THE WITCH’S COMPLEMENT
Wren has been a nomadic witch-for-hire since losing the woman she loved. When signs point to a magical storm in Seattle, she heads west to check on her friends. It’s time to get her tattooed runes touched up anyway, and she only trusts one artist to do it right.
Abby is determined to keep her magic secret to save her dream of becoming a tattoo artist while she apprentices with an incredible artist named Scott. But when a gorgeous witch walks into the shop, her complementary magic rips Abby’s intentions to hell. She’s never shared such an intoxicating connection with another witch and she’s not sure she can resist it, even if giving in means risking her career.
Then Scott’s girlfriend shows up dripping dark magic and Abby is forced to blow her cover to warn Wren there is more at play than a simple magical storm. Whoever is behind the dark energy only needs a couple of unwilling mediums to unleash pure evil onto the world. When it turns out Wren knows just the two mediums they’re looking for, it puts her and Abby front and center in the fight to destroy the source of the evil stalking their friends once and for all.
To those of us searching for the place where we belong.
THE WITCH’S COMPLEMENT
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THE CLOAKED SERIES BOOK THREE
ELLE BEAUREGARD
The Witch’s Complement
Copyright © 2021
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Editor: Jennifer Graybeal, Jen Graybeal Editing Services
Formatting by Wicked Dreams Publishing
ISBN: 9798201453572
If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only please delete it and purchase your own copy from an authorized retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Elle Beauregard
PO Box 27242
Federal Way, Washington, 98093
USA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY ELLE BEAUREGARD
CHAPTER ONE
Wren tucked her feet up underneath her in the chair at the back of her RV, listening to the happy chortle of the hydroponic garden that was mounted to the wall while she shuffled a deck of well-worn tarot cards in her hands. It was her favorite place to sit for reading tarot—her favorite place for almost anything, actually—and where she spent most of her time when she wasn’t working, or doing one of the other life-tasks that were required when you lived in an RV.
She could deep clean the entire thing in less than an hour, but filing the gas tanks was pain in the ass (read: wallet). The engine maintenance was extra compared to living in an apartment, but it was easy to schedule, relatively quick, and once or twice had made a good excuse for her to stay at a hotel for the night.
It would be nice not to hook up to dump and refill her tanks every few days. And the times she’d stayed in a hotel, using a full-sized shower had been practically luxurious. At some point she would need a new mattress for the table/bed out in the living area. (Maybe Bridgette had been right that sleeping on the convertible dining table had been a bad idea. Not that she was going to tell her that. And not that she needed to—Bridgette could see it all, including the way Wren’s back cracked and popped as she crawled out of bed in the morning.)
But, even with all of that, Wren loved her RV. She’d been living this way for almost two years, and she had no plan to return to stationary living. Last year, she’d even driven up to Alaska on a crazy whim. She never would have seen a moose, or driven through a blizzard if it hadn’t been for her home-on-wheels. Nor would she have the business she had now, with clients all over the country, who paid her well to cast spells, cleanse their homes, and help them manifest their goals into reality.
She set her tarot deck on the small table in front of her, then lifted her cup of coffee and took a sip before fanning the cards across the surface. It was a cold March morning in Portland, Oregon, which was as far northwest as she’d traveled (other than her trip to Alaska, of course,) since embarking on this nomad life. She’d been in Illinois when her gut said Portland was her next stop. Though she hadn’t any clients here at the time, a number of her existing clients had forwarded her newsletter to friends. By the time she was parked at the Sandy Riverfront RV Resort, her schedule was stacked for a week and she had the bank account balance to show for it, thank the universe. Now she was taking a breather for a couple of days before following up with her new clients and letting them know her plans to leave Portland—so she could go to Seattle.
Her stomach twisted at the thought. She didn’t want to risk running into a member of her family. Not to mention the challenge of navigating her thirty-eight-foot RV through Seattle traffic. But the tattooed runes on her wrists had faded in the last few months (probably because of the magic she’d been pulling through them on the regular for work) and there was only one person she trusted to touch them up—the only person she’d trusted to ink them on her to begin with.
Scott had offered to tattoo the runes she drew on her wrists every time she did a spell before he and the others had left New Orleans last year. She’d taken him up on it for a couple of reasons. First, not having to struggle to draw them was so convenient, plus it made certain she didn’t fuck one of them up and leave herself vulnerable. Second, and most importantly, the runes and sigils Scott created were a powerful kind of protection she couldn’t create on her own. It was just the natural magic that somebody with nothing but the best of intentions created—that’s the kind of quality dude Scott was.
In addition to Scott’s badass tattoo skills, the want to see Zander, Callum and Cecily was pulling her, too. She’d kept in touch with them all—especially Zander—after everything that had happened with the Shadow, but she hadn’t seen them in the six months since then. Obviously, visiting them was top of her list for this very short trip into Washington—short enough she felt no obligation whatsoever to tell her family she was in town.
Wren drew a breath to calm the roiling in her stomach and let her fingers hover over the cards until one drew her hand down. She pulled it from the fanned deck and laid it face-up in front of her.
