Fashionably Dead and Wed Book 7

by Robyn Peterman

  “I think you should bang him if he’s a hot as you said.” Dwayne made himself comfortable on my couch and turned on the TV.

  “When did I ever say he was hot?” I demanded as I took the remote out of his hands. I was not watching any more Dance Moms. “I never said he was hot.”

  “Paaaaleese,” Dwayne flicked his pale hand over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?” he asked, confused.

  “That shoulder thing you just did.”

  “Oh, I was flicking my hair over my shoulder in a girlfriend move.”

  “Okay, don’t do that. It doesn’t work. You’re as bald as a cue ball.”

  “But it’s the new move,” he whined.

  Oh my god, Vampyres were such high maintenance. “According to who?” I yanked my suitcase out from under my bed and started throwing stuff in.

  “Kim Kardashian.”

  I refused to dignify that with so much as a look.

  “Fine,” he huffed. “But if you say one word about my skinny jeans I am so out of here.”

  I considered it, but I knew he was serious. As crazy as he drove me, I adored him. He was my only real friend in Chicago and I had no intention of losing him.

  “I know he’s hot,” Dwayne said. “Look at you—you’re so gorge it’s redonkulous. You’re all legs and boobs and hair and lips—you’re far too beautiful to be hung up on a goober.”

  “Are you calling me shallow?” I snapped as I ransacked my tiny apartment for clean clothes. Damn it, tomorrow was laundry day. I was going to have to pack dirty clothes.

  “So he’s ugly and puny and wears bikini panties?”

  “No! He’s hotter than Satan’s underpants and he wears boxer briefs,” I shouted. “You happy?”

  “He’s actually a nice guy.”

  “You’ve met Hank?” I was so confused I was this close to making fun of his skinny jeans just so he would leave.

  “Satan. He’s not as bad as everyone thinks.”

  How was it that everyone I came in contact with today stole my ability to speak? Thankfully, I was interrupted by a knock at my door.

  “You expecting someone?” Dwayne asked as he pilfered the remote back and found Dance Moms.

  “No.”

  I peeked through the peephole. Nobody came to my place except Dwayne and the occasional pizza delivery guy or Chinese food take out guy or Indian food take out guy. Wait. What the hell was my boss doing here?

  “Angela?”

  “You going to let me in?”

  “Depends.”

  “Open the damn door.”

  I did.

  Angela tromped into my shoebox and made herself at home. Her hair was truly spectacular. It looked like she might have even pulled out a clump on the left side. “You want to tell me why the sheriff and alpha of Hung Island, Georgia says he won’t work with you?”

  “Um…no?”

  “He said he had a hard time believing someone as flaky and irresponsible as you had become an agent for the Council and he wants someone else.” Angela narrowed her eyes at me and took the remote form Dwayne. “Spill it, Essie.”

  I figured the best way to handle this was to lie—hugely. However, gay Vampyre boyfriends had a way of interrupting and screwing up all your plans.

  “Well, you see…”

  “He’s her mate and he dipped his stick in several other…actually many other oil tanks. So she dumped his furry player ass, snuck away in the middle of the night and hadn’t really planned on ever going back there again.” Dwayne sucked in a huge breath, which was ridiculous because Vampyres didn’t breathe.

  It took everything I had not to scream and go all Wolfy. “Dwayne, clearly you want me to go medieval on your lily white ass because I can’t imagine why you would utter such bullshit to my boss.”

  “Doesn’t sound like bullshit to me,” Angela said as she channel surfed and landed happily on an old episode of Cagney and Lacey. “We might have a problem here.”

  “Are you replacing me?” Hank Wilson had screwed me over once when I was his. He was not going to do it again when I wasn’t.

  “Your call,” she said. Dwayne, who was an outstanding shoplifter, covertly took back the remote and flipped over to the Food Channel. Angela glanced up at the tube and gave Dwayne the evil eye.

  “I refuse to watch lesbians fight crime in the eighties. I’ll get hives,” he explained, tilted his head to the right and gave Angela a smile. He was so pretty it was silly—piercing blue eyes and body to die for. Even my boss had a hard time resisting his charm.

  “Fine,” she grumbled.

  “Excuse me,” I yelled. “This conversation is about me, not testosterone ridden women cops with bad hair, hives or food. It’s my life we’re talking about here—me, me, me!” My voice had risen to decibels meant to attract stray animals within a ten-mile radius, evidenced by the wincing and ear covering.

  “Essie, are you done?” Dwayne asked fearfully.

  “Possibly. What did you tell him?” I asked Angela.

  “I told him the Council has the last word in all matters. Always. And if he had a problem with it, he could take it up with the elders next month when they stay awake long enough to listen to the petitions of their people.”

  “Oh my god, that’s awesome,” I squealed. “What did he say?”

  “That if we send you down, he’ll give you bus money so you can hightail your sorry cowardly butt right back out of town.”

  Was she grinning at me, and was that little shit Dwayne jotting the conversation down in the notes section on his phone?

