Switching Witches

by Robyn Peterman

  However, miracle of miracles, here I was in Assjacket, West Virginia, happier than I’d ever been in my thirty-one years—a fact that gave me nightmares occasionally. I had Mac, my mate and the most gorgeous werewolf on the planet.

  We had two perfectly beautiful twin babies, Audrey and Henry. I’d been terrified my babies would come out as puppies due to the fact that I was in a cross-species relationship, but thank the Goddess, they hadn’t. All of the violent threats I’d made to Mac’s joystick during labor were for naught—which was a good thing. I loved his joystick.

  “Goddess in mom jeans,” I muttered to myself, wincing at Baba Yaga’s appalling choice of outfit. “I don’t have time for this today.”

  Not only did I have plans to get laid, I had to go into the office and make sure none of my idiot townsfolk were bleeding or broken.

  My job as the Shifter Whisperer, or Shifter Wanker as I preferred to be called, kept me busy because Shifters were extremely accident-prone. I complained constantly so my reputation as an uncaring, materialistic witch stayed secure, but sadly it was being shredded systematically. Everyone thought I was nice, good and kind. It was freakin’ horrible.

  Dealing with a certifiable Baba Yaga on a daily basis made me want to blow something up, but luckily, most of Assjacket was still standing—so far.

  “I repeat,” Baba Yaga hissed as she began to march in tight little circles, making me slightly dizzy. “Houston, we have a problem.”

  Baba Yaga’s turbulent movement didn’t faze me a bit, but the way she was dressed alarmed me greatly and made my stomach clench in terror. Something was wrong. The Almighty Leader of the Witches was usually clad in horrifying 80’s attire like a perfectly awful Madonna wannabe.

  Not today. Today Baba Yaga—aka Carol aka the woman shacking up with my father, much to my chagrin—was wearing what I could only describe as a housecoat. The housecoat had no sequins, no feathers, it wasn’t even remotely sheer and it wasn’t low cut. Baba Yaga’s famous cleavage was nowhere in sight. And her blonde hair? It was flat. Actually, it looked nice, but it was all kinds of wrong. It was normally teased a mile high and sprayed within an inch of its life.

  Shit.

  “For the love of everything that rides a broom,” Sassy groused with an enormous eye roll, clearly untroubled by our leader’s unusual outfit. “We’ve already established that Zelda’s name is not Houston. Wait… unless it is Houston. Did you change it and not tell me?”

  My eye roll beat hers. “No. No, I did not.”

  “Okay, good,” Sassy said with a nod that made her mass of blonde curls bounce. “However, if you do decide to change it, I say go with Dallas instead of Houston.”

  “Because?” I inquired, automatically asking a question that I actually didn’t want the answer to. Sassy had the ability to render me speechless… and mindless. Often. She was my BFF—by default—although I did love her. Caring about people was still somewhat new to me, but Sassy had grown on me like a fungus that didn’t require medication.

  Spending nine months in the magical pokey together for misuse of magic, among other things, had been eye opening. I’d wanted to zap her bald regularly. Well, I did zap her bald a few times, but I was working on my control now. My success rate was hovering at around twenty percent.

  “Better shopping in Dallas,” Sassy replied.

  Since she was correct, I decided she could keep her hair.

  “Are you done?” Baba Yaga demanded of Sassy just as Baba’s sister Marge poofed into the room in a blast of cookie-scented wind and glitter.

  The day had gone from weird to weirder—par for the course in my life.

  Marge’s outfit gave Baba Yaga’s a run for the money. My stomach took another dive as I checked her out. Something terrible was afoot.

  Normally, Cookie Witch, better known as Marge, was impeccably dressed in the latest fashion. Today it was sweatpants, flip-flops and a starched t-shirt. Very unsettling.

  Right now the two most powerful witches in existence were freaking out in my living room. This did not bode well for me getting to play out a pornographic fairy tale with Mac this afternoon while the twins took their nap.

  “Have you told them?” Marge demanded as she began to pace the room with her deranged sister.