Death, upright.
Despite knowing intimately that the Death card was nothing to be afraid of, Wren’s heart tripped for a beat when she saw it. But this card didn’t mean death was on the horizon—it wasn’t even a sign of bad luck or negativity. On the contrary, the Death tarot card usually meant change—new beginnings and fresh starts, that sort of thing—but she wouldn’t know for certain until she finished the reading. She just hoped it wasn’t referring to a fresh start with her biological family.
They hadn’t reached out, hadn’t spoken to her in over a year. She hadn’t reached out either. They didn’t even know she’d left New Orleans. Some months ago, her cousin had texted her a picture of a
nasty looking gash on her ankle and asked if she should go to the ER. Wren had responded (yes, she absolutely needed stitches) out of sheer human decency. She might not get along with her family, but she wasn’t a monster. Anyway, that was the last time she’d heard from any of them and she was fine with that.
Wren drew another breath; an image of Cecily flashed across her vision as soon as her fingers landed on a card and Wren’s eyes popped open, startled. She lifted the card and her brows furrowed.
Ten of Swords, upright.
A final ordeal, betrayal and deceit. From Cecily? Or happening to Cecily?
Wren huffed a sigh and cast her gaze around the empty RV. “You don’t have to rig the reading.” She knew Bridgette was very pleased she planned to travel back into Washington, even if she couldn’t see or hear her. After all, it was Bridgette who pushed Wren’s fingers to the cards she drew, Bridgette to who drove the messages Wren received at the bottom of her tea cups—all of which had been steering her northwest for weeks.
“You know I’m going back to Seattle.” Wren said into the air. “You happy now?”
She couldn’t hear Bridgette’s response, of course, but she knew her girlfriend’s ghost was with her, brimming with love and smug satisfaction.
CHAPTER TWO
Abby swept her hair up off her neck and tied it into a messy knot on top of her head. One of the long, red ends flopped into her eyes and she tucked it in with the rest of the locks. She really needed to get her red re-dyed—and she really didn’t have the money to do it right now. Her stylist would kill her for it, but it looked like she was about to have a date with a jar of DIY candy apple red hair dye. She just needed to remember to cover every surface in the bathroom before she did so she didn’t lose her deposit by dying the bathtub red. The weather was nice, maybe she could just rinse it with the hose outside?
With a sigh, she slid her fingers into a pair of black nitrile gloves and picked her tattoo machine up again. “How’re you holding up?”
The man in the chair was a late-thirties metal head with a row of silver studs set into his scalp for a mohawk, and ear gauges that hit his shoulders. He’d been sitting for about an hour and Abby was nearly done inking his brand-new baby daughter’s name onto his inner arm—one of the few spots of fresh skin the dude had left.
“I’m solid,” came his gruff response.
“I sort of figured you could handle it,” Abby replied with a smile as she flipped the machine to life.
The guy chortled. “Not my first rodeo.”
“Sure. But it doesn’t matter how many tattoos you’ve had—inner arm hurts like a bitch.”
“I figured it would, but it’s actually fine,” he replied. “You have the magic touch.”
Abby nearly dropped the machine. “No magic here, I swear.”
He laughed again under his breath.
Okay, so maybe there was some magic at play here, but what did the universe expect her to do, just put a guy through searing pain when she could prevent it? That would just be cruel.
She didn’t always dampen the sting and she never removed it completely—that would get her ass caught—but when it was a client she really liked, or somebody getting work done on a notoriously sensitive area, a teeny, tiny bit of magic just took the edge off. It also happened to have the added benefit of creating loyal customers who would come back to her for their next ink. In the three months since she’d started tattooing unsupervised on real people’s skin, she’d already had two repeat clients.
An hour later, as Abby cleaned up her station and considered whether she should go to the grocery store on the way home tonight or just order take-out, Scott stopped by her cube.
“So the dude with the studs was legit impressed with your skills,” he said as he pushed his vintage-flare glasses up by the frame.
“Well, that’s because I’m a badass with a badass teacher,” Abby replied with a smile. She sprayed the vinyl-covered, padded table in front of her down with a liberal dose of antiseptic and went to scrubbing.
“I guess I did teach you everything you know,” Scott allowed with a laugh.
She’d been working with Scott for the last five months, first as his apprentice—now he was more like her mentor. At the previous shop, she’d had a lot of practice tattooing oranges and fake skin, and even the occasional line or two on a real live human—all under the tight supervision of a misogynistic, bigoted asshole. When she been forced to leave that shop on the summer solstice last year, way before her apprenticeship was finished, she’d worried her career was over. A few months later, her friend was showing off an impressive back piece by an artist named Scott Lee who had just moved from New Orleans.
“Really level dude,” her friend said. “Great energy. I’ll introduce you.”
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Scott was every bit as level as her friend had said he was—and more. He was kind, considerate, smart. If Abby had been more into guys, she’d have fallen hard for the dude. However, as much as she enjoyed sex with men, she had no interest in a future with one—no matter how incredible they were. Plus, Scott was in a committed relationship with the cutest, nicest chick, named Cecily.
