by Nova Nelson
Death Metal
Eastwind Witches 2
Nova Nelson
Copyright © 2018 by Nova Nelson
All rights reserved. FFS Media and Nova Nelson reserve all rights to Death Metal, Eastwind Witches 2. This work may not be shared or reproduced in any fashion without permission of the publisher and/or author. 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.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Previously published as Death Metal: Witches of Salem, Nora Bradbury #2
Cover Design © FFS Media LLC
Illustration elements by Kerry McQuaide
Eastwind Witches #2 / Nova Nelson -- 1st ed.
www.novanelson.com
Contents
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
Epilogue
You’re invited …
Thank you!
Third Knock the Charm- Preview
About the Author
Chapter One
“Corner!” I shouted, hurrying out of the kitchen of Medium Rare, sizzling plates of savory diner food packed onto my large tray.
This was me in my element.
My landlord, Ruby True, had taught me quite a bit about witches since I’d moved to Eastwind and discovered I am one, and among those lessons was how each witch had her element—water, wind, earth, fire.
None of those were mine, though. While technically, I was a Fifth Wind witch, meaning I could see and speak with ghosts, I preferred to think of myself as a restaurant witch.
Waiting tables was my element. Side work was my element. Heck, even stepping up when our cook called in sick and manning multiple hot griddles was my element.
And eating one of Medium Rare’s famous steaks at three in the morning after working a double was definitely my element.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bouquet need refills on their coffee,” said Tanner Culpepper as I passed. He carried a teetering stack of dirty dishes and had that same deer-in-the-headlights expression that he’d donned since the previous owner, Bruce Saxon, was killed and left the place in Tanner’s care. “Would you mind?”
“Of course.” I flashed him my best flirty smile, thinking dirty thoughts, like I often did when I looked at him, and hoping he might catch a glint of it in my expression—not enough to be freaked out, but enough to get him thinking.
Tanner Culpepper was my element, too. Holy shifter, he was gorgeous. And if he hadn’t been wound so tightly that any small hiccup could send him into a total mental breakdown, I might’ve done something about the bubbling sexual tension between us. But that poor man, all six-foot-yes-please of him, was treading water. Everyone who worked at Medium Rare could see it, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the customers noticed as well.
So, as his friend (and employee, technically), my job was to throw him a life preserver, not strike up a romance to add to his ever-growing list of life concerns.
I handed out the food on my tray, setting it carefully on the table so no rogue eggs or fries jumped ship. “Steak medium rare for you, Mr. Flannery,” I said, winking. “A sunrise burger, egg over-easy, with truffle french fries for you, Mrs. Flannery. And three chicken-fried steaks with a side of bacon macaroni and cheese.” As I set the last three plates in front of each of the Flannery children (who were incredibly well mannered for young werewolves, I have to say), Mrs. Flannery placed her hand gently on my arm. “Don’t tell Tanner I said this, because I don’t want him to be offended, but the food here has definitely changed for the better since you arrived, Nora.”
I tried not to let the compliment go to my head but—oops! there it went. “Thanks, Mrs. Flannery.”
“You have a gift for it. Are you sure you’re not a West Wind witch? They’re usually the best with spices.”
I smiled. “I might be inclined to agree with you, but the ghosts I see on a daily basis disagree.”
She laughed and I hurried over to grab the coffee pot for the Bouquets.
I didn’t tell Mrs. Flannery the real reason I was so good with spices. It had nothing to do with being a witch and everything to do with being one of the top-ranked chefs in Texas before I arrived. No one in Eastwind knew about that, though. Not even Tanner.
And I wanted to keep it that way. My life before I crashed my car, died, and crossed over into Eastwind was, literally, another lifetime ago. After being in this small town for nearly a third of a year, settling in, working my butt off, and actually becoming a part of a community, I had no desire for the old Nora to peek her lonely head in here and expose me for who I used to be: a type-A, go-getter loner trying to win the approval of unpleasant people who didn’t care if I was happy or sad, lived or died.
At Medium Rare, I was surrounded by werewolves and ghosts and shapeshifters and even Death itself—though he preferred if people called him Ted—yet despite the obvious dangers associated with so many fangs and voracious appetites, I felt safer in Eastwind than I had back in Austin.
“Morning, Hyacinth,” I said, pouring coffee for Mrs. Bouquet. “How’re things down at Echo’s?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, “fine. All the gossip about you-know-who is finally starting to grow dull. Even for Ladavian. Although, actually, I think Echo might’ve finally put his hoof down and told Ladavian to knock it off. Once the shock value of having a murderer on staff wears off, all that’s left is a public relations mess. At least, that’s what Echo was ranting about in Lyre Lounge the other night.”
“Lyre Lounge?” I asked.
