The Retail Witches: An Urban Fantasy Witch Novel (Retail Witches Series Book 1)

by Les Goodrich

  “Jeez,” said Brit. Carol went on.

  “Soul pulling is ancient, darkest magick. Consuming the vital energies of another generates intoxicating power, but at a steep price. Eventually the soulpuller loses who they are amid the mixture of other people’s lives. This can cause them to go insane. If they renounce these ways in earnest they can release all the stolen energy to flood back to the original owners. The same thing happens when the soulpuller dies. But if they die without redemption they wither like dust because they don’t have enough soul of their own to go on.

  “If a victim dies with the majority of their own life in the possession of a soulpuller, they can forgive it all and return to Summerland in peace. Or they can bitterly cling and blame and search and scheme to steal their life back and this can lead to some seriously pissed off and generally troublesome ghosts.

  “Some dark witches play a little game where they take here and there, and return certain feelings and emotions here and there, in an effort to stave off the bad karma of soulpulling. I suspect this is what Gwen is doing or she would have fallen apart long ago. She may also be training one of her witches to be a soulpuller. Datura I suspect.”

  “Hmm,” Jordan sounded. “But how does it work exactly?”

  “Like so many Shadowclan spells or hexes, it’s sort of the opposite of a Light Tribe skill. In this case, it’s the opposite of questing.”

  “Questing?” Brit asked.

  “Questing is a powerful form of vision quest astral travel, or remote viewing. Some visions can be transferred to others, but only by the most powerful questers. Questers travel through and perceive Universal intelligence. All people share their subconscious with, what native Americans call, the Great Spirit. Questers can traverse that collective mind with their waking consciousness intact.”

  “And Soulpulling uses that?” Jordan asked.

  “Yes. A soulpuller uses that field to connect their subconscious to that of another, then feed off of it. Now about Gwen. Her father was a powerful witch, as was her grandmother. Her Shadowclan tradition goes back to Salem. She believes very few true witches were ever burned and the more I learn the more I tend to agree with her on that. Poor maidens. Widows with inherited lands desired by the courts. Neighbors sold out and torched due to the annoyance of barking dogs. Mistresses accused and burned by scorned wives. And a general campaign by the church to drive pagans to Sunday mass out of fear. Certainly some real witches were burned or worse. We aren’t going back to those times if I can help it.

  “If Gwen put that coin in here she must have known I’d find it. I’ll get rid of it but it all makes me uneasy. If it’s a hex she could have sent anyone to plant it. If it’s some magickal bug or spy camera, its a joke because it’s gone already. This has something to do with the Aradia painting and the mermaid spell. They obviously know we’re onto this.”

  “Where did this book come from?” Jordan asked. “I’ve nearly bought it three times. Whose was it?”

  “It was mine,” Carol said. “I thought you’d have found it ages ago. You don’t have to buy it Jordan. You can have it.”

  “Thank you, but I think I know someone who’d benefit from it more than I would now.” Jordan handed the book to Brit.

  “Thanks,” said Brit.

  “Now if Gwen is here threatening us then somehow she knows we’re after the mermaid spell and the painting. We have to figure this out before they do. Imagine Gwen with an extra dose of life whenever she wants it. So what have you guys got so far?” Carol asked.

  “I have a likely description of an island that could well be an unknown pirate cache. From the old days. But the description’s vague and none of the names match up. I’m working on it,” Tanner said.

  “Work faster,” Carol said. “Girls?”

  “Aradia’s a very popular figure in the neopagan community,” Brit said. “I mean she’s seen a kind of revival of late. So there’s a ton of books and stories about her. She’s the daughter of Diana.”

  “Yes,” Carol said as if that were painfully common knowledge.

  “We’re talking about myth here. Legend. But there’s a connection that Jordan and I made to Araja from Sardinia. And we’re talking like 1012.”

  “Araja the Just,” Jordan said.

