by Abby Knox
Table of Contents
An Excerpt from Abby’s next book …
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
Some Basic Witch
A Sisterhood Enchantment
Abby Knox
Copyright © 2017 by Abby Knox
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.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Cover Designer: Perfect Pear Cover Creations
BY ABBY KNOX

Morgan Hibbins and her Sisters are preparing for the biggest Halloween festival their town has ever seen, and everything is right on schedule, until a harmless summoning charm meant to bring her the man of her dreams turns out to be a little too real.
Detective Adam Corey is attempting to keep an eye on the new mysterious group of holy rollers, suddenly pushing back against Halloween. He would have an easier time trying to keep the peace if he could only stop thinking about the strange woman invading his dreams.
For the one teacher who knew this: Fantasy is worth reading on its own merit, with or without allegory or metaphor.
“Where there is woman, there is magic.”
-- Ntozake Shange
Contents
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
An Excerpt from Abby’s next book …
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
1
Adam
If pumpkin spice was offered in a can of spray paint, the city leaders of Birchdale would volunteer to get thoroughly vandalized with it.
That’s what it seemed like to Detective Adam Corey. He sipped his black coffee and squinted against the shine of the brilliant blue sky, watching pedestrians nearly trip over the stacks of gourds and haystacks on every corner along Main Street. There were tiny pumpkins in the hanging baskets, accenting the overgrown purple vines. Everyone in this town practically fetishized autumn and Halloween.
Everyone, at least, except for this new holy-roller “church,” which Adam had his eye on at the moment. This group of folks currently making their way down Main Street were headed in to a little room that was set up inside an empty retail space. The whole town may have been decked out in black cats, cauldrons and eye of newt, but it was this new crowd that set him on edge. Nobody was doing anything illegal, but several things about these people rubbed him the wrong way. The sight of them made his neck hair stand on end.
First, it was the name. Church of the Messenger had an eerie ring to it. The timing was another thing. This Church had sprung up around the same time that the city had started plans for this year’s unique, expanded Halloween festivities.
And then, there was Hank Snow. Local asshole extraordinaire.
Hank was the self-proclaimed pastor of this group, and there he was, sauntering up to church, holding some kind of holy book, looking like a goddamn overgrown sinister choirboy. Were choirboys still a thing? Adam didn’t know and didn’t care to know.
Hank had a colorful rap sheet. Assault. Public nuisances of all kinds. Harassment. Trespassing. Stalking. Public urination. Loitering. Petty theft. The detective couldn’t investigate the group just for following this turd. He couldn’t get a warrant just because this clown had given himself the title of Reverend.
Adam took another sip of coffee. Women with sleeves down to their wrists and hemlines past their ankles, walking about three feet behind their menfolk. And what kind of group meets on a Saturday morning? Adam didn’t know much about religions past his own bar mitzvah at age 14. None of these dudes here were wearing yarmulkes and this was no temple.
Something weird was definitely going on. He had a sinking feeling this was some kind of reaction against the Halloween on Steroids that Birchdale was undertaking at the moment. Just one door down from the Church of the Messenger was a sandwich board in front of Stubby’s Tavern that advertised craft pumpkin ale, Samhain IPA and Witchdale Hefeweizen.
Nobody, not even the local Catholics or Protestants, objected to all this Halloween nuttiness. In fact, just up the street, St. Martin’s street-side marquee advertised midnight tours of its historic cemetery.
Trick-or-treating here was always a big deal, but this year there was even more excitement: a lunar eclipse was predicted on the night of October 31. According to the Main Street bulletin board kiosk, the city was tacking on special events up on Colony Hill, a historic property in the woods maintained by the Living History Sisters Museum. To the average citizen, this meant free admission and tours of this well-known artists colony. The inhabitants, known as the Sisters, dressed up in colonial garb to educate the public about Colonial New England life, and re-enactments of actual witch trials that took place here.
But all it meant to the chief of police, and to Adam, was extra work.
And now, he had a sinking feeling that these new Church people might decide to picket the Halloween events. With Hank Snow in charge, there was a 100 percent chance that shit was going to go sideways.
Adam himself didn’t care much for Halloween, but he also didn’t care to spoil anybody’s fun. So why couldn’t people just let everybody else howl at the moon, dance around the bonfire, or whatever crazy shit they want to do, as long as it’s not bothering anybody else?
Right on cue, his phone rang. He didn’t even have to look at the screen to know who it was. “Hi, Mom.”
