Witch Tease Page 3

  Infuriated by the seemingly unwinnable situation, she blurted, “It’s you and your old crones who will rue the day, Sorcha. You might have caught my coven off guard, but not me.”

  When Sorcha rushed toward her, Lizzie hurled the ball of fire at the floor and it exploded. The old hag disappeared. The other hags screeched and flew in Sorcha’s direction. Muttering a spell of protection, Lizzie stepped inside the blaze, using it as cover so she could sprint outside.

  Orange-red flames swirled around her as she jumped from the porch and raced toward the orchard. No Olympic runner, her lungs soon felt like they would burst, and her legs strained with effort. Shrieking and wailing voices surrounded her. Her eardrums seemed close to bursting.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw the hags in hot pursuit, their ragged clothing swirling. Stinking bat’s breath, they were following her like hound dogs after a juicy bone.

  Hide.

  Long ago, her family had enchanted the forest surrounding the mansion. Whenever paranormal danger presented itself, they retreated to it. Malevolent entities were banned from entering, so Lizzie knew the nature spirits wouldn’t allow the banshees to pass through the marked boundaries.

  At the forest’s edge, she muttered magical words to squelch the flames before darting inside the foliage. Emerald underbrush and shrubbery swallowed her within cool shade.

  Hearing banshee screeches, she pivoted around to see a couple had paired off from the main group. Fortunately, once they slammed into the charmed barrier, they disintegrated into a shower of tiny black confetti.

  Spotting a familiar oak tree, one she and her sisters had held numerous magical ceremonies beneath, she sprinted toward it and climbed up the rugged trunk. A sturdy limb buried in a cluster of golden red leaves caught her eye, so she made herself comfortable.

  “Thank the stars,” she whispered, relieved to have reached the charmed woodland.

  Gripping the rough bark, she managed to catch her breath. She hadn’t climbed a tree in a long time. Amazing how fast she’d scrambled to safety. Adrenaline was one thing witches had in common with humans.

  Trembling, she listened to the unholy shrieks and wails of the hags as they searched for her. At one point they sounded very close, but eventually their voices began to fade. Praise the Goddess. Relief swelled in her chest and she dared to relax. Nothing in her witch’s training had prepared her for the possibility of her coven being taken hostage by banshees. Since she’d been unable to fetch her father’s grimoire, helplessness made her stomach lurch.

  She closed her eyes, and an image of the Rose family’s ancestor witch, Ursula, appeared.

  Though Ursula resided in the Great Beyond, her mother, her aunt, and her sisters often called upon her for advice. The quirky old spirit likely wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed. Too bad.

  “Ursula,” Lizzie pleaded. “Don’t be angry, but I need you, please…”

  A breeze swirled through the trees. The air sizzled and popped with a wave of electric blue sparks. A few moments later, the elderly ancestor witch appeared sitting on the tree limb beside Lizzie. Dressed in a fuzzy pink bathrobe and matching slippers, her hair wrapped in a thick towel with a few tendrils of frost-white hair peeking out, she glared at Lizzie.

  “Again? Really? You and your sisters will be the death of me. Oops. I am dead.” Ursula snorted. “You summoned me right before Hans the hunk was about to give me a full body massage. I can’t believe it. You should know that this time of year I always go to the Charming Day Spa for some R & R.”

  “Shh, Ursula!” Lizzie peered through the leaves, dreading the sight of the ghostly gray hags. “They might hear you.”

  Looking none too happy, Ursula whispered, “They, who?”

  “The creatures that took my coven hostage,” Lizzie told her. “They’re holding them, along with our brooms, at the Royal Witch Arena. We were celebrating the Blessing of the Brooms ceremony. Then we planned to hold the Feast of Mabon afterward.”

  “It’s that time of year again?” Ursula scratched her cheek. “Goddess, time flies.”

  “Ursula,” Lizzie pleaded again.

  “Don’t get punchy, girl,” Ursula scolded. “Why weren’t you zapped into the Twