Magic and Mayhem: Bridget's Witch's Diary (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Witches of Mane Street Book 2)

by Heather Long

  …like before?

  “Rika?”

  Nervousness invaded the girl across from me. It was the second time something else stormed the child. Poor thing, she was worse the Poland. I didn’t have to look at her to feel the eddies in the magic around us. Tendrils of power began to dig into me, and I tasted the spell in the juice.

  “What did you do Rika?”

  Worry for Martin surged within me, but I couldn’t rise from the table. Cutting a look to the teen, I raised my eyebrows and panic tightened her expression.

  “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Didn’t mean to what?”

  The backdoor thundered open and a brawny man with a bare chest and a dark green plaid kilt filled the doorway. “Wha’ the bloody ‘ell is this?”

  Damn good question.

  Then white light burst through the room.

  2

  Rika

  Rika had done a lot of stupid things in her life, but the worst had to be pissing off the Baby Yaga. She hadn’t really meant to piss her off, in fact given her way, she would never have even had a conversation with the wickedly powerful head of all witches—like, ever. Still, she’d taken the job to investigate the new Shifter Whisperer in Assjacket because it would pay off her bills—and ‘cause she was genuinely curious.

  Little did she know that her investigation would have her stepping on some very powerful toes. She hadn’t even been in town a week before the Baba Yaga had taken aside, calmly explained it would be in Rika’s best interests to back off on the investigation and get the heck out of Dodge. The Baba Yaga also reminded her that she could have been a very powerful, had she ever maximized her potential.

  She hated that phrase. She hated that phrase so much it made her want to throw up in her mouth every time someone brought it up as a subject—her teachers, her mother, the Baba Yaga.

  However, she knew enough to make a decent magical detective, which meant investigating people was how she made her living. Her clients hired her via private messaging services, paid her a decent finder’s fee to get started. After she investigated, she could then ransom the information to the client for a much higher fee. Everyone knew what was going to happen upfront. Nothing personal, just business.

  Looking into who the new Shifter Whisperer was didn’t seem like a big deal. The Shifters would definitely know who he or she was. Assjacket was the practical location. What did it hurt? After the Baba Yaga gave her the lovely warning, Rika debated refunding the money for the investigation or simply finishing it. Who was she hurting? They wanted some basic answers to some fairly simple questions—who was she? Where did she come from? Was she related to? And how powerful was she? To be honest, it wasn’t a hard case, and she did have a rep to protect.

  Unfortunately, all the answers she collected went out the window when the Baba Yaga discovered she was still investigating. “Fine, if you want to act like a brat, then you can be a brat,” were the last words Rika recalled before the old witch cursed her back into a sixteen-year-old body—right down to the zits, and the hormones and the out of whack magic.

  What was up with that?

  To add diabolical to frustration, she discovered she remembered her curse and the why of it, but she couldn’t say anything about it to anyone. Every time she tried to come clean, the words died unspoken or came out gibberish, and she blew herself up.

  It would piss her off, and she’d blow herself up.

  She’d pitch a fit, and she’d—yep, you guessed it—blow herself up.

  The Baba Yaga was the Queen Beeyotch of the Universe.

  If all of that wasn’t punishment enough, the Baba Yaga showed up three days later and saddled her with the single worst witch teacher on the planet. She didn't know where this Bridget chick had come from or why she was an Assjacket or what it was the Rika was really supposed to be learning from her, but Rika had discovered she could learn more reading the instructions on how to put together furniture then she’d learned from Bridget so far.

  Well except for the bit where she bound Rika’s magic so that any explosion she created only affected her and no one else. It also made stabilizing her hair color and length a real bitch. It was like she had to experience every fashion rejected style she’d ever considered over the years.

  The Baba Yaga probably cracked herself up on this one.

  So maybe Rika could stand to learn one or two things. Martin was kind of cool, he was, like, the picture of patience. Of course, Bridget and Martin were both very loud when they got back to their bedroom—too loud so Rika had invested in a pair of really strong headphones and cranked loud music. She’d also come up with an idea that after a month of getting nowhere with Bridget's lack of teaching, she’d educate herself.

  Because high school still sucked and being forced to repeat it sucked worse than having to deal with acne.

  She was an investigator after all, so she would investigate…

  Fortunately, she still remembered one spell and she could pull it off. Once she’d gotten it fired up, she went to work.

  Waking early, she searched to the house quietly until she located the diary she'd seen Bridget writing in. Stealing away to her bedroom, she began reading through it. Bridget wrote a lot about different things, but she also wrote in the shorthand that was kind of hard to understand. Things like Mr. Nasty-Face sucks—literally. Who the hell was Mr. Nasty-Face?

  There was also some bit about turning customers into cows, the human customers anyway. The last time Rika checked, casually dumping magic on humans should get one locked up in the magical pokey so why was Bridget in Assjacket and not in jail?

  Then there was this long part. Where all that was written out in the book were lyrics… Lots and lots of lyrics. Bridget wasn’t the most gifted of songwriters. In fact, she seemed very intent on bastardizing every single pop song known to man.

