SonofaWitch!
No one is perfect—not even a witch. Witches have amazing power at their fingertips to do unbelievable things. That magic can come in really handy sometimes too. They can make someone fall in love, poison an apple to enact a sleeping curse, banish an enemy to an alternate reality, or just conjure up some Nutella when there is none in the house.
But what happens when those spells go horribly awry?
SonofaWitch! contains six humorous contemporary fantasy stories of magic spells gone wrong by Laura VanArendonk Baugh, Sara Dobie Bauer, Lissa Marie Redmond, Frances Pauli, Mara Malins, and Adam Millard.
Praise for SonofaWitch!
“SonofaWitch! is a delightful read…the stories in this collection are craftily written, and there is delight for those who appreciate the writer’s craft.”
—The Future Fire
“Each story was very different even though they were all about witches and magic. I can’t pick a favourite story as I really liked them all equally. I will certainly be looking for more books by these authors.”
—NovelNatterlr
“Six tales that illustrate the humour and chaos that ensues when a spell goes awry. I have to say I enjoyed all the stories in this short anthology…Heartily recommend for all fans of funny romance.”
—Mad Librarian
SonofaWitch!
an anthology
Edited by Trysh Thompson
World Weaver Press
Copyright Notice
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of World Weaver Press.
SONOFAWITCH!
Copyright © 2017 Trysh Thompson
All rights reserved.
Published by World Weaver Press
Albuquerque, New Mexico
www.WorldWeaverPress.com
Cover layout and design by Sarena Ulibarri
Cover images used under license from DepositPhotos.com
First edition: October 2017
Also available in paperback - ISBN-13: 978-0998702230
ASIN (mobi): B073TSJTZF
B&N (ePub): 2940154717028
Kobo (ePub): 978-0998702230
Also available in print.
This anthology contains works of fiction; all characters and events are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Please respect the rights of the authors and the hard work they’ve put into writing and editing the stories of this anthology: Do not copy. Do not distribute. Do not post or share online. If you like this book and want to share it with a friend, please consider buying an additional copy.
Dedication
To Sarena, for letting me get away with another off-the-wall anthology. There are not enough words of thanks for all you do.
Contents
Good Spell Gone Bug
Laura VanArendonk Baugh
She wants to get rid of a tattoo, and that’s not so unusual. Sure, this tattoo is magical. Sure, there are cockroaches and a playful kitten and a local crime lord to interfere, but really, what could go wrong?
The Trouble With Love Spells
Sara Dobie Bauer
Talented witch, Violet, has been crushing on her barista for the past year. Maxwell James is possibly the only thing more gorgeous than the famed mansions of her Charleston hometown, which is why Violet decides to do a spell that’ll make him notice her. Imagine her surprise when she wakes up… different.
All the Petty Curses
Lissa Marie Redmond
As James struggles to manage a coffee shop, the Fair Folk who have adopted it as their second home come to him to solve their problems. Can James convince a witch to lift an ages old curse for Scarlet? And if he can, will Scarlet be able to live with the consequences?
The Perfect Mate Fiasco
Frances Pauli
Rowan’s perfect love spell goes awry when her Golden Retriever decides to lend a paw. Now, she’s got a man-sized dog problem that no obedience class is going to fix, and her search for love takes a wild turn into ridiculous territory.
A Matter of Perspective
Mara Malins
It’s just another day, another failed potion, in Magick class for Olyvar Caudwell. His instructor repeatedly tells him he’ll never amount to anything, despite the magick that runs deep in the Cauldwell family. When he finds himself in a field in a time period he can’t identify, Olyvar’s unsure of his next move. Can he escape unscathed, or is he doomed to be the worst in everything he does?
A Poppet Named Dave
Adam Millard
Unreciprocated love is a dreadful thing. No one knows it more than River Everbleed, who goes largely unnoticed by the object of her affection, Dave Quinn. The only thing is, River knows a thing or two about magic (although that’s about the extent of her knowledge). If only she could get Dave to love her. If only she could figure out how to do that without turning Dave into an anthropomorphic voodoo doll.
SonofaWitch!
Good Spell Gone Bug
Laura VanArendonk Baugh
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I know that line has been offered countless times, to parents, bosses, commanding officers, medics, and others. I know it usually doesn’t actually explain much or buy much forgiveness. I really wish I could say something more original here.
But all I have is: It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I got a tattoo. Lots of girls get tattoos. It wasn’t a big deal. Sure, it was a little weird that someone else paid for it, that someone else picked the design, that someone else told me to make sure it was never exposed to sunlight—but hey, the idea of giving up my nonexistent habit of skinny-dipping wasn’t so bad next to the idea of not making rent, so I got the tattoo.
