Marc and Kat briefly broke off from dancing to join George and I. Kat had scrubbed her face clean, then hacked most of the layers of her skirt away with a pair of blunt scissors we kept behind the bar, so now she was sporting a short and ragged version of her wedding dress, the beads still shimmying in the light. She looked magnificent.
“Thank you for all you’ve done, Alf,” she said, hugging me tight. We had discussed how I would put the feelers out, with some assistance from Wizard Shadowmender, and find somewhere Kat’s mother and sister would be safe. “You freed me from a tyrant and now I can be with the man of my dreams instead.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, and we clinked champagne glasses. I wondered how Kat and Marc would make their new lives work, her as a mortal and him immortal. And would they ever stop looking over their shoulders with Melchior at large in the world? But they were special people, they would make it succeed somehow, some way.
“Do me a favour?” A sudden thought had occurred to me. “If you ever want to get married… please don’t hold the event at Whittle Inn. It’s going to take me years to recover from this one.”
Kat pouted. I winked, and everyone joined in laughing.
But seriously? I made a mental note to bar vampires henceforth from Whittle Inn.
When I awoke the next morning I had a little bit of a sore head. What’s a woman to do when the champagne is running so freely, and the culmination of her dreams—the opening of Whittle Inn in my case—had finally come to fruition. Gentle tapping at my window alerted me to the arrival of Mr Hoo. I leapt out of bed, my head thumping in indignation at the sudden activity, and opened the window wide, allowing him to fly in and take his place on my bedpost.
“Where have you been?” I asked, my voice husky. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Hoo-ooo. Hoo-ooo.”
“Is that so? Well you’ve missed some adventures here, I can tell you.” I reached out and gently scratched his feathery head. “I’m so pleased you’re back. I really missed you, little fellow.”
With only five hours sleep, after a week of hardly any sleep at all, it’s safe to say I looked a little worse for wear when I made my way groggily downstairs in search of toast and tea.
And lots of it.
Florence was in the bar, beginning to clear up a scene that looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. Luppitt Smeatharpe and the Devonshire Fellows were slumped over their instruments in the corner and Zephaniah was asleep under one of the buffet tables.
Who knew ghosts became tired too?
Florence smiled when she saw me. “Morning miss,” she said. “You look like you need a pick me up.”
“Urgh,” I groaned. “You’re not kidding. Has Charity surfaced yet?”
“No miss. Would you like me to wake her?”
“No let her sleep.” She deserved it. She’d been working like a trojan.
I headed for the frosted glass door and the back of the inn where the kitchen was located—where the bread and butter and marmalade were located, more importantly—but Florence stopped me. “The hearses came back before dawn, Miss Alf.”
I turned back. “They took all the coffins?”
“All but two.”
Thaddeus and Marc. Now that the vampires had departed Whittle Inn, I supposed I’d never find out who had killed Thaddeus. There was a big question mark there. I’d have to dispose of Thaddeus’s coffin myself. “And Marc?” I asked.
“Safe in the attic, miss.”
I breathed out heavily, relieved all had gone to plan. We would send Marc on to Kat as soon as she had found a suitable and safe location.
Monsieur Emietter was already beavering away in his pristine kitchen. “Morning,” I trilled, cheerier than I felt. “May I have some toast and tea please?”
Monsieur Emietter looked at me askance. Either he didn’t even know enough English to provide me with tea and toast or he didn’t want to mess up his impeccably clean and tidy worktops.
“Toast? Tea?” I tried again. “Maybe even a bacon sandwich. Or what about eggs and bacon? What’s the French for eggs and bacon?”
Monsieur Emietter offered me one of his now famous gallic shrugs, his face blank.
“Maybe even throw in a sausage.” I wanted to bash my head against the kitchen table. What was the use of a chef I couldn’t communicate with? “But don’t forget the toast.”
I made a move for the breadbin myself and Monsieur Emietter made a dismissing motion at my fingers. I started to retort when I noted the glint in his eye. He was having me on.
He winked, indicated I should sit at the table, and began pulling items from the fridge and cold store. Removing the bread from the bread bin he cut a slice and shoved it in the toaster. Then turned to look at me, raising one finger, then two, then three. I laughed with delight.
Charity picked that moment to join me in the kitchen, still clad in her pyjamas. “Oh, please may I have some too?” she asked. “I need something to sop up the champagne.”
“Just give us all the toast,” I demanded and patted my belly, and Monsieur Emietter grinned.
A few minutes later we were squealing with delight when he handed over a dinner plate full of steaming hot toast. “I don’t know where yours is,” Charity said trying to take the plate off me. We giggled together until a familiar voice piped up from directly in front of us.
“Have you seen the state of the bar, Alfhild? You should be out there helping Florence tidy up.”
Gwyn rapidly apparated into vision.
“There you are!” I could have hugged her, had that been possible.
“Has there been a party? What did I miss?” She affected a look of total innocence.
I shook my head. “Grandmama? You have no idea.”
* * *
Jeannie Wycherley
26th December 2018
Huge thanks as always to my sensational street team, and a shout-out to my ARC readers over on Booksprout who have been so effusive and supportive as regards the Wonky Inn Books. I have been completely taken aback by the love I’ve had for Alf and her friends.
Special thanks to JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed for her phenomenal covers, and to Anna Bloom once more, for her sensible suggestions and common-sense approach, her passion and her belief.
To my husband John for his love and support, and my friends, real and virtual, who cheer me on when the going gets tough.
Finally, most importantly, thanks to you, the reader. I love bringing you my stories, reading your reviews, and receiving your feedback. You complete my circle.
Much love ♥
Jeannie Wycherley
Devon, UK
28th November 2018
Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4
There’s a psychic fayre heading to Whittlecombe.
Alf, the witch, didn’t see it coming … perhaps she should have done.
Whittle Inn is up and running and gaining in popularity. Proud owner Alfhild Daemonne can afford to relax, can’t she?
Apparently not.
When her neighbouring inn decides to host the south west region’s largest ever Psychic and Holistic Convention, you’d think that would allow Alf the opportunity to make lots of new friends. Think of it! Dozens and dozens of fortune tellers, mediums, diviners, psychics, rune-tellers, witch doctors, and even a voodoo priestess from New Orleans – all gathered together in one big field.
Not so.
Alf is banned from attending the Fayre and looks set to miss out - until Wizard Shadowmender sends her on an undercover operation that is.
In the meantime, someone is sending Alf death threats and many of her friends in the village of Whittlecombe are subject to fearful fortune tellings and terrible tarot readings at the Fayre.
It appears that dark forces are gathering in Whittlecombe.
Will Alf make it to her 31st birthday?
And just who is it that wishes her harm?
Find out when you read Wonky Inn Book
4 today.
Add some magickal sparkle to your Christmas with a Christmas Wonky Novella
The Witch Who Killed Christmas
It’s an ill wind that blows no good...
An unexpected snowmageddon threatens to derail Christmas at Alfhild Daemonne’s inn.
She’s hosting her first festive celebration, so she’s understandably disappointed when guests begin cancelling bookings, thanks to the abnormal wintery conditions in the south west of England.
When Alf receives information that there may be an ulterior reason for the weather anomaly, she journeys deep into the forest in search of a witch with an attitude problem.
Can Alf save Christmas at Wonky Inn? Or will one mean old witch kill Christmas for everyone?
The Witch Who Killed Christmas can be read as a standalone or as part of the Wonky Inn series.
In Case You Missed the Birth of Wonky
The story begins…
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
Alfhild Daemonne has inherited an inn.
and a dead body.
Estranged from her witch mother, and having committed to little in her thirty years, Alf surprises herself when she decides to start a new life.
She heads deep into the English countryside intent on making a success of the once popular inn. However, discovering the murder throws her a curve ball. Especially when she suspects dark magick.
Additionally, a less than warm welcome from several locals, persuades her that a variety of folk – of both the mortal and magickal persuasions – have it in for her.
The dilapidated inn presents a huge challenge for Alf. Uncertain who to trust, she considers calling time on the venture.
Should she pack her bags and head back to London?
Don’t be daft.
Alf’s magickal powers may be as wonky as the inn, but she’s dead set on finding the murderer.
Once a witch always a witch, and this one is fighting back.
A clean and cozy witch mystery.
Take the opportunity to immerse yourself in this fantastic new witch mystery series, from the author of the award-winning novel, Crone.
Grab Book 1 of the Wonky Inn series, The Wonkiest Witch, right here
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The Wonky Inn Series
The Wonky Inn Series
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2
Weird Wedding: Wonky Inn Book 3
Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4 Due for release 31st January 2019
The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5 Due for release March 2019
The Witch Who Killed Christmas: Wonky Inn Christmas Special
Beyond the Veil (2018)
Crone (2017)
A Concerto for the Dead and Dying (short story, 2018)
Deadly Encounters: A collection of short stories (2017)
Keepers of the Flame: A love story (Novella, 2018)
Non Fiction
Losing my best Friend Thoughtful support for those affected by dog bereavement or pet loss (2017)
Follow Jeannie Wycherley
Find out more at on the website www.jeanniewycherley.co.uk
You can tweet Jeannie twitter.com/Thecushionlady
Or visit her on Facebook for her fiction www.facebook.com/jeanniewycherley
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The Municipality of Lost Souls by Jeannie Wycherley
Described as a cross between Daphne Du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn, and TV’s The Walking Dead, but with ghosts instead of zombies, The Municipality of Lost Souls tells the story of Amelia Fliss and her cousin Agatha Wick.
In the otherwise quiet municipality of Durscombe, the inhabitants of the small seaside town harbour a deadly secret.
Amelia Fliss, wife of a wealthy merchant, is the lone voice who speaks out against the deadly practice of the wrecking and plundering of ships on the rocks in Lyme bay, but no-one appears to be listening to her.
As evil and malcontent spread like cholera throughout the community, and the locals point fingers and vow to take vengeance against outsiders, the dead take it upon themselves to end a barbaric tradition the living seem to lack the will to stop.
Set in Devon in the UK during the 1860s, The Municipality of Lost Souls is a Victorian Gothic ghost story, with characters who will leave their mark on you forever.
If you enjoyed Beyond the Veil, you really don’t want to miss this novel.
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Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3 Page 16