  The direction of the conversation was making me itchy. Baba Yaga and Cookie Witch were only semi-sane on a good day. Today wasn’t turning out to be good.

  “Told us what?” I asked.

  “Well,” Baba Yaga said, wringing her hands as plain, ugly brown house slippers appeared on her feet. “It seems that there are some issues at the Witchypoo Convention.”

  “Repeat,” I said, trying not to laugh. Baba Yaga had a rep a bit like Mother Nature from the TV commercial… she didn’t like to be laughed at. Her heinous slippers were worrisome, but I was having a difficult time getting past Witchypoo.

  “Issues,” she snapped, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “Nope, got that part,” I said, staring at my fingernails. Damn, I needed a manicure. “The other part.”

  “There are issues at the Witchypoo Convention,” she repeated.

  I now was tying my shoelaces on shoes that had no laces and biting down on my lip. Hard. She had to be joking—although she rarely joked. The Witchypoo Convention?

  “Goddess in a tube top,” Sassy yelled and threw her hands in the air accidentally blowing up the lamp she was standing next to. “That’s disgusting. Why in the world is there a witch poop convention? That is private business. I would never poop with a bunch of witches watching. I can’t even poop if I’m not at home. Makes long shopping trips a little difficult. However, I can poop at my friends’ houses and at the Assjacket Diner if no one else is in the bathroom.”

  And silence ensued. Sassy was a lethal weapon of mass confusion.

  Baba Yaga was the first to regain the power of speech after Sassy’s unappetizing diatribe. “You really think Sassy taking over for you is a good plan?” she asked Marge.

  “I never said it was a good plan. I just said it was a plan,” Marge replied, shaking her head. “And you think Zelda will do your job justice?”

  “I can answer that,” I chimed in, glaring at both of the witches-in-charge who were now magically sporting pink sponge rollers in their hair. That almost made me run for cover. It was so incredibly out of the realm of normal, but I had to deal with the matter at hand first. “No. The answer is no. I will not do justice to being the next Baba Yaga because I have no intention of taking the job. I’m the Shifter Wanker. I heal dumbass Shifters. They’re as clumsy as the Goddess on fucking roller skates. I’m good at it and I like it. However, that is top-secret information. My rep as an uncaring materialistic witch has taken so many freakin’ hits in Assjacket that it gives me gas.”

  “I bet they fart at the poop convention too,” Sassy added with a gag.

  Waving my hand, I clamped Sassy’s lips together. We needed to figure out why Carol and Marge looked like Hell on a stick. Did their offensive outfits mean the world was coming to an end? Goddess, that would suck. I was sure I wasn’t going to like the real answer, but since I was now a mother to two beautiful witch slash werewolf babies, I was trying to be mature. Mature witches got to the bottom of problems—even ones that had to do with absurd things like Witchypoo conventions and petrifying ensembles.

  “First off, I’d like to go on record saying that I was clueless witches even have conventions. And whoever named the convention Witchypoo should be zapped on the ass until they can’t sit for a month,” I announced.

  “It’s not a real witch convention,” Marge informed me. “It’s a fake witch convention—filled with humans who like to dance naked around campfires and pretend that wands and brooms actually work.”

  Sassy snapped her fingers and stretched her mouth back out. “So no public pooping?”

  “Goddess, no,” Baba Yaga said, scrunching her nose. “While it is a fake witch convention, it’s come to our attention that some real witches might be in a
ttendance.”

  “And that’s a problem?” I asked, not following.

  So what if witches were mixing with humans? As long as they didn’t reveal themselves, it wasn’t a big deal.

  Baba and Marge exchanged loaded glances.

  “Shenanigans,” Marge said, sounding very grave.

  Again, I wanted to laugh. Again, I didn’t. I wasn’t in the mood to have my ass zapped.

  “And the real witches are causing shenanigans?” I asked, barely keeping a straight face.

  We lived a secret life in public. No human knew about the incredible magical realm living among them in their own world. Witches, Shifters, Vampyres and unfortunately, the occasional Demon walked around undetected everywhere on the Goddess’s green earth.

  “We think so,” Baba Yaga confirmed.

