The Black Diamond Curse
Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles
Pearl Goodfellow
Contents
Available for Pre Order Now: A Spell in Mag Mell
Foreword
Introduction
The Coven Isles
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Also by Pearl Goodfellow
Copyright © 2017 by Pearl Goodfellow
All rights reserved.
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.
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Available for Pre Order Now: A Spell in Mag Mell
Death by snake-iron is a grisly way to go. The organic, worm-like alloy coils around the heart and squeezes until it stops beating. Aurel Nugget, the Coven Isles head alchemist, has met his end with just such a serpent-metal.
Hattie and the Infiniti are called in to assist Chief Para Inspector Trew, but there are so many things wrong with the murder scene that the team finds it challenging to connect the dots.
Moreover, what exactly is going on in Gless Inlet? The residents, and even Midnight seem to be affected by some kind of ominous imbalance.
Could these strange events have anything to do with Aurel's death? With the sinister rumblings coming from Mag Mell and the Fae, the pressure is on for Hattie, CPI Trew and the cats to keep their heads and find Aurel's killer.
Dive into the mystery and find out what happens in this paranormal cozy romp!
To you, my dear readers.
If you don’t spread the magic, who will?
Keep up the sorcery.
Love, Pearl
Foreword
Dear readers,
I’ve crafted this series so that you can read each offering as a stand-alone. However, because I truly love the world of Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti, I have also created a back-story that will build throughout the series, along with deeper character developments, more in-depth world building, and evolving romantic relationships.
For this reason, it would be my recommendation that you read the series in the order they’re written. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on some read-worthy background story arc. If you do jump about the series in no particular order, I’m convinced you will still thoroughly enjoy the chronicles, and dare I say, you might want to know more about this zany, spirited world.
All this said, I do hope you enjoy the chronicles. I’ve never had so much fun writing before, and I have formed a deep and long lasting relationship with my characters, I swear. I wish they were my friends in real life! :)
Pearl
Introduction
Hello!
I’m on Facebook, if you’d ever like to join me there?
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100 all natural, make-at-home recipes for all aspiring witches of any level. Bring on the lotions and potions!
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The Coven Isles
Chapter One
It was magic.
And it was breathtaking.
Yeah, I know. Kind of hard to believe that particular thought popping into my head. Me. Hattie Jenkins, of all people. As much as I despised casting spells and working charms. That was a big reason why I had made this little jaunt to Cathedral Isle, one of the easternmost and most naturally beautiful of the Coven Isles. A little magical R&R.
Oh. Darn. Did I forget to mention? I’m a Strega. A Bruja. A Maleficus. Pick a language.
I’m a witch.
Don’t get me wrong; my one-bedroom walk-up is completely divested of gossamer webs full of creepy crawlies. And I am certainly not one of those hideous, hunched crones with black teeth and a warty nose.
Okay. So, maybe my fair skin may host a fair smattering of light, freckles. As my herbalist assistant Millie Midge liked to point out, if I screwed up my eyes really tight, you could almost make out the lost constellation of Felis the Cat.
“It’s not lost on your face, though. It’s right there, smack in the middle of your nose,” she would comment.
Her snarky quip generally garnered a roll of my green eyes.
Great! I have a cursed constellation on my face. Peachy.
I slathered on a generous dollop of creamy homemade sunscreen to ward off any further encroaching melanin deposits. As I inhaled the aromatic mix of raspberry seed, shea butter, almond oil, and zinc oxide, I mused on how curses, jinxes, and ancient whammies seemed to follow me around.
Like that one fateful night.
But, I didn’t want to think about that now. I turned my sun-baked brain back toward Felis and his dubious history, as the sun over Cathedral warmed my skin.
Felis the Cat was created as a tribute to the regal domestic kitty by French astronomer Joseph Jerome LeLande. But, when the International Astronomical Union, led by toffee-nosed Nicolas Camille Flammarion, decided that Felis was expendable and expunged him from the roster of recognized constellations, things took a definitive turn for the worse – Flammarion himself died, America succumbed to The Great Depression, and the world entered a second war. Things that all happened under a sky unprotected by the star-studded feline.
“Doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Onyx, my ebony-furred companion stretched out lazily in a golden sunbeam, paws reaching far out in front of him, back bowed low. “Cats make meow-velous guardians. Why do you think the Egyptians held them in such high regard?”
I blew an exasperated puff of air into my errant bangs. I could never have a private thought when Onyx was around, the intrusive mind-reader that he was. Granted, it was a useful ability when we were embroiled in the midst of a murder investigation. It was a little more difficult for suspects to conceal their dastardly doings when there was a mind-reading feline in the room. But, personally? Sometimes it was like having Jiminy Cricket in your head, twenty-four seven. And I was all out of bug spray.
