypt?”
He bit his tongue. This would be a long day. A really long day.
9
She
riff Brock turned out to be a lot better company today, joining Livvy as she made her way around the town resetting the wards and banishing all the wayward brownies.
“They are lovely indeed. How on earth did you get them to grow so big?”
Her last stop of the day had been to elderly Mr. Pressley, whose small house was almost on the edge of town. So close that she could feel the pressure from the town’s border against her mind.
The nervous little man hovered in front of her, wringing his hands. He seemed on the verge of bowing all the time, as if she were visiting royalty or something. Her emerging witchy senses told her he was neither Shifter nor witch.
“Water!” the little man said, hands waving in the air. “The foundation of all life!”
“Of course,” she smiled, motioning to Fuzzy who was rooting around in the flower beds. He’d been doing it all morning and now was in dire need of a bath. He ducked out of sight at her hard look, refusing to meet her eyes.
She returned her attention to Mr. Pressley. “From the tap... Or from the stream perhaps? I can’t see tap water being good for them. Too many chemicals from treatment plants?” she guessed.
Mr. Pressley seemed like an avid gardener and her guess was borne out when he smiled broadly. “As wise as you are beautiful, my lady. Indeed not, never tap water. I collect water from the stream and I have a friend with storage. He brings me some when it’s hot. The babies grow so well with the extra water.”
She smiled at his term of endearment for its plants. “Oh indeed, they are lovely. Now... I believe you have a bit of a brownie problem?”
“Oh... Yes! This way please!”
The little old man led them around the side of the cottage and into the back garden. She could hear the cacophony of tiny voices before they rounded the last corner. He hadn’t been kidding. The brownie infestation in his garden was the worst she’d ever seen. The language rising from the bushes was foul enough to make even a hardened marine blush.
Setting her basket down, she walked to the middle of the small lawn, pushing her sleeves up as she went. She wasn’t at all used to brownies like this. Normally, they were mild-mannered and pleasant, helpful to a fault. She had no idea why in Bottomslick they turned into little wankers.