“Honey, I was just looking at the new Reader’s Digest this morning and did you know that the later in life that a man fathers a child, it increases the chance of that child having autism?”
“And good morning to you, Mom.” He rolled his eyes.
“Anyway, I clipped this article out and I’m going to send it to you in the mail. How’s things? They make you chief of police in Witchdale yet?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I’m a detective, Mom. It’s way better than a desk job and being everybody’s boss. Plus, I don’t have to wear a uniform or talk to the newspaper. And it’s called Birchdale.”
“You know, Megan just got promoted to chief of surgery and she and her new husband, the one who works in the mayor’s office, they adopted a baby.”
“No, how would I know that?”
“I don’t know, some people keep in touch with their ex-wives, but not you, I suppose. But isn’t that wonderful news?”
“Sure is. Did you call to tell me about Megan, or did you call to tell me my future children are destined to be on the spectrum? Which, by the way, they probably will be. I mean, look at Dad, he’s like 100 percent undiagnosed Asperger’s.”
“Oh really? Look who’s a doctor now! If you knew anything about your father, you would know that’s an insult to people who actually are on the spectrum, young man. You should have gone to medical school. You would be a great healer, it’s in your blood, you know….”
“Mom, don’t start that crazy witch doctor talk again while I’m at work.”
“Oh. Did you go to temple this morning?”
“There’s no synagogue here, Mom. And besides, maybe the fact that I was raised with dueling religions is still a bit confusing.”
“There are no dueling religions. Witchcraft is a gift, layered on top of whatever it is we practice or don’t practice. We choose, or don’t choose, our man-made religions to order our world. The elements choose us for the Craft.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “Well, I worked third shift last night; I’m just finishing up. So, no time for either of those things.”
“You don’t practice a faith, you don’t practice the craft, you don’t have any babies. Do you even have a girlfriend? Anything outside of work these days?”
“Mom, can I call you later?”
“Later, everything is later with you. Just listen to me, sweetheart. Just because it didn’t work the first time doesn’t mean you should wait too long for the next good thing. Sometimes you have to go after it. I did a little wish spell today for you and it gave me the oddest feeling. I just wanted to call and tell you to keep your eyes and your heart open.”
Adam laughed. “You just want me to jump on the next warm body in a skirt so you can have some grandchildren.”
“I just want you to be happy.”
She was starting to get emotional. Family history speech in 3…2…1.
“You know, when my mother fled Russia in 1952, she had only the clothes on her back and her book of spells. I know you don’t believe in it, but I’d like someone to pass this book down to, for posterity, if you don’t mind.”
“I know.”
“Isn’t there a nice witchy girl in that town of yours? I bet the place is crawling with descendants. Maybe come visit me here in Woodlawn. There’s a very lively coven here. I’m sure there’s someone to suit you. Or Ashford, that’s just up the road, they have the biggest group in New England outside of Salem.”
“OK, Mom,” the detective finally said. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll keep my eyes open. In fact, I’ll go right ahead and ask the next woman who catches my eye for a date. But I don’t have a lot of time on my hands. I’m just trying to keep things calm in case we have a torches-and-pitchforks situation. It’s Halloween, you know.”
“It’s auspicious timing! Don’t wait for a date. Just go jump somebody’s bones and make me a grandbaby, won’t you?”
“Mom!”
“Love you, bye-bye.”
“Love you, too.”
He hung up the phone and wondered what in the hell he had just agreed to.
Adam squinted across the street but couldn’t see what was going on in the makeshift church behind the glare of the glass. Not wanting to make it known he was eyeballing them, he left and got back to some paperwork related to a spate of vehicle break-ins.
On the way home from work, Adam stopped and picked up some soda and red meat to go with his exciting Saturday afternoon of Scotch and college football. As an outsider in Birchdale with crazy work hours, football season saw him alone in his apartment with only himself, a large, comfy recliner, and a 72-inch screen.
Hours later, full of Scotch and steak, he celebrated his favorite team’s win by taking a wobbly trip to his spotless, white-tiled bathroom for a piss and a hot bath. He fell into bed naked, wet and drunk on top of the sheets, ass to the sky.
Before he fell asleep, he had the fleeting thought that it would be nice to have a person next to him. A soft person who smelled good and who would maybe take pity on his drunk ass and cover him up with a blanket. Maybe she would bring him some water and ibuprofen and kiss him on the forehead. Maybe she would be annoyed but maybe she would be giggly and slightly drunk, too. Maybe she would have slipped into the tub with him and taken advantage of his useless drunk ass. Would he mind? Hell no.
