Loved Up
Wayfair Witches Book Six
by A.A. Albright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Text Copyright © A.A. Albright 2018
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
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Website: https://aaalbright.com
Table of Contents
1. A Jump in my Step
2. Someone’s Punched Her Lights Out
3. Some Ghostly Presents
4. Even Werewolves Know How to Woo
5. The Morning After What?
6. Mutual Magic
7. Bowie
8. Doppel-Berry
9. What’s in a Name?
10. An All-New Angle
11. Misery Hates Company
12. A Wayfair By Any Other Name ...
13. Destiny
14. Visiting Hour
15. Totally Not Under a Spell
16. Johnny Be Bad
17. Someone Punched His Lights Out, Too
18. Six Thousand Dead Werewolves by Eight Thousand Dead Weredogs
19. Dark Road
20. Angel Enterprises
21. Love in a Larder
22. Loved Up or Drugged Up?
23. Godbodys and Monsters
24. Sometimes it’s Okay to Ride With Strangers
25. Sleeping Beauty
26. Happy Endings
1. A Jump in my Step
The thing about Imbolc is that it always seems to come way too early. Normally, the witches I know are a disorganised bunch. We leave Winter Solstice shopping until the last minute. We choose holiday destinations by sticking a pin in a map. We wait until we’re hungry enough to be grumpy before deciding what to have for dinner (a great tactic if you want to argue yourselves into getting some takeaway).
But Imbolc? Imbolc, our spring festival, is always celebrated early in the year. And I do mean early. Early as in frost on the ground and three sweaters plus a plethora of warmth spells to stop our skin from turning blue.
I’d love to be able to tell you that, by the time this year’s Imbolc rolled around, spring really was in the air. I could spin a yarn about birds tweeting vows of love in the trees, bees buzzing from flower to flower to find the choicest pollen and nectar, and butterflies ... well ... butterflying. But the truth was it was cold, miserable, and whilst there might have been a spring in my step, it was the wrong kind of spring. It was more of a nervous jump, really. Because by the time February was on the horizon, I’d been treated to many weeks of that feeling. Bad tingles down my spine. The sense that someone was following my every move. Empty rooms that didn’t feel quite as empty as they looked.
Yeah, I was jumpy. And the last thing I wanted to do in this jumpy mood of mine was to celebrate a spring that hadn’t yet arrived.
‘It’s traditional,’ said my mother, sweeping out the spare bedroom of Wayfarers’ Rest and waving me in. ‘You make up the bed. Melissa’s gone to get the white wand.’
‘But where’s Max going to sleep? You said he was invited to this debacle.’
‘Of course he’s invited. Max is always invited. But it is falling on a full moon, Wanda. Won’t he be ... you know?’
I scrunched up my nose, wishing she hadn’t made such a good point. Max, my housemate, was a weredog. He turned into a great big shaggy brown dog for three nights out of every month, and usually spent the time scampering around local parks, or hanging about at the backs of restaurants. The last thing he needed on the night of Imbolc was a bed to sleep in. Maybe a curry carton to lick and a ball to chase, but definitely not a bed. But I was the sort of person who followed through, so I wasn’t about to give up now, even if my mother’s argument was perfectly sensible. ‘Yeah, but ... what about when he gets back in the morning?’ I persisted. ‘Where will he sleep then?’
My mother seemed to be fighting the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Can’t he sleep in your bed? You won’t be using it during the day, will you?’
‘I don’t know. I might fancy a lie in.’
She shook her head and swept a little more furiously. ‘Fine. Well then we can make up an extra bed in your room, can’t we? I mean, we’re witches. If we can’t magic a second bed into your room, then what’s the world coming to?’
Another sensible solution. Or at least it would have been, if I hadn’t been wearing my contrary pants. ‘Well, that might be weird, though. I mean, me and Max are strictly platonic. It’d feel funny, us sleeping in the same room.’
