Spell Hath No Fury
Page 18
Anything in my closet that was not black got pushed toward the back. Now that I was in charge of the body, there would be no more cutesy outfits, no more pastels.
Lexi Balefire? I shoved her deep down where the puling and crying over her failed love life would be less of a distraction.
My name is Alexis. A name that means protector. A name fit for a Goddess.
Can’t wait to find out what happens next in Lexi’s epic saga?
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Also by ReGina Welling and Erin Lynn
The Fate Weaver series:
Featuring Lexi Balefire, a matchmaking witch with a certain something extra. Her story is full of magic, romance, zany family antics, and intrigue.
A Match Made in Spell
All Spell is Breaking Loose
To Spell & Back
No Chance in Spell
Spell Hath No Fury
A Cold Day in Spell
Elder Witch Cozy Mystery Series:
Featuring Mag and Clara Balefire. Sassy sisters, witches, detectives
Murder Above the Fold
Murder on the Backswing
Murder Below the Waterline
Haunted by Murder
Ponderosa Pines Mysteries
Nothing bad ever happens in the weird little town of Ponderosa Pines...until someone dies.
Cat Killed A Rat
Crafting Disorder
Caught in the Frame
Bait and Snitch
Also by ReGina Welling
The Psychic Seasons Series
A little mystery, a little romance, and a paranormal twist hit Julie Hayward when the ghost of her grandmother shows up with some interesting news.
Rings on Her Fingers
Bells on Her Toes
She Shall Have Music
Wherever She goes
Earthbound Bones
Earthbound Wings
WHILE YOU’RE WAITING to find out what happens to Lexi next, you might want to check out the new series featuring Clara and Mag.
Here’s an excerpt from Murder Above the Fold:
“I like them.” Margaret Balefire stretched herself into as menacing a posture as she could manage, narrowed her eyes and glared at her sister, Clara. She waggled a finger, and a set of lace doilies magically appeared on the shelf.
Not intimidated in the least, Clara lifted her nose in an upward gesture and shook her head. “I don’t. They have to go.”
She swiped her hand through the air, clearing the shelves, then continued lining the oak bookcase with sparkling bottles and jars. Each sported the store’s distinctive label—the store name, Balms and Bygones, was emblazoned in silver and green across a complicated Celtic symbol and stood out nicely against a creamy background.
“We agreed you can arrange the antiques any way you like them, but the personal care products are my domain,” Clara said, arranging the jars just so. “The jewel tones of these glass bottles look better against bare wood, and my products are meant for a younger market, so keep the hideous doilies away from my shelves.”
If Margaret—Mag to her friends—had her way, everything in the shop would be covered in Victorian lace and frills. Her decorating tastes ran completely counter to the staunch exterior she presented to the world and hinted at gentler emotions lurking beneath the prickly shell. Instead of arguing, she wrinkled her nose, waggled her hips, and flashed a rude hand gesture behind Clara’s back. Hair aged to a dandelion-fuzz-like texture floated in the breeze created by the motion.
“I saw that,” Clara said. “Mature. Real mature.” Resisting the temptation to return the gesture took every ounce of her self-control. Instead, she swiveled a jar of face cream so the label faced front, and the ruby-colored glass picked up a shine from a strategically placed spotlight. After a moment’s thought, she added a bar of soap in the same scent to the display. Heart, soul, and a dollop of true magic went into every drop of her ever-growing product line.
“If you’re done communing with the display, we should get moving before we miss our appointment at the newspaper office. You have the photos, right?” Despite the tart delivery and emphasis on the words communing with the display, no real heat colored Mag’s statement. If Clara wanted to show her wares on naked shelves, it was her choice.
“I’ve got everything right here.” Clara brandished her cell phone.
“Should have known. That thing is practically melded to your hand these days. What self-respecting witch takes selfies, I ask you?”
“It’s a handy organizational tool. You should get one.” Like that would ever happen. “And it takes fantastic photos.” To illustrate, Clara snapped one of the look on Mag’s face, and flipped the phone around so Mag could see the sneer of disdain. “My new screensaver.”
Opening a shop together hadn’t been the main reason the sister witches moved to the hamlet of Harmony, but the joint venture was turning out to be more interesting than either of them expected. The soft opening, about a month before, had drawn in curious customers from miles away. Once people were inside the store, Clara’s open smile and friendly ways combined with Mag’s stash of antiques put people in the buying mood.
It helped that there was enough living space for them, too—Clara lived above the shop, and Mag lived behind it.
“Stop being grouchy,” Clara said, breezing past her, “and I’ll get you an ice cream cone on the way back. Dairyland opened today.”
Mag scowled. “I’m not a ten-year-old, you know,” she said, then sniffed and added, “You think they have butter pecan?”
Clara locked the door behind them, smiling and shaking her head.
Postcard-pretty, the town of Harmony hugged the southern bank of Big Spurwink River and, Mag insisted, possessed a seedy underbelly. But then, she harbored a bone-deep suspicion of almost everyone and everything, so her opinion was best taken with a grain of salt. Or twenty.
Summer leaves would soon hide all except for the barest glimpse of the river, but that day, a stand of white birch trees framed Clara’s view of the rock-strewn banks perfectly.
Balms and Bygones was situated on Mystic Street, which meandered along Big Spurwink’s banks before ending abruptly in a parking lot at the edge of the town square. Positioned in a place of honor at the far end of a grassy quad, Harmony’s municipal office was the oldest standing structure in town.
C-shaped, the town-hall courtyard backed the second oldest structure in Harmony. The clock tower speared skyward and, especially during the summer months, tempted tourists off the main road for a prime photo opportunity.
On either side of the square, a bank of buildings housed shops, eateries, and offices. Today, Mag and Clara approached a brick structure with picture pane windows on the town’s westerly edge—the one separated by the river by only a small back parking area and a steep embankment.
“Sorry, we’re a couple of minutes late,” Clara said to the harried-looking brunette who stepped up behind the tall counter spanning the front of the narrow space. “We had an appointment to discuss putting an ad in the paper.”
“No worries,” the woman said. “I'm Marsha Hutchins. You probably spoke to Leanne on the phone.” The way her voice lifted made the statement sound like a question. “She usually handles setting up new ad accounts.”
“We did. Is Leanne here? It looks like you have your hands full.” Clara nodded toward a long table strewn with photographs, a few of wh
ich were arranged in a grid.
“Leanne went out on an errand.” Marsha tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear, a slight frown marring her forehead. “She should have been back by now. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“I’m Clara Balefire, and this is my mother, Margaret.” The lie tripped easily off her tongue, having repeated it in practice about a hundred times. Clara expected she’d slip up eventually, but given the assumed difference in age based on Mag’s outward appearance, no sane person would buy the story of the two being sisters.
The blood-born power of magic slows the aging process and adds centuries to the lifespan of a natural witch unless she’s the victim of a curse or magical disaster. Mag knew all about the kind of accident that could add years to a witch’s face, but she didn’t like to talk about her past much.