Once Upon a Witch: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Fantasy Books 1-3

by Amanda M. Lee

  He smiled. “You don’t need to coddle me, Bay. I understand what’s going on here and I’m determined to … stop being a douche. It’s going to be okay.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Thistle said. “You’re not the one wearing the red cloak of death waiting for the wolf to jump out at you.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to jump out at you,” I said, pulling up short and fixing my attention on the cabin that had mysteriously popped up along the road seconds before. “I think it’s in there.”

  “Oh, good,” Thistle said. “It’s Grandmother’s cabin.”

  “Are we all going in together?” Clove asked, nervous.

  “We’re not separating,” I said. “Thistle is taking the lead, and you and Sam can take up the rear if you want, but we’re all going in there.”

  “Fine,” Clove said. “I just don’t want to fight a wolf.”

  “Don’t worry,” Thistle said. “I think I’m going to be the one fighting the wolf.” She sucked in a breath and then veered off the road, heading straight for the cabin. When she got to the door she paused long enough to shoot me a look. “Do I knock?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Does proper etiquette even exist in fairy tales? The bears said I climbed right in their beds.”

  “Good point.” Thistle turned the handle and threw open the door with as much dramatic flair as she could muster. “Grandma, I’m home!”

  Clove giggled. “I think she’s having fun.”

  She certainly looked as though she was enjoying herself.

  Thistle stepped into the cabin boldly. “Where are you, Grandma?”

  The replying voice was almost comical. It sounded as if a drunken trucker was trying to play a soap opera heroine. “I’m in here, dear.”

  “Great,” Thistle said. “Just … hold on. I’ll be right there.”

  We followed Thistle into the cabin and watched her scan the room. Finally, she strode to the fireplace and grabbed a metal poker, testing its weight before squaring her shoulders and facing the back of the cabin. A simple sheet closed it off from the rest of the cabin. We all knew what we would find in there when Thistle pulled back the sheet.

  “Hit it fast,” Landon whispered. “Don’t give it time to talk.”

  “This is my fairy tale,” Thistle said. “I haven’t gotten to see any animals talk yet. Let me have a little fun. The Goddess knows we could use it.”

  “Let her go,” I said.

  “Fine,” Landon said. “If you take too long, though, I’m going to step in and handle things my way.”

  “You usually do,” Thistle said. She moved to the sheet and pulled it to the side, her face a mask of faux enthusiasm when she faced the bed occupant.

  This world was full of odd things, but the sight of a wolf in a nightgown and nightcap, spectacles perched on its long snout, was almost more than I could take. It was like a bad sitcom. All we were missing was the laugh track.

  “Hi, Grandma,” Thistle said. “How are you today?”

  “I’m just fine, dear,” the wolf said. “Although … I am a little weak. You should move closer so I can get a better look at you.”

  “I’m good here,” Thistle said. “You smell like you’ve been in that bed for a long time, and I’m afraid of bed bugs. They freak me out.”

  The wolf was flummoxed. “But … I want to see you.”

  “You’re not missing anything,” Thistle said, glancing around the makeshift sick room. “I look the same as I did the last time you saw me. I might be a little sweatier … and dirtier … but I’m pretty much the same.”

  “I want to give you a hug,” the wolf said.

  “I’m afraid of personal contact, so I’m going to have to pass on that,” Thistle said. “Hugs make me feel all wonky, like you’re trying to invade my personal space. I told you that last time I was here. Don’t you remember?”

  “I … well … of course,” the wolf said. “It’s just that I like to hug.”

  “You’ll survive,” Thistle said. “So, Grandma, what did you do today?”

  “I … um … just laid in bed,” the wolf said. “That’s what I usually do.”

  “No, you don’t,” Thistle said, embracing her role. “You usually knit for a few hours, and then you read some of those torrid bodice-rippers you love so much. Oh, and you like to shave your legs while you’re in bed, too. Can I see if you did that today?”

