Tea & Croakies

by Sam Cheever

  Praise for Sam Cheever

  Sam Cheever creates some of the best characters you could ever find in the pages of a book.

  SensualReads.com

  Ms. Cheever writes with class, humor and lots of fun while weaving an excellent story.

  The Romance Studio

  This is no boring librarian shushing people from behind a desk. This librarian corrals rogue magic. But more importantly, she has a frog and a cat, and she’s not afraid to use them!

  I knew when I woke up with a migraine that things were going to get interesting. As a magical artifact wrangler, it’s not an unusual way to start my day. But I had no idea how bad it was going to get.

  Until I found a frog sitting in my teacup.

  Even that, I could explain to myself if I had to. After all, I have a creative mind. But when the frog started talking to me, yeah, I was pretty sure I’d taken the wrong kind of pill that morning for my headache.

  If only I’d realized then what I know now. The talking frog was just the beginning of my problems. And quite a beginning it was!

  Tea & Croakies

  Sam Cheever

  Electric Prose Publications

  Copyright © 2019 by Sam Cheever

  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.

  Contents

  1. Beware Pinching Chairs

  2. A Ribbiting Experience

  3. Blank Expression

  4. A Bumpy Cup of Tea

  5. Time is of the Essence

  6. Shirley You Jest

  7. An Ill Wind Just Blows

  8. Grandmother, What Big Teeth You Have!

  9. Bibbidy-Bobbidy-Boom!

  10. A Prickly Situation

  11. Sanctuary for Kitties

  12. Bleep Ye Matey, Ye’re the Devil’s bleep

  13. What Bleep Hath we Wrought?

  14. Chaos by the Book

  15. Calling Ittoqqortoormiit!

  16. A Predator Rises

  17. Dang my Authority issues!

  18. Even Fools are Occasionally Right

  19. Avast! Ye Cockroach Ye

  20. A Mystery Solved

  21. Not Thee

  22. All Wrapped up

  Read More Enchanting Inquiries

  Fortune Croakies

  Also by Sam Cheever

  About the Author

  1

  Beware Pinching Chairs

  I’ve been told from an early age that magic wrangling is a science. Color me skeptical. It’s not that I don’t believe it’s a science. It’s that, for me, the whole process is really more of a hit or miss, try until you die proposition. It’s like I’m missing something that will make it easier. As if someone forgot to give me my magic wand when I reached my eighteenth birthday and came into my powers.

  Or rather, my powers came into me. With a crash, thump, grab your rump kind of unexpectedness that left me hanging over the toilet horking and holding my head with both hands as it tried to split in two.

  Even now, five years later, I still get the migraines. I wish I could say they’ve gotten easier over time. And maybe they have. But if you’re making a comparison between a tsunami and a level 5 hurricane, it’s really a distinction without a whole lot of difference for the people getting pounded by weather. Well, except one might kill you faster.

  I’m thinking my shelf life might be a little bit longer these days, though I couldn’t prove it.

  At the moment, with a thousand tiny gnomes wearing spiked golf shoes and using pickle forks as walking sticks dancing on my brain, I was thinking it might be preferable to die faster anyway.

  The world suddenly erupted in a series of explosions which had a familiar cadence to them. I hid under my long, brown hair and fought my lids to get them to open. But they fought back, eventually snapping closed again as the explosions stopped and the door my intruder had been banging on swung slowly open. “Naida? Are you awake?”

  All evidence to the contrary, I was, unfortunately, awake. I grunted something even I couldn’t decipher and my torturer took it as permission to come into my room.

  “I closed up downstairs. Do you want me to make you some tea?”

  My lips moved and more words nobody could understand eased through them. Fortunately, my loyal, if slightly annoying, assistant understood Migrainish Gibberish.

  “I felt the magic arrive a few minutes ago, so I went ahead and closed up,” she cheerfully said as she picked up my teapot and proceeded to bang out the Star-Spangled Banner with it on my stovetop.

  Not really, of course. But only because she wasn’t musically inclined and couldn’t recreate the Star-Spangled Banner if her life depended on it.

  “Ugh!” I said, hoping she could interpret that single non-word as “Please try to be quieter. My head is killing me.”

  Bang! “Oh say…” Crash “…can you see…” Clang “by the dawn’s early light…”

  “Sebille!”

  She jerked to a halt as I sat bolt upright in my bed, my blue eyes flying open with outrage. I immediately regretted the decision to move, my brain pulsing unhappily inside my head and the soldiers with pickle forks breaking into a rowdy rendition of the Irish Chicken Dance. “You’re killing me.”

  True to form, my non-serious friend simply rolled her almost iridescent green eyes. “Drama much?”

  I put my head into my hands and groaned. “Why do I bother?”

  A steaming mug appeared in front of my face. The sweet, floral scent undulated toward my nostrils in a siren song I could not resist. Taking the mug, I sniffed first, letting the sweet deliciousness infuse my sinuses.

