Seven Pets for Seven Witches: A Collection of Paranormal Cozy Shorts
Page 1
Seven Pets for Seven Witches
A Collection of Paranormal Cozy Shorts
Annabel Chase
Amy Boyles
H.Y. Hanna
Morgana Best
M.Z. Andrews
Molly Milligan
Gina LaManna
Seven Pets for Seven Witches
A Collection of Paranormal Cozy Shorts
Copyright © 2018 Red Palm Press LLC
All rights reserved.
These short stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, and locations are either a product of the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious setting. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
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.
Contents
Annabel Chase
One Witch’s Trash Panda Is Another Witch’s Treasure
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Amy Boyles
A Wedding for a Rat
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
H.Y. Hanna
Witch Mocha Morsel
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Morgana Best
Broom Mates
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
M.Z. Andrews
Hazel Raises the Stakes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Molly Milligan
Harkin and the Snake’s Servant
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Gina LaManna
Spellbooks & Spies
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About the Authors
One Witch’s Trash Panda Is Another Witch’s Treasure
A Starry Hollow Witches Short Story
Annabel Chase
Chapter 1
I stared at the recipe book, my eyes glazing over. Couldn’t I just skip the first three lines of instructions? Stirring was so boring.
“No one will fault you if you use magic,” Marley said.
My ten-year-old daughter was wise beyond her years. “But Aster thinks it’s important to learn to do basic skills without witchcraft.”
“Linnea uses magic in the kitchen all the time,” Marley said. “And let’s face it, you’re never going to be a culinary genius if you rely on your human skills. You barely mastered the microwave back in New Jersey.”
I shot her a death glare. “And it seems that someone is barely mastering manners in Starry Hollow.”
Marley stuck out her tongue. “I’m just trying to be supportive.”
“Be supportive from the comfort of your bedroom. With your nose in a book.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice.” She gave me a coy look. “I’m reading The Final Prophecy.”
I nearly dropped the recipe book on the counter. “Why? That’s not a kid’s book.”
“It’s clean epic fantasy,” Marley replied. “Perfectly acceptable fare for an advanced reader like myself.” She sailed out of the kitchen before I had a chance to object further. The Final Prophecy was the first book in a series written by the devastatingly handsome vampire, Alec Hale. Marley was a huge fan of Alec’s. So was I, for that matter, although I tried hard not to show it. Alec also happened to be my boss at Vox Populi, the weekly paper, and I was desperate to keep my job.
I contemplated the recipe one last time before retrieving my starter wand from my back pocket. Okay, time for a little practical magic. To be fair, even a spell didn’t guarantee culinary success when I was at the helm.
I focused my will on a steak and stilton pie, aimed my wand at the baking pan, and said, “Quodcumque operandum.” I opened my eyes—turned out I’d closed them at the pivotal moment—to see a golden piecrust in front of me. The smell was heavenly. I grabbed the oven glove and carried the steaming pan over to the windowsill to cool. Nearly every window in the house was open thanks to the absolutely perfect temperature outside. Then again, every day in Starry Hollow seemed to be perfect. Between the ocean breeze and the protection of the forest behind Rose Cottage, we were spoiled by Mother Nature.
I went back to the counter to close the recipe book with a spiteful smile. “Better luck next time.”
A scratching noise behind me caught my attention. I whipped around in time to see a raccoon perched on the windowsill, ready to snatch my pie.
“Don’t even think about it, bandit!” I yelled. I fumbled for my wand, trying to think of a spell that would scare off the unwanted creature without hurting it. Marley would never forgive me if I injured it, or worse.
The raccoon met my steely gaze and I swear it winked at me before sticking its claws into the sides of the pie.
“Do not make me go Jersey on your raccoon butt,” I said. “That’s our dinner.”
The raccoon made a deep, guttural sound and began to froth at the mouth. Stars and stones, a rabid raccoon was stealing my pie!
The sound of laughter echoed in my mind. I jerked my head from side to side, searching for the source of the sound.
Rabid raccoon works every time, the voice said with a delighted chuckle.
I whirled back to the bandit. “You’re pretending to be rabid?”
The raccoon froze, its eyes meeting mine. You can hear me?