Seriously, they were adorable.
Scott ticked a nod toward the back of the shop. “I’m gonna step into the back for a minute. Holler if you need me, yeah?”
“Of course,” Abby agreed. Scott liked to stretch between clients, which was probably something she should start doing too.
Not two minutes later, the door to the shop swung open with a ding! Abby sometimes heard in her sleep. She looked up just in time to see Scott’s best friend, Callum, step over the threshold. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets on the front of the faded black hoodie he was wearing above a pair of ripped jeans and black-and-white checkered slip-on sneakers. All of that was similar to every other time she’d seen Callum over the last five months. The vibe he was putting off, however, was anything but normal. His energy was a garbled mess and when he met her gaze, she could see some of the why of it in his eyes.
“Hey, Callum. You here for Scott?”
He gave a nod. “Yeah, but he isn’t expecting me, so no worries if he’s not available.”
Abby shook her head and tossed the paper towel she’d just used to clean the table into a trashcan in her station. “Nah, he’s got a gap in his schedule,” which was unusual for him. “He’s in the back, but you can go find him if you want.” Everybody else was at lunch, so he wasn’t even liable to encounter weirdness from the other artists.
“Cool.” Callum put his head down and started toward the back.
“Oh hey,” Abby said as he passed. “I heard about your mom. That sucks.” Scott had mentioned she’d passed away a couple of weeks ago. Abby didn’t know any of the details, but she didn’t need them to know she couldn’t imagine what Callum must be going through. Even the thought of losing her mom made her tear up.
He paused mid-step and gave a brief nod. “Thanks.”
Just then, Scott came out of the backroom and Abby was glad she’d said something if only to prevent the collision that likely would have ensued if Callum had continued on his original path.
“Oh, hey, Cal. What’s up?”
Callum looked to Scott—and just like that, his energy smoothed, the tangles loosening so his vibe turned less chaotic-jumble and more like the natural loops of somebody who was grieving. It wasn’t the first time Abby had seen one of them unknowingly soothe the other with their very presence. They were soulmate friends—it was lovely to see.
“I need a touch-up and hoped you could slide me in,” Callum said with a shrug. “No rush, obviously.”
“I’ve got time now,” Scott replied with a nod toward his station.
Abby pretended not to pay any attention as the two of them walked the short distance, but it was really hard to do. She was dying to know what Callum’s tattoos looked like—the guy got touched up, like, every month—but as Scott slid the privacy scr
een into place, she knew she wasn’t going to catch even a glimpse of whatever incredible ink Scott maintained so fastidiously on the guy’s skin. She didn’t even know where the tattoo was—and judging by all the screens, it was easy to guess it wasn’t somewhere easily accessible. She knew it wasn’t her damned business, but still, the not-knowing was killing her.
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As Scott enclosed himself and Callum into his cubicle behind the privacy screens, he knew Abby was probably itching to know what Callum’s tattoos looked like. She was curious by nature, always asking questions—some of which were so on-the-nose and direct he had to swallow down his surprise before he could respond—and he had a feeling the mystery of Callum’s always-being-touched-up shoulder piece was eating her alive. But Callum’s tattoos weren’t your run-of-the-mill ink done for show. They were runes and sigils that Callum relied on to keep him protected from spirits. Most spirits were kind, but some would destroy him outright if given the opportunity. Which was why Scott walled off his station like he was getting ready to tattoo his all-but-brother’s asshole, instead of his shoulder.
Ugh. Thank the universe it’s his shoulder.
Scott would do a lot for Callum—but there were boundaries he wasn’t comfortable crossing for anything less than life-and-death.
Station properly enclosed, Scott turned to see Callum hitching himself up onto the table. “Okay, show me what we’re working with.”
Callum pulled his shirt up and over his head. He left one arm threaded through the sleeve, and removed the other to reveal his tattooed shoulder, collar bone, pec, and bicep.
Scott pulled his stool over, then grabbed the flex light and moved it as he sat down so he could get a good look. “Jesus, dude. What’d you do, scrub the thing with sand and then sit in the sun?” He’d just touched this up three weeks ago—it looked like it had been three years. Make that five.
Callum shook his head. “Nothing more than showers and short sleeves.”
Scott scratched his fingers through the hair on the crown of his head and sat back with a sigh. It was true that Callum’s tattoos had always required much more touching up than the average ink. In part because the crisper they were, the better the runes worked. The other reason was because any time Callum pulled from the runes’ magic, the ink in the tattoos faded by some fractional amount. At least that was the theory they’d settled on over the years. It was no big deal on the day-to-day, week-to-week, but since Callum pulled from the runes’ magic every time he stepped out in public—without Zander by his side, that was—the fractions summed up to considerable wear if they didn’t stay on top of it. As a result, they’d made a habit of touching up his tattoos every six weeks when they’d lived in New Orleans. Since moving to Seattle, however, they’d shifted to every four weeks because something here made them fade faster—Cecily’s too, though he tended to touch hers up after hours due to the tattoo’s location (and because they liked the privacy for other reasons, too.) Three weeks between touch-ups was a new record, however.
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