  “Right,” Brit said. “Araja the Just was a witch-like savior in Sardinia. There are old tales of her passing knowledge of magick on to people of the countryside. Magick that would help them avoid and defeat the church’s hysterical persecution. And that’s the connection. Aradia is said to have done this as well, but Araja was a real person. She was born, lived, and died. We think that Aradia and Araja are the same. Aradia may never have written anything because she’s a pure goddess. But maybe Araja did. It’s always Aradia that Diana sends to the Earthly realm to spread wisdom, to help pagans, and to fight against the evils of church persecution. The mermaid spell fits right into that.”

  “Right,” Jordan said. “If what Shay tells me is true, then this spell is way more than a weekend mermaid pass. It’s a way to escape. Brit and I believe that was the reason for the spell in the first place. It was a way for an accused witch to slip away into the ocean for as long as was needed. Back in the village they would have simply disappeared.

  “Church crazies looking to burn someone might tromp around town for a week or so looking for them. But they’d give up eventually and they’d never think to search the seas. Then when the witch came back they’d get this added bonus of not aging for however long they’d lived already. To make up for lost time underwater I guess. It totally fits the kind of thing Aradia would have done for the witches. And if Araja was really Aradia in an Earthly form then an actually written mermaid spell might really exist.”

  “But it takes us no closer to finding the painting or the book,” Carol said.

  “No but listen to this,” Tanner said and he pulled the iPad from his bag. He scanned his notes and read aloud. “In the Southern Caribbean. Favored by scoundrels. Never discovered by Spanish or British authorities of the day. The island has large rock formations, limestone caves. Many hidden coves.” He looked up, “And then there’s this. A part of her is crippled, a part of her is honest, a part of her is deep, a part of her assaults, but I dare say that for all of her treachery, there is none more beautiful than Isabella.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Jordan asked.

  “No idea but it’s important. It relates to the island somehow. I think it’s a riddle. Some kind of code.”

  “You can’t find the name of the island? That would help.” Jordan said.

  “Not yet,” Tanner replied.

  “Aradia is never called Isabella. Not that I’ve seen,” Brit added.

  “Okay,” Carol jumped in. “I think you guys have done a great job so far but we have to move fast. One thing that Gwen's little visit today tells me: we’re on the right track. Jordan and Brit, can you go over all of the Araja lore you haven’t read yet? We’re looking for anything. Any expert who may have specifics. Spells that we know she wrote. Something concrete. Can you do it?”

  “After Samhain we can,” Brit said and Jordan nodded.

  “Good enough,” Carol said. “And we’re gonna need the help of someone who truly knows Aradia. Someone who knows her energy. Her reactions. Her demeanor. What thrills her. What motivates her to come down to Earth as it were. And someone who’s an intrepid traveler and a capable witch in all regards.”

  “Who would that be?” asked Jordan and Carol replied with grave inevitability.

  “Carmine.”

  Chapter 12

  Girls Night Out

  At ten p.m. Claire parked on the street, texted I’m here to Jordan, and walked up the stairs to Jordan's carriage house. She turned onto the porch landing and Jordan opened the door to see her in brown pleated nickers tucked into tan knee socks and brown high heels covered with buttoned tweed spats. She wore a cream ruffled pirate shirt that spilled from under a tight brown and green sweater vest. She had a br
own leather waist bag with brass buckled pouches on each side.

  “You look great,” said Jordan at the open door.

  “I need a hat and some goggles though,” Claire said. “Or else I look like some kind of preppy pirate.”

  “Mims has a hat and goggles for you. We have to pick her up on the way. Is that cool?”

  A high-pitched cat screech burst from the courtyard below and Jordan jumped past Claire to the balcony rail and saw Luna running from the main house side yard at top speed. Nettle the graveyard hob was riding her and he barely clung to a dirty old shoelace he had used as a lasso and the two made speed across the dark grass. Two times Luna rolled and tossed and tried to dislodge the rider and they were covered in grass clippings and dirt as Jordan turned the corner at the stair base and intercepted them on the side path to the street.

  “Son of a bitch!” Jordan yelled.

  “What the hell?” shouted Clair as she bounced back down the stairs.

