Filthy Witch & Dead Famous
Pearl Goodfellow
Soar Free Publishing
Contents
Live in store on Jan 11th 2017: The Violet Countercharm
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
Afterword
Also by Pearl Goodfellow
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Pearl Good fellow
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.
Created with Vellum
This is for all wannabe magicians and witches out there. For the souls who believe that magic exists, and who find ways to use it to improve their lives and those of loved ones.
Magic is everywhere. Most of us have simply forgotten.
Live in store on Jan 11th 2017: The Violet Countercharm
Book 2 of Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles.
Prologue
They would pay for what they had done.
The thought echoed 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 sour twist of deep wrinkles. The dour expression matched the sour odor permeating the decrepit vardo. The dilapidated gypsy caravan was chockablock with moldy spell books, crumbling crystals, and dusty jars crammed with dried herbs, the odd animal part, 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 crooked up and to the left, eventually venting through the roof into the outside night. 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 sour smell 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.
I snagged a stoppered bottle from the overhead shelf and yanked out the cork with withered 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 grey 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. 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 sharp bite of vinegar odor may have ventilated to the open air. But, I got the feeling nothing about me was remotely open.
I rummaged through several drawers and fished out a folded scrap of cheese cloth. 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, 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 if the ink stains marring the rough, pink surface were any indication.
The dog nudged his wiry 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 grey 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 tip to paper, drafting my ephemeral thought 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 teach 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.
Chapter 1
"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 wide 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.
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 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 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, 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 little clowder 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.
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.
Carbon's usually curled up, like he was now, near the fire in the shop’s hearth. It always seemed like we had a lively one crackling, but darned if I ever remember setting one. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he was a pyromaniac.
Fraidy's the scaredy cat of our little suburban commune. Everything frightens the poor guy. Ghoulies, ghosties, long-leggedy 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 home before the witching hour. He keeps an eclectic assortment of cronies and he always seems to know more about the odd-goings in our tiny burg than anyone.
If Midnight’s a 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 pleasant.
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.
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 lavender from yet another seismic shift. My brain wanders back to the recent case I worked with the Glessie Isle chief of police, David Trew. Lavender played a big 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 tilework 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 beauty shop. 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’s to show her what for!”
I suppressed a chuckle. “Millie, Violet isn’t a witch. You know we have plenty Unawakened living here on Glessy Isle, too. And you can’t blame dark 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 really, really big hat.
“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 abrupt whirlwind of action. I whipped around and pulled down a bright 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 yellow wasn’t the best choice. I didn’t stop to rue the choice indefinitely. I started toward the maple shelves on the far side of the store, tripping over the litter box in my haste. Chalky granules skittered across the wood floor.
Darn it. I’d clean it up later.
I reached up to the top shelf to grab a bottle of liquid castile 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 certainly 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 those items and brew yourself a comforting cup of chamomile tea, settle your frazzled nerves with a little St. John’s Wort, or spice up your sirloin with a little 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.
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!”
Milly stared blankly as I ran up the back stairs that led to my apartment. When I came back down, I had 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.
I stirred the mixture well. Millie looked on with eager eyes.
“I don’t recognize this spell.” Her brows knit together in a puzzled twist.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I nearly forgot the secret ingredient!”
I fished around in the pocket of my cardigan and drew out a small bottle filled with a purple liquid.
“Squee!” Millie clapped her hands together and squealed like a schoolgirl.
“What’s that? Extract of Deadman’s Bells? Deadly Nightshade?” Her blue eyes twinkled with revenge.
My assistant’s readiness to employ some of the baneful herbs we kept under restrictive lock and key gave me some cause for alarm. I chalked it up to the raw emotion of a bad hair day and held the bottle right in front of her nose.
“The secret…”
“Yes?” She nearly whispered.
“…ingredient…”
“Yes?” She bounced on her toes.
“…is…”
&n
bsp; “OH, COME ON, ALREADY!”
“Food coloring.”
I dropped four drops of the colored liquid into the soap mixture and stirred.
“Food coloring? ” Millie mumbled. “That’s it?”
“Yup! That’s it.” I replied, swirling the mix into a vibrant purple hue. “Food coloring. And, look at this. Voilà! I give you The Violet Countercharm!”
Millie blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Too much?” I cocked my head. “I thought it was kind of a clever name. It’s really just a homemade toner that will knock some of the yellow down in your do. Go ahead. Take it home and try it. You’ll be right as rain for tonight. Rad won’t know what hit him.”
I hand her the bowl of purple goo. She looked a little dubious.
“Really?”
“Really. Now get going or you’ll run out of time! And I need to close up!” I shooed her out the front door. The bell jingled.
“Thanks loads, Hattie! Oh my goodness! I almost forgot to tell you! I ordered a new batch of pokeberries. We must have sold out.”
Pokeberries? Someone must be writing some new spells.
For a fleeting moment, my thoughts wandered back to last night’s dream, but I dismissed it just as readily. “Thank you, Millie. That’s perfect.”
“See you tonight!” Millie waved cheerily. I watched her bounce down the sidewalk.
I smiled, glad to see Millie with a pep back in her step.
Hm. The Violet Countercharm. Maybe I should start my own beauty line. I have to admit, I was pretty pleased with myself. I solved a friend’s problem and I didn’t have to use a lick of magic. Just some color theory leftover from college art classes and a little ingenuity.
“There’s a little magic in everything if you’ve half a mind to look.” Grammy’s voice drifted on the wind again.
No. I wanted nothing to do with magic. I was perfectly happy employing herbs and other natural remedies to solve life’s little challenges, like the ingredients I’d used in The Violet Countercharm.
Filthy Witch and Dead Famous: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 1) Page 1