Jingle Spells

by CyberWitch Press

  Although Maeve found Evie annoying, terribly so most of the time, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. No one deserved this a few days before Christmas.

  A rustling sound caught the sorceress’s attention. Maeve slowly scanned the room, and finally spotted the demon hiding in the branches of the fallen Christmas tree. She did her best to try and pretend she hadn’t seen it; she was too tired to chase it around the house again. Carefully, she stared at the window, only now noticing there was a crack in the glass. She moved to stand near the tree and righted the floor lamp that had been knocked over, taking a moment to set straight the shade whose fixing had been bent at an odd angle.

  Then with a speed even she didn’t know she was capable of, she pushed her hand into the dark green boughs of the Christmas tree and pulled out the destructive demon, holding it tightly by the scruff of its neck. The imp kicked and hissed as it tried to free itself, but Maeve’s grip was like a vice. She had no intentions of losing the creature again.

  Now that she could get a good look at it, she could see the imp was about the size of a small dog and just as furry. It was covered from head to foot in thick brown hair, but its eyes were astonishingly bright blue in color. Its claws were sharp though not long, and its ears, which poked through the fur on the top of its head, were pointy like a cat’s.

  This was the first time Maeve had come face-to-face with an imp, and she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. Gingerly, she edged to the door and called out to Evie.

  “Aw, it’s so cute!” Evie beamed when she entered the room to see that the creature had been caught. Covered in tinsel and wearing a tiny Christmas stocking on one of its feet, Maeve acknowledged that it did almost look cute, but she knew better than to believe it.

  “Don’t come too close,” Maeve warned. “Imps are notoriously unpredictable.”

  But Evie either didn’t hear or chose not to. Instead of heeding the warning, instead of approaching the demon with caution like any sane person would do, Evie walked straight over to pet it like a harmless puppy.

  The imp, who had sensed Evie’s weakness, had ceased struggling against its captor. Instead, it smiled as sweetly as it could at the new, careless arrival, fluttering its eyelids and pouting, probably in an attempt to hide its terribly sharp teeth, which it sunk into Evie’s outstretched hand as soon as it was within reach.

  Evie howled as Maeve did her best to not lose hold of the demon. This, of course, was made harder by the fact that Evie was trying her utmost to pull her hand out of the creature’s mouth. Finally, the imp let go when Maeve pulled the red felt stocking off its hairy foot, and it was its turn to cry.

  “Horrible thing!” Evie shouted at it as she cradled her bleeding hand. Maeve was thankful that Evie had received her tetanus booster not so long ago — but that was another story.

  “I would take a few steps away from it, if I were you,” Maeve said, in an attempt to exercise her control over the situation. “Now. I think we need a box or something…” she mused, thinking out loud. “Something to contain it, while I sort out all the necessary particulars for the banishing ritual.”

  “Gimme mince pie. Then I’ll go quietly,” it hissed. It had gone limp, the fight driven out of it when it had lost the Christmas stocking.

  Maeve was not shocked by the revelation that the imp could speak, although it was something to which she had never given much thought. Neither did it seem to bother Evie; in fact, she seemed eager to talk back at it.

  “We’re not giving you anything, you horrible rat!” Evie shouted. “You bit me and have destroyed my house.”

  “Ah, but you invited me.” The imp grinned. “Your fault. Not mine.”

  Maeve suppressed a laugh. The imp was right. The blame solely rested with Evie and her magickal ineptitude.

  “Evie, for heaven’s sake, go and get it a mince pie or you will be explaining to your family how you are now the proud parent of an adopted, uncontrollable, destructive imp baby.”

  Stomping her feet like a petulant child, Evie went off in search of the required mince pies.

  The imp, pleased it was getting its own way, was smiling and giggling. “I like mince pies. Yes, I does. Yum yum.”

  Evie returned carrying a partially-battered box of the festive foodstuff.

  The imp became even more excited. “Want sock you stole from me,” the imp declared, trying to look over its shoulder at Maeve.

  “It wasn’t yours, so I can’t have stolen it from you. However, if you ask Evie nicely, perhaps she will let you have it, as a reward for cooperating.”

