Cleo growled. “Animal shelter? You mean animal prison. They should shut that place down. Any self-respecting cat can take care of itself, you know.” She sniffed the air. “Be careful, humans. I smell danger.”
“Go home, Cleo. I’ll be there soon,” Poe promised. The cat sauntered off, her tail swishing stiffly in the breeze.
“She hates to be told what to do,” Poe sighed.
“Typical cat,” Ellie agreed. “Right, let’s go find this egg so we can put this whole thing behind us.” She skipped up the steps and inserted her key into the door. Moments later, the three women were all inside.
“Let’s start in the living room. If I had a fancy egg, I’d want people to see it, so that’s where I’d put it,” Poe suggested. They went straight to the living room and were shocked by what they saw. Dozens of tiny yellow sticky notes fluttered beneath the air of the heating vent. Some said trash, others donate, and the rest simply said auction.
“Wow. I guess Seneca is even more OCD than you, Mischa.” Ellie let out a low whistle. “I’m guessing we can skip this room,” she said. “How about we go upstairs? I know Edith had at least one junk room. Knowing her, the egg’s probably stuffed in a box in there.”
“How about you just stop right there?” A voice carried in from the hallway, surprising the women. They turned to the doorway to find Derek Smauthers. He was followed by Marilyn, from the animal shelter.
“Oh, Mr. Smauthers, I’m sorry, I should have told you we’d be stopping by here,” Ellie began. “We were asked to help the bank with your aunt’s things.” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, why are you here?”
“And why’s the animal lady here?” Mischa added, peering around to see if anyone else was behind Marilyn.
“Well,” Derek began, pulling something from behind his back. “I’m here to help myself. I honestly could care less why you’re here, but I’m afraid you’re doing the wrong thing by helping the bank.”
He raised his hand, which now held a gun, and pointed at Ellie. “You seem to know a lot about aunt Edith. More than me, that’s for sure. I had no idea the old bat had a real Faberge in the house. I wouldn’t have bothered with that crappy painting if I’d have known that.”
Mischa gasped, but Ellie scowled. “Get that thing out of my face, man-child, before I make you regret it.” She took a step forward. “I’ve been robbed before. I know how to handle guys like you.”
Marilyn stepped forward, putting herself between Derek and Ellie. “We don’t really want to hurt you. But we need that egg.”
“Wait,” said Poe. “I thought the animal shelter is getting most of the money from whatever gets sold. You’ll be getting the money from the egg either way--why do you want it so badly now?”
Marilyn shook her head. “No, the shelter gets the money, not me. Not Derek, not his mother, just the shelter and a couple of pet foster organizations.” She paused, looking at each woman for a moment before speaking again. “Edith knew that her sister was in financial trouble, but she didn’t care. I met Derek when he was visiting his aunt last year and since I’ve got to know him, well, I realize how unfair Edith was by writing him and his mother out of her will.”
“So you killed her and stole the painting?” Poe asked, nodding towards Derek. “I’m sure you were a great nephew,” she finished, rolling her eyes.
“My mother has some problems with debt. She can’t work, she can hardly make ends meet. And aunt Edith was willing to give a bunch of cats and dogs all of her money instead of helping us out. I’d say she was hardly a fantastic aunt,” he replied.
“So what, you’re just going to push all of us down the stairs, too? It’s going to be pretty hard to make that look like an accident.” Poe crossed her arms over her chest defiantly.
“I guess I’ll just have to make it look like a murder-suicide instead,” Derek growled and raised his gun. “Now, who’s feeling suicidal?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, give me that.” Seneca appeared behind Derek. He jumped, nearly dropping the gun. Seneca snaked an arm around him and held her hand open. The gun leapt from Derek’s grasp and landed in her palm.
Marilyn shrieked. “Why did you give her the gun? And who is she?”
Derek’s face contorted in both anger and confusion. “I didn’t give it to her! It just jumped out of my hand!” He spun to face the woman who’d just disarmed him. “Who or what are you?” he demanded.