Before long, the detective was asleep and dreaming.
But it wasn’t just any dream. It wasn’t like any kind of Scotch-soaked dream he was used to. It was lucid and vivid, and not full of weird, Dalí-esque imagery.
He saw a woman. A petite but strong woman sitting in a dark, candlelit room, eyes closed. She was quiet but her lips were moving. Adam somehow knew he was at home in his bed, but he felt completely present in the strange room with this woman, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from him. This room belonged to her, he felt. She was talking to someone, or something.
She appeared to be in her early 30s. A natural beauty. Muscular legs and arms. Tanned. Ridiculously long blonde hair. Almost down to her waist. She looked wild and free. Her fingernails were a strange shade of purple. She had full, round, sexy lips. She wore a peasant blouse with a drawstring at the top which was tied in a loose knot at the dip between her collarbones. Her neck was graceful and appeared soft. It beckoned him to come closer and inhale her perfume. His gaze fell to her breasts. In waking hours, he would glance away and feel ungentlemanly and embarrassed whenever he caught himself staring at a woman’s breasts. But somehow she was inviting him to look. Whatever it was she was saying under her breath, it was inviting him to look, and to touch.
He reached out to touch her hair. It was soft and released her scent when he touched it. He was immediately turned on.
The detective’s hand went to her cheek and began to travel down her neck, until she suddenly opened her eyes, taking him by surprise. The woman touched his hand and told him, without moving her lips, to do whatever he wished with her. His manhood rose at her command.
Adam went for it. He hurriedly untied her lace-up blouse and helped it fall open, its embroidered yellow daisies falling to the sides. He tugged at the laces and the shirt fell open wider, revealing large, amazing tits.
Maintaining eye contact, he cupped her breast and her blue eyes flashed in pleasure. He squeezed her soft pink nipple until it hardened. Her cheeks flushed and she let out a small moan. He would never be so forward, even on a one-night stand. But whatever kind of meeting this was, it was perfect for an introvert like himself. All in his head. Or so he thought.
With one swift movement and a primal growl, the detective pulled the woman onto his lap. His pelvis ached to be fused to hers.
“How bad do you want me?” she asked.
“I was rock hard the second I touched you. Who are you?”
“No names. Just us,” she said. “It’s OK. None of this is real.”
But holy shit, if he didn’t wish this woman was real when she lifted her gauzy skirt and saw all of her luscious body. When he looked down, he also noticed that somehow his pants were gone. The woman effortlessly adjusted herself on his lap, and then without warning, devoured his rock-hard cock with her slick warmth. He wanted a name so he could have something to say as she squeezed tightly around him.
“Bite me,” she whispered. The detective gladly obliged and took both breasts in his hands and nipped at them gently. The woman put her hands in his hair and growled, “Harder. Bite me. For real.”
He hesitated but then gave himself permission, taking her flesh into his mouth, biting, sucking, knowing this would leave a huge hickey on her. As he bit, she moaned and flexed her thighs around him, thrusting until he couldn’t possibly go deeper.
“Girl, you’re killing me,” he said as she thrusted against him,
her legs crisscrossed behind his back. He felt like an animal and was desperately trying to control his excitement. But damn, her movement was furious and insistent. He held on for as long as he could, but she was riding him with purpose. In a short while, she drew out his orgasm in one powerful thrust that felt like delicious lightning radiating through every cell in his body.
She cried out and trembled, gripping him against her as her cervix contracted around him in a breathless climax. And in the next moment, she was gone.
When Adam woke up, he was still on top of his covers, but now his bed was a mess. He rolled over, out of breath, covered in sweat, in wonder at the insanely technicolor sex dream he had just experienced.
He knew somewhere deep inside this wasn’t just a dream. But he told himself it was just a dream so he could relax and go to sleep.
That female was real. Her scent is still on you, man.
She wasn’t real. None of that is possible.
“Sleep it off, Adam Corey, you’re drunk,” he slurred into his pillow.
Whatever, or whoever, had happened to him, he was going to investigate in the morning.
2
Morgan
The day started out as a normal, productive Saturday for Morgan Hibbins.
The weekdays were spent continuously producing content for her wildly successful lifestyle blog, which complimented her peaceful existence in her cottage in the woods, among her fellow residents of the Living History Sisters Museum. On Saturdays, she took a break from the photographing, designing, building, baking, gardening, writing and general perfection and busied herself with her true identity: witchcraft.