  “So do something about it,” I said with an eye roll. Why in the Goddess’s gauchos were they dressed like bag ladies and stomping around my house in a tizzy? Carol and Marge were not ones to suffer idiots lightly. The scar on my butt could attest to that.

  “Excellent idea!” Marge said with far too much enthusiasm for my liking.

  “Okay, great,” I said, pushing both of them towards the front door. “I have an appointment

  with a few orgasms in an hour or so… so you guys have fun.”

  “Not so fast,” Baba Yaga said in a voice that made me narrow my eyes. “We are already doing something about it… even as we speak.”

  “To be more accurate,” Marge chimed in with a smile that made me slightly ill, “you two will be doing something about it.”

  “Count me out. I will not poop in public,” Sassy announced, crossing her arms over her chest and stomping her foot. “Focal matters are not my thing.”

  “Fecal,” I corrected her and then winced.

  “Is that Swedish?” Sassy asked, looking confused.

  “Umm… yes,” I replied. It was better to just go with the flow with Sassy. If she got too confused things started to explode. I’d already lost a lamp.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said with a curt nod as she produced a notebook from thin air and wrote the word down. “I’m not fluent in Swedish yet. But back to my point… I have a very active gag reflex—but not with blowjobs. I’m excellent with blowjobs. My husband slash mate slash sex god, Jeeves, can confirm this. However, my adopted chipmunk Shifter sons are not very good at flushing so I’ve hurled several times in just the last week alone. You have no idea how horrifying it is to find out one of your chipmunks busted a grumpie without the common courtesy to flush the steamer. I considered waxing the fur off of all four of them, but figured that would send them to therapy more than the three times a week that they’re already going at the moment. I’ve solved the issue by requiring them release their chocolate hostages in the woods from now on. If they can’t flush their dookies, they can lay cable in the forest.”

  “Sassy,” I snapped, holding on to my sanity and the need to zap her into next year by a thread.

  “Yes, Zelda?”

  “No one poops at this convention.”

  “So they all just hold it?” she asked, perplexed. “That can’t be healthy.”

  “And I repeat,” Baba Yaga said dryly to Marge. “Sassy is a good choice of replacement for you?”

  “I didn’t choose. The Goddess did and you well know it,” Marge huffed. “At least I don’t have a replacement who refuses to take the job.”

  “Whoa,” Sassy said, eyeing Marge. “I can refuse?”

  “No,” Marge shouted, making everyone in the room jump.

  Sassy shrugged and sighed. “Okay. I was just checking.”

  I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer to the Goddess. If the Goddess really had chosen Sassy and me, she was losing her marbles. The title of Baba Yaga was bestowed upon a witch who was strong enough and wise enough to lead our kind. I was definitely strong enough as I had both light and dark magic within me. Light because all witches were born that way. And the dark? Well, that was compliments of my mother; who, thanks to me, had no power at all now. My wicked mother was living out what was left of her very evil life as a human.

  But wise? No one would call me wise.

  I was constantly working on my own mothering skills since I’d had the world’s suckiest maternal parental unit. At least I’d found my dad, even though I did accidentally run him over with my car when we first met… which was part of the reason for my stay in the pokey with Sassy.

  Fabio aka Fabdudio aka my dad had no clue about me until I was grown. When he found out and tried to find me, he’d let my mother put a curse on him to protect my life. He’d ended up as my mangy cat until I told him I loved him and broke the curse. Kind of weird but somehow appropriate. He was turning into the best dad in the Universe and I adored him.

  The fact that my mother wanted to kill me kept our town therapist, Roger the rabbit Shifter’s bank account very healthy. However, since coming to Assjacket, I’d learned that I was lovable and I could love other people. I suppose if I hadn’t gone through what I’d gone through I wouldn’t be where I was right now. And I loved where I was right now. I didn’t want to add anything to it—especially not the title Baba Yaga.

  “Zelda, it’s about time you accepted your fate,” Baba Yaga said with a raised brow and a hint of a smile. “You have minions.”