  “Maeve!” Evie hissed. “What are you doing? Why are you negotiating with it?”

  “Think of it as a Christmas present,” Maeve replied in a sing-song voice that told Evie if she didn’t do as she was told, Maeve would leave her alone with the imp to deal with in whatever way she thought best.

  The hint was not lost on her. “Oh, right, a Christmas present.” Evie picked up the stocking from the floor where Maeve had earlier thrown it and placed it alongside the box of mince pies.

  “Thank you, Miss Evie,” the imp said nicely, before adding, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m keeping this gold, shiny garland, too.” It smiled and fluttered its eyelids again, as it pulled at the tinsel it wore.

  “Whatever,” Evie replied, rolling her eyes.

  Maeve looked about her, ignoring the child-like antics of both Evie and the imp, and noted that everything she could possibly need to work the required spell was already within arm’s reach. Candles sat next to the open fireplace, where logs were surprisingly still neatly stacked, awaiting lighting. A lipstick lay on the floor by her foot; with it, she could draw the banishing sigil that would open the portal, as long as it was inscribed on a flat surface. The coffee table, she thought, would work nicely.

  “I think we are ready,” Maeve finally said, nodding to herself. “It’s time to send the little fella home.”

  *

  Maeve evicted Evie from her own living room so could work the spell that would allow the imp to return to where it belonged. Evie, naturally, had protested, arguing that she could help. The sorceress quickly put an end to any such notion, telling her in no uncertain terms that she would rather trust her safety to the imp.

  As she shepherded Evie out of the room — Maeve was taking no chances — she could hear her muttering under her breath. “Is it any wonder that I make so many mistakes when no one will show me how it’s meant to be done?”

  It had no effect on the sorceress whatsoever. She knew Evie should never be taught magick, should never work magick, and should never read about it. It was simply too dangerous in her unreliable hands. If she had shown a little more patience… If she had been able to keep her attention on one thing for more than a few minutes at a time, it would have been different. But Evie was Evie, and she would never change.

  To make a point, Maeve charmed the door to ensure it stayed shut. Her concentration needed to be on the spell at hand and not worrying about whether Evie was about to walk into the room because her curiosity got the better of her.

  *

  Half an hour later, the rite was complete. Wood End was an imp-free village once more.

  She exited the living room to find Evie sitting on the stairs. She had not started to put right any of the chaos the summoning of the imp had caused.

  “All done,” Maeve said, doing up the buttons on her coat. Looking out through the small window in the front door, she could see that the sky had changed color, and it had started snowing again.

  “I can’t believe you charmed the door,” Evie said, offended.

  “I can’t believe you tried it after I told you not to.” Maeve sighed. “Anyway, I had better be off. I’ll probably see you at the carols on the green.”

  Evie jumped to her feet. “Where are you going?” she asked, incredulous at the thought of Maeve leaving. “My family will be here in six hours, and my house looks like a disaster zone.”

  “I’m going home.
I’m tired. And anyway, don’t you think I have cleared up enough of your mess for one night? I think you can handle a few household chores.” Maeve went to walk away, but quickly turned about and added, “And I don’t recommend you try using any short-cuts this time. It will be quicker and safer if you just use a broom and duster.”

  Maeve stepped out into the night, and pulled the front door closed behind her before Evie had the chance to voice any protest. As she walked through Wood End in the snow, retracing the path back to Appletree House, she wondered if Ed had returned and whether she might have time to plan her Winter Solstice celebration when she got home after all.

  With the snow falling all about her, she smiled, the drama of the evening quickly fading to be replaced by thoughts of Ed waiting for her at home. Although he had only been gone a few days, she had missed him more than she could have ever imagined. In her mind’s eye, it was easy to visualise herself curled up on the sofa alongside her ghost boyfriend, her notepad on her lap, drinking a nice hot cup of cocoa.

  And that, she mused dreamily, sounded like the perfect way to celebrate the season and another turn of The Wheel.

