Magically Delicious
Magic and Mayhem Book Four
Robyn Peterman
Contents
Books In This Series
What Others Are Saying
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Note From The Author
Excerpt: Nearly Departed In Deadwood
Check Out The Magic & Mayhem Kindle World
Excerpt: How To Train A Witch
Robyn’s Book List (in correct reading order)
About Robyn Peterman
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should delete it from your device and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is coincidental.
This book contains content that may not be suitable for young readers 17 and under.
Copyright 2016 by Robyn Peterman
Cover by Rebecca Poole of dreams2media
Edited by Meg Weglarz
Books In This Series
Switching Hour
Witch Glitch
A Witch In Time
Magically Delicious
What Others Are Saying
“Funny, fast-paced, and filled with laugh-out-loud dialogue.
Robyn Peterman delivers a sidesplitting, sexy tale of powerful witches and magical delights.
I devoured Magically Delicious in one sitting!”
~Ann Charles
USA Today Bestselling Author
of the Deadwood Humorous Mystery Series
Acknowledgments
Writing books is the best job I’ve ever had. Sitting in my sweatpants, t-shirt, sparkly Uggs and no make-up totally works for me. However, as solitary as the writing process may be, putting a book out is a group effort. There are many wonderful people involved and I’m blessed to have such a brilliant support system.
Rebecca Poole, your covers are perfect and your imagination delights me. Thank you.
Meg Weglarz, you save me from myself constantly with your editing. Thank you.
Donna McDonald, you are my partner in crime, one of my dearest friends and one hell of an author. I’d be in deep doodoo without you. Thank you.
Donna McDonald and JM Madden, you are the best and most honest critique partners a gal could have. I’m grateful for you eagle eyes and good taste. Thank you.
My beta readers; Wanda, Melissa, Susan and Karen, you rock so hard. Thank you.
Wanda, your organization skills keep me from going off the deep end. Thank you.
And my family…thank you for believing in me. I love you more than words could ever express.
And my readers…I do this for you.
Dedication
For Henry and Audrey. I love your names and I love you.
Chapter One
“I’m so sad we’re out of pickles.” I sighed as I turned over the empty jar. They’d been delicious dipped in dark melted chocolate. I’d even downed the salty juice, much to the gagging dismay of my dad.
“Zelda, while I understand the diet of a pregnant woman is rather, um… unconventional, don’t you think chocolate dipped pickles and mustard slathered jelly doughnuts might be bad for the babies?” Fabio suggested as politely as he could considering he was seconds away from heaving.
“Pretty sure they liked it,” I said, sticking my finger in the jar and swiping around for droplets of pickle juice. “Now I think the pizza with pepperoni and Snickers was all kinds of wrong. That one didn’t quite agree with me.”
“Thank the Goddess,” he muttered with a wince.
“So next time I’m going to substitute malted milk balls for the Snickers.”
“Wonderful,” Fabio choked out, paling considerably. “Maybe we should consult a doctor about this.”
“Don’t have to,” I told him with an arched brow and a wide smile. “I’m the Shifter Wanker around here. What I say about health and wellness goes, and DeeDee my doula says I’m doing great. I say we whip up some deep fried bananas with hot sauce.”
Fabio was silent as he digested my newest culinary request. He’d been an outstanding enabler in my mission to keep my growing belly full—until now. Poor Wanda—the best baker in town—had lobbed a pot at my head when I’d requested she bake some jalapeno and anchovy chocolate chunk cookies with turkey gravy to dip them in. However, it was the sushi flavored ice cream that made her throw up her hands and ignore me. That was a week ago. My raccoon Shifter buddy was such a softy, I expected her to come back around any day now.
“Look dad, I know it’s a little gross, but if I don’t eat, I get cranky. When I get cranky, I start fires and blow stuff up. I do believe sautéed M&M’s with blue cheese on crackers is a small price to pay to keep Assjacket, West Virginia on the map.”
“A little gross is an understatement, Zelda,” Fabio argued as he wiggled his fingers and magically removed the empty jar from my hands, replacing it with an apple—a plain apple—with no chocolate sauce or Cheez Whiz to dip it in.
Unacceptable.
“Um… what am I supposed to do with this?” I asked as I cocked back and prepared to bean him in the head with the boring piece of fruit.
“It’s an apple. Eat it,” he snapped, running his hands through his thick mane of red hair that matched my own. “I’m terrified of what you’ll give birth to if you keep consuming crap.”
“I’ll be having puppies,” I shot back. “No one yet has given me solid evidence that this is untrue. Puppies will eat anything—including crap—literal definition intended. So quit your bitchin’.”
I took a tentative bite out of the apple to make him happy. It tasted amazing even without maple syrup or salsa—not that I would share that nugget. I still wanted something fried and dipped in whipped cream, but maybe the old warlock had a point. What if my kids—or puppies—came out demanding TV dinners, McDonalds and sugared soda?