“Oh Nora, dear. You must spend a little less time at work and a little more time going out and having fun. Lyre Lounge is just down the block from Echo’s Salon. It’s where those unwilling to slum it up in Sheehan’s Pub go to end their evening in a more sophisticated way.”
“I’m not sure I would fit in there,” I said.
Though in reality, Lyre Lounge sounded exactly like somewhere I would’ve spent my nights in Austin.
I poured Mr. Bouquet’s coffee as Hyacinth went on. “Of course you would. A girl like you, all dark and mysterious, would be quite a hit there. Plenty of eligible bachelors in Eastwind. I assume you’re single and looking, right?”
“Corner!” Tanner’s voice carried through the small diner as he flew out of the kitchen with a loaded tray. Lyre Lounge didn’t sound like somewhere he would be caught dead. Sheehan’s Pub was his go-to spot.
“I’m single, not looking, though,” I said. “Did you already order?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bouquet.
While Hyacinth was as whimsical and verbose as elves came, James Bouquet was your typical taciturn werebear. He wasn’t here for the conversation. He was here for the food. They made an odd couple, but from what I’d gleaned, they’d been together for decades, even though it was impossible for the two species to have children. They could’ve split at any time, but something held them together.
More power to them. Who was I to judge anyone about relatio
nships anyway? Mine had never been a great success, and the one man in Eastwind I had my eye on, didn’t seem to have a clue about it.
Although, in Tanner’s defense, I was exceptionally talented at not showing my cards. Especially in romance.
The tinkle of the front door bell coincided with a shudder crawling down my spine, and I didn’t have to look to guess Ted was here for his new favorite late lunch of a sunrise burger with a side of chili sweet potato fries.
Honing my skills as a psychic medium was useful when it came to helping lost spirits cross over, but not so awesome when it came to Ted. As much as he claimed he was only the grim reaper during work hours, a powerful awareness of my mortality washed over me whenever he was within fifty feet.
I hurried past him toward the back.
“Hey, Nora,” Ted said in a casual death rattle.
“Oh, hi, Ted. There’s an open seat at the counter, if you don’t want to wait for a booth.”
“Thanks! How’s your—”
I breezed past him, acting like I had something urgent to attend to in the kitchen. Because I did. It was called hiding from Ted and his awkward romantic advances.
Because, as it turned out, Ted was into me, and I was very much not interested. The problem was that he was a nice guy. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take a hint, and I didn’t want to say anything cruel to him, not only because being mean to a grim reaper is all kinds of unwise, but also because Ted didn’t deserve that.
Nevertheless, I can’t tell you how unsettling it is to have Death carrying a torch for you.
I was nearing the end of a ten-hour shift, and, naturally, my stomach was growling. I scooted up behind Anton, Medium Rare’s all-star cook who could multitask like no one I’d ever met, and looked over his shoulder at the food in front of him.
“You mess up anything lately, Anton?” I asked.
He grunted.
That’s usually what he did since he was an ogre. From the back, Anton looked like a retired boxer—bulky, shoulders hunched. It was his front, specifically his face, that gave away the ogre part with the Cro-Magnon brow, long ears, and one honker of a nose with deep pores. If you saw him on the street, you probably wouldn’t point to him and say, “I want that guy preparing my food!”
I’d gotten used to his grunts and lumpy features, though. Want great food produced at breakneck speeds with little to no magic employed? Anton was your ogre.
On the rare occasion that he did speak, he got his point across succinctly.
He pulled the basket of sweet potato fries from the fryer, shook off the excess grease, and scattered a few on the countertop. “Oops.” Then he went back to frantically flipping patties, cracking eggs, and squinting at the orders on tickets to decipher their meaning.
To be clear, Anton could read. It was Tanner’s handwriting that was the problem behind most botched orders. Sure, it’s easy to assume that the ogre who doesn’t talk also can’t read, but that was far from the case with Anton. When he wasn’t working, he was huddled over a table in the Eastwind Library, poring over books. It was entirely likely that his hunched shoulders were less a genetic quality and more from the hours he spent with poor posture while reading.
I tossed the “spilled” sweet potato fries between my palms, blowing on them until they were cool enough to eat, and made for the alcove by the supply closet where I could get a quick bite in peace.
“Oh!” I said, shocked, as always, when I turned the corner and nearly walked straight through a spirit.
“You were right,” the spirit said. She was a familiar one, hanging around out of a desire to postpone the inevitable, as was the case with most ghosts. She was around my age of thirty-two and was aware she was a ghost (that wasn’t always true for spirits) but had never offered up how she’d died. It felt rude to ask. “The clock tower in the emporium skips the gong for the three o’clock hour,” she finished.
“Told you,” I said. “One of the perks of being an outsider: you notice things.”
“I wish I’d been an outsider somewhere,” she lamented. Ghosts were always lamenting. It got old really quickly. “Instead, I spent my whole life on a secluded farm outside of this little nowhere town. I should have gone to Avalon at least once.”