  Since Rika couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid welded on, singing her spells was not going to work for her. About halfway through the diary, though, she came to most interesting piece. It was still early, and she heard them starting to move around, which meant she would have to get dressed soon so they could send her to school. Rika rolled her eyes. Going to school would suck. She hated the whole going to school concept when she’d been on the merry-go-round the first time. Her plan had worked for three days—three days to find the damn diary, but at least she hadn’t had to go to school.

  She checked her watch again. She still had about another hour, maybe ninety minutes, before her contingency kicked into gear. That gave her more than enough time to experiment with this new spell.

  Warning, use only in controlled circumstances. Summoning a muse for inspiration can have unintended consequences.

  Summoning a muse. That was exactly what Rika needed. A muse to help her figure out how to train the wild magic that she had at sixteen—how could she have forgotten how out of control she’d been back then? All she needed was to get it back under control as soon as possible, then she and her tight little sixteen-year-old body could get the hell out of town.

  Still the curse did have its upside—like her smooth skin, and lack of stretch marks on her boobs. Gravity worked, but at sixteen, she was all taut body and perky breasts.

  Flipping back and forth through the pages, she recited the spell until she had it committed to memory, then she looked around her room. What could she use in here to summon a muse? According to what Bridget had written, she required a very specific focus to make it work.

  Still searching, her gaze landed on the Kerrigan Byrne book laying on her bed.

  That guy was hot… So, she scrambled over, picked up the book, then returned to the diary. She’d just set it on the desk when she heard Bridget bellow from downstairs.

  Same time every day.

  Same sausage every day.

  Same awful burnt smell invading the house. Blocking out all other sound she concentrated on the cover and recited the spell.

  Sing a song of inspiration,

&nbs
p; A pocket full of creation.

  For I need a muse,

  To chase away the blues.

  Wait till the muse arrives

  My power will revived

  Remember above all belong

  Lest you do wrong.

  She finished with a flourish then waited.

  “Rika, come on.”

  Oh, for the love of magic… “I’m not going to school!” She was too busy searching her room. “And you can’t make me!” She’d felt something, a stirring and a bit of a pop, when she’d completed the incantation. Where was her…?

  Her door slammed open, and suddenly Bridget was standing there, glaring daggers at her. Oh hell no. Bridget was not the muse she wanted.

  “Don’t just charge in here like you own the place,” Rika scowled as she shoved the Kerrigan book out of the way, she didn’t need Bridget to give her grief about reading steamy sex scenes.

  Her temper kindled. The worst part of being a teen was the utter lack of privacy. Bad enough those two boinked like bunnies and the walls were thin, but Bridget never gave her a break, even when the door was closed.

  “What are you doing with my diary?”

  Ice chilled along her spine. Bridget yelled. She flung her hands. She was bombastic and over the top dramatic…not serial killer quiet.

  A sizzle and pop slid through Rika and a quiet poof sent her hair up. Yep, hormones sucked. She could barely control her own reactions, and she’d worked to perfect the red hair and she was pretty sure it sucked now. “I wanted to figure out one of the spells.” Honesty had to count, right?

  Bridget closed her eyes so Rika kicked the book under the bed. The witch singer released three notes and the diary flew off the desk and into her hand. Damn. It had taken her long enough to find it, hopefully it would be right where she’d located it after the charm kicked in.

  That muse spell must have needed another component—or something.

  Fire licked along her hair, embarrassment was even worse than anger. It left her all kinds of crispy, and once, it had left her bald.

  Rika really needed the muse.

  Her so-called teacher didn’t budge from the doorway, though, and judgment rolled off her in waves.

  Frustrated, she peeked around the room once. Still no muse. Damn. Double damn. “How else am I supposed to learn?” She exploded. “You’re supposed to teach me and all you do is tell me to do my chores, and make me go to school. You don’t even let me…”

  Boom!

  The explosion decimated the air around her and her hair flamed green and stood on end.

  Crap. She stomped her feet trying to turn the flames off before they ate away her hair or worse, her clothes. The top had been expensive and it hadn’t been easy to work the security tag at the store without anyone noticing.

  Martin chose that precise moment to stick his head into the room. “Problems?”

  The way he looked at Bridget was sigh worthy, and when his patience gaze flicked to Rika, fresh guilt stabbed at her. He was such a good guy and Rika felt like a heel. Worse, she felt like she should apologize.

  Rika didn’t do that. So instead, she picked a fight. It was easier.

  “She’s a monster.” She snarled, though it lacked any real heat. “She won’t teach me. When I decide to take matters into my own hands, she acts like I’m the criminal.”

  “I see,” Martin nudged his glasses up, and glanced at the diary in Bridget’s hands. He seemed even more disappointed if that were possible. Dammit, she was going to have to make nice…

  “Well, since I’m a monster, you’re grounded. You will go to school, then you will return and stay in this room.”

  Grounded? Was she insane? Before Rika could challenge or make amends, though, Bridget made a zipping motion with her fingers and suddenly, Rika’s voice vanished.

  Oh. Hell. No.