“That’s what happens when you talk, Einstein. People hear you.” Wait, the raccoon’s mouth wasn’t moving. And since when could raccoons talk anyway? Unless… “Are you some kind of raccoon shifter?”
Fat chance. Shifters are Mother Nature’s way of being indecisive.
I fixed him with my hard stare. “That’s rude. I’ve met a handful of shifters since I moved here and they’re pretty awesome.” Most of them, anyway. The sheriff was a werewolf and he was insanely hot, not that I’d tell him I thought so.
Insanely hot? the raccoon echoed. You have a thing for the knucklehead sheriff?
“Hang on,” I said. “I didn’t say that last part out loud. How can you hear my thoughts?”
Looks like we have ourselves a situation. The raccoon leapt from the windowsill onto the countertop. My name’s Raoul.
“Nice to meet you, Raoul. Now I’ll thank you to get out of my house.”
>
Raoul settled on the counter, watching me with interest. You don’t happen to be a witch, do you?
I folded my arms. “And what if I am?”
You don’t have a cat?
“No, I have a dog. A Yorkshire terrier.” The last time I saw him, Prescott Peabody III, or PP3 as we called him, was upstairs, asleep on my bed.
Your familiar is a mutt?
“He’s not a mutt. He’s a purebred.”
The raccoon actually rolled his eyes. And you talk to each other?
“He barks and I interpret, if that’s what you mean.”
Raoul snorted a laugh. Oh boy, we’ve got a live one. What’s your name, sweetheart?
“Ember Rose, and don’t call me sweetheart. It’s patronizing.”
Listen up, Ember Rose. My life finally makes sense. He held out his paws. I’m your familiar.
“My familiar?” I shook my head vehemently. “No way. Absolutely not. I’m a Rose. A descendant of the One True Witch. There’s no way my familiar is a trash panda.”
Raoul growled. Don’t you dare hurl racist insults at me.
“It’s not racist. It’s an alternative fact. Do you even know who my aunt is?”
A woman even older than you?
My jaw unhinged. “She’s Hyacinth Rose-Muldoon. Her familiar is a fluffy white cat. If you look up ‘gorgeous cat’ in the dictionary, there’s a picture of her.”
So?
“So you cannot possibly be my familiar.”
Raoul paced the length of the countertop, his claws clicking with each step. I’ve lived my whole life in the woods behind this cottage. No matter how many times I thought about leaving, I couldn’t bring myself to go, and now I understand why.
“Are you trying to tell me we were destined for one another?”
He paused to look at me. That’s kinda how familiars work.
“I need to talk to someone about this,” I said.
Raoul shook his head. Fine. Talk away. Won’t change the facts, alternative or otherwise. He jumped back to the windowsill. Can I at least take some pie for the road?
I shooed him out the window and closed it behind him.
“Marley, dinner’s ready,” I called. I decided it was best to resolve the matter of the trash panda on a full stomach.
Chapter 2
Hyacinth Rose-Muldoon swept into the room in one of her standard kaftans. My aunt’s keen sense of fashion revolved around bright colors and animal faces. This particular kaftan was royal blue with white silhouettes of peacocks. Her shoes were dyed to match the blue of the kaftan.
“I understand you have an issue that requires immediate attention,” my aunt said.
“Simon got all that from my arrival?” I queried. Simon was the butler for Thornhold, my family’s estate. He seemed to have an almost psychic connection with my aunt.
“No, he got all that from the fact that you didn’t bother to brush your hair or smooth the wrinkles out of your clothes before making an appearance.” She gave me the once-over, as though to confirm her butler’s assessment of the situation.
Absently, I ran my fingers through my hair in a lame attempt to untangle the knots. “I have a question about familiars.”
My aunt’s brow lifted. “Oh? Have you finally met a cat? I’m surprised it’s taken this long.”
“Not exactly.” I hesitated to tell her the truth because I knew how she’d react, but I needed to know. “If I can hear an animal’s thoughts, does that automatically mean the animal is my familiar?”
She stared at me intently. “Can the animal hear yours?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“And did you feel a certain tug of recognition?” Aunt Hyacinth asked. “Like perhaps you were destined to know this animal?”
Did I? I suppose I could have been more freaked out about a talking raccoon in my kitchen than I actually was. Then again, I now lived in a magical town with vampires, witches, and werewolves, so very little fazed me.
“I think so,” I said.
