The Water Witch Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Four Book Paranormal Cozy Mystery Anthology (Sam Short Boxed Sets 1)

by Sam Short

  She didn’t worry about hell too much. Death would never come for Gladys again. Not while she was in the dimension known as The Haven. She could die in an accident of course, but no illness would bother her, or any other resident of the magical land. She made sure to take extra care when she went back to the mortal world, though. Wickford may have been a small rural English canal town, but even chocolate box towns had their fair share of dangerous drivers who could snuff out her immortality in an instant.

  Gladys smiled as she gazed down at her fiancée. She knew the bush he was nibbling on had thick thorns protruding from the woody stems, and she knew she’d be required to cast a healing spell over his torn lips before he drank his bedtime hot chocolate mixed with brandy. That didn’t bother her. It was nice to feel needed sometimes — just as long as he didn’t become too needy. Neediness was a disease as bad as, if not worse than, scurvy, and if Charleston ever began displaying the tell-tale symptoms, Gladys would put him in his place quicker than her daughter could shovel a plate of snacks down her throat. And that was quick. Very quick.

  Charleston Huang had stolen Granny’s heart in a matter of weeks, and she couldn’t wait to be his wife. Not because he’d promised her the very important title of Lady Huang, or that she was excited about being married to the man who possessed the strongest magic in The Haven and ruled the realm. Perish the thought. No, Gladys couldn’t wait to be his wife because she’d been lonely since her first husband had choked to death on a whole brazil nut. Mostly.

  Gladys had convinced herself that it meant that Norman, rest his soul, had suffered from a nut allergy, and she’d long ago given up arguing with people who said otherwise. Her husband’s lips had been blue, and his face swollen after the nut had blocked his windpipe — if that wasn’t a symptom of anaphylactic shock, she didn’t know what was.

  Gladys waved. “Coooeee!” she shouted, forcing herself higher on her toes.

  Her fiancée ignored her, far too focused on nibbling leaves to pay her any heed. He was a handsome man, Gladys conceded. Of Chinese origin, and in his late sixties, he was over a decade younger than Gladys. That didn’t bother either of them though, age was just a number, and their blossoming romance had been a meeting of minds and not a physical attraction.

  Her first marriage had totally been based on physical attraction. Gladys had first spotted Norman, rest his soul, as he’d hurled insults at the crowd of protestors she was a part of. He’d been standing outside a pub with a crowd of men, booing the protestors, and calling them a bunch of crazy cat women. They weren’t crazy cat women at all, although at the time Gladys had owned two cats, and attended weekly anger management courses. But crazy, they were not. They were proud feminists, protesting the patriarchy and the vile way in which women were treated as sex objects in the workplace.

  Norman, rest his soul, had caught Gladys’s attention as he’d sipped his pint of beer and laughed at the signs her fellow feminists had carried. His shoulder length hair had been luscious and black, and the leather jacket and jeans he wore had made him look somehow… dangerous. Gladys liked danger, and the way Norman, rest his soul, paid no attention to oncoming motor vehicles as he stepped into the road and tossed his empty glass at the protestors, made her sweat. Or glow, she should have said. Women glowed, men perspired and horses sweated — and Gladys was certainly not male, or a filly.

  The moment the protest had finished, Gladys had rushed home, changed out of her A-line skirt, and wriggled into the shortest mini-skirt she’d owned, tidied her beehive, and applied her make-up liberally. Twenty minutes later she was in the same pub she’d spotted Norman, rest his soul, outside, and half an hour after that, she’d secured herself an invitation to a night out at the cinema with him. The rest was history, and now a new chapter in her life had been opened.

  It would have been strange if her attraction to Charleston Huang had been based on physical attributes. She’d hardly seen the man while they were getting to know each other, only venturing once a week into the guest bedroom where his magically frozen body had been propped up in a corner — and those visits were only so she had been able to comb his hair and polish his fancy diamond ring.

  During the weeks she’d fallen for him, the man Gladys was soon to be marrying had been trapped in the body of a goat, and if Gladys had felt any physical attraction towards a farm animal, she would have marched herself off to a shrink and demanded he, or preferably she, get to the root of her problems immediately.