I got the tattoo because it was worth five thousand dollars. I needed five thousand dollars because I couldn’t afford rent and groceries. I couldn’t afford rent and groceries because all my money and most of my predicted future money was going to Zax Countelbuck—look, don’t make that face, we all know it’s a stupid name but it’s not healthy to laugh about it—because he got it into his head that I’d cost him a hella lotta money. See, my terra cotta pot of geraniums fell off my fire escape balcony and shattered on his pet wizard’s spell circle during some drug deal, and the buyers got away with both the product and the money they were supposed to pay for it. My argument that maybe they shouldn’t have picked an apartment alley for the deal didn’t do much to soothe his temper.
So Zax announced to my boss that seventy-five percent of my checks would be going to pay off my debt to him. My boss, Dae-jung, is a nice guy and all, but even a nice boss doesn’t go against a mandate from Zax, not in this part of town. What was left of my check wasn’t enough to live on, not even with Dae-jung letting me take home all the leftover café buns and whatever he “accidentally” burned.
So, when this woman knocked on my door and asked me if I would get a tattoo for five grand, I said yes.
It was a weird little pattern, somewhere between tribal and geometric, and it sat below my left kidney. It barely peeked above the waistband of my jeans, but because keeping it away from sunlight was part of the deal, I made sure to wear long-waisted shirts, even if they were narrow-cut, to show off the figure my lean budget was keeping.
Everything was fine for the first year. I banked the money, keeping my mouth shut about it so Zax wouldn’t send anyone around to ask where the rent was coming from and demand I send the rest to him. I made sure to change clothes inside away from windows or in the dark, and since I wasn’t eng
aged in any romances of the cinematic kind where we end up naked in the park with cherry petals softly drifting over us, it wasn’t any kind of inconvenience.
The problem started in the second year, when the tattoo got a little itchy. I didn’t think much of it at first, just figured my lousy studio apartment was more literally lousy than usual.
Then I realized it was only the tattoo and nowhere else which itched, and it was itchier on sunny days when I wore light colors or looser weaves. I tried wearing only black, or lighter colors layered to block more light, and it got better. Whatever the thing was about sunlight, the tattoo was taking it seriously.
No, I hadn’t heard again from the woman who’d paid for the tattoo. I hadn’t heard anything from her after I’d agreed to do it. She prepaid at the tattoo parlor, she picked the tattoo artist, she provided the art to him. After I left the parlor, still stinging, I went home to find a fat envelope of non-sequential bills waiting on my air mattress. (I only knew to check the serial numbers for sequence because of the pulp thriller paperbacks left behind by readers who finished them at the café. I’m not sure it would have mattered in my case, but I felt clever for checking.)
I was marginally impressed, because the ward on my door was still up when I got home and found the money, but only marginally, because it wouldn’t take that much to get around my ward. It’s there mostly for the punk kids in the building who like petty thievery and vandalism more than Pokémon.
Then, a few months into the third year, the tattoo started to itch again through the shirts, and I had to start wearing a denim jacket over it to block the sun. I figured this was going to get real old real fast with summer coming on. And I hadn’t heard anything back from the woman, and I figured she was long gone and maybe it was time her tattoo was, too.
I wasn’t entirely stupid; I did try to do some basic scrying on the tattoo to see what it was. But turns out it’s freakin’ difficult to work on your own back. Unfortunately, the strongest practitioners are generally in with Zax or his competitors. Most of my friends with any kind of talent are hobbyists at best, maybe up to fleecing some tourists with card tricks or entertaining their cats with shiny dots on the wall. Not “figure out if someone put a functioning spell in my skin” level of talent.
Besides, it was a tattoo. The guy who did it was a regular tattoo artist in a regular tattoo parlor, done while you wait. Sure, the sunlight thing was weird, but the whole situation was weird.
I decided—hear me out—to transfer the tattoo. To move it onto someone else, someone who wouldn’t care.
I got a couple of books from the library, because my card was still good even if I didn’t pay much in the way of taxes, and I looked up a few sites on the library computer. I made my notes and sketches for the circle. It all looked plausible. Might as well use my stalled training for something.
I waited for my day off, so I wouldn’t have to get up early for bakery morning hours, grabbed a box of leftovers, and set up my workspace in my apartment.
It didn’t take long. I flipped the air mattress up against the wall to make a clear spot on the floor, and I propped open the bathroom door to let in air from the fire escape window which had started the whole mess. I chalked out two tangential circles, double-checked my markings, and put a day-old roll in the middle of one circle. Then I pried up the loose floorboard in front of the bathroom and I waited.
It was twilight, and I’d put out the single bulb in favor of a candle which shed less light and made the room more comfortable for my target audience. It wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before the cockroaches came out of the floor and, after a brief reconnaissance, made their way toward the roll in the chalked circle.
See? If the tattoo went on the cockroaches, it would be protected from sunlight forever. Still safe in my apartment, still in the dark, still on living things if that mattered. Not on me. It seemed like a workable solution.
Sure, I didn’t know what the point of the tattoo was or what it carried. But if it could be created by a generic guy with a tattoo machine and no particular magical talent, then transferring it couldn’t be too magically complicated, either, and I knew my skills.