‘Even though he’d only be sleeping during the day? And in a different bed?’ My mother had clearly had enough. All resistance had been worn down, and she gave in, rolling her eyes. ‘Give me strength, Wanda Wayfair. I happen to know that you and Max have shared your bed before, when you both fell asleep at your place watching television.’
I didn’t bother asking how she knew. I could deal with that little intrusion into my personal space another time. ‘Yes, but that was accidentally. After an incredibly long Hammer Horror marathon. Sleeping together purposely would be weird.’
‘Fine,’ she relented through gritted teeth. ‘We can clear out that little bedroom in the attic. Or he can have the couch in the living room. We never use the living room unless we’re watching TV.’
‘Squinting at the TV, more like,’ I said. ‘I need an eyesight spell when I’m watching that thing.’
My mother stopped sweeping and turned on me, her warm brown eyes flashing. ‘Okay, now I’m getting annoyed. You’re never moody, Wanda. Especially not at Imbolc. You’re Little Miss Holiday Spirit at all of our celebrations. Either tell me what’s wrong with you or I’ll do a truth spell and force you to spit it out.’
Oh dear, maybe I’d gone too far. I marched across to the bed and began to make it up with clean sheets. ‘Okay, okay. Look – I’m making up the bed like you asked me to. No need for any spells, okay? I’m just ... I guess I’m just feeling a little bit bored of Imbolc. I mean, I’m making up a bed for an imaginary goddess who can somehow sleep in every single witch’s bed in Ireland on the same night. Not to mention she can supposedly wave all of these white wands we leave out for her and make the crops grow while she’s at it. And what if the weather is good tomorrow? Does that mean Brigid isn’t coming and the Cailleach is gathering wood for an even longer winter? I mean, we could be making all this effort for nothing. The imaginary goddess might not even imaginarily arrive.’
My mother snorted and pointed at the bed, making it hover in the air, and then began to sweep out underneath it, sending a plume of dust my way. I could be wrong, but I think she did it deliberately. As I sneezed, she herded yet another clump of dust bunnies my way, turning the sneeze into a frenzy.
‘You’re doing that on purpose!’
‘Oh, am I? Well, maybe if you wouldn’t be so moody, then I wouldn’t be sweeping so enthusiastically. I’m just balancing things.’ She paused to lower the bed. ‘Look, I know something’s wrong. Wanda, this is your first Imbolc as an empowered witch, so you should be even more excited than usual, not less. I mean, if anyone believes in goddesses, it’s you. I remember you lecturing Melissa when the pair of you were children, telling her that spring would come when it comes, but it was best to be prepared, either way. You put your little hands on your little hips and told Melissa that the hag would pass her power over to Brigid when she was good and ready, but that if we didn’t make up the room, then it might never happen. Anyway.’ A mischievous
glint entered her eyes. ‘There are plenty of other things to look forward to at this time of year. Especially now that you have a boyfriend.’
I smoothed out the bed, and then sat on it. Yeah, I had a boyfriend. A boyfriend I was mostly crazy about. At least when I was near him, anyway. I should be looking forward to this time of year, given the romance of it all. And I might do, too – if I wasn’t secretly investigating his father.
I thought about the upcoming festival, and felt that same persistent jumpiness that had been dogging me for weeks. Despite my complaints to my mother, I knew that the feeling had little to do with the festival itself.
Imbolc really was one hell of a confusing time – or at least the way we celebrated it was. If the weather was bad on the first day of February, that meant that the winter was nearly over. The Cailleach – the hag – was ready to end the winter and do a handover to Brigid, the younger goddess who would wave her white wand and kick off the spring. If the weather was good¸ though, it actually meant that the winter would last longer. See what I meant about it being confusing? Good weather wasn’t a good omen. The Cailleach was making the sun shine only so that she could go and gather more wood for the rest of the winter, and then hunker down.