Seneca sighed. “I’m the new neighbor,” she replied simply.
“And a witch,” noted Ellie with some surprise.
“Well, slap me silly,” Poe said drily. “Didn’t see that plot twist coming.”
Chapter Eleven
Seneca wrapped Derek’s gun in a sheet of newspaper. “I’ll make sure this gets put away properly later,” she explained before turning back to Derek and Marilyn. They squirmed and wiggled, held against each other as though they were bound with an invisible rope, with their mouths moving but with no sound coming out.
“You do know you’re not supposed to use magic on non-magical beings, right?” Poe asked.
Seneca smiled and fished out a sheet of paper from her impossibly small purse. “Of course. But, the law says that we can in exceptional circumstances, and I’d say that this was an exceptional circumstance, wouldn’t you?”
“How did you know?” Ellie asked her. “How did you know about Derek and Marilyn? And how did you know that we wouldn’t be freaked out when we saw what you did?”
Seneca sighed. “I’ve known you were witches since that night I found you in here,” she said. “The fingertip flames, the smell of magic in the air--how did you not know I was one?”
Ellie shrugged, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I don’t know. I guess we weren’t looking for a witch. We just wanted to make sure that Edith’s murder didn’t go unsolved.”
Seneca nodded. “And it won’t. Derek here is going to write out a nice, long confession letter that will be delivered to the police station. Then, he and Marilyn are going to forget all about our little meeting today, isn’t that right?”
Marilyn shook her head violently back and forth. Derek glared and clenched his fist. Seneca waved her hand over his fist and a pen appeared in his hand. He watched with wide eyes as his arm moved on its own, sliding the pen across the paper and producing the confession that Seneca had mentioned.
“Wow,” Poe acknowledged, “Impressive.”
Seneca beamed. “Thank you. You don’t want to know how many boring magical transcription classes I had to take to learn that little trick.”
“But the confession is his own, right?” Mischa asked. “You’re not telling him what to say, right?”
Seneca retrieved the note from Derek. “You can see for yourself. It’s pretty much verbatim what he told you. I just made him add something about a guilty conscience, though I seriously doubt he has one of those. Oh, and I may have added something about him wanting to run away with Marilyn here. I’m kind of a big softie when it comes to romantic stories,” she cooed.
After Mischa, Ellie, and Poe read the letter, Seneca folded it neatly and tucked it into her purse. “I’ll get this to the police station anonymously. You two go and drive yourselves to the Eattaburger parking lot and wait for the police to come and get you.”
Without a word of protest, Derek and Marilyn walked out the front door and climbed into Derek’s car.
“How do you know they won’t just run?” Ellie asked.
“Oh, that spell should last for a few hours. I combined an obedience spell with the binding spell. They won’t have any choice but obey me, at least until it wears off. You can call your restaurant and ask someone to make sure they arrive there safely, if you want.” Seneca smoothed her skirt and took a look around. “Nobody touched anything in here, did they?” she asked. “I had those sticky notes just the way I wanted them.”
Poe dropped the stack of yellow paper squares she’d been fiddling with discreetly behind her. “Was there even a Faberge egg?”
Seneca laughed. �
��No. I just needed something to lure Edith’s killer out. I knew that whoever stole that painting would just die to get their hands on a real Faberge.”
Poe frowned. “I Googled you. I even searched the dark web, but why didn’t I find anything about you? Who are you?”
Seneca’s smile faded. “Wolfram is my mother’s maiden name. Until recently, I was known as Seneca Voltare.”
“Holy crap. As in Viktor Voltare?” Ellie shook her head. “Wow.”
“Viktor who?” Mischa asked, perplexed by Ellie’s reaction.
“He’s sort of a famous warlock,” Ellie explained. “My parents used to talk about him all the time. Didn’t he get into some trouble with the Magical Council?” she asked, turning back to Seneca.
Seneca nodded. “It’s all very embarrassing. I’d rather not talk about it just now, especially since I have to get back to work. Besides, I’m sure Poe can find all the newspaper articles online.” She raised one eyebrow. Poe already had her phone in hand, search engine open.