  The goat incident had all been a very complicated business, and in the six months since Gladys and Charleston had taken up residency in the castle, Gladys had been forced to tell the story repeatedly to the visitors who insisted on coming to heap praise on Charleston for saving The Haven from an evil witch-finder. Nobody thanked Gladys, and that made her seethe. She was the one who’d made the ultimate sacrifice while Charleston, as she’d been informed after being resurrected, had pranced around shooting magic laser beams from his shiny ring. The ring on his finger, that was.

  Tired of repeating the same story to visitors, Gladys had erected a sign next to the main entrance into the castle. She’d erected two in fact, but after taking advice from her daughter, Maggie, she’d taken the first one down and promptly erected the second.

  The first one had been concise and to the point.

  We, the residents of Huang Towers, are not perverted sex people. If you see Charleston crawling around on all fours and eating grass, it is NOT because we are living out a sexual fetish fantasy. In no way whatsoever! That would just be weird.

  Thank you. Your understanding in this matter is appreciated.

  Gladys Weaver (soon to be Lady Gladys Huang.)

  Gladys had been forced to admit that it did, as Maggie had argued, send out the wrong message. Neither did it explain why Charleston could occasionally be seen on all fours. Penny had been correct too, when she’d said it seemed that the sign protested the couple’s innocence a little too much. There was no smoke without fire, she’d noted.

  The second sign was better, even Gladys could see that.

  Do not worry about Charleston if he is on all fours. He isn’t drunk, poorly, or playing the fool. I accidentally trapped him in the body of a goat named Boris for a period of time. After breaking the spell, we both agreed that it had been fun while Charleston was a goat, so upon occasion, Charleston likes to magic his mind back into the body of the goat, and the goat’s mind will therefore occupy his body – hence his penchant for eating shrubs and toileting outside.

  Please don’t ask questions about it. It’s very rude. Thank you. Your unconditional understanding in this matter is demanded.

  P.S – Please do not feed Charleston while his body contains the mind of a goat. He will eat anything, and I don’t find podgy men attractive.

  Gladys Weaver (soon to be Lady Gladys Huang.)

  Gladys watched a triangle of geese fly overhead until the clip-clop of hooves on stone drew her attention. She turned to see Boris emerging onto the tower-top, his tongue hanging from his mouth and his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Those steps will be the death of me,” he panted. “They don’t think about goats when they build staircases.”

  Gladys sighed. “Spend less time as a goat then, Charleston,” she said. “In fact, I forbid you from swapping bodies until we’re married.”

  The goat bared his yellowed teeth. “You forbid me?” he said, sitting on his haunches as gained some control over his breathing. “This castle is named after me — Huang Towers. I’ll be doing any forbidding which happens around here, and I forbid you from watering my brandy down. I’m not stupid, I can taste tainted liquor from a mile off. It tastes like a cat has micturated in it.”

  Gladys thought she knew what he meant. Charleston’s Oxford education ensured his vocabulary was far in advance of hers, but she liked to try and pretend she understood the big words he used. In this case, the context made it simpler.

  She pushed her purple glasses higher up her nose, and raised an eyebrow in
the way she’d seen learned men do as they delivered lectures. “I’m not going to ask how you know what cat wizz tastes like…” she paused. The goat didn’t contradict her, so she gave herself an imaginary high-five, and continued, “… but I’m doing it for your own good — only until we’re married. Then you can get totally leathered every night for all I care. I’m putting my foot down, Charleston. No getting too drunk, or being a goat until we’re husband and wife. It’s only six days, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  Charleston sighed. “I can do that for you, Gladys. Although you must promise to be on your best behaviour too. I don’t want you causing any trouble tonight.”

  Gladys didn’t cause trouble. She responded to it, but she ignored the verbal assault levelled at her, choosing to take the moral high ground instead. There was a very nice view from up there, and she was rarely joined by anybody else who would ruin the seclusion. “Okay,” she said, fingers crossed on both hands. “I promise. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Now, go and change out of your goat and into something a little smarter. The guests will be arriving soon, and I don’t want you putting a hoof in the punch bowl.”