The irony that I have a cat emblazoned across my nose isn’t lost on me. Cats and I are sort of part and parcel. Freckled or furry. Besides Onyx, I own seven more of them. Or, maybe I should say they own me. At least, they own a collective ability to drive me to distraction. But, I can’t complain too much. Onyx is right. The eight furry felines who share my little pied-à-terre above The Angel Apothecary certainly have looked out for me on more than one occasion. My own personal Felis feline force.
And, goodness knows, I’ve managed to get myself into some superiorly sticky scenarios of late. I’d hate to think of what might have happened if my moggy little minxes hadn’t been there when Chief Para Inspector David Trew had suspected me of murdering Glessie Isle’s cantankerous li
brarian cum historian, Druida Stone. I might have been sharing a cell at Steeltrap Penitentiary with Strands kingpin, Milosh Besnick. The shudder that waved through me wasn’t brought on by the winds that rolled down off the mountain. Steeltrap was a cold and unforgiving place. Suitable if you were a hardened, career criminal I suppose. Not so much if you were a single, relatively attractive redhead who dabbled in herbal remedies at her family’s apothecary.
The Angel Apothecary, on the other hand, was warm and inviting…and home.
The cats? Well, they sort of came with the place when I inherited it. Like the leaky faucet in the kitchen or the old, silvered mirror. Even the shop itself. All handed down to me from my great-grandma.
The apothecary had been in the Opal family for generations. Glendonite Opal, my great-grandmother on my mother’s side, had made her way to the Colonies in the late 1800s. She had established her modest business with a pocketful of healing herbs, an array of colored vials and glass jars, and a selfless drive to help her neighbors. She was a gallant woman, Glendonite. But, clever as she was in whipping up a nice dandelion salve to alleviate arthritis pain, or ascribing the proper herb, like Verbascum Thapsus, to tackle a nagging cough, she hadn’t been big on marketing. There had been days when she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Fortunately, the sixties brought peace, love and The Beatles.. as well as a new appreciation for “herbal” remedies, giving the business a fiscal bump. A few years later, my granny, Chimera Opal, Glendonite’s daughter, took over the shop.
And regardless of whether you were a Stones or Beatles fan or which side of the Vietnam conflict you came down on, or who was running our little family business over the years, one thing had remained unwavering - the eight immortal felines, collectively known as the Infiniti, who kept a familiar post at the side of the current Opal witch. And now that witch was me. Even if I proved a little reluctant at times.
If you hadn’t ferreted it out already, the self-appointed leader of our little clowder is Onyx. Onyx is a fathomless well of sage advice - whether or not you want it. He has a penchant for leaping at least one thought ahead of you – which really bites on movie night. He’d nearly ruined our Bruce Willis marathon last week (I’d been scouring Netflix for alternatives to Stephen King since Fraidy’s siblings had scared him silly watching several classics from the King of Horror). If I weren’t so disinclined to use magic, I might be persuaded to put a Silentium spell on him.
“It was one movie. And it was logically obvious that Bruce Willis was a ghost.” Onyx defended.
“He’s an okay actor,” a muttering voice interrupted Onyx's rational utterings. “For a human.”
Coming from Gloom, a moggie as generally morose as her name, that was pretty high praise. “Least he’s better than old Nebula Dreddock. The only thing worse than her acting was her attitude.”
I thought back to my first case where I had acted as an unofficial consultant to Chief Para Inspector David Trew and the Gless Inlet Para Police Department. I wasn’t certain if it was the thought of the strikingly handsome CPI or the appalling circumstances of Nebula Dreddock’s death that caused the shudder that rippled through my body. Wraithsgourd had certainly done wonders for the actor’s complexion. But thanks to her scorned ex, Avery Flute, and the subtle addition of lavender, a substance Nebula was deathly allergic to, Nebula had made her final curtain call.
“Where are the sardines?” Gloom muttered. “My fur is looking dull. I need my Omega-3s," she whined, her fur positively lustrous and shiny in the Cathedral sunshine. Gloom wasn't happy unless she was unhappy. She was magical in that she could always find something to be aggrieved with. Whether it was warranted or not. Her glossy coat was the latest proof that she was seriously misguided in her judgments.
My temperamental kitty nosed her way into the picnic basket I had packed for us when we had set out this morning for our family R&R break.
I reached down and pawed through the hamper. “I don’t know, Gloom. They should be in here. I’m sure I packed them.”
My head started to get a little fuzzy. “Or did I? You know, that’s funny. I can’t seem to remember.”
Eclipse, one of my more mysterious cats, perched on an outcropping of sharp obsidian rock, licking his chops and washing his face, arched an eyebrow at me. He said nothing; just continued with his grooming.
