The Violet Countercharm
Pearl Goodfellow
Contents
Coming Soon to Pre-Order
Introduction
Prologue
1. A Reluctant Witch
2. Double Bubble
3. Blow the House Down
4. Who’s Afraidy of the Big Bad Wolf?
5. Dead to Rights
6. Witchful Thinking
7. Raising Howl
8. Something Ouija This Way Comes
9. A Ghost of a Chance
10. The Joy of Hex
11. Escape Claws
12. Hide and Shriek
13. drop dead gourd-geous
14. Hexception to the Rule
15. From Bat to Worse
16. A Purr-fect Mess
17. Tempus-Fuggedaboutit
18. Hex Support
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Pearl Goodfellow
Copyright © 2016 by Pearl Goodfellow
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.
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To all of you whose soul is touched by your inner sorcerer or sorceress. Keep up the good magic, spread the love, and watch your witchcraft impact the world for the better.
Pearl
Coming Soon to Pre-Order
Hattie and her fuzzy sidekicks race to find the murderer of Druida Stone; Glessie’s prickly and slightly zany librarian.
When it’s discovered that Druida had, years ago, been installed on Gless Inlet as part of a witness protection program, Hattie and The Infiniti soon realize that Druida’s refusal to stock the shelves with anything other than Romani magic might not be the reason the witch was now dead.
Why was Glessie’s head librarian in a witness protection program in the first place? What secrets was Druida hiding, and could they have anything to do with the fact that she was now a corpse?
Unravel the clues with Hattie and the cats to find out!
Part three of an eight part series:Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles.
Introduction
Hello!
I’m on Facebook, if you’d ever like to join me there?
https://www.facebook.com/PearlGoodfellowbooks/
I’d also like to invite you to join my mailing list. In celebration of my series release of Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles, I am offering a pdf guide of your very own, make-at-home witchy potions. This easy to make recipes in this pdf are specifically geared toward the upcoming winter season. We could all do with a little healthy immune boost, right?
Here’s what you’ll get:
Yes, Please!
Prologue
They would pay for what they had done.
The thought clanged loudly around in my head as clearly as if it were my own.
I caught a glimpse of my face in the round, silvered mirror. It contorted into a bitter twist of deep wrinkles. The dour expression matched the sour odor permeating the old vardo. The dilapidated gypsy caravan was chockablock with moldering spell books, crumbling crystals, and dusty jars crammed with dried herbs, the odd animal part or two, and a collection of unidentifiable items best left to the imagination.
I shuffled past the arching walls papered in astrological charts and color correspondence tables to the small, wooden fireplace. A pot-bellied cast iron stove sat, staunchly snug, inside.
The chimney hooked up and to the left, eventually venting through the roof into the chill night air. Chimneys in the old Romani wagons always breached the roof on the left to keep the cap clear of any overhanging trees on that side of the road on which the wagon traveled. Not that the wagon had traveled anywhere in quite some time.
The acrid stench wafted up from the simmering contents of the black cauldron squatting on the stove. I dropped a few extra, dark berries into the open pot, using the flat of the spoon to mash them down. I peered into the mixture.
"Hm. Too thick. More vinegar." The thin, raspy voice coming out of my mouth surprised me. Normally, I had a pleasant mezzo. At least that’s what the choirmaster at the First United Coven Church, our local non-denominational sanctuary, was always telling me. But, then my voice was no less surprising than the face I saw earlier in the mirror. What the heck was happening?
I snagged a stoppered bottle from the overhead shelf and yanked out the cork with parched, deeply cracked lips. I spat it to the side and poured a generous dram of the clear liquid into the concoction. After a revolution or two of the spoon, I decided it was ready.
A dog; a mangy gray cur with wiry fur singed black at the tail from one too many maladapted spells, sneezed then whined with concern.
I looked down at my sole companion and clucked. "What's the matter, Remulus? Are you worried?"
Remulus cocked one ear and whimpered. I’m more of a cat person personally, but this canine did look worried. He'd been keeping an alert sentry near the door all night as if he was expecting someone, or something, to come through.
I eased down and patted the animal on the head with a liver-spotted hand. "No one comes to The Humps, Remy. You can rest easy."
I crossed under the clerestory, a narrow, raised spine of small windows that ran the length of the caravan. Had I bothered to employ them for their intended use, the biting vinegar odor may have ventilated to the open air. But, I got the feeling nothing about me was remotely open at this moment.
I rummaged through several drawers and fished out a folded scrap of cheesecloth. I puttered back to the stove and strained the berry mixture into a waiting well. When the last drop of purple liquid dribbled into the well, I carried my prize back to my desk.
I ran a gnarled finger down a page of yellowed parchment, my thick, cracked nail following along the doddering purple scrawl. I scratched the surface of my tongue with the tip of my long-wing quill; a predictable habit of mine if the ink stains marring the rough, pink surface were any indication.
The dog nudged his dirty, rough head under my hand. He wagged his charred tail hesitantly.
"Don't you worry, Remulus. Mother's going to do this right."