  Jordan cornered the cat under the stairs and against the garage wall and Nettle fell to the ground laughing. Relieved of the rider the cat leapt to Jordan who removed the shoelace and threw it at Nettle. He disappeared laughing into the hedge and barely dodged a kick from Jordan. Claire slowed at the bottom stairs.

  “What the hell?” Claire asked again.

  “It’s nothing,” Jordan said. Maybe a neighbor kid chasing her. Halloween and all. Let’s go back up.” Claire turned and climbed stairs and Jordan followed her carrying Luna who twisted in her arms.

  “Neighbor kid?” Claire said and she looked down from the rail as she climbed.

  “Ha, um, well, tonight should be fun.”

  “Oh yeah man. Are you excited?” Claire asked.

  “Yeah yeah. Mims is too. We’re gonna have a blast.”

  “You know this isn’t a steampunk scene don’t you?”

  “Oh I know,” said Jordan. “It just sort of turned into that. Hope you don’t mind.” They went inside.

  “No way man I think it’s awesome. If it wasn’t weird it wouldn’t be us.”

  Jordan made sure nothing snuck in behind them and closed the door. She dropped Luna who promptly vanished to some secret cat spot.

  Jordan and Claire had been friends since elementary school and although Claire was not a witch she considered herself a pagan and she loved the Earth and nature and all living things but she had not seen Nettle. She loved beauty and fun and going out in the boat or to the beach and she loved living in Florida. She had a boyfriend named Alex whom she also loved. What she loved most, however, was music. She had snuck or conned her way into nightclubs to listen to DJs since she was seventeen years old. She was the same age as Jordan and she hardly drank alcohol because anything more than two drinks over an entire night slowed her down. She loved to dance.

  A low fire of coals radiated warmth from the fireplace and Claire walked slowly among the bookshelf walls and among the low tables while Jordan checked the water level and turned on the boiler of her Rancillio Silvia espresso machine. She clicked the doser grinder to clear away a dusting of old grinds and she opened and smelled a bag of Intelligentsia Black Cat Espresso beans. “How about an espresso?” she said and looked to Claire who studied book spines with a tilted head.

  “Yes thank you that sounds good.”

  “Do you like it sweet? If you do I have a great little trick.”

  “However you make it,” Claire said.

  “Okay good,” Jordan said and she worked the machine and pulled two double espresso shots into tiny cups where each held one teaspoon of sweetened condensed milk. She stirred the miniature drinks and walked to hand one to Claire.

  “Thank you. You know how much I love your place,” Claire said taking a spot on one of the big low couches.

  “Thanks,” Jordan said and she sat with her legs crossed on the opposite couch to face her friend. They sipped their tiny but powerful coffees.

  “Oh my god that’s so good,” Claire said between sips.

  “You like it?”

  “I love it. It’s perfect.”

  They drank the espresso and talked about music and DJ’s and times they had shared in nightclubs. Jordan got up and moved around the carriage house putting the last touches of her outfit together.

  “Tonight should be good. Not fancy, but underground. The DJ on the floor, you know,” Claire said.

  “Yeah I hate the high booths,” Jordan said and she buckled her coffee cup holster in place.

  “Me too. Lame. Not at Warehouse though.”

  Warehouse was just a sound system in a literal warehouse where local promoters brought out of town DJs to headline for their resident DJs once a month or so. The party had grown over its three years and the modest cover charge for a normal night got you free water, sodas, and free food like apples, cookies, and other fruit or treats. Sometimes they had candy. Once there were Pop-Tarts. It was more about the music than anything else and the decor was just white sheets hung to cover the metal walls and to make rooms for a dozen futon couches. Colored floodlights tie-dyed the walls and sheets and it was the perfect place to get lost in the sound. The guys who ran the night had no liquor license and people could technically bring their own but few ever did. If the smell of cannabis smoke arose now and then no one looked twice and the scene was low key, respectful, and focused on underground music.

  The inside of Claire’s silver Honda Accord was decorated for Halloween with spider webs in the corners, skulls on the dash, evil looking little wild-haired trolls hanging or tucked in spots, and purple LED Christmas lights zig-zagging around the headliner.