“From what I’ve heard, you wouldn’t have liked it. Too busy, too expensive, and too stuck-up.”
“Who you talking to?” came a new voice behind me.
Tanner stood a few feet away, grinning sneakily with his arms crossed.
“Oh, um, just … doesn’t matter.” A quick glance to where the female apparition had been showed that she’d vanished.
He stepped forward and plucked one of the fries from my hand, popping it into his mouth. “The last person I found talking to no one back here was going slowly insane.”
The only thing driving me insane right now was Tanner’s proximity to me in this private space. No one would have to know if we …
No! Bad Nora. Be a professional, for fang’s sake.
“Talking to ghosts is not even remotely the same thing as a jealous girlfriend xana driving you insane. I don’t have any jealous girlfriends, so I’m not at risk.”
“Noted. I wasn’t sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“If you had a girlfriend.”
“Wait.” I took a step back. “You thought I was into women?”
He shrugged. “If you are, that’s okay. I just wasn’t sure if you were … seeing someone?”
Oh, I knew what was going on here. It was more of the same that had been going on for the last four months. A heaping pile of sexual tension with a side of jack-squat doing anything about it.
“Nope. Just ghosts.” I grinned and threw back the last fry, strolling past him.
“Wait, do you have ghost boyfriends?”
“Better check on the tables,” I said, ignoring his question so he could sit and think on it for a while.
“Ghost girlfriends?” he called.
Ted already had a cup of coffee in front of him, which meant Tanner had picked up that table. Perfect.
With an hour left in my shift, I decided to start on my side work so I could take off the apron and dig into my end-of-shift slice of Tanner’s famous cherry pie as soon as possible, once Jane and Greta arrived to take over for the afternoon.
I’d almost felt guilty for stealing Jane and Greta from Franco’s Pizza, except it was what they wanted. Jane missed Medium Rare, and now that her ex-husband Bruce no longer ran the place (due to being murdered and all), she was able to return to the restaurant that she’d help open without the awkwardness … and with a little remaining fondness for her ex, who she’d remained in love with until he died. It also put her around more of her own people: werewolves. While Franco’s Pizza had lovely clientele, the Outskirts had always felt like home for Jane.
Greta was just happy to have the chance to graduate from hostess to waitress, where she could make more money when she wasn’t in school. Turned out, her snarky teenage attitude was well received by the regulars at Medium Rare, and whenever Tanner and I finished for the day and Jane and Greta took over, I knew the place was in good hands.
Or, good paws?
As I ran a wet rag over the countertop, Deputy Stu Manchester sauntered in and straddled a stool at the counter.
“You’re in a little later than usual today,” I said. His routine consisted of arriving at the diner around ten or eleven in the morning, at which time I’d throw a hot coffee and a piece of apple pie his way without him asking. I’d had regulars like him before, back home. Cops, day laborers, high-powered CEOs—all those whose job varied so dramatically from one day to the next that having a predictable routine to follow work was the small bit of stability they could count on.
For Stu Manchester, it was coffee and apple pie. Not a bad choice, if I do say so.
“Yeah, late call.” He shook his head slowly. “But that’s how it goes. Crime doesn’t stick to a schedule.”
“Ahh,” I said, recognizing his
self-important tone as a precursor to a recap of the night’s events. “Some drunk hooligan spray-paint naughty bits on a stone wall in Erin Park?”
He grunted and adjusted his belt while I poured him a coffee and plated a piece of pie from the display at the end of the counter. “I wish. But no, much grimmer.”
“Huh? What? Someone say my name?” My familiar (not pet; he was firm on that point), Grim, an enormous, shaggy, depressive hound, perked his head up from his favorite spot underneath the counter, where he painstakingly maintained his strict regimen of sleeping twenty hours a day.
“No, go back to sleep,” I replied telepathically.
“Grimmer than vandalism?” I said, pretending to be aghast at the thought.
“Suicide,” he said flatly. “Some werewolf up in Hightower Gardens.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “Oh, holy spell,” I said, borrowing a term Tanner had used when he’d forgotten there was a pie in the oven and only found it once it was little more than a black wafer. “Hightower Gardens? Really?”
He chuckled morbidly. “What, didn’t think the wealthiest of Eastwind would kill themselves? Let me tell you, it’s all the same when it comes to people with money. Either they’re born into it or they work hard to make it, but once they become Hightower Gardens rich, they don’t have to lift a finger if they don’t feel like it. And that doesn’t make people want to keep living.” He shook his head reproachfully. “Everyone wants to think they’re different, that they’re the exception.”
I leaned forward to avoid being overheard by the entire restaurant. After all, the Hightower Gardens neighborhood was almost entirely werewolves—the old families of Eastwind that used to run the town—meaning there was a high likelihood that one of the regular weres at Medium Rare either knew the deceased or was kin. “Who was the victim?” I asked.