  “Let me tell you something,” I ground out between clenched teeth as I confiscated Dwayne’s phone and pocketed it. “I am going to Hung Island, Georgia tomorrow and I will kick his ass. I will find the killer first and then I will castrate the alpha of the Georgia Pack…with a dull butter knife.”

  Angela laughed and Dwayne jackknifed over on the couch in a visceral reaction to my plan. I stomped into my bathroom and slammed the door to make my point, then pressed my ear to the rickety wood to hear them talk behind my back.

  “I’ll bet you five hundred dollars she’s gonna bang him,” Dwayne told Angela.

  “I’ll bet you a thousand that you’re right,” she shot back.

  “You’re on.”

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  Excerpt: SWITCHING HOUR

  Book Description

  Released from the magic pokey and paroled with limited power is enough to make any witch grumpy. However, if you throw in a recently resurrected cat, a lime-green Kia and a sexy egotistical werewolf, it's enough to make a gal fly off the edge.

  Not to mention a mission...with no freaking directions.

  So here I sit in Asscrack, West Virginia trying to figure out how to complete my mysterious mission before All Hallows Eve when I’ll get turned into a mortal. The animals in the area are convinced I'm the Shifter Whisperer (whatever the hell that is) and the hotter-than- asphalt-in-August werewolf thinks I'm his mate. Now apparently I'm slated to save a bunch of hairy freaks of nature?

  If they think I'm the right witch for the job, they've swallowed some bad brew.

  Chapter 1

  "If you say or do anything that keeps my ass in the magic pokey, I will zap you bald and give you a cold sore that makes you look like you were born with three lips."

  I tried to snatch the scissors from my cell mate's hand, but I might as well have been trying to catch a greased cat.

  "Look at my hair," she hissed, holding up her bangs. "They're touching my nose—my fucking nose, Zelda. I can't be seen like this when I get out. I swear I'll just do it a little."

  "Sandy…" I started.

  "It's Sassy," she hissed.

  I backed up in case she felt the need to punctuate her correction with a left hook. You can pick your friends, your nose and your bust size, but you can't pick your cell mate in the big house.

&n
bsp; "Right. Sorry. Sassy, you have never done anything just a little. What happened the last time you cut your own bangs? Your rap sheet indicates bang cutting is somewhat unhealthy for you."

  She winced and mumbled her shame into her collarbone. "That was years ago. Nobody died and that town was a dump to start with."

  "Fine." I shrugged. "Cut your bangs. What do I care if you look like a dorkus? We're out of here in an hour. After today we'll never see each other again anyway."

  "You know what, Miss High and Mighty?" she shouted, brandishing the shears entirely too close to my head for comfort. "You're in here for murder."

  That stopped me dead in my pursuit of saving her from herself. What the hell did I care? Let her cut her bangs up to her hairline and suffer the humiliation of looking five. Maybe I wasn’t completely innocent here, but I was no murderer. It was a fucking accident.

  "You listen to me, Susie, I didn't murder anyone," I snapped.

  "Sassy."

  "Whatever." She was giving me a migraine. Swoozie's selective memory was messing with my need to protect her ass. "Oh my Goddess," I yelled. "I didn't sleep with Baba Yaga's boyfriend—you did."

  "First of all, we didn't sleep. And how in the hell was I supposed to know Mr. Sexy Pants was her boyfriend?"

  "Um, well, let me see… did the fact that he was wearing a Property of Baba Yaga t-shirt not ring any fucking bells?"

  I was so done. I'd been stuck in a cell with Sassy the Destructive Witch for nine months—sawing my own head off with a butter knife had become a plausible option. I was beyond ready to get the hell out.

  "Well, it’s not like the Council put you in here just to keep me company. You ran over your own familiar. On purpose," she accused.

  I watched in horror as she combed her bangs forward in preparation for blast off and willed myself not to give a rat’s ass.

  "I did not run over that mangy bastard cat on purpose. The little shit stepped under my wheel."

  "Three times?" she inquired politely.

  "Yes."

  We glared at each other until we were both biting back grins so hard it hurt. As much as I didn't like her, I was grateful to have had a roomie. It would have sucked to serve time alone. And coming up with different female names that started with the letter S had helped pass the time.

  "I really need a mirror to do this right," Sassy muttered. She mimed the cutting action by lining up her fingers up on her hair before she commenced.

  I walked to the iron bars of our cell and refused to watch. Our tiny living quarters were barren of all modern conveniences, especially those we could perform magic with, like mirrors. We were locked up in Salem, Massachusetts in a hotel from the early 1900s that had been converted to a jail for witches. Our home away from home was cell block D, designated for witches who abused their magic as easily as they changed their underwear.

  From the outside the decrepit building was glamoured to look like a charming bed and breakfast, complete with climbing ivy and flowers growing out of every conceivable nook and cranny. Inside it was cold and ugly with barren brick walls covered with Goddess knew what kind of slime. It was warded heavily with magic, keeping all mortals and responsible magic-makers away. At the moment the lovely Sassy and I were the only two inhabitants in the charming hell-hole. Well, us and the humor-free staff of older than dirt witches and warlocks.