  “Cool,” Jordan said and they pulled away to pick up Mims.

  Mims lived in a smaller, much less dramatic carriage house above the garage of a house owned by a young couple on Lemon Street. She came quickly down the spiral iron stairs looking like a total steampunk airship mechanic with tool belt, brass sextant, compasses, and a holstered ray gun. Her green-lensed silver spiked goggles sat at the front of her grey bowler hat and she peered through the round green-lenses of chrome frame sunglasses.

  “How about this?” she said presenting a brown top hat fitted with brass goggles as the girls stepped from the car in her driveway.

  “Perfect! Thank you,” Claire said.

  “Mims this is Claire. Claire, Mims.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mims said as she adjusted the goggles on the hat Claire had put on. “Wow you guys look awesome.”

  “You too,” Jordan replied. “Your gear looks legit.”

  “Oh, this old thing,” Mims said and the girls all wore wide smiles and the excitement of a fun night ahead.

  Warehouse was far from town out near the airport and Claire drove along the dark back roads at a furious rate with Jordan up front. They listened to music and Mims leaned up from the back between the front seats and they talked. As they moved farther away from civilization the roads became smaller and less trafficked and Claire slowed down until the little improbably decorated car with its purple glowing, creeped-out interior and three steampunk time traveler passengers was the only car on the road and they bumped along through unexpected fog banks that stood in places like ghostly walls. Trees leaned in from the road shoulders and Spanish moss hung down from their gnarled arms like gauze sleeves or laid fallen in clumps along the roadway like forgotten or discarded clothing.

  They turned a corner and saw the taillights of another car a mile ahead. The distant taillights glowed dull red beyond the fog like mechanical robot eyes seen through gaslamp haze. The car ahead vanished at a corner and when the girls made that corner they saw forty or so cars parked in a somewhat orderly fashion in a grass field behind a row of warehouses and above them a small private plane revved and descended to land at the airport some few miles beyond the buildings. Streetlights lit the front entrance to the warehouses and the road beyond but everyone parked in the back grasslot to keep the large crowd of cars from view of the main street.

  Claire parked and the girls jumped out. Th
ey said hi to one girl and two guys closing doors of the car that had been ahead of them.

  As the newly formed group walked the grass toward the buildings orange sodium flood light grew brighter around them.

  “Man you guys are geared up. Halloween isn’t until tomorrow,” said one of the guys and the girl pushed him playfully.

  “You can never be too careful,” Mims said and pulled her ray gun partly from the holster.

  “I’m going in behind you,” the guy said and as they approached the backs of the buildings they could already hear bass thumping within the warehouse walls. Their hearts soared with excitement and they quickened their steps and saw a line of people making their way in when they turned the final corner around one building end.

  Inside microhouse rolled through the club with heavy basslines below quirky melodies and the girls danced and mingled and talked to each other and made new friends. The night flowed in a logical progression as the opening DJ built it up patiently for Spellcaster who took over and drove the room through peak time. He played for two hours straight and there were moments so outstanding that people just looked at each other and shook their heads and laughed. The entire club felt the shared experience of being moved by music together and everyone danced into the night.

  The heavyset girl who played after Spellcaster had shiny sheetmetal-straight black hair and a mischievous smirk and she reduced the complexity of the music but not the tempo and then skillfully filled the gaps with devious basslines that won the remaining crowd over and kept them moving late into the night.

  Mims was sitting on the ground talking to two other sitting girls, Claire was mingling and dancing here and there, and Jordan found herself unexpectedly preoccupied with a guy who seemed far more interested in the sound system than her but she could not stop looking for him and talking to him when she found him.

  He seemed more interesting each time she spoke to him. He wore ripped jeans tucked into black laced up boots, a tan oxford shirt tucked in with a brown belt that had silver accents. A tweed sport coat. A paisley scarf of navy and tan was wrapped casually in a loose knot and hung at his chest. His hair was brown, long for a guy just to his shoulders, with a healthy shine. He held his hands in his jeans pockets and he was enthusiastic about the music and he was friendly but not fawning toward Jordan.