  Chapter Two

  The grand hall was as splendid as the name suggested, and the crowd which filled it was equally as impressive. Huge trolls clutched flagons of mead, and a group of dwarfs stood next to the long buffet table, admiring the ice sculpture which Gladys had conjured into existence with her own fingertips. The huge stallion had begun to melt around the tail area, but the two figures on its back were still in one frozen piece. Charleston’s chiselled ice abdominals reflected the lights from the chandeliers, and Gladys’s transparent breasts still held their form, the very rude areas hidden by petals which cascaded from the rose clenched between her teeth. It was a masterpiece indeed, and the dwarf who was attempting to toss olives into Charleston’s mouth, fiercely agape in a battle-cry, would pay a heavy price if Gladys ever met him down a dark alley.

  Gladys stared at the guests from the top of the sweeping marble staircase — which would make her entrance as magnificent as the dress she wore. With no magic involved in its making, the hand tailored outfit finally made her feel like the person she’d always known she was.

  The importance of the gold thread which held the panels of silvery silk together, complimented the arrogance of the pearl buttons which ran from her neckline to her navel. She knew with one glance across the crowd that she’d stolen the show before she’d even been announced to the guests.

  Gladys lifted a glove clad hand in the monarchical greeting she’d been practising before bed each night, but the band continued to play. With an impatient sigh, she took a few steps back from the staircase, and tried again, this time making herself known with a loud shout. “I’m here!” she screeched. “Look at me!”

  A group of witches at the bottom of the staircase heard her, and lifted their silver goblets in greeting, but apart from those irrelevant witches, nobody else paid her any notice. The fiddler fiddled faster, and the drummer pounded out a tight beat which people danced to, totally oblivious that the lady of the moment had arrived. The bride to be was in the room, yet people were more interested in the debauched mating ritual of the dance-floor than complimenting her on her impeccable dress sense.

  Either Gladys’s dander was rising, or she’d put on a few pounds since the final dress fitting. Her stomach tightened beneath the fabric and her face warmed with rage, and it was only the appearance of her two granddaughters at the foot of the staircase which prevented her casting a spell which would have put a quick, and possibly fiery, ending to the pre-wedding cocktail and finger foods party.

  “Hi Granny!” said Willow, the short black dress she wore tightly wrapping her voluptuous figure.

  “You look amazing, Granny,” said Penny, her less shapely figure hidden by a looser dress.

  Gladys was proud of them both. Even the frumpy one. The girls were beautiful, boasting the same long black hair and bright green eyes — which the girls insisted on calling emerald, although Gladys likened the hue to moss, rather than a precious jewel. They were the girl’s eyes, though, and Gladys’s honed instincts told her she shouldn’t bring any attention to her musings on their eye colour. She would honour the emerald fallacy, and never bring it up. Unless really pushed.

  “Girls,” said Gladys, gliding down the stairs in much the same manner the heroines did in the black and white movies she was such a fan of. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  Penny moved with speed, catching Gladys in her arms and preventing her from falling any further. “Don’t lift your knees so high when you walk in heels,” she said, “take smaller steps.”

  “You looked like you were goose stepping,” said Willow.

  The youngest ones were always the rudest.

  Gladys adjusted her tiara, and scowled. “I was floating, Willow. Like in the movies.”

  “Oh, right,” said Willow, “well float your way down the rest of the staircase more carefully. Marble can be very slippery.”

  Penny and Willow each took one of Gladys’s elbows in a hand, helping her navigate the remainder of the stairs and steering her through the crowd at the base.

  “Mum and everyone else can’t wait to see you,” said Penny, squeezing past a troll, and smiling at one of the fairy waitresses which her grandmother had insisted on employing for the event.

  The fairies may have been small, but they possessed a great strength which enabled them to effortlessly carry trays laden with drinks, zooming high above the crowd instead of struggling through it like a terrestrial waitress would have been forced to.