I rested the nib over blackened, crooked teeth - the ones that were left, anyway - thinking. My flinty gray eyes widened with inspiration. I hurriedly dipped the quill into the well, allowing the ink to soak into the hollow shaft of the feather, then put the tip to paper, drafting my fleeting thoughts into a concrete document that would fulfill my desire.
I paused, and once again brought the point of the quill to my wizened mouth.
"Yes," I cracked in a dry voice. "Yes, that will teach them. That will show them just fine."
I dipped the nib, touched my tongue once more, and continued to scratch out the words. The dog just whined and padded quietly to resume his watchful post at the threshold.
1
A Reluctant Witch
"I look like a banana!"
The celestial bell on the gilt-lettered door of The Angel Apothecary tinkled wildly, sounding nearly as upset as Millie Midge as she burst over the threshold. I yawned mightily, arms stretching above my head. Last night’s lucid dream had left me craving another four or five hours of shut-eye.
Millie threw herself onto the cash wrap, right in front of me, burying her tear-streaked face into her arms
and causing an alarming sway in the vast array of herb and liquid-filled canning jars and vials that lined the counter display. I was suddenly very awake.
A chocolate glass vial of essential peppermint oil nosed over the lip of the display. I made a wild grab as it threatened to plunge to the oaken floor.
Ha! Nicked it just in time.
Don't get me wrong. The customers who frequented my apothecary liked peppermint oil. It had broad applications in spells for prosperity and good fortune, but it really wouldn't do to have the whole shop smelling like Santa Claus' pockets.
Oh. Did I say spells? Well, I guess that cat's out of the bag. Let me introduce myself. The name's Hattie. Hattie Jenkins. And I'm a witch. Mostly a non practicing one, I’m happy to add.
If you're like most folks, you hear the word 'witch,' and it conjures up images of frightful old crones with warty noses who fly on brooms and who live in creepy, dilapidated houses with arachnid infestations.
While we do have a few characters in Gless Inlet that fit that bill, I'm just your average everyday gal who has an unruly mop of long, auburn curls, likes long walks in the park, and has a penchant for peanut butter, pickle and mayonnaise sandwiches.
Gimme a break. I said I was a witch, not a gourmand. But, seriously, don't knock it till you've tried it. Then again, maybe there's a reason I'm still single. And maybe my choice of diet is what had prompted that bizarre dream. Note to self. Switch to kosher dills.
I live in the apartment above the shop. I have eight roommates whose singular purpose is seemingly just to drive me to distraction. They sort of came with the place when I inherited it, and the apothecary, from my great-great-grandma.
The Angel Apothecary had been in the Opal family for generations. My matriarchal ancestor, Glendonite Opal, had hopped the pond from Mother England around the turn of the twentieth century and started her little fledgling business with a pocketful of healing herbs, three glass jars, and a burning desire to help her neighbors. She was a noble woman, Glendonite, but as crafty as she was with healing salves and assigning the proper herb to break a fever, she wasn’t big on marketing or public relations. Consequently, the little shop struggled to make ends meet. Fortunately, the sixties brought with it a surge of interest in all things herbal and the floundering business enjoyed an economic boost. That was about the time Granny Chimera; Glendonite’s daughter, and also my dear Grandmother took over the family business. The shop did fairly well through the eighties and Reaganomics, though some argued that the former movie-star president’s policies were mere “voodoo economics.” I grinned. Not every witch wore a pointy black hat.
Regardless of who was in the White House, what the average Dow was, or who was running our little family business over the years, one thing had stayed the same.
The eight immortal felines, collectively known as the Infiniti, who kept a familiar post at the side of the current Opal witch. And now, that witch was me. Even if I proved a little reluctant at times.
The self-proclaimed leader of our modest litter is Onyx. Onyx is a vast cornucopia of sage advice - whether or not you ask for it. He is predisposed to anticipating whatever might be on your mind and labors under the delusion he's a therapist.
Yeah, right. Although come to think of it, most people do seem to spill all their deep, dark secrets whenever he's around.
And what can I say about Eclipse? No. Really. What can I say? I can't ever seem to remember anything around my second roomie. Like where I left the batch of brownies I made last week. Eclipse had an aptitude for affecting amnesia in whomever he was targeting with his Obliviscatur charm.
Shade doesn't really bother me much. Most of the time, it's as if he's invisible - like he's not even there. He's a player, though, so I guess it's pretty safe to assume that most of the time he's ratting the streets with the latest lady friend. This guy will just not be “out-cooled.” He’s THE dude.
Carbon's usually curled up, as he was now, near the fire in the shop’s hearth. Clothes come off when my little fire-starter’s around. Lest you melt into a puddle and die of overheating. When challenged on his ambient room temperature choices, he often just turns to smoke and sneaks out of the room.
Fraidy's the scaredy cat of our little suburban commune. Everything frightens the poor guy. Ghoulies, ghosties, long-legged beasties…opening a cola can. He’s never far from my side, except on the days I drag out the vacuum. Fortunately for him, the dust bunnies currently burrowing in our apartment only seemed to be multiplying.