  The headache eased a bit just from that sniff, and by the time I’d drained the mug a few minutes later, the pain was gone.

  I sighed. “Are you sure you’re not a witch? Tea never works this well when I make it.”

  Sebille dropped onto the edge of my bed. “You know I’m not a witch. I’m just tea-talented.”

  I would have sighed but the extra air rushing through my system probably would have enraged the soldiers with pickle forks. “Thank you. I was working up the courage to make myself some when you assaulted my door.”

  Sebille shook her head. “You always exaggerate so.”

  I glowered at her. “And you have zero compassion.”

  Shrugging, she tugged a strand of her bright red hair before tucking it behind a pointed ear. “That is unfortunately true.”

  No remorse. Which, BTW, perfectly matched her lack of compassion.

  “Did you get a read on the wave?” I asked.

  My assistant uncrossed a long, bony leg and tucked it underneath her, the other leg dangling over the edge of the bed. She wore her customary green and white striped socks and slightly pointed red shoes, making her look like the Wicked Witch of the West. Well, from the knees down, anyway. “No. But, I did get a sense it was important to Croakies.”

  Croakies was the name of my shop. Before you ask me why a magical artifact shop would be named Croakies, don’t. I couldn’t possibly tell you. That was the name of the store when I bought the place from the previous Keeper of the Artifacts. She’d been kind of scattered, seeming more interested in moving onto her next great adventure than preparing me for mine. I hadn’t gotten around to asking her where the name had come from. It had been all I could manage getting her to tell me how to flush the magical toilet in my apartment.

  I mean, jiggling the handle as I sang, Make me a Magic Muffin Mister, wasn’t just gross. It was also not at all intuitive.

  I’m just sayin’.

  Rather th
an trying to wrangle the information from the previous keeper, I silently promised myself that I’d change the name of the shop as soon as the paperwork was signed.

  Best laid plans and all.

  I’d tried to make the change. Multiple times. But the new sign I’d hung to replace the weather-worn wooden one bearing an ugly spotted frog and the name, Croakies, disappeared within hours and the old sign magically reappeared.

  I’d tried burning the old sign once. It resurrected itself right back onto the front of my store.

  I hadn’t even been successful changing the name on paper. No matter how many times I filed a new name with the city. The old name simply reappeared on the paperwork in its place.

  I gave up after the third try.

  Croakies it was.

  I had no idea why. But who was I to question the ways of the magical universe?

  Sebille untangled her bony limbs and stood. “Do you want me to consult the mirror?”

  I nodded. “Would you mind?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll be in the back room if you need me.”

  The “back room” of Croakies was the special area where all the magical artifacts lived. The front room was a bookstore. Though not your average bookstore. Even there, magic and supernormal reality dominated. But Croakies Books was available to everyone, which meant I got a lot of little old ladies looking for talking cat cozy mysteries and more than my share of ghost-busting wannabes.

  As a city Sprite, Sebille made liberal use of the mirrors to gain access to magical news and happenings. Her family used streams and lakes and lived in toadstool houses. Sebille would disintegrate into a puddle of pique and rage if she had to live in a toadstool. That’s why I’d dubbed her a city Sprite, though there really was no such thing. By contrast, her very large family found toadstool homes to be the height of comfort.

  Part of my odd assistant’s issue with the whole “live in the woods in a toadstool” thing was that it required she maintain her traditional size of one and a half inches tall. Sebille had discovered she enjoyed being the size of the rest of the world, which enabled her to do all the stuff that was key to her existence. Such as drinking half-caff, mocha latte grande made with steamed almond milk and coconut sugar, and hanging out at the Vape bar with perfect strangers who told her everything about their lives and then wondered why they had.

  Yeah, that was her other super power.

  Sebille lived in a one-room apartment over the vapery across the street. She said she loved the atmosphere of the place and had even created her own vape flavor with magical herbs. I’d tried it once when she was in the testing stage and I’m pretty sure I entered a separate dimension for twenty very long minutes.

  That was the last time I was going to be vaping with Sebille.

  “Let me just wash out this mug and I’ll be right down,” I told her as she started down the steps leading to Croakies’ back room.

  Sebille flicked a hand dismissively and disappeared down the steps with thunderous steps. I’d never understand how someone whose natural state was teeny tiny with iridescent purple and green wings could be so heavy-footed.

  Then again, it could have something to do with the pointy red shoes. They hadn’t had her size in the shiny monstrosities and Sebille had been “absolutely certain” she couldn’t go on with her life if she didn’t get them. She’d bought them anyway and stuffed the toes with cotton balls.

  Thus the clomping aspect to her descent down my stairs. I’d personally witnessed the shoes taking a flyer more than once. I’d even been nearly clocked on the head by one once.

  Shaking my head, I moved into the kitchen and ran water into the mug, adding some soap to the mix. Then I rinsed it out and placed it upside down in the drainer on my counter.

  My head still ached, but it was much better than it had been before the tea. I splashed cold water onto my face and squinted around for a towel, finally remembering I’d put it into the laundry the night before.

  Reaching blindly for the paper towels, I encountered an empty roll.

  In desperation, I tugged my shirt up and dragged it over my face, leaving a large wet spot on the bottom.

  Whatever.

  I headed down to the first floor, suddenly anxious to discover the source of my magical headache. The sooner we figured out which artifact needed rescuing, the sooner I could get pain-free.

  The door leading to the bookstore was at the bottom of the stairs. I stopped and peered through the glass, seeing an empty store and a Closed sign on the door. Just as Sebille had said.

  I released breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. It had been a long day and, though I loved my job at the bookstore, I was relieved that my day job wouldn’t be interfering with my night job. for once

  I locked the interior door and turned toward the large, open room behind the stairs. As usual, the light in the place flickered over the artifacts, a rainbow of colors that shifted and shuddered, depending on which artifacts held sway at the moment.

  There was a light switch I could use to disrupt the natural light of the artifacts, but I’d never used it. I’d never felt the need to disrupt the artifacts’ natural energy. I liked that they lit the space around them with an energy all their own.

  I found Sebille standing in front of an ancient, wood-framed standing mirror, hands on hips and shoulders stiff. I recognized the tiny figure who stared back at her from the age-marbled glass.

  “Don’t be such a derk!” Sebille’s mother exclaimed in a voice amplified by magic. It was very strange to see the bug-sized woman’s lips moving and to hear a voice as big as her full-sized daughter’s. “You know we must do as the magic commands.”

  Sebille leaned closer, her frame rigid. I couldn’t see her freckled face but I could picture it in my mind. In her rage, the Sprite’s features would be sharp, her skin giving off an iridescent glow that changed color depending on how mad she was. I was relieved to see it was only a mild pink, which meant she was irritated, but she wasn’t going to be tempted to send an atom-shattering blast of magic into the treasure mirror in her present mood.

  “Sebille?” I said as I approached. I spoke more to distract her from getting any angrier than for any other reason. I gave her mother a smile and a finger wave. “Your Majesty.”

  The Sprite’s wings fluttered with pleasure and her tiny form dipped on the air before surging back up to eye level in the mirror. “Hello, Naida. How is your headache?”

  I wrapped an arm around Sebille. “Better, thanks to your daughter’s superhero level tea making abilities.”

  The Sprite in the mirror smiled regally. “I am glad. I hope you can help him, Keeper. I really do. Now I have to go.” She shot straight up, out of view. The pond in the background sparkled for a beat before beginning to waver and then disappeared behind a silvery cloud of nothingness.

  “He?” I asked my assistant.

  Sebille dropped angrily onto a chair, her expression murderous. “Don’t ask.” She yelped and shot straight into the air, grabbing her buttocks and turning to glare at the chair. The red velvet and gilded wood furniture shifted back and forth as if wagging its tail and then settled into inactivity again.

  I was pretty sure the gilded arms sparkled for a moment before returning to normal. “Casanova’s chair,” I told her, a laugh burbling in my throat.

  “I’m aware of that, Naida!” She snapped, rubbing her bottom and glaring at the chair. “We should put that thing in the closet.”

  I allowed my laugh to escape, shaking my head. “I have. Five times. It just keeps showing back up at the front of the shop.”

  She sighed. “Sometimes, I hate magical artifacts.”

  I gave her a wink. “Yeah, but magical artifacts luuurrrvvve you!”

  She somehow missed the humor in my teasing. “In the questionable vernacular of my Sprite mother, don’t be such a derk, Naida!”

  Shaking my head, I pointed to the mirror. “Did your mother have any insights for us?”

  “Nothing very use
ful. She said the magical wave was mixed and vague. All she got from it was that it concerned a man.” She pinched bony shoulders toward her pointed ears. “Maybe one of the artifacts in the shop has gone rogue.”

  I glanced around at the seemingly jumbled mess of things which looked harmless and innocent but which definitely weren’t either of those things. Nothing glowed or shimmied or just generally looked agitated. “If so, I’m not sensing it here. Are you?”

  Sebille opened her mouth to reply but didn’t get the chance.

  From the back of the room came a loud thump. I hurried in that direction, Sebille hot on my heels. No further sounds occurred to help us pinpoint the problem. After hurrying down aisle after aisle of dusty objects that didn’t seem to be out of place, we came to the end of the last aisle and found the source of the problem.

  Actually, he was the source of many of my problems. But he was just so dang cute!

  I jerked to a stop and cocked my head, glaring down into a pair of round, orange eyes.

  “Mr. Wicked!” Sebille uttered in her most irritated tone. “What have you done?”

  The cat narrowed its startling eyes, which were actually a really dark gold but they often looked orange in the low light. He skimmed a glance in my direction and gave me a long, broken “Meow,” then looked down at the thick, dusty tome his bottom was resting upon.

  “What are you doing in here, Mister?” I asked the gray kitten as I scooped him up and placed a kiss on top of his head. His purr rumbled against my chest as I snuggled him close.