  The wolf frowned. “I … no! What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Thistle asked. “You don’t look like the grandmother I usually visit. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would say you’re an imposter.”

  “I’m not an imposter,” the wolf squeaked. “I’m your grandmother.”

  Thistle arched an eyebrow. “Really? When’s my birthday?”

  “I forgot.”

  “What’s my mother’s name?”

  “Mom?”

  “Close,” Thistle said. “Try again.”

  “Mommy?”

  “Okay, enough is enough,” Landon said. “You’re wasting time. Kill it and let’s get going.”

  “You always have to ruin my fun,” Thistle grumbled.

  “You’re the only one having fun.”

  “Oh, whatever.” Thistle whipped the fireplace poker from behind her back and brandished it in front of the wolf. “Where is Daniel?”

  “Who is Daniel? What are you going to do with that?”

  “I’m going to stab you with it,” Thistle replied.

  “But … I’m your grandmother.”

  “You’re a wolf in a nightgown,” Thistle said. “Who falls for this act, by the way?”

  “Hey, this isn’t how this is supposed to go,” the wolf said, lapsing into a deeper voice and glancing around the room. “You’re supposed to come in and fall for my act. You’re supposed to comment on my eyes and nose … and I’m supposed to get more and more menacing … and then you’re supposed to scream while I eat you.”

  “That’s not how the story ends,” Thistle said. “You get killed by … who does kill the wolf in that story? Is it the woodsman?”

  “That sounds right,” I said. “I don’t remember.”

  “This is all wrong,” the wolf said, shaking his head hard enough that the spectacles slipped down his snout. “You can’t change the story. That’s not how this works. You have to follow the script.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Thistle said. “This is my story. It became my story the second I put the cloak on. I can end it any way I want.”

  “I want to see the author,” the wolf said, crossing his paws over his chest. “This is not the role I signed on for.”

  “None of us signed on for this,” Thistle said, plunging the poker into the wolf’s chest. “We still have to play the game.”

  The wolf howled the second the poker hit his chest. Instead of creating a wound, though, the poker detonated the wolf into a cloud of confetti over the bed. The cabin dissolved around us, and we were back on the yellow brick road.

  “Wow,” Clove said. “That was cool.”

  “It was also educational,” I said. “That wolf knew it was in a story.”

  “We also found we can change the script,” Thistle said. “That means we should be able to work our way through these stories a lot faster than we have been. Every story book character we find we just have to kill.”

  “I think that’s taking things a little far,” Landon said. “What if you could only kill the wolf because it was a villain?”

  “Oh, good point,” Thistle said. “Okay, new plan. Every villain we come across we need to kill. Every hero we come across we need to ask a few questions and then keep going. Every victim we come across … I’m sorry Landon … we have to ignore them.”

  I was worried Landon would disagree, but when I turned to him he was already nodding his head in agreement. “That’s the plan. Let’s move, people. There might finally be some light at the end of this tunnel.”

  Never
take candy from strangers. There’s probably something wrong with it. The only exception is a Snickers. Go ahead and take it then, but don’t eat it. Bring it back for me, and I’ll test it for you.

  – Aunt Tillie’s Wonderful World of Stories to Make Little Girls Shut Up

  Eleven

  “I kind of miss the cloak,” Thistle said.

  We’d been walking about twenty minutes, and instead of the pall that had been following us for what felt like hours, we were feeling markedly lighter.

  “I miss food,” Clove said.

  My stomach rumbled in agreement. “I do, too.”

  “I’m guessing there’s no food in fairy land,” Landon said, rubbing his own stomach sadly. “I would kill for a bacon cheeseburger right now.”

  “I wouldn’t trust the food here,” Thistle said. “We know the apples are poisonous.”

  “Maybe it’s just the apples,” I suggested.

  “Do you want to take that chance?”

  She had a point. “I guess not.”

  We walked on for a few minutes, silent. My stomach refused to quit growling, though, and Landon’s was starting to rumble in tandem with mine. “Now that Clove brought up food that’s all I can think about,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Thistle said. “If you can believe it, I swear I smell pot roast.”