Midnight’s our resident gossip. Aptly named, he’s rarely awake before the witching hour. When his eyes are open, he’s out and about with an eclectic assortment of cronies, and he always seems to know more about the odd goings-on in our tiny burg than anyone. Midnight is friends with every unknown beastie on the isle. He’s known amongst pognips, the Fae, the rock grumlins on Cathedral Isle, (don’t ask, because I have NO idea how he gets there,) and the swampvorg’s up in the Gorthlands.
If Midnight’s the social butterfly, Gloom is his polar opposite. Moody, sullen, and given to predictions of doom, the glaring queen shies away from pleasant company, which is fine, because she usually isn’t very polite. Gloom barely tolerates living beings; cats, humans or otherwise. But, she’s happy to spread bad news at every opportunity.
Rounding out our motley bunch is Jet. An affable fellow, he is prone to take a nip or two from time to time. Quick with a joke and equally as quick to find trouble, I often find myself rescuing my inventory from him, in one way or another. Jet’s the most destructive, but I have to admit, the guy has a good humor, and agreeable personality. Jet’s a homebody mostly. He’s never really been interested in adventures of the out-of-doors variety. Just lately, however, he’s been way more adventurous. I can’t help but feel that Jet’s as interested in sleuthing as I secretly am. He might cause me the most stress in breakages, but I can never be angry at him for long. He’s just too gosh darned loveable.
Currently, however, Millie seemed to be the one in the most trouble. My assistant herbalist was sporting a halo of bright, yellow curls. And, she was right. She looked like a banana. An entire bunch.
“It’s not as bad as all that. Yellow’s a good color for you.” I tried to sound supportive.
She flopped to her back like a big banana-topped pancake. I steadied the potted tarragon from yet another seismic shift. My brain wandered back to the recent case I worked with the Glessie Isle chief of police, David Trew. Lavender played a significant role in ferreting out the murderer of local actress, Nebula Dreddock. But, that’s another story.
“Ohhhhhhhh!!!” Millie moaned. She stared at the deep blue of the Borealis inlay on the ceiling above. Even the beauty of its delicate mosaic tile work couldn’t shake her malaise. “What am I going to do? The Mutley Crew Charity Gala is tonight, and Radolf Silverback is going to be there - oh, he’s such a dream - and I look like Big Bird is roosting on my head!”
“What exactly happened, Millie?” I asked.
“I just wanted a touch-up on my color. You know, to look my best. So, I went to see Violet Mulberry over at the salon. Ooh!” Millie stamped an indignant foot. “Ooh, that awful Violet! She did this on purpose! You know she likes Rad too? She just wanted to be sure I didn’t stand a chance! She hexed me. That’s what she did! Come on, Hattie! Gimme a spell that’ll show her what for!”
I suppressed a chuckle. “Millie, Violet isn’t a witch. You know we have plenty Unawakened living here on Glessie Isle, too. And you can’t blame Gloomy magic for everything that goes wrong in your life.”
Just some of it.
I push the negative memory from my head. This wasn’t about me. Millie needed moral support…and a paper bag big enough to go over her head.
“I’m sure Violet…” I began, but the thought veered left in an instant.
Violet!
Just as it looked as if Millie was about to erupt into a fresh onslaught of tears, I dervished into an whirlwind of action. I whipped around and pulled down a brig
ht yellow ceramic bowl and set it on the counter with a resounding clunk. Millie stopped her blubbering long enough to roll her eyes at me.
Okay. Maybe the yellow bowl wasn’t the best choice. I didn’t stop to rue the decision indefinitely. I started toward the maple shelves on the far side of the store, but not before knocking a jar of freshly grated turmeric onto the floor. Darn it, I’ll get to that later. I reached up to the top shelf to grab a bottle of liquid castille soap. Luckily Grandma always kept some on hand, and I hadn’t deviated from her regular inventory list. The Angel Apothecary always carried a cornucopia of teas, tinctures, salves, incenses, inks and indeed the oils, spices and herbs that went into their creation. Cankerwort, Fuga Daemonum, Grains of Paradise.
They all sounded magical enough, but when all was said and done, you could take a handful of those items and brew yourself a soothing cup of chamomile tea, settle your frazzled nerves with a little St. John’s Wort, or spice up your sirloin with some aromatic black pepper.
“There’s a little magic in everything if you’ve half a mind to look.” My grandmother’s voice whispered in my ear.
I whirled, half-expecting to see my deceased Grammy Chimera standing there, but only Millie stood in the shop. Still blubbering.
I shook my head and rushed back to the big yellow bowl. I poured a generous portion of the soap into the mouth of the bowl. I squeezed a few drops of lavender essential oil into the marbly liquid.
“Dang it!” I blurted. “Wait here. I’ll be right back!”
Millie stared blankly as I ran to the kitchen out back for some ingredients I’d need. I grabbled those things and rushed back into the shop. Armed with a quart of coconut milk and a bottle of olive oil, I opened the spout on the milk and poured a quarter-cup into the soap and lavender mixture. I measured a teaspoon of olive oil and added it as well.
The Violet Countercharm: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 2) Page 1