Either way, we went through with the same old same old. The night before February arrived, we prepared a room for Brigid, just in case. But whether Brigid showed up or not, our romantic season would always begin at Imbolc. Traditionally, male witches would ask to be let in to the house of the witch they were interested in. In long-term relationships, that could mean a proposal. But for newer relationships, or not-yet-begun trysts, it could be the beginning of their courtship.
These days, most people got together and proposed whenever they wanted, but plenty still went along with the old ways. I always thought that, once I met someone special, I’d look forward to this time of year. But seeing as I was keeping an enormous secret from Gabriel, and was intermittently as unsure about him as I was about his father ... well, combine that with the jumpy feeling I’d been having of late, and you can see why all I wanted to do was bury my head under the covers and let Imbolc do its thing without me.
‘I’ve got it.’ Melissa, my best friend and coven-sister, stood at the door, listlessly waving the white wand. Her mother arrived behind her, a wide smile on her face.
‘Put it beside the bed,’ said Christine.
Melissa looked back at her mother, and sighed. ‘You’re smiling too much. It’s unnerving.’
I glanced at Melissa’s mother. Like Melissa, Christine was the epitome of a sexy witch. She was tall and slim, with long, dark red hair and gorgeous green eyes. And thanks to some incredibly powerful glamour spells and a lot of yoga, she looked almost as young as her daughter. But right now, the smile she wore was making her look even younger. That smile had been around a lot lately. Every time I’d come here to visit Wayfarers’ Rest over the past few weeks, it had been getting wider.
‘Of course I’m smiling. Spring is nearly here. Why aren’t you smiling?’
Melissa shrugged and placed the white wand next to the bed, in waiting for the goddess. ‘Oh, I dunno. Maybe because Imbolc is falling at the same time as a full moon. A blue moon, nonetheless. Oh, and might I add, a blue moon that’s also a blood moon and a supermoon to boot. Yeah, I’m really happy about this. I don’t even remotely think it’s some sort of portent of doom.’
Christine tossed her hair and broadened her smile. ‘You should be happy. Beautiful young girl like you, you’ll have a million men buzzing around you for the next few weeks. And anyway, we won’t see the eclipse in Ireland.’
‘Okay, number one, I don’t want a million men buzzing around me.’ Melissa turned to glare at her mother. ‘Especially not seeing as the number one man who’s interested in me right now happens to be Callum Cool, drummer and werewolf. He won’t be buzzing around our house tonight. If he does show up here, he’ll probably be peeing on our flowers. And number two – just because you can’t see the eclipse doesn’t mean it’s not happening.’ She shuddered. ‘Don’t the rest of you feel a bit wiggy right now? I know I do.’
As if to underline her words, a shadow flitted across the window. I ran to the glass and looked out, but could see nothing except some leaves blowing in the breeze. I glanced at my mother and Christine. Christine had begun to dust, and my mother was re-smoothing the dent my bum had made in the bed. Neither of them looked remotely perturbed.
But Melissa? She definitely wasn’t exaggerating. She looked just as disturbed as I’d been feeling for weeks. I would need to talk to her about it, as soon as I got the chance. For now, I simply shrugged and said, ‘Meh. I dunno about wiggy, but I’m definitely in the mood for a party. What time are we heading to the tavern?’
Melissa fixed me with a look that was half-disappointed, half-suspicious, and said, ‘Why don’t we head there now?’
≈
There were bonfires burning everywhere, because, well, witches really like bonfires. We have them blazing for pretty much all of our festivals, and Imbolc was no different. You’d think we’d have a bit of an aversion to them, what with all of the burning at the stake nonsense that went on back in the day. But the truth is that not a lot of witches were actually killed that way – well, not a lot of real witches were killed anyway, but of those that were, the methods of murder were even more horrific than being burned alive. When you hear people talking about the good old days, maybe you should slowly back away from that person. Because anyone who enjoyed the way things used to be might be a little bit sadistic and murderous. Just saying.