  Author Sammi Cox

  Sammi Cox is from the UK and spends her time writing and making things. She enjoys writing about magic and myth, fairy tales and witches, and is inspired by history and the natural world. You can keep up to date with what she’s working on by visiting sammicox.wix.com/sammicox.

  The Witch’s Shoes

  Sidonia Rose

  CHAPTER 1

  Arwen

  Using my shoulder to fluff the pillow beneath my head, I shift, trying to find a comfortable spot. It’s too warm. I push at the blanket to cool off.

  Settling in again, it becomes clear it wasn’t the pillow that was bothering me. It wasn’t even that it’s too warm. It’s the whooshing sound that doesn’t seem to stop.

  Whoosh.

  I wave my hand thinking it must be a bug that’s bothering me. The sound stops, and I rest again, ready to drift back to sleep.

  Whoosh.

  Opening a single eye, I see the dark brown comforter under my hand. It’s soft, but it seemed so much thicker when I landed on it last night. Thoughts of last night cause a flood of emotions to course through me.

  A warm body is pressed against my back; the source of the heat that’s making me uncomfortable. Thoughts of his body bring visions of him falling on top of me last night. His dark eyes devoured me; my fingers ran through his inky black hair; and then his mouth covered mine, and I couldn’t form a coherent thought if my own mother was standing in the room.

  The bane of my existence is remembering names. I can’t do it; I can’t remember names of people. It’s far easier to remember the ingredients needed for my favorite mixtures, but names have never worked out for me. If I give someone a nickname, I can usually remember it, but most people don’t like nicknames from someone they just met. Mr. Warm Body didn’t seem to mind; he was actually amused that I thought his name didn’t really fit him. He told me I could call him anything I wanted, and I wanted a sexy name for him. Something unique, unusual even, but definitely something sexy. I tried a few, but nothing really seemed to fit him. Well, until one name popped into my head.

  Brogan.

  After a drink together, we were dancing, and I told him he looked like a Brogan. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of me, and I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. It didn’t take long to learn that he spends a lot of hours in the gym.

  He didn’t waste any time after I agreed to go home with him last night. As we left the bar, we found a cab out front. After giving his address to the driver, he thoroughly kissed me until the cab stopped again. A quick exchange of cash left us struggling from his door to the bedroom, wrestling clothes from each other.

  Leaning back, I consider waking him for another round before I make my exit. It won’t be easy to forget about last night, or to find someone like Brogan again. Wiping at my eyes, I open both this time, trying to determine what the time is. The sun isn’t too bright yet, so it must still be early. The arm wrapped around me moves, and a hand cups my breast with a gentle massage. Mornings are the best time of day, and I’m not going to let a hasty decision last night mess up today.

  Once again, the whooshing sound breaks through my thoughts. It’s too cold outside for it to be some type of bug; maybe my date from last night has an old bowl of fruit that has fruit flies. How depressing is that?

  After a futile attempt to turn, the arm pulls me back, pressing me tighter to his warm body. Accepting his challenge, I try again to turn, with no luck. I give up and reach behind me to run my fingers up his torso, feeling tight muscles. His groan brings a smile to my face, and I turn, expecting to see him peek over my shoulder.

  Looking up, I mutter a curse as feathers dance through the air above us. A few drop low, and the whoosh sound becomes more distinct. The arm around me no longer holds me in place; as I struggle to sit up, the hand falls, resting on my hip.

  “What the…”

  This, I didn’t do this.

  Fear takes over as my heart races faster, and the motion of the feathers increases. A single feather falls to the bed in front of me, and I reach out to lift it as it levitates upwards.

  This can’t be happening. Feathers don’t levitate unless… I stare down at the sleeping man beside me. Unless he’s not just a sleeping man; he has to be something else. I don’t want to think it.

  He can’t be.

  I can’t be here if he is.

  Pushing at his arm is useless. He’s not letting go. The arm pulls, and instead of moving me closer to him, his nose presses into my side. He moans, or maybe it’s a growl, as his hand begins to roam across my now-chilled flesh. The only way to escape is to wake him. This can’t be happening.