Onyx’s yellow eyes narrowed a scolding look at his younger brother. “Eclipse, if you're going to wipe people's memories, then you should probably not leave them clues to as to why you did." Onyx admonished his sibling. 'Clipsy continued to wash, keeping a watchful eye on his sage brother. "What I'm saying, brother, is you've let the cat out of the bag. Your Jedi mind tricks can't disguise your fishcake aroma." Onyx turned his back on his brother in apparent disgust. Gloom just sat, eyes like a squinty Clint Eastwood shooting daggers at her Omega 3-stealing brother.
Eclipse had the remarkable ability to cloud your conscience and make you forget whatever thought was congealing in your head – like whether or not you had packed the sardines.
One cat I almost never had to think about was Shade. And that was simply because, half the time, I couldn’t see him. Neither could anybody else, for that matter. The mysterious mouser had the uncanny ability to melt into the shadows. A pretty nifty trick when you needed to skulk about picking up tidbits of information and clues to help solve some pretty problematic puzzles. Shade was a hit with the female felines around town. Actually, his good-natured, chilled-out personality made my cool cat many friends. He was just one of those likable, charming creatures.
Whew! Suddenly the sun seemed to burn hotter, a blazing yellow disc in the cerulean sky. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my brow. The temperature didn’t usually nudge the mercury this high at this time of year. A sudden thought occurred to me.
“Carbon?” I searched furtively for my combustible kitty. I felt a surge of escalated warmth rush through my body from the ankles up. Sure enough, he was winding his way through my legs, his motor purring like a warm engine. No matter how balmy a breeze might be, things were never quite warm enough for Carbon. And he thought nothing of employing his innate ability to turn up the heat. With nothing more than a click of the claw or twitch of the tail, he could create a wall of heat in a heartbeat. When it was safe to do so, he could -- and, often did -- produce flames.
So far his talents hadn’t proved that useful; other than keeping the heating bills down and toasting an absolutely perfect s’more. Not to say I didn’t appreciate that particular skill. I think people underestimate the value of a faultlessly roasted marshmallow, mixing in a perfect ooey-gooey marriage with melting chocolate sandwiched in between two crisp grahams. My stomach grumbled with longing. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to gain a few pounds just thinking about the decadent dessert. And then you could forget about the bikini!
“Carbon got you cookin’, good-lookin’?” Midnight giggled from beneath the shadow of a generous Musa Sumatrana banana. The wide, wine-stained leaves had created a perfect nook of faux night for my after-hours prowler. Midnight yawned widely, rarely even awake before the sun set. His white, pointed teeth contrasted sharply against the dusky charcoal of his coat.
He marched to the tick of a different clock than the rest of us, but it certainly made him privy to a bevy of unusual friends – zombies, ghosts, pognips, vampires; beasties of the night – which had proven to be quite a boon. Like when Spithilda Roach popped up in my kitchen, uninvited. Normally, I wasn’t adverse to having company over; I can actually be quite the host. But when the guest is an amorphous, green-glowing ghost, you had to know how to handle them. Spithilda, wretched hag that she was in life, had been diabolically dispatched by her own niece, Amber Crystal. So having Midnight around certainly helped with the proper etiquette of whether to offer such guests tea and cakes or a box of absorbent tissues to deal with ghostly, oozing ectoplasm. I remembered that the Witch of Hagsmoor had dolloped quite a few globs of the stuff around our kitchen back at The Angel.
I swatted at Carbon. “Cut it out, will ya? The sun is enough to contend with. I don't need the extra heat, mister."
“Oooh, Hattie! Come under here with me. Protection from the free ratsicles!” The timorous tremolo came from the lump of towels resting on the picnic blanket. I picked up the corner and peeked underneath. A pair of alert, yellow eyes peered out at me.
“Fraidy?” I asked. “ I think you mean free radicals?" I suppressed a smile at my darling scaredy-cat's caution.
“Sunburn is a leading cause of skin cancer, Hattie. You should be way more careful when you’re outside. Particularly, during the daytime. Of course, you should be careful at night, too, when the ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties come out." He paused. "But, then again, midday on a Saturday afternoon at Verdantia’s market is worrisome, too. All those people. All those freaky fruits! Day, night, they're both dangerous.” Fraidy rambled.
A quizzical furrow divided my brow. “Freaky fruit? Fraidy, what are you talking about?”
I racked my brain -- now that Eclipse wasn’t messing with it -- trying to remember any exotic species Verdantia may have carried at her greengrocer stall that might have spooked my nervous fuzzy friend. I suppose it was possible the fairy had stocked something unusual. There was dragon fruit. The horned cucumber. The hairy rambutan. Any of the three could quite possibly have given the skittish cat nightmares for weeks. Out of concern for my frightened roomie, I probed to discover which fruit was the glaring offender.
“Which fruit worries you, Fraidy? I’ll try and avoid keeping it in the house.”
Fraidy gulped dramatically, shuffling backward under the protection of his towel fortress.
He sucked in a deep, trembling breath.
The Black Diamond Curse (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 4) Page 1