by fox, angie
Covens and Cocktails
Four Wonderfully Witchy Adventures
from your favorite paranormal authors
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, places, and brands are the product of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Some Like It Hexed
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Ghosts in the Graveyard
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Spirits of Bourbon Street
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Charmed and Dangerous
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Some Like It Hexed
by Angie Fox
Chapter One
The Red Skulls biker gang, made up of Harley-riding witches, had never thrown a Halloween party before.
Sure, they’d gathered the coven at midnight on Samhain. They’d communed with the spirits on the other side. They’d reached beyond the veil in the light of the full moon.
But a party? With themed-out napkins and paper plates? I mean, they’d bought the ones showing a green-skinned woman with questionable fashion taste, riding on a broomstick in front of a full moon. Aside from the fact that she made an easy target for any demon, banshee, or evil warlock, I didn’t get how a coven of powerful witches could act so blasé.
“Oh, and Lizzie, I need you to bring a snack to share,” my grandmother instructed.
I gripped the phone tighter.
Grandma Gertie was the leader of the Red Skulls. She walked around in leather chaps with a sagging tattoo of a phoenix on her arm and purple sparkles in her hair. She ate pork ribs off the bone, drank whiskey straight out of the bottle, and hadn’t touched an oven mitt since the Carter administration. “Whip up some of those cupcakes I saw in that magazine at your condo, the ones with the licorice legs that look like spiders. See if you can get gumdrops for the eyes.”
Just because I owned a stack of Good Housekeeping magazines didn’t mean I knew what to do with the recipes. I sent in the subscription card on one particularly optimistic day. After that, I enjoyed looking at the pretty pictures. It had been innocent. Harmless.
Until now.
“You seem to forget that I’m the anointed demon slayer of Dalea,” I told her. There was only one of us born every three generations, for goodness’ sake.
I’d learned I was said demon slayer on the night of my thirtieth birthday, when Grandma in her full biker glory showed up unannounced on my doorstep and informed me I wouldn’t be teaching preschool anymore. She then inadvertently locked me in the bathroom to battle a demon with a bottle of air freshener. It had been a wild ride ever since.
“Are you fighting a demon right now?” she asked, her voice sounding even rustier over the phone.
“No,” I groused.
“Then those should be some damned good cupcakes.”
I groaned. Trapped. Like a rat.
So I headed to the grocery store, as requested, and managed to figure out what size gumdrops made the best spider eyes.
If I take on a job, I do it right.
Then I returned home and did my best impression of Martha Stewart, if the homemade diva wore leather boots and a Kiss My Asphalt T-shirt.
After I’d finished baking, I dressed in a black leather dress, my demon slayer weapons belt, and a cute pair of spider earrings I found on a rack by the checkout lane.
It was time to party.
“Come on, Pirate,” I said to my Jack Russell terrier.
I hoisted a box full of treats that would make my friends on Pinterest proud and led my dog out of the condo. I locked the door behind us since my mouthwatering plus-one, Dimitri, had gone into the city this afternoon to meet with visiting dignitaries from the griffin clans of Santorini. He was the liaison here in North America.
No doubt he would have found the idea of a biker witch Halloween party as odd as I did.
It was barely four in the afternoon.
Pirate trailed behind me, sulking. “I don’t know why I followed you outside. I ain’t going anywhere until you get me out of this straitjacket.”
Did I mention one of the side effects of my awesome powers was that I could also understand my dog?
Sometimes it was a gift. Other times, a curse.
“You look darling,” I told him. He did.
He was mostly white, with a dollop of brown on his back that wound up his neck and over one eye. I’d named him Pirate for that reason. And thanks to the Internet, I’d found him a little doggy pirate outfit, complete with a red-and-white-striped shirt and a black belt with a stuffed sword hanging from it. Precious.
“Admit it. I look stupid,” he grumbled.
“That’s because you’re not wearing the hat,” I told him, “but don’t worry. I already packed it. We’ll strap it on when we get there.” Too bad the outfit didn’t come with an eye patch.
“I’d better get a cupcake,” he muttered as I picked him up and set him on the leather seat of my Harley.
Ever since I’d learned to ride, my furry friend had become a biker dog. Until recently, I wore him close to my body with what can best be described as a leather baby carrier.
A biker witch named Bob had made my dog a permanent doggy seat in front of me. Pirate liked being the first one to catch the breeze as we rode. I secured him snugly and fastened his canine riding goggles, also known as doggles.
Pirate stared at the box of goodies I’d strapped to the luggage rack of the Harley, as if he could make a cupcake fall out by willpower alone.
I’d tell him later I packed some yummy doggy dental chews.