  Pushing at his shoulder, I urge him to get up. “Wake up. Wake up.”

  My fears are rising as the room begins to buzz with motion, and the feathers dance lightly around the bed. I can’t enchant feathers on my own. I’ve tried; I can’t do it. The assignment was a month ago, and the feathers didn’t work. I was able to make a tincture that would allow the feathers to be enchanted, but I didn’t do that here. The most I’ve been able to do is to move small things on a table, but feathers? No way can I move feathers. Even I know only the most powerful sources can do such a thing.

  It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a stitch of clothing on; I throw off the covers, wanting to get as far from the sleeping form next to me as possible. I push at him again. “You have to get up.”

  The yawn is a good sign. “Arwen, stay a little longer.” He remembers my name; that might be a good thing. Another yawn. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Even four times is a little much for me.”

  His ego is unbelievable. Rolling away, he takes his arm with him, and I feel the loss of his touch. I miss the warmth of his skin. Sprawled out on his back, the blankets covering most of his naked flesh, he falls back to sleep, snoring gently. There is an overwhelming need inside of me to throw myself on top of him. It pulls at me, almost as if a rope is winding us together.

  With the loss of his touch, the temperature in the room cools, and at first, it looks like snow is falling around me. Hundreds of feathers fall, landing on every surface, blanketing the room in white wisps of fluff.

  The panic is real, and I scream, even as I try to escape. “No!”

  The door flies open, and I pull at the sheet, covering my naked chest. A woman about my age stands in the doorway, leering at us as feathers fall.

  Beside me, he sits up, sputtering and pushing at the feathers falling across his face. He looks at the girl in the doorway and bellows, “What did you do?”

  She doesn’t look amused, and I’m fearful that I’m in her bed. Staying perched at the door as if waiting for something, she grins like she’s the secret keeper and we’re clamoring for the reveal. With a grin, she responds to him, “This is all you. You must have found yourself a little wi-itch last night.”


  She emphasizes the word “witch,” making it sound like a dirty four letter word. It’s never been an issue before, and I don’t disclose my true nature to anyone. If you aren’t in my circle, it’s dangerous for people to know. That’s how we lost my cousin Ruth last year.

  His eyes are on me again. I can feel them just like I did last night. His fingers glide across my skin as he tugs at my arm. At his touch, the feathers around us rise into the air.

  Gasping, he releases me and pulls at his comforter, now flat and certainly without the stuffing it once held. Around us, the feathers lose their momentum and once again fall to the floor. In amazement, I watch as he flicks his fingers and mutters under his breath. He obviously thinks the feathers will do something.

  At the door, the girl is glaring at me. This isn’t my fault, but I fear the worst. I point to her, and she backs up, calling to the man beside me. “Why is she here?”

  He doesn’t answer, but he points to the door and it closes, leaving her on the other side. I can hear her through the door as she calls out questions. I can’t be concerned with her; she’s out of the room, and I need to get myself out of here.

  Beside me, Brogan mutters under his breath. He takes my hand and a flurry of activity happens as the feathers again begin to move. I lean closer, trying to hear what he’s saying, but he lowers his voice. The feathers swirl like a drain towards the comforter, and I watch as they slowly begin to disappear one by one.

  I pull my hand away, and around us, the remaining feathers fall.

  This is bad.

  He’s remained silent through all of this, but I need answers. With my voice as steady as I can muster it, I ask him to tell me what’s happened. “How did you do this? You must be a fairy! Tell me you are a fairy.”

  That’s the only answer I can accept. He must be a fairy. The alternative is too grisly. Only I would be foolish enough to go home with a man who could very well ruin me. I will lose my coven privileges, or worse.

  His smooth voice is gone; replacing it is his accusatory tone. He begins to rapid-fire questions at me. “What do you know about fairies? Where did you say you’re from?”

  His questions continue, but I don’t bother to answer him. He stops briefly to concentrate on the remaining feathers, giving me a moment to gather my thoughts. I still haven’t answered any of his questions when we hear the girl now yelling through the door. “You did it this time. Mother is on her way. Get that witch out of here!”