Seneca turned to leave, but Mischa stopped her. “Come to my Christmas party. It’s at my house on Christmas Eve. We’d all love it if you came.”
Seneca looked surprised. “I’m not sure,” she began. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Ellie put her hand on Seneca’s shoulder. “You don’t want to miss Mischa’s Christmas party. This girl can cook,” she added seriously.
Seneca smiled a shy, genuine smile. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
Ellie, Mischa, and Poe watched Seneca get into her car and drive away.
“Blondie’s not so bad, eh?” Mischa asked, nudging Poe with her elbow.
“I don’t know. Wait until you see what I found out about her father,” Poe replied, hefting her smartphone in her hand like a brick.
Mischa’s house was warm and chaotic. It smelled of mulled wine, peppermint, and something savory that Seneca couldn’t quite identify. In the living room, Poe battled Mischa’s son, Simon, at a video game featuring dinosaurs and machine guns. Ellie’s daughter Holly sat in a corner, patiently braiding Daisy’s hair the ‘cool’ way while Ellie carried trays of snacks from the kitchen to a table that was already covered with food.
Mischa’s husband, Joe sat in a chair flanked by Raven and Cleo. The cats were arguing about something while Mischa’s non-magical husband looked on in amusement.
“I’m so glad you decided to come,” Mischa beamed, taking Seneca’s coat and hanging it neatly on an oversized coat rack. She noted Seneca’s fascination with the domestic scene spread out before them. “We sort of do Christmas big time,” Mischa explained. “Friends, family, food--my favorite things!”
Joe rose from his chair and joined his wife. “Seneca, welcome to our home,” he said, offering his hand and a smile. She shook it and returned a smile of her own.
“Thank you for having me,” she replied.
She followed the married couple into the living room where she was greeted with a chorus of hellos.
“Can I get you something to eat?” Mischa asked, pushing her dark hair away from her face. She started filling a plate with food before Seneca could answer, and Joe laughed.
“I married a feeder,” he moaned playfully. He wrapped his tan arms around his wife’s waist, making her jump. She pulled back in surprise, but he simply pointed above them. “Mistletoe,” he explained. “Gotta kiss you.”
Seneca took her plate from Mischa and nodded her head. “He’s right. I’m sure there’s something in the Magical Council rules about that,” she laughed.
Ellie steered Seneca to an empty sofa and sat down, motioning for her to do the same. Seneca sat, looking at the witches and their families, and she felt a pang of sadness.
“Hey,” Ellie said. “We haven’t had a chance to say it yet, but welcome to the neighborhood.” She handed Seneca a glass of wine and raised her own. “More importantly, welcome to the coven.”
Seneca’s face lit up. “Are you sure? What do the others think?”
“We think we’d love to have you,” Mischa said, scooting onto the sofa beside Ellie.
“Yeah,” called Poe from across the room, “and we think you’d better teach us that magical transcription spell,” she added before returning to her dinosaur battle.
“So, what do you say?” Ellie asked, sipping her wine.
“I guess I’d have to say yes,” Seneca beamed. “Merry Christmas, witches!”
Want to know more about the wonderful witches of the Country Acres Coven? Visit www.rubyblaylock.com today and sign up for updates on future Suburban Witch books!
About the Author
Ruby Blaylock grew up in a small, southern town surrounded by colorful characters and lots of food. She loves a good helping of gossip and great food, not necessarily in that order. She is a country girl at heart and can often be found sitting on the back porch, sipping sweet tea and watching her fat hound dogs chase bugs.
If she's not reading a book, she's writing one, or reading one to her kids, who can always help her think up new ways to kill off annoying characters. Despite what her husband thinks, she’s not actually a witch, though she does get very angry if you mess with her broom.
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When Spell Freezes Over
Regina Welling and Erin Lynn
Summary
When Mag and Clara Balefire leave home to take over the coven in Harmony, they didn't count on the added complication of having to deal with former leader, Hagatha Crow's antics. Or with finding a dead Christmas elf.