  “Here’s another fun thought, if you don’t have anything nice to say, you don’t get to say it. Downstairs. Breakfast. Now.”

  The magic flooded over her and took control of her limbs, completely out of control, Rika marched down the stairs and to the kitchen where the sausage sizzled on the stove. It was close to burning—again.

  As soon as she arrived in the kitchen, the magic released her. After three days of it, she’d come to hate the smell of burnt meat, she turned off the stove and set the table. Bridget would make her do it anyway, and if she could get ahead of the curve, maybe it would keep the peace for the next…what, eighty minutes or less? It wasn’t always precise.

  Bridget arrived in the kitchen in a rush and paused, then she released the silencing spell. “Thank you for rescuing our breakfast.”

  The freedom of speech didn’t mean she planned on saying anything. Better to say nothing and be thought of as a bitch than to open her mouth and start complaining.

  Food on the plates, Rika carried them to the table and set them in their spots before plopping into a chair. What had she done wrong with that damn spell? Why hadn’t her muse shown up?

  Was it her age? Her wording?

  Oh Goddess, what if I have to sing it?

  Bridget was still staring at her and Rika wanted to sigh. “Fine, you’re welcome.” Geez, just sit down, woman, and let’s get the reset over with. She kept the last part to herself.

  Bridget still had the diary in her hands. Hopefully that wouldn’t mess with where it would be…

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you and zapped your ability to speak.” The witch singer sounded like she meant it. “I will not apologize for being angry that you invaded my privacy.” She put the diary on the table and patted it. “What I write in here isn’t just about magic, it’s about me, and what I am trying to figure out. Information is power.”

  No kidding. Rika studied her. Why else do you think I took it? Again, she kept the words to herself.

  “Yes, power. You don’t have enough control—yet—to try co-opting my magic. Not to mention, I don’t think you’re a witch singer, which means what works for me may not work for you.”

  Bah. Maybe that was why the spell didn’t work. I hate singing…

  “I have an idea, but I am going to ask your permission.” Well that was different. They’d never had this conversation before.

  Oh? Was she finally going to treat Rika like a person rather than a burden? “What do you need my permission for?”

  “Simple, I want to summon your familiar.”

  Great, gobbing witch balls of fire! “Really?” A familiar would be even better than a muse. A familiar could help her get everything under control.

  “Really. You were right, I’m supposed to be teaching you.” She raised a finger before. “I was also right, you need more control in order to learn. So, we split the difference. A familiar can help you focus, and it can also help you measure your control. I can bind the spell containing your magic to your familiar—then when you have the control necessary, the familiar will know it and together you will be able to work your spells.”

  Whatever makes you happy. When Bridget didn’t continue, it occurred to Rika she needed to play her part. “Does that mean the familiar will be in charge of my magic and my teaching?”

  “No, they will be a guardian to your level of control. I can’t be with you twenty-four seven and you don’t want me to be.”

  That worked. “No, I really don’t.”

  Bridget hesitated. This time, though, she stared at her glass. Oh, great, she was going to explode over the fingerprints because Rika hadn’t grasped it at the base but around the rim.

  Instead, she said, “Exactly so. I’ll cast the summon, then we’ll wait for your familiar to show up…” It kind of reminded her when she said she would summon Rika’s homework during their last cycle through. Not quite the same, but close. Yet she hesitated again.

  Distract her! “Why don’t you have a familiar?”

  “I told you.” No, she hadn’t, well she’d mentioned something about familiars in the first cycle, but Rika had been a little focused on triggeri
ng the spell. The hesitations in Bridget’s voice were new, though. Had the second spell done something to the first one? “Rika?”

  A wave of heat washed over her, eddies in magic—magic she hadn’t felt in a while. It was too soon for the reset to trigger, so was it the muse spell?

  “What did you do, Rika?” Bridget stood, her expression incredulous and worried.

  Oh, if the muse spell broke the reset… “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Didn’t mean to what?”

  The backdoor thundered open and a brawny man with a bare chest and a dark green plaid kilt filled the doorway. Gorgeous, and perfect—he was the cover come to life, and he was there for her. “Wha’ the bloody ‘ell is this?”

  A shiver of delight rippled through her just as the second spell whiplashed and a white light burst through the room.

  3

  Bridget

  It was early when I woke. I hated being awake before the sun. Having a teenager meant I needed to get moving, make breakfast and make nice before I kicked her out of the house. The sooner I got her going, the sooner I could get back to work on figuring out a solution to my vampire problem.

  Yes, the Baba Yaga promised to help with a solution after I complete her task. The letter had been burned into my memory:

  My dearest Bridget,

  So happy you’ve finally decided to take life by the balls and come find me. Sadly, I got tired of waiting. Five years is a very long time to keep the Baba Yaga in suspense, so remind me to punish you for that later. Rika has keys to the cottage for you and your young man. She’ll be living with you both for the interim. In the meanwhile, I’m going to be late for the Madonna concert, so I wanted to write you this quick introduction to Rika. She is to be your new apprentice. I trust you will train her and raise her with style, class and control. Granted, you possess none of these attributes, but I’m a firm believer that teaching her will be an education for you.