When I entered Three Witches Brew with my mother, Melissa and Christine, we made our way over to the seating area on the right side, to join the other women. The men looked over from the left side of the pub, and wolf whistled. Now, bear with me. Irish witches don’t normally go in for male-female segregation. And as for wolf whistling? Well, any man who dares to do that to a female witch is usually rewarded with an incredibly painful spell directed at his nether regions. But on Imbolc, we have a tendency towards role reversal.
Ronan, Fiodóir and Quinn, the three brothers who ran Three Witches Brew, were busy behind the bar, keeping up easily with all of the orders despite the hustle and bustle in the tavern. But then again, I didn’t think I’d ever seen those guys break a sweat. Male witches were as much a fan of glamours as female, and the three brothers were no exception. They looked just the same as they had when I was a kid. They seemed to stay permanently at fifty, with hair so black it was almost blue, and shining grey eyes.
We made our way to a long table, one where most of the seats were taken up by other members of our coven, the Wayfairs. After a bit of reshuffling, they managed to find room for all of us.
Ronnie swung an arm around my shoulder and said, ‘It’s the princess of potions! Tell her, Wanda – tell her you’re going to be in my class next year, not hers.’ She lifted a straw out of her drink and poked it in Agatha’s direction. Agatha, another Wayfair, was the Magical History Professor at Crooked College, while Ronnie taught Potions.
I tried not to cringe quite so obviously, but the truth was I didn’t have a clue how to reply. By the end of February, college applications for the next academic year needed to be made. At twenty-one, I was a little late to the college game. But because I’d been unempowered until last summer, I hadn’t been eligible to study at Crooked College until now.
Along with the Peacemakers, the Wayfairs policed the supernatural world as best they could, and I’d been working as a Wayfair for months now. Seeing as I loved my job, it was a given that I would study Magical Law, just like my mother and many other Wayfairs. But for the first two years at Crooked College, I was supposed to take two courses, one of which I could either dump or carry on with in year three. I would have little enough time as it was, fitting in college around my Wayfair work, so I needed to be sure that I was choosing the right second subject. Potions and Magical History were in equal running.
Ronnie and Agatha wer
e both still looking at me, waiting.
‘Well, when Agatha wins the election in a couple of weeks’ time,’ I said, ‘then I won’t have to decide, will I? She’ll be too busy telling the public what to do. She’ll have no time to tell students what to do anymore.’
It was an avoidance tactic, sure, but it was still the truth. When the last Minister had been ousted, Agatha had become the Acting Minister for Magical Law. The election was to take place on February fourteenth. Melissa had expressed worry as to whether Agatha would win, because she had lost before.
This year, Agatha only had one competitor at the upcoming election, a man called Darrell Plimpton. Darrell had been a businessman all his life, and had no experience in politics. But it didn’t really matter what his experience was, or what the people thought about him – because if Agatha didn’t win the popular vote by an enormous majority, it was the board at Crooked College who would make the decision.
Unsurprisingly, that board was not voted for by the public. They earned their places simply by being important alumni. And whilst there wasn’t a single Wayfair on that board, there were an awful lot of Plimptons and Berrys.
So yeah, I shared Melissa’s concerns. But sometimes, miracles happened, and I was hoping for one in two weeks’ time.
‘Hah!’ Agatha appeared to be just as inebriated as Ronnie, and I wondered how early the two of them had started. ‘I’m not going to win! I’m going to lose worser than anyone has lost before. Even worser than I lost last time.’
‘Worser?’ I laughed. ‘Yeah, I think I’ll take Ronnie’s class, after all.’
‘Of course you’re gonna take Potions, my little genius!’ Ronnie’s words were even more slurred than a moment ago. ‘You could do all the classes if you wanted to. Roll on September.’
I glanced around the tavern. It appeared that Ronnie and Agatha were actually some of the soberest in the place, even though it was barely three in the afternoon. I made my way to the bar, and Ronan came my way.
Loved Up Page 1