I hated it when Fabio made a good argument.
“How about this?” I bargained as I polished off the apple and went for another. “I eat three healthy meals a day and my snacks can be chocolaty, fried, salty and wrong.”
“How many snacks are we talking?” he asked warily.
“Um… nine?”
“Four,” Fabio shot back.
“Six,” I countered. “One before and after each meal.”
“Fine,” he muttered somewhat mollified by the thought of me swallowing anything that wasn’t dipped in lard and deep-fried. “You have a witch’s metabolism, so the weight gain isn’t an issue. I just worry about your health.”
“Fabdudio,” I said, harkening back to the days before I called him dad. “I’m truly moved by your concern, but I’m freakin’ hungry, and my mouth wants yicky stuff. Not sure what you want me to do here.”
“I want you to try, Zelda. All I want you to do is try.”
Expelling an enormous amount
of air through my pursed lips I created a noise that sounded alarmingly like a fart. I tossed three bags of Oreos, four containers of ice cream, twelve bags of chips and my hidden stash of Goobers and Raisinets into the garbage. It was painful, but my dad beamed so wide, I almost felt proud—almost. Getting rid of my stash was a large price to pay since I’d had big plans to eat a gallon of ice cream covered in barbeque chips for dessert, but Fabio was right. I was eating for three, and I needed to feed my puppies some non-fried, non-pre-packaged stuff that grew out of the earth.
I suffered only a smidge of guilt as I knowingly bypassed the cabinet loaded with Twinkies, Munchos and Ho Hos, but that secret stash was for emergencies. A pregnant girl had to do what a pregnant girl had to do. The safety of those around me was important. I was a loose cannon on a good day. Starving and loaded with strange puppy hormones, I was a magical disaster waiting to happen.
“Happy now?” I asked with brows arched high and my arms crossed over my chest.
“Very,” he replied.
“Good. If I can’t eat, we have to go do something. I can’t sit here in the house and not consume everything in sight.”
“How about a little shopping?” Fabio suggested with a gleam in his green eyes.
My disappointment at not being able to eat my own weight in sugar vanished at warp speed. Shopping was my third favorite hobby after eating. My first was the horizontal mambo with the sexiest werewolf alive… my newly acquired mate, Mac.
“I do believe I could carve out a bit of time for that,” I squealed. I tore around my new enormous kitchen in Mac’s house searching for my Birkin bag and my shoes.
The overpriced yet truly spectacular purse had been a gift from my dad. Fabio was making up for the many years of my life he’d missed by not knowing of my existence. It was excessive, but I was on board. I’d recently turned over a new leaf that precluded me from conjuring up expensive designer duds and accessories—which sucked.
Of course, nine months in the magical pokey for accidentally mowing my dad down with my car had given me a lot of time to think. Well, not really. What it had given me were parole conditions stipulating I could only use my magic for the good of others—a rule I secretly liked. However, I had a reputation to uphold. Being a slightly unbalanced healer witch who didn’t give a shit about anything was a full time job. I used to be good at the not giving a shit part, but the furry freaks of Assjacket, West Virginia had weaseled their way into my heart when I wasn’t looking. My dad was also a determining factor, but mostly it was Mac. I still had an outstanding handle on the unstable and healing parts, but the rest was more of an act than reality now.
“Where are we going?” I asked, shoving my feet into my fabu Jimmy Choo wedges—another gift from dad—and slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“Your choice—Paris, Milan… Target.”
Sweet Goddess on a bender, this was difficult. I loved shopping in Milan. Adored Paris, but the salty soft pretzels with the neon orange, melted cheese dip were right at the stupid entrance of Target. Was this a test? Was Fabio screwing with me? Could I get grounded for this?
Wait a second. I was a thirty year old, knocked-up, mated witch with more power in my pinky than most of my kind. No one was grounding my ass—not even my well-meaning father.
My head said Paris. Crème brûlée with a couple of berries on the top was a far better choice than a processed pretzel with a cheese product that had very little to no dairy in it.
Decisions were hard—not to mention speaking—especially when I was drooling.
“Um… Target has a line of maternity clothes,” I suggested weakly, willing myself to block the gooey delicious cheese from my brain. Excess mouth water was not attractive—at all. Plus, it was a dead giveaway to my real motive.
“Darling, you’re not even showing yet,” Fabio said. He lovingly patted my still flat tummy and kissed me on the head. “I was thinking we could blow a wad at Gucci and then pop into Jimmy Choo.”
My groan was pathetic to my own ears. Fabdudio was pure evil. I felt pulled in three thousand and forty-one directions. Shoes or orange-yellow warm-ish cheesy goo?