  I sniffed the air, groaning when I realized her words carried the power of suggestion. “Now I can, too. Thanks so much.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Sam said. “I think I can smell baked ham. It smells just like my mom’s kitchen. She used to make a big one for Sunday dinner once a month, and then we would have something to make sandwiches with for days. It was amazing.”

  “I smell French fries,” Marcus said. “Not only can I smell the fries, I can smell the salt.”

  I glanced at Landon. “Let me guess, you smell bacon?”

  He smiled, rueful. “Am I that transparent?”

  “You’re predictable in your love of bacon,” I said. “I think, if it came down to it, you’d choose bacon over me.”

  “Never,” Landon said. “I would choose to have you wrap yourself in bacon, though.”

  “You’re so sick.”

  “You’re both sick,” Thistle said. “I … hey … what’s that?”

  We moved to her side, our gazes sliding in the direction she pointed. What we saw was straight out of a fantasy – one we’d all been living in mere seconds before.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Landon asked, leaning forward.

  “It’s a cottage,” Clove said.

  “I don’t care about the cottage,” Landon said. “I’m talking about the garden. It looks as if it’s made out of … food.”

  “Let’s see,” Thistle said, skipping off the road and heading toward the cottage.

  “Thistle, be careful,” Marcus warned. “This could be a trap.”

  “Of course it’s a trap,” Thistle said. “It’s Hansel and Gretel’s story.”

  I froze, her words bringing the old tale to focus. Of course.

  “Hansel and Gretel were tempted by a cottage made of gingerbread and candy,” Clove said. “This is a cottage made of … oh, man, is that flower pot full of burritos? I love burritos!”

  “This is still a cottage dreamed up by Aunt Tillie,” I said. “She likes candy, but she likes regular food more. This would be her idea of a dream getaway.”

  “It’s my idea of a dream getaway, too,” Landon said, moving closer to the cottage. “Look, sweetie, there’s bacon big enough to wrap yourself in here.” He waggled an eyebrow suggestively.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Me, too.”

  I followed him, keeping close. My eyes couldn’t help but widen as each new garden entrée came into view. All of Aunt Tillie’s favorites – and most of mine – were here.

  “Oh, there’s pot roast and barbecue ribs and prime rib and a big Thanksgiving turkey,” Thistle said. “I need to eat!”

  My mouth watered and my mind went fuzzy as I reached for a fried chicken leg, and then something sounded in the back of my brain. It was a warning. “Wait.”

  No one listened. Landon’s hands reached for a pinwheel made of bacon slices. It was almost as if he couldn’t hear me.

  “Wait!”

  Everyone froze, hands outstretched, eyes glassy.

  “The food is cursed,” I said. “We can’t eat it.”

  “I’m not sure I care,” said Sam, rubbing his hands over the top of a glazed ham as though he was about to propose to it.

  “You’re going to care if it prolongs how long we’re in here,” I said. “In the story the candy is drugged. That means this food is probably drugged. We can’t eat it.”

  “I’m so hungry, though,” Clove whined.

  “It’s not as though we’re starving here,” I said. “We ate at the inn a few hours ago. We stuffed ourselves silly. We can’t eat this.” I turned to Landon, pleading. “We can’t.”

  Landon found the control he was missing and stepped away from the bacon. “Bay is right. We can’t eat this.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Thistle said, reaching for a hamburger daisy and plucking it from the stem. “Aunt Tillie loves food. She’s not going to poison it … even in a book. She would consider that sacrilegious.”

  “I’m with Thistle,” Marcus said, grabbing a bouquet of French fry posies and taking one from the center. “This is going to be good. It’s going to be fine.” He popped one of the fries in his mouth, chewing enthusiastically. “See.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Thistle said, biting into the hamburger. “I knew Aunt Tillie wouldn’t poison the food. Some things are forever, and that’s exactly what Aunt Tillie’s love of food is.”