  I dropped onto my cot and ran my hands through my mass of uncontrollable auburn curls which looked horrid with the orange prison wear. I puckered my full—and sadly lipstick-free-lips as I tried to image myself in the latest Prada. The first damn thing I was going to do when I got out was burn the jumpsuit and buy out Neiman’s.

  "Fine. We're both here because we messed up, but I still think nine months was harsh for killing a revolting cat and screwing an idiot," I muttered as the ugly reality of my outfit mocked me.

  I held my breath and then blew it out as Sassy put the scissors down and changed her mind.

  "I can’t do this right now. I really need a mirror."

  It was the most sane thing she'd uttered in nine months.

  "In an hour you'll have one unless you do something stupid," I told her and then froze.

  Without warning the magic level ramped up drastically and the stench of centuries-old voodoo drifted to my nose. Sassy latched onto me for purchase and shuddered with terror.

  "Do you smell it?" I whispered. I knew her grip would leave marks, but right now that was the least of my problems.

  "I do," she murmured back.

  "Old lady crouch."

  "What?" Her eyes grew wide and she bit down on her lip. Hard. "If you make me laugh, I'll smite your sorry ass when we get out. What the hell is old lady crouch?"

  My own grin threatened to split my face. My fear of incarceration was clearly outweighed by my need to make crazy Sassy laugh again. "You know—the smell when you go to the bathroom at the country club...powdery old lady crouch."

  "Oh my hell, Zelda." She guffawed and lovingly punched me so hard I knew it would leave a bruise. "I won't be able to let that one go."

  "Only a lobotomy can erase it." I was proud of myself.

  "Well, well, well," a nasally voice cooed from beyond the bars of our cell. "If it isn't the pretty-pretty problem children."

  Baba Yaga had to be at least three hundred if she was a day, but witches aged slowly—so she really only looked thirty-fiveish. The more powerful the witch, the slower said witch aged. Baba was powerful, beautiful and had appalling taste in clothes. Dressed right out of the movie Flash Dance complete with the ripped sweatshirt, leggings and headband. It was all I could do not to alert the fashion police.

  She was surrounded by the rest of her spooky posse, an angry bunch of warlocks who were clearly annoyed to be in attendance.

  "Baba Yaga," Sassy said as respectfully as she could without making eye contact.

  "Your Crouchness," I muttered and received a quick elbow to the gut from my cellmate.

  Baba Yaga leaned against the cell bars, and her torn at the shoulder sweatshirt dripped over her creamy shoulder. "Zelda and Sassy, you have served your term. Upon release you will have limited magic."

  I gasped and Sassy paled. WTF? We'd done our time. Limited magic? What did that mean?

  "Fuck," I stuttered.

  "But… um… Ms. Yaga, that's not fair," Sassy added more eloquently than I had. "We paid our dues. I had to withstand Zelda's company for nine months. I believe that is cruel and unusual punishment."

  "Oh my hell," I shouted. "You have got to be kidding me. I fantasized chewing glass, swallowing it and then super gluing my ears shut so I would have to listen to anymore play by plays of Full House episodes."

  "Full House is brilliant and Bob Saget is hot," she grumbled as her face turned red.

  "Enough," Baba Yaga hissed as she waved a freshly painted nail at us in admonishment. "You two are on probation, and during that probation you will be strictly forbidden to see each other until you have completed your tasks."

  "Not a problem. I don't want to lay eyes on Sujata ever again," I said.

  "It's Sassy," she ground out. "And what in the Goddess' name do you mean by tasks?"

  Baba Yaga smiled—it was not a nice smile.

  "Tasks. Selfless tasks. And before you two get all uppity with that 'I can't believe you're being so harsh' drivel, keep in mind that this is a light sentence. Most of the Council wanted you imbeciles stripped of your magic permanently."

  That was news. What on earth had I done that would merit that? I conjured up fun things. Sure, they were things I used to my advantage, like shoes and sunny vacations with fruity drinks sporting festive umbrellas in them, served to me on a tropical beach by guys with fine asses...but it wasn't like I took anything from anyone in the process.

  "I'm not real clear here," I said warily.

  "Oh, I can help with that," Baba Yaga offered kindly. "You, Zelda—how many pairs of Jimmy Choo shoes do you own?"

  I mentally counted in my head—kind of. "
Um… three?"

  Baba Yaga frowned and bright green sparks flew around her head. "Seventy-five and you paid for none of them. Not to mention your wardrobe and cars and the embarrassingly expensive vacations you have taken for free."

  When her eyes narrowed dangerously, I swallowed my retort. Plus, I had eighty pairs...

  "And you, Sassy, you've used your magic to seduce men and have incurred millions in damages from your temper tantrums. Six buildings and a town. Not to mention your indiscretion with my former lover. If I hadn't already been done with him you'd be in solitary confinement for eternity. Can you not see how I had to fight for you?" she demanded, her beautiful eyes fiery.