  All thoughts of punishing the crowd for failing to acknowledge her arrival vanished as Gladys spotted a bright red jacket, barely containing the spherical belly beneath it. “Brian!” she shouted, “my son! You came!”

  Brian stopped spinning the little umbrella he held, and slid it into his bright green cocktail, placing the glass on a table. “Of course I came, Mother!” he gushed. “I wouldn’t have missed it for all the tulips in Amsterdam!” He grabbed Gladys in a fierce hug. “The ice sculpture is amazing by the way, a pure masterpiece, and you look fabulous — like a fairy-tale queen!”

  “You look fantastic too,” said Gladys, taking a step backwards and looking her son up and down. The red jacket was perfectly lovely — most definitely his colour. As if Brian would ever be seen wearing anything that wasn’t! Gladys did have her reservations about the black leather trousers, though. Surely her son would sweat… she caught herself mid-thought… perspire, as he made beautiful shapes on the dance floor, and surely that would lead to dehydration which could lead to… Gladys scolded herself and calmed her beating heart. They were in The Haven — of course her first born wasn’t going to drop dead in the middle of the band’s version of YMCA! He was protected by magic. Gladys gave her son the lop-sided smile which was firmly reserved for him. “You look magnificent!”

  Gladys jumped as she became aware of a large colourful shape to her right. She recoiled for a moment, concerned it was a randy troll overcome by her beauty, but smiled when she saw the chubby face of her daughter. “Maggie, you look… bright,” she said.

  Her daughter wore a shapeless dress, printed with colourful flowers and tied at the waist with a belt. She clutched a sandwich in her hand, and not for the first time, Gladys wondered just how fatter a thumb could become before it was no longer opposable.

  Maggie took a bite of her sandwich. “I’d have looked a lot nicer if it wasn’t for Charleston’s stupid spell,” she complained.

  The spell which Charleston had placed over Huang Towers, and for a fifty-mile radius around it, was an understandable precaution, in Gladys’s opinion. It prevented witches and wizards from being able to revert to a younger age — a gift bestowed upon them when they first entered The Haven. After recent events, when an evil Witch-finder had misused the gift to hide himself amongst the residents of the magical land, Charleston had thought it prudent to protect against such wicked use of magic in the
future. Maggie was just annoyed that she couldn’t shift into her younger body, although in Gladys’s opinion, her daughter looked better in her forties than she had as a teenager. Her acne had been terrible back then, and Gladys was sure her thighs had been thicker.

  “The spell is sensible,” said Gladys, looking around the room. “Anyway, where is Charleston? He was supposed to announce me when I made my entrance. I looked quite the fool at the top of that staircase. That man had better not be such a let-down when we’re married.”

  “He’s with Barney,” said Penny. “They’re having a cigar together outside.”

  “Charleston’s got Barney on the cigars?” said Gladys. “I’ll kill him! Your boyfriend’s body is far too frail for him to risk becoming a smoker. Does he even have any lungs in that tiny pigeon chest of his?”

  Penny pursed her lips in the way she did when she was trying to keep words in her mouth. That was one of the main differences between her granddaughters – Willow didn’t know when to shut up, and Penny didn’t speak up enough.

  “He’s having one cigar, Granny,” said Penny, her narrowed eyes communicating what she really wanted to say. “It won’t kill him.”

  “And Barney has not got a pigeon chest,” said Willow, standing beside her older sister. “Don’t be so rude. It’s just that he’s so tall.”

  Gladys didn’t need telling how tall Barney was. The ginger-haired policeman towered over Penny, and Gladys often wondered if anyone else had a nickname for the couple like the one she had. Stumpy and Lanky wasn’t a particularly rude pet name for the odd pair, but Gladys kept it safely locked away in the part of her brain labelled insults for a rainy day — Penny could be highly sensitive, and since being promoted to the rank of Sergeant, Barney had become less tolerant of Gladys’s highly tuned sense of humour. It was safer that Gladys kept it to herself until the day it was needed to win an argument.