“Okay, buddy,” I said, climbing on behind him. “You ready?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, forgetting his wardrobe issues as I fired up the engine. Going on a ride always perked my dog up. Claiming a seat at the front of my bike was like sticking his entire body out the car window.
“Let’s get this party started,” I told him.
My dog threw his head back and howled in triumph as we blazed out onto the open road.
Chapter Two
The late-afternoon sun blazed in a cloudless blue sky as we rode the Pacific Coast Highway up to Long Beach and followed Grandma’s directions through a quaint residential area near the water.
We passed a neighborhood of Spanish-style stucco houses with colorful tile house numbers. We saw a white-painted crab shack, an ice cream shop, and a crowded farmers’ market. Palm trees lined the street, their leaves rustling as they swayed in the breeze.
This couldn’t be right.
It was too…normal. And I wasn’t detecting any clear magical hot spots.
The witches liked to party with fairies and necromancers. They hung at hole-in-the-wall bars with warlock bikers a
nd banshee hunters.
Then again, the one thing I’ve learned about the Red Skulls over the years—there was no telling what they might do. These were hard riding, no-guff senior ladies who’d been in love with Harleys for longer than I’d been alive. They seized every day with no apologies and seemed determined to eke every bit of pleasure from life.
Even still, I was really surprised when Grandma’s directions led me to the Ocean View Senior Living & Rehabilitation Center.
This had to be some kind of mistake.
I passed blue-painted benches under groupings of palm trees as I drove up the circle drive. I stopped my bike at the top and shut off the engine. “We’re in the wrong place, little doggy,” I murmured, rubbing Pirate on the head.
My dog’s tail thumped against the seat. “This place looks good to me.” He eyed an older gentleman in a heavy jacket sitting on a bench by the door. “See that guy? He looks like he wants to pet a dog.” Pirate tried to leap off the bike and I was glad I’d strapped him in good.
“Hey mister!” Pirate hollered. “I’m cute and I’m soft. You want to pet my head? I’ll let you rub my belly.”
The man smiled. I doubted he was a warlock, which meant he didn’t understand my dog’s actual words. Still, Pirate was about ready to spring out of his skin with excitement. No way to miss that.
“You are shameless,” I said, returning the man’s grin as I reached into my back pocket for my cell phone.
Pirate craned his neck to look at me. “I have learned to ask for what I want. Not everybody can say that.”
“I’m going to call,” I said, dialing. Hopefully, we were close to the fairy highway that would take us to the secret magic party.
Just then, I saw Grandma’s second-in-command walk out of the front entrance.
“Ant Eater?” I kicked on my engine and pulled my bike up closer to the witch with knee-high black boots, a black greaser wig, and a red cape. She wore black leather chaps and the most obnoxious belt buckle I’d ever seen. “What are you supposed to be?”
She waved at me, her red cape trailing in the breeze. “Elvis.” She grinned, her gold tooth gleaming. “You can’t park here. This lane is for pickup and drop-off only. Go along the side of the building. You’ll see a line of bikes. We’re just grabbing a couple of things. Party’s already started.”
“At a senior center,” I said, as if maybe she hadn’t noticed.
The Red Skulls were one of the most powerful covens on the West Coast. They practiced a dynamic, healing white magic that could be stunning in its complexity—even if they did tend to use items most of us could find around the house, or on a drive through town.
Ant Eater waved at two witches carrying a giant black cauldron in from the side parking lot. People were going to notice.
I dismounted and pulled her aside. “Why are you doing this here, of all places, on the eve of Samhain? Surely you could have found a more private place for a ritual.” Even my condo would have been preferable to this.
They couldn’t possibly expect to go undetected here.
Skinny Loretta passed us. She wore a Minnie Mouse costume and carried a karaoke machine.
“Put it by the piano,” Ant Eater instructed. “We may need it.” The gold-toothed witch turned to me. “Who said anything about a ritual? This is a party!”
“I’ll be right in,” I told her. I had to see it for myself.
Pirate and I drove the bike over to the side lot. Then I unstrapped him and grabbed my cupcakes.
“I hope they have bacon treats,” he said, shaking off.
We made our way toward the front door. I hated to break it to him, but, “I doubt they’ll have doggy snacks on the food table.”
“Who said anything about dog food?” Pirate balked.
I noticed the biker witches didn’t even pause at the large front desk just inside the doors. I signed my name and hoped they’d think Pirate was a service dog.
“It’d help if you wore the hat,” I told him.
“Only if you can catch me,” he said, ready to flee.
Stubborn dog.
