Kickstart My Witch

by Lotta Smith

  Kickstart My Witch

  Witch’s Guide to Haunted Properties: Los Angeles: Mystery

  Book 1

  By Lotta Smith

  Copyright

  Kickstart My Witch© 2019 Lotta Smith.

  Cover copyright 2019 Molly Burton at CoverWorks

  Editing and proofreading: Kelly Hartigan of XterraWeb

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the author/and publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. None of the characters in this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to locales, actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and an unintentional.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Copyright

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  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  EPILOGUE

  In case you’ve missed: Wicked for Hire

  About the author

  PROLOGUE

  Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da! Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-bam!

  Mick’s guitar riff screamed wickedly while Tommy’s drums thumped like a mass of cocaine-accelerated heartbeats and Nikki’s bass made a steady rhythm. My heart was beating fast, synchronizing with the beats and pulse of the music. In my opinion, Mötley Crüe was the most fabulous and most glamorous band that had ever existed in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries in this world. If I were in the front row at their show, I would have been totally exploding with overflowing adrenaline and anticipation for Vince to start singing. Seriously, if I were older by thirty years, I’d have spent my high school years chasing the band as one of the groupies.

  Except, that wasn’t the case.

  Unfortunately, when I was born, they were older than my parents. To make it worse, my current location wasn’t the front row of a Mötley Crüe show. To be more precise, I wasn’t even attending any shows. Instead of being at Whiskey a Go Go, I was on a little bridge interconnecting two high-rise buildings in downtown Los Angeles, and “Dr. Feelgood” wasn’t really playing because it was only ringing and banging in my head. I didn’t know why in the heck that particular hit song played so loudly in my head. Don’t get me wrong. I was healthy—both mentally and physically—and I didn’t get auditory hallucinations so often. Anyway, I had something way more important to think about such as how to survive this apocalyptic moment, run away to LAX, and fly back to my home sweet home in Napa Valley.

  Fiorentina Valentine. That was my name. My friends and family called me Fio, but that was irrelevant at the moment. I’m supposed to be a witch, but that, too, was as irrelevant as my nickname. Right now, I was having the biggest catastrophe of my life. A dude I’d met minutes earlier at a job interview that ended with an epic screwup was chasing after me, and he was grabbing my neck.

  I wasn’t exaggerating. His hands were wrapping around my not-so-long neck, and he didn’t even say things like “I’m gonna kill you!” or “I want to try the taste of your blood!”

  He overpowered me before I could say, “Are you serious?” and he gained total control of my body. I’d swear I’d be better off if he had grabbed my crotch instead of my neck. If anybody had grabbed my crotch, I would be able to fight back, but believe me, when you were grabbed around the neck, it was totally up to your predator whether to let you live or die, and, well…the situation was really bad!

  He was moving me toward the edge of the bridge. I didn’t mean to brag, but I wasn’t one of those supermodel-type girls who’d be blown away by a gust of strong wind. But the dude was carrying me like I was nothing but an ultra-thin silk scarf.

  “Hello? Have you ever heard the term compliance?” I snapped. At least, I tried to snap. Okay, snapping at the guy who’d interviewed you minutes ago might not be a smart career move, but I didn’t care. After all, it wasn’t easy to make your point and still stay coherent when you were being choked. He hoisted me up over the handrails of the bridge.

  My jaw dropped. Something wasn’t right about him.

  First off, he wasn’t a Rambo-type guy. He looked more like an anorexic than a wannabe Stallone or Schwarzenegger, but he lifted me up so easily, using only one hand. Secondly, the height of the bridge was approximately fifteen yards above the busy main road with a ton of traffic. With the dude still grabbing my neck, I was growing short of oxygen. Maybe he was trying to make a ridiculous prank video or something like that, but it wasn’t funny. I wasn’t a rocket scientist, but I could predict my immediate future was extremely grim. The impact of falling from that height was strong enough to kill me, and then the vehicles would run all over me, and I’d end up becoming a real-life Wile E. Coyote after falling off the cliff and then run over by a steamroller.

  The next thing I knew, the man who had interviewed me climbed up the safety guard of the bridge. As he pulled me up with one hand, he took in the scenery spreading underneath. Fifteen yards beneath us was the road and the traffic. And, the weirdest thing about the situation was the guy showed no sign of hesitation. It was as if he didn’t care that we’d end up looking like uncooked hamburger patties.

  As if he was operated by some kind of a crazy AI, he squinted at the downtown skyline spreading in front of us. At this moment, he seemed to have changed his mind, and he held my wrist in his death grip instead of my neck. Thanks to this change, I was able to breathe again. Then again, considering I was able to think again with my brain recovering from its previously locked status with the oxygen influx, I didn’t know whether it was a blessing or a curse.

  “Wha-what are you going to do?” I asked him in a trembling voice and coughed, but I soon regretted my move.

  He hadn’t uttered a word, but he looked at me with his dark eyes. Even though his eye color was baby blue, there was something unmistakably dark and murky in that relatively light shade of color. His eyes and face were devoid of any emotions. Suddenly, I felt terribly cold as I looked at the darkness in his eyes.

  The music in my head had stopped playing. I didn’t know why I’d ended up with this situation all fudged up, but I knew a thing or two about the man grabbing my wrist. He was not Dr. Feelgood—because he didn’t make me feel all right—and he was going to jump off the bridge with me in tow.

  CHAPTER 1

  It all started with Doughnuts Factory.

  Not that I used to make doughnuts for a living, but the small PR company located in my hometown used to call themselves Doughnuts Factory. Locals knew we weren’t a bunch of doughnut fairies, and nobody expected to purchase sweet delights from us. On the contrary, we Doughnuts Factory workers used to purchase doughnuts and cupcakes from Café Tran located across the street. Nobody in town ever had an issue with a PR company with doughnuts in their name—until a woman from out of to
wn came to rob us of doughnuts.

  Anyway, she didn’t take it kindly when she found out that we weren’t doughnut manufacturers and we were out of doughnuts and cupcakes, and she burned down the company.

  According to the police officer in charge of that case, Henrietta Botticeruli was being chased by bounty hunters after skipping her court appearance for stopping a truck carrying doughnuts, to deliver them to grocery stores, and assaulting the truck driver. Apparently, she tended to become agitated when she had a craving for doughnuts. Good thing she was such a lousy shot, and no one got hurt after she’d fired fifteen shots. One shot from her gun landed in a lucky—or not so lucky—spot, and the one-story building, which used to be a convenience store that had been turned into a PR company, ended up in cinders when it exploded while the police questioned us after arresting the woman.

  The owner of Doughnuts Factory called it quits when he got the insurance money and paid us extra as a farewell bonus. He was in his nineties, and none of his grandchildren was interested in continuing his business.

  What a shame. I loved working for that company. Plus, this was the third time my workplace had been shut down, and it was getting annoying.

  Since graduating from a local community college six months ago, I’d worked for three companies. The first two went bankrupt, and the third one literally exploded. I swear, it wasn’t my fault, but I had serious difficulty finding my fourth place of employment.

  One night, I prayed to God and my guardian angel—even though I suspected my guardian angel could be somewhat lousy, considering the track record of my employment history—saying, “Please lead me to the perfect place of employment that’s absolutely made for me. If there’s no such place where I can work happily, pursuing a long and decent career, I’d really appreciate it if you’d tip me the winning numbers of the upcoming Powerball. Thanks in advance!”

  And, in my sleep, I heard a voice saying, “Apply for Quest Realty’s Los Angeles headquarters.”

  In retrospect, the voice bore a slight resemblance to Great Mama Jane, my late great-grandmother, but I wasn’t quite sure who it was. When she was alive, she openly bragged about being a witch, and all the Valentines used to treat her with a ton of respect peppered with some awe and fear. The funny thing was, nobody treated her as a joke. Since she lived for one hundred and eight years, she might have been a real witch, but still, in my opinion, a witch should have a name like Xenna or Zola, not Jane.

  Anyway, I listened to the voice, submitted an online application, and forgot about it. Quest Realty was a leading real estate developer in the US and the world and was part of the multibillion-dollar conglomerate The Quest Group. Considering that I had no notable connection to any stakeholders at the company, and I didn’t have an Ivy League education under my belt, the odds of yours truly getting a position at the company seemed slim to none.

  I had to stop indulging myself with a sweet daydream and start looking for a real job.

  * * *

  Two months following the strange dream telling me to apply for Quest Realty, I was sweating profusely.

  I sat at the small desk set up in the center of a room on the penthouse floor of a massive high-rise in downtown Los Angeles. In front of me and my small desk was a long table. Four people sat across from me at the long table.

  “Ms. Valentine, what would you do to improve Quest Realty?” asked an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-forties. Her name plate read Miranda Quest, CEO.

  I was at Quest Realty’s headquarters in Los Angeles, and I was in the middle of an interview with the executives. A week or so after submitting my application to the company, I had my first interview, and then I proceeded to the second-round interview. Miraculously, I’d somehow successfully advanced to the final selection process with the company’s executives, and so far, things weren’t all that peachy. Apparently, my preparation for the opportunity wasn’t good enough, and I wanted to go back two weeks to meet myself in the past and make myself do some research on the company. Honestly, I hadn’t held high hopes that I’d get a response to my application for employment with Quest Realty when I’d submitted it. After all, it was just a weird dream with a hint of an auditory hallucination. Who could have imagined that I’d go so far as to reach the final interview?

  I opened my mouth, hoping to say something intelligent. I couldn’t think of anything I could do that could improve the company. For me, Quest Realty seemed like a flawlessly established big company, but I had a hunch that stating my honest thoughts wouldn’t make a right answer.