“I think we should stay in the country and go to Target,” I mumbled, brushing some not so imaginary cookie crumbs off of my Alice and Olivia mini dress. “If there were any complications with the pregnancy, it would be better to be closer to home and… ”
“You want a pretzel,” Fabio accused. He closed his eyes, sighed very audibly and tried not to laugh.
“Yes, by the love of all that’s magical,” I shouted and stomped my foot. “I want a pretzel.”
“Would you be willing to skip the cheese?” he negotiated.
“Not sure I can,” I answered honestly with a helpless shrug.
“I feel you,” he agreed. “They’re quite tasty even though I can’t identify what the hell is in the cheese. How about you limit yourself to one?”
“Three,” I countered.
“Two and you have yourself a deal,” he shot back.
“Done!” I yelled and grabbed his hand before he could change his mind. The nearest Target was three hundred miles away. It was a pleasant day to ride our brooms, but it was broad daylight. Getting shot at while flying over West Virginia for being mistaken for a UFO was not my idea of a good time. Poofing—or transporting for a more accurate and mature term—would be safer and faster.
Target, an afternoon with my dad and the soft chewy goodness of two pretzels dipped in unidentifiable gelatinous chemicals.
Win.
Win.
Win.
Chapter Two
“I’ve gone off carbs,” Sassy announced, looking uncomfortably constipated.
“Repeat,” I said, staring at her with narrowed eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was insane or drunk. No one in their right mind gave up carbs. Being that it was tremendously difficult for a witch to tie one on, I opted for batshit crazy.
“I said I am no longer eating carbs,” she squeaked out and doubled over at the waist.
“I’m sorry. That statement makes no sense to me,” I said, pushing my de facto BFF toward the bathroom.
I grabbed a hunk of bread and shoved it in my mouth as I passed the counter to prove my point. The cheesy pretzels from my earlier outing with my dad had been heavenly, but I was hungry again. I had no time for crazy talk from a sort-of friend or for her to cop a squat on the rug. That would happen soon enough when I blew out my puppies. A full sized nut job named Sassy was not allowed poop on my floor.
“What are you doing?” she asked, digging her feet in and glancing at me over her shoulder.
“I thought you had to go to the bathroom.”
“No, I was having a venereal re-catch-on to my new way of life,” she explained, walking back to my couch and making herself far too comfortable.
“You mean… visceral reaction?” I asked, closing my eyes and telling myself it would be a bad thing to electrocute her.
Sassy had been my cellmate in the magical pokey for nine horrendous months. When we were released, I expected—and prayed to the Goddess—never to see her again. She liked to steal my clothes, was a magical menace and had boobs bigger than her brain. However nothing in life ever went as planned—at least in my life. So here we were in Assjacket, West Virginia hanging out in Mac’s house. Which was my house too now since we’d mated.
I had a house. A beautiful house that I’d inherited from my beloved departed Aunt Hildy. After Mac and I tied the metaphorical Shifter knot with a barbaric ritualistic bite that turned out to be hotter than Hades in July, I’d given the house to my dad. Fabio was Hildy’s brother and I felt really good about him having it. There were things I missed about the old house, but Mac’s home was beautiful. I just had to adjust. He insisted it was ours, but calling it that still felt wonky.
“Yes,” she said, looking confused. “That’s exactly what I meant… visceral retraction.”
Correcting her would get me nowhere fast. Apparently someone had a Word of the Day
calendar. Deciding it would be mean to ride her for trying to extend her vocabulary—albeit shittily—I focused on her ridiculous new edict.
“Why in the world would you give up carbs?” I asked as I chewed happily on my bread.
Sassy gazed at the hunk in my hand with longing. Kind of the same way she coveted my Birkin bag.
“I’m getting healthy,” she explained morosely.
“Ummhmm,” I said, watching her contort as I popped the last bit in my mouth. “You clearly don’t want to give up carbs. What’s going on here?”
“Nothing. I’m setting a good example for Chip, Chad, Chunk and Chutney,” she replied, not making any eye contact whatsoever.
Chip, Chad, Chunk and Chutney were the full-grown, gum-smacking chipmunk Shifters who’d recently tried to kill me. However, it wasn’t their fault. The boys were being blackmailed by the evil warlock, Bermangoogleshitz. The nasty bastard had been holding Chutney hostage until the idiots repaid a gambling debt. In the end, because of my new freakin’ leaf, I paid off the debt and they were now working it off as permanent residents of Assjacket.
I forgave them their transgression because they were cute in an inbred redneck kind of way—and I was unfortunately becoming nice. The chipmunks were as dumb as a box of hair and couldn’t kill a flea. They were vegetarians. Sassy, in all her altruistic craziness, had adopted the little shits and considered herself an expert on mothering now.
It was painfully wrong.
“Sassy, you’ve never set a good example for anyone. Ever. Why start now?” I asked with a raised brow. I was trying to figure out if this was somehow a ploy to borrow my Birkin bag, but the pieces of the puzzle didn’t even remotely fit.
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