We set off down the hall, with me trying to hold my cupcake box as evenly as possible and Pirate glancing back at me, as if he expected me to swoop down any minute to plunk a tricorn hat on his head.
I would have, too, if I thought I could get away with it.
Handrails lined the hall on either side, and groupings of chairs dotted the corridor.
My dog took it all in, even as his little legs churned so fast that his striped shirt looked like a blur. “We should have brought Flappy,” he said, whipping his head from side to side, trying to see inside the rooms as we passed.
“No dragons in the senior center,” I told him. “I saw a sign.”
Besides, the dragon had been on a growth spurt lately. I doubted he’d have fit through the front door.
“Don’t worry. I’ll smuggle home some treats for him,” Pirate said, taking the lead as we made a sharp left.
Ant Eater pulled open the doors to a rec room. A warm enchanted breeze whooshed out and I drew up short. I should have expected it. I should have known.
And yet? I paused for a moment to take it in.
While Pirate dashed forward—heading for the snack bar, no doubt—I savored.
The entire room sparkled with magic. Bob sat at the piano by the door, pounding out old show tunes. A pair of round yellow smiley faces bobbed from his head on springy wires. Next to him sat a woman in a wheelchair much like his. She giggled as they came to a double glissando and swept their hands down the keyboard.
“I haven’t been able to play since ’57!” she hollered to me.
A wisp of a woman struggled to pass me in the doorway. I stepped back and as soon as she crossed the threshold, her gait changed and her shoulders lifted. She raised a hand and caught the beat as she began to boogie out to the dance floor.
Unbelievable. “I see what you’re doing here,” I said to Ant Eater.
She merely grinned.
The two witches I’d seen outside had planted their black cauldron in the middle of a snack table that lined the left wall. They busied themselves mixing herbs while another member of the coven poured a jug of what appeared to be orange soda into the cauldron.
I’d bet anything the drinks were spelled.
Abandoned wheelchairs and walkers mingled with the black and orange streamers against the walls as residents swing danced and boogied.
“This is great,” I said. My words died on my lips. “Ohmigosh.” I pointed to a couple in the corner, making out. “They need to get a room.”
Ant Eater followed my gaze. “Oh, that’s Mr. and Mrs. Levinson. They already share a room.”
I gasped. “They should know better.”
Ant Eater shot me a squirrely look. “Like we never caught you naked in the garden with Dimitri.”
I almost dropped my cupcakes.
“Ahem. I need to put these snacks out,” I told her, clutching the box, ignoring her toothy grin as I escaped to the refreshment table.
I hated when the biker witches were right.
I placed the spider cupcakes between a plate full of caramel apple slices and a bowl full of Chex mix with candy corn mixed in.
A few paces away from the snack table stood Creely, the witch who wore her Kool-Aid-red hair in ponytails. From her shoulders to her knees, she wore a sphere with glass tiles glued all over it. Oh my. She’d come as a disco ball. Creely had a rapt crowd of about a dozen circled around her.
“Abracadabra and all that jazz.” She grinned.
As she spoke the words, she waggled her fingers at a pair of spectacles in her palm. Slowly, they lifted into the air. The crowd oohed and ahhed as the glasses began to spin in lazy circles.
They clapped at her cleverness.
Only it was no trick. It was straight-up bona fide magic.
“Want to see how it works?” she asked teasingly. “You just might.”
Oh my. She couldn’t be planning t
o share her little secret.
Or could she?
A large black banner proclaimed this party as the Witches’ Bash.
Before I could worry about it too much, something short and furry bounced off my leg.
“Oh, hey. Excuse me,” Pirate said, his chin down, chewing. He glanced up, saw me, and swallowed whatever he’d been eating. Whole. “I didn’t take that entire plate,” he said quickly. “It fell. I was just cleaning up,” he said, before I could get a word in edgewise.
“Why don’t you go see if Bob needs help on the piano?” I asked. At least it was on the other side of the room from the food.
Although the last thing we needed was a dog singing party tunes.
A witch named Frieda clattered up on platform heels. She wore a black catsuit and a pair of furry kitty ears on her head. “Sooo,” she drawled, hands on her hips, “what do you think?”
“I never could have imagined it,” I said. It was the God’s honest truth.
Grandma walked up on my other side. She’d colored her skin green and wore a witch’s hat and a flowing black dress. She looked like a bad napkin. “A witch?” I asked her. “Really?”
She planted the end of her broomstick on the floor. “If the hat fits.” She grinned. “Where’s your costume?”
I pointed to my web earrings. “I’m a spider.”
“You’re not even trying,” Frieda said.
“Hey, I baked for this party,” I told her. “And besides, I have to tell you. I don’t think anybody here realizes you’re serious.”