She gave me a triumphant smile. “Then I do believe you and your familiar have found each other.” She clapped her hands. “And after all these years. How wonderful. What color is she? White like my Precious?”
I hesitated. “Sort of black, white and gray.”
Aunt Hyacinth’s upper lip curled. “Like a common alley cat?”
“More like a raccoon.”
She tapped a perfectly manicured nail against her cheek. “How odd. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a cat with raccoon markings.”
“No, not raccoon markings. An actual raccoon. And it’s a he, not a she. His name is Raoul.”
My aunt reached for the sideboard to steady herself. I felt a case of the vapors coming on. I nearly called to Simon to make sure he was ready with the smelling salts.
My aunt struggled to regain her composure. “Are you telling me that your familiar is a raccoon named Raoul?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Gods above, have mercy.” Her breathing became labored. “Must be your mother’s genes.”
I suppressed a smile. “Must be.”
“Where is this creature now?” she asked.
“Back in the woods behind the cottage,” I said. “He’ll be back, though. He was firmly convinced about the familiar thing.”
Her son, Florian, appeared in the doorway. All six feet of sculpted white-blond beauty. “What’s the big deal? At least she has a familiar. You were the one moaning about it just the other day.”
“I do not moan,” my aunt objected.
“No, of course not,” Florian said. “I misspoke.” My cousin knew from which direction the money flowed and he was not about to risk the purse strings being snipped.
“Now that I know for certain, I’m going to go find him,” I said. “Marley will be so excited.” Although, like my aunt, I’m sure she would have preferred a cat.
“I’ll make an appointment with the vet for you,” my aunt offered. “If he’s been living…off the land, he’ll need shots before he’s permitted around the family.”
“I’ll probably not lead with that,” I replied.
“Smart,” Florian murmured.
I left the main house and headed to the woods to find my familiar.
Chapter 3
Once it became too dark to see, I gave up the search and returned to the cottage to tuck Marley into bed. I’d just finished loading the glasses into the dishwasher when PP3 began barking up a storm and ran to the front door, his tail shifting stiffly in a state of agitation. I opened the front door and turned on the porch light to see Sheriff Granger Nash standing on my doorstep. A large cat carrier rested on the ground beside his feet. I stepped outside and closed the door behind me in an effort to quiet my vicious guard dog.
“Good evening, Sheriff.” I was about to engage in our usual flirtatious banter when I noticed his serious expression. “Something wrong?”
“I’ve got a suspect here that I understand belongs to you,” he said. He did not look happy about delivering the news.
I glanced at the cat carrier. “PP3 is inside the cottage. You heard him.” The whole town probably heard him.
He lifted the cat carrier and I peered inside.
“Raoul?” I queried.
The raccoon’s dark eyes met mine. Help. I’ve been framed.
“So he is yours,” the sheriff said. “I was kinda hoping it wasn’t true.” He handed me the carrier and I nearly dropped it. It was heavier than it looked.
“Raoul and I only just met.” Under the circumstances, I decided to withhold the rest of that particular story. “Apparently, he’s my familiar.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Leave it to you to have a thieving dumpster shark as a familiar.”
Hey! Raoul objected.
“It’s not like I have a say in the matter,” I said. “So why is a raccoon a criminal suspect?”
“A witness has come forward and claimed to see him carrying a golden chalice. It fits the des
cription of an item that was stolen last week from the cellar of the Whitethorn,” the sheriff said.
“What would a dumpster shark need with a golden chalice?” I said. “That sounds far too fancy for him.”
The sheriff pinned his gaze on me, and, damn, if it wasn’t smoldering. “How should I know? Ask him yourself since you two have a bond. And try not to let the adorable face fool you.”
“I think adorable might be a stretch,” I said.
Hey! Raoul objected again. You’re supposed to be on my side.
“When I heard he belonged to you,” the sheriff began, “I convinced Deputy Bolan to let me bring him to you while we conduct our investigation, but don’t let me catch him getting into any more trouble. There’ve been a number of burglaries over the past six months. Your familiar is now at the top of the suspect list.”
Fabulous. “I’ll keep a handle on him.”
“Maybe try a leash,” the sheriff said.
Unlike you, I’m not a dog, Raoul snapped.
“He can’t hear you,” I told the raccoon.