I sat very still at the edge of my circle and waited for the roaches to clatter their way into their circle and the bread bait, and I began to organize the spell in my mind. I needed enough roaches to make up the same surface area of the tattoo, because size matters with some things, and I didn’t know if this would be one. When there were a dozen roaches in their circle, picking at the roll, I activated the circles with two fingers placed on the chalk line. Then I began to speak the spell aloud.
The roaches didn’t much react one way or another. They kept picking at the bread, even as the arcane energy began to move around them. Roaches are worse than honey badgers as far as “don’t care” goes.
I was about a third of the way into the spell when my door opened. See, yes, I made a mistake—I didn’t lock or ward the door. I’d been thinking about the spell and just forgot.
There I was, one hand resting on the chalk line and the other frantically flailing a universal “go away” signal at the door, only the person coming in didn’t speak universal signals. It was Donny Brandt, who lived up the hall and was congenitally incapable of catching a clue if you tucked it into his cupped hands and closed his fingers over it. Even that aid wasn’t available this time, because my hands were full of spell and his were full of calico kitten.
“Hey, you’re home!” he called.
I waved him back one-handed and kept up the incantation. It wasn’t a good place to stop.
“What are you doing? I wanted to show you my new kitten. Her name is Tart.”
I kept chanting, trying to decide if I should keep my eyes on the bugs to show him I was disinterested and busy, or keep an eye on him in case he started toward the circles.
“Hey, you’ve got roaches all over your circle!” Donny started forward.
I reached for something to throw at him, but all I had within reach was another day-old roll, and my dominant hand was linking circles and energies, and so I lobbed the roll badly and it didn’t even hit him. He turned to look at it, swinging the kitten like a furry yo-yo. “Are you sharing? Thanks!”
I stared at the circles’ lines and concentrated, needing to keep the spell steady. Focus, focus… I kept the pidgin-Latin words going. “Signa procul avertere…”
Donny retrieved the roll and bit into it. “Hey,” he said through his mouthful, “what are you doing with those bugs?” He swung back, bending over, and the panicked kitten grabbed for what she could, which was mostly Donny’s exposed hand and wrist. He screeched and dropped her.
I was mid-phrase. “…Insectorum partem in signis et in corporibus eorum don’t touch that!”
Well, crap.
The kitten dropped into the circle, springing immediately upward again as she spied the roaches and freaked out like kittens do. Donny jerked back, which was good, but all that focused energy also snapped back, pressing against the chalk lines as the cockroaches stopped eating and scurried around within their circle, alarmed by the sudden planetfall of a kitten.
The kitten couldn’t get out, due to the constraining circle, and the inability to jump through what seemed to be empty air bothered her. She bounced against the arcane barrier a few times and then whirled, freshly distracted by the scuttling bugs.
“Wait, no!”
I knew the spell wasn’t done, but the transfer had started, and there was a faintly glowing line on the back of each roach. If they stood together and in the proper order, they would form the pattern of the tattoo on my back. As they crawled about the circle, seeking an exit, they were just a bunch of faintly glowing roaches.
The kitten pounced on one.
Tiny claws pierced the skin of my back. I yelped and twisted before I realized it was the kitten’s grasp magically conveyed to me. The kitten crouched and bit and a kidney punch burned through me. Not gonna lie, I screamed. Kidney punches really hurt. I w
anted to reach forward and grab the kitten, but I was stunned for a second.
That second was too long. Donny stepped forward. “All these gross bugs!” And he lifted his massive foot.
“No!”
He stomped down.
I woke up slowly, sensing that I was not gonna be happy when I came to.
I wasn’t happy.
I was sprawled on the floor, my face beside a series of squished cockroaches. I wondered about the myth of ruptured egg sacs spreading baby cockroaches with every step of Donny’s shoe and decided I couldn’t be bothered to worry if it were true.
I hurt, a lot. But I didn’t seem to be as damaged as I thought I should be, from the way I felt. I could see an arm, and it was straight where it should be and bendy where it should be, with neither of those mixed up. This meant the spell had transferred sensation but not physical damage.
That was probably significant, if I could get functional enough to work out why.
Donny was sitting beside me, holding the kitten. “Oh, Tart,” he was saying. “Oh, oh, oh. Poor kitty. Poor, poor kitty.”
He sounded like a Dick and Jane book, and not one of the better ones. I tried to stop him by speaking, but my words came out like a slurry of old pudding.
Donny turned, realizing I was awake. I expected him to ask if I were all right, even though it was clear I was not.
Donny did not, however, waste time on questions with obvious answers. Instead he cut to the foremost subject on his mind. “What did you do to her?”
“Wha?” I managed to get most of the syllable out.
“What did you do to Tart?”
He turned and held the kitten out toward me. I didn’t scream aloud because I had no air or energy, but mentally I shrieked like a kindergartner sneaking an eighties slasher flick.
It wasn’t a kitten. Not anymore. It was some sort of mutant cockroach nearly the size of a kitten, lightly furred with calico shading, cat ears, and a thrashing tail.
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