  Marcus reached for a second French fry, but before he could pop it into his mouth he tilted forward and crashed to the ground, his bouquet of fries scattering across the green grass.

  Thistle swallowed hard, her gaze falling on Marcus. “What just happened? Did he pass out because he was so hungry?”

  Thistle barely got the words out before she dropped her burger and fell to the ground next to Marcus.

  I stormed over to them, checking them both to make sure they had a pulse, and then straightened. “Does anyone else want to eat the food?”

  “I think I just lost my appetite,” Sam said.

  “Me, too,” Clove said, horrified. “Are they alive?”

  “They’re sleeping,” I said. I rubbed my forehead and glanced at Landon. “Are you okay?”

  “You saved me,” he said, breaking into a wide grin. “Maybe you’re the prince.”

  “That’s going to make our sex life really creepy,” I pointed out.

  “You’re right,” Landon conceded. “You can be a modern princess. I’d especially like it if you ditched the frilly dresses and embraced latex.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t last long, but it felt good. “We have a new problem obviously,” I said, gesturing toward Marcus and Thistle’s prone bodies. “Now we have to solve this story to get those two back on their feet.”

  “I don’t know what I remember about this story,” Landon said. “My mother wasn’t big on fairy tales. Doesn’t a witch live in that cottage?”

  “Yes. She drugs the candy – or in this case burgers and fries – and then captures the children so she can eat them.”

  “Nice,” Landon said. “If I hadn’t already lost my appetite, that would have pretty much killed it.”

  “How does the witch in the story die?” Sam asked.

  “The kids turn the tables on her when she’s not looking and push her in the oven and roast her alive,” I said.

  “Have you ever considered how violent these stories are?” Clove asked, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, think about it. The wolf tries to eat Little Red Riding Hood. The witch poisons Snow White. This witch tries to eat children. It’s really pretty … awful.”

  “It is,” I agreed. “We don’t have ti
me to talk about that now, though. If you want to debate the merits of fairy tales, I’ll be happy to do it for hours on end – over pizza and chocolate martinis – once we’re back in the guesthouse.”

  “We have to go in the cottage, right?” Landon asked.

  “We do,” I said.

  “Are we all going?” Clove was nervous again. “I think that only two of us should go. That way someone will be out here to watch Marcus and Thistle and, if the first couple fails, there will be another couple to save them.”

  She was so transparent. “I’m guessing you want to be the one to watch over Thistle and Marcus.”

  “I’m more nurturing, so that probably makes sense.”

  I rolled my eyes until they landed on Landon. “Do you want to kill a witch with me?”

  “Sure,” he said. “It might be a nice way to get out some of my aggression so I don’t really murder Aunt Tillie when we get out of here.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, gesturing toward the door. “I want to get this over with … mainly because I want to make sure Thistle admits I was right and she was wrong.”

  “That’s a beautiful trait, sweetie,” Landon said, pressing his hand against the small of my back as he ushered me toward the cottage. “It really turns me on.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Actually I’m not,” Landon said. “If you toss in a little dance while you do the ‘I’m right’ song I’ll reward you with a romantic dinner at the seafood restaurant of your choice when we get out of this.”

  “Really?”

  “All the crab legs you can eat.”

  “I really do love that you get me,” I said.

  He kissed my cheek quickly. “Me, too. Come on. Let’s fry a witch.” He snorted. “We should start making a list of the things I say tonight. They could make a really funny book.”

  “I’ll try to remember.” I raised my hand to knock and then thought better of it. “I’m thinking we should use the element of surprise here. What do you think?”

  “Let’s break the law, baby.”

  I turned the handle quietly, carefully pushing the door open. A cursory glance around the room told me that this witch had horrible taste. It was as though she had a subscription to Better Homes and Gardens and instead of picking one theme she picked every theme and crammed it into the same room. This witch was a crazy hoarder. At least I didn’t see one hundred cats. That would have only made the situation worse.