Chapter One
“There’s a dead elf in the snowbank out front.” Hagatha Crow announced to no one in particular. It was the third time in a week she’d slipped away and pointed her tennis ball-footed walker toward her former residence.
Deep in a discussion, let’s just call it what it was—a feud—over the name and makeup of their new business, sisters Clara and Mag Balefire ignored both Hagatha and her outrageous statement.
“Soaps and lotions. That’s what we agreed on.” Clara tapped the sturdy toe of one pointed shoe on the floor with impatience.
A large sign leaned up against the front counter of their new storefront. Even with opening day weeks away, the finer details, like what wares to sell and what to call their new venture, might doom their fledgling business before it ever had a chance.
“I like antiques. Old stuff sells.”
“So do toiletries.” Clara flicked her wand toward the ecru-colored surface of the blank sign, and the words Lotions and Potions appeared there by magic.
“When, in our hundreds of years of history, have I ever declared a love for soap?” Mag pulled out her own wand with a flair and the sign shifted to read: Knicks and Knacks. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded and you know it,” she clarified when her sister snorted.
“Probably at about the same time I developed a fondness for dusty old notions.“ Another flick and the sign changed again. This went on for some time until old Hagatha decided she’d had enough.
“Stubborn fools.”
A witch of advanced years—so many of them it was speculated they could be counted in millenniums rather than centuries—Hagatha required no tools to work her magic. She merely looked at the sign, and the letters arranged themselves to read: Lotions and Notions.
“You,” Hagatha pointed a bony finger at Mag, “can stock the place with antiques, use some of the furniture as a showcase, for her,” the gnarled digit turned toward Clara, “soaps and unguents. Best of both worlds, everybody wins. Now stop acting like children and do something about that dead elf before it rots and stinks up the town.”
Shown the possibilities of combining their two passions, the sister witches dropped the competition and began brainstorming. They ignored any mention of the elf; old Haggie must be imagining things.
“She’s right. We could take out all this sterile shelving, bring in some elegance. I’m seeing amber and bl
ue glass bottles with our logo on them, all lined up on polished wood with strategic lighting to make them shine.”
“Well, I hate that name, though.” Mag balanced Clara’s enthusiasm with a touch of her typical grumpiness. “Lotions and Notions. Might as well call it Gunk and Junk.” A twitch of the eyebrow showed the grouchy only went surface deep. “It could work, though. With the right pieces.”
“Snowbank. Elf. Dead.” Booming with enhanced magical strength, Hagatha finally got the attention of both sisters and stomped off toward the door as quickly as the walker, and her spindly legs would allow.
“We’d better go see what the old bat is going on about before she freaks out the entire neighborhood again.” Clara couldn’t decide if Hagatha was in the process of losing her mind—which was the coven’s prevailing theory and the whole reason she and Mag had taken over the place. Or, if being older than dirt, Hagatha no longer gave a tin whistle about censoring anything she said or did.
Neither situation would be good for the local witch population, and both meant more headaches for her and for Mag given they’d unofficially taken charge of the coven while letting Hagatha think she still held the reins. Witches had no trouble hiding in plain sight in a city the size of Port Harbor, but here in the boonies, as Mag liked to call the area, magic was harder to conceal.
Harder still when the coven leader had a wild hair up her butt about the need for keeping things under wraps. As far as Hagatha was concerned, witches should be free to lead their lives out in the open, and the rest of humanity could just suck it up. Once determined to follow this course of logic, the old witch made it her mission to use magic as often and as openly as possible.
Toward the middle of November, Hagatha embarked on a one-woman rampage that nearly got the whole town plastered all over the news and triggered a series of increasingly frantic phone calls to the Balefire sisters. Skyclad, grinning maniacally, and holding her broom aloft like a baton, Hagatha had led her version of a Thanksgiving day parade straight through the center of town. A crazy, naked woman could be explained away fairly easily. Twenty enchanted turkeys singing “I Put A Spell on You” could not.
Spells and Jinglebells Page 21