  “I’d hardly call Sleepy, Doc, Sneezy, Grumpy and Sponge Bob minions. They’re massive fucking trees,” I snapped.

  Of course, they did come when I bid them, but they made one Hell of a mess. Moving trees resulted in torn up yards. They were sneaky enormous freaks of nature. It was some kind of poetic fucked up justice that I would end up with destructive trees as minions considering I had enough power in my pinky finger to blow up the entire United States. Every night the leafy bastards would replant themselves in a different order and then laugh hysterically when I called them by the wrong names. The only thing that kept me from chopping them into firewood was that they adored Henry and Audrey. Sponge Bob had even cut some of his own branches to make two baby swings.

  “It’s not like you have to take over yet,” Marge pointed out. “Sassy is still learning how to use the potion to keep the magical balance in the world even.”

  “And I still need to learn to speak Canadian,” Sassy added very seriously. “I can’t understand a dang thing they say. It would be very irresponsible of me to hold a job where I couldn’t communicate with my employees.”

  Again, Sassy rendered us mute. I considered explaining to her the Canadians spoke the same language we did but decided against it. That could take days and I still had hopes of getting laid in an hour.

  “Color me confused,” I said, shaking my head. “If you two horribly dressed witches are still in charge, then why do we have to go check on the shenanigans?”

  Baba Yaga shrugged and laughed. “Because Marge and I are too recognizable. If there are shenanigans, the witches responsible will run if they catch wind that we’re there. Sooooo… since the Goddess clearly went on a bender or four when she chose you girls, we’ve decided that you shall represent us.”

  As she finished her explanation both she and Marge were suddenly wearing shower caps and had bright green facial masks on. It was simply too fucking much.

  “Sweet Goddess in a thong,” I shouted, covering my eyes. “If you’ll stop with the appalling transformation we’ll do it. I’m gonna need eye bleach soon.”

  “Wonderful,” Baba Yaga purred victoriously.

  I didn’t like her tone at all.

  “So we’re like undercover Baba Yaga and undercover Cookie Witch? We’re switching witches?” Sassy asked, warming to the idea.

  “Yes,” Marge said, clapping her hands together with delight.

  In the flash of an eye, Marge’s horrible outfit was gone and she was back to her normal self in a killer Chanel sheath.

  “Do I get to wear your clothes?” Sassy asked, getting more excited by the second.

  “Absolutely!” Marge s
aid. “I have a brand new hot pink Prada sundress that I haven’t even worn yet.”

  Sassy’s scream of delight made me slap my hands over my ears. What came next was so terrifying it was hard to explain.

  “And you can peruse my closet, Zelda,” Baba Yaga told me as she wiggled her nose and went from the housecoat look to utterly horrifying—but at least it was the kind of horrifying outfit I was used to and comfortable with.

  Our stuck-in-the-eighties leader was now back to her gag-inducing self. She wore a lime green spandex bodysuit coupled with a silver sequined cone bra and topped off with hair teased so high a bird could make six nests in it. At least a hundred black rubber bracelets adorned each wrist and a feathered stretchy headband was plastered around her head. Her ruffled skirt was a sheer gauzy orange and she had on Converse high-tops. I almost puked in my mouth. But the most shocking part was even though the attire was stupefying, the woman was still otherworldly gorgeous.

  “No,” I choked out. “I’m good. Besides, I’m rough on clothes. Spandex makes me hurl and I’d hate to return your wardrobe all smelly.”

  “Fine point,” Baba Yaga said with a nod as she took Marge’s hand in hers and turned to leave. “You’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow. We’ll have a few lessons tomorrow morning.”

  On that cryptic note, Baba Yaga—aka Carol—snapped her fingers and poofed away with a grinning Marge.

  “I think we just got played,” I said, waving my hand to dissipate the glitter they’d left behind.

  “Pretty sure you’re right,” Sassy agreed. “But I’m gonna look killer in pink Prada.”

  “At least I don’t have to wear a cut up sweatshirt with leggings and a headband,” I muttered.

  “And thank the Goddess, we don’t have to poop in public.”

  Well, there was that.

  Chapter Three