  Behind the interviewers was a floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the skyline packed with skyscrapers I’d seen in some movies. The color of the L.A. sky was slightly more grayish than the one in my hometown. Unlike in my hometown, I didn’t see green hills, and the ultra-tall buildings were all black and gray. Everybody sat in silence in this room. No one offered me a smile that would have encouraged me to relax or cracked a joke, just to loosen up my nerves. Of course, their mission for the moment was to evaluate me, and not to socialize with me, and I knew that. Still, I felt out of place here.

  Indeed, I was out of place here. Aside from having a great-grandmother who firmly believed she was capable of casting magical spells and predicting the future, my life had been normal, boring, and mediocre.

  I had been born and raised in a small town located at the edge of Napa Valley, and the sceneries I was accustomed to seeing were of the vast vineyards, wineries, and the kinds of shops every Joe and Jane—including but not limited to my great-grandma—in other small towns across the country frequented. In terms of geography, we were close to Sonoma, but we weren’t as hip as that stylish wine town. Instead of sophisticated small boutiques selling gourmet foods, kitchen wares with designer logos and quirky art pieces, we had big box stores. Even the residents of Sonoma and stylish parts of Napa Valley came to buy things they needed for their everyday lives. After all, living in a town known for its elegance didn’t mean the residents never needed to visit Walmart, CVS, IKEA, and the like.

  I went to the local public high school and then the local community college, and my experience with big cities like Los Angeles and New York City had been visiting there occasionally. My dad had been working for a bank, and my mom was a homemaker. We used to visit the big cities for vacations from the massive number of vacationers heading to our region. I thought I was familiar with the atmosphere of big cities, but I wasn’t. Suddenly, applying for a position at Quest Realty—following the voice’s instruction in my dream—felt like the stupidest move I’d ever taken.

  Then again, regardless of the absurdity and surrealism with the situation, I had the interviewers to deal with and a question to answer.

  “Well—” I cleared my throat. When I spoke up, my voice was scratchy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to relax a little. Not to mention I could buy a second or two by doing so. In hopes of looking confident, I offered them a smile and said, “If I may, the problem with the company could be the risk of destroying nature and the environment.”

  It was the best I could come up with at the moment, but the interviewer sitting at the right end of the table snorted and muttered, “Seriously?”

  My jaw dropped. Apparently, I’d just committed the biggest faux pas of the day, and in spite of my desperate attempt for recovery, my brain failed me, and I couldn’t come up with anything good to say.

  “Stop that, Jack, will you?” Ms. Quest, the CEO of the company, was kind enough to shush the guy and offer me a gentle smile. “Ms. Valentine, what you have pointed out is highly important to us. As a company involved in real estate development, sustainability and eco-friendliness are our top priorities.”

  “Oh… That is so brilliant.” I tried to smile, but I was sure my confident façade had been utterly ruined.

  “Thank you,” she said, and everyone fell silent.

  I lowered my gaze, wishing I could disappear from this scene. If only I were a real witch, with the ability to disappear and tweak other people�
��s memories, I’d be home, pretending I’d never really applied to Quest Realty in the first place. In that case, I’d have already had a new job by tweaking the memories of the business owners in my hometown so they’d forget that all businesses that had hired me had gone out of business.

  Jack broke the deafening silence. “I have a question.”

  I looked up at Jack, who’d previously snorted at my answer, and resisted an urge to roll my eyes. Some things were different about him compared to the rest. First off, he was more casually dressed, unlike the rest of the interviewers sporting suits that screamed “business and expensive. He was in a light-beige suit that must have been pricey, but he wore it in a more Californian way, which was hard for transplants from East Coast to master, with a loosened tie and a nonchalant smile peppered with an attitude. He was also younger than the other interviewers. I estimated his age to be late twenties. Early thirties, tops.

  The name plate in front of him read, “Jack Adams, Director of H&H Management.” I didn’t have a clue what H&H stood for, but if it was H&M instead, I’d have considered pursuing a career in law and representing a giant in fast-fashion industry.

  Anyway, I didn’t feel the vibes of an executive from this guy. But when he looked at me and said, “Let me ask you something,” I noticed I was wrong. Despite his laidback façade, the confidence coming from him was unmistakably strong. His gaze had an air that made me uneasy—as if he was going to reveal my dirtiest secrets with merely a glance. Not that I had huge secrets, like I had ties with the FBI’s most wanted criminals or terrorists, but if he kept staring at me, I might have fessed up to crimes I didn’t even commit.

  I straightened up, bracing myself for a tough question.

  Sporting a lopsided grin, he said, “I’ve got a very good question for you, Ms. Valentine.”

  “Yes.” I nodded expectantly, trying to look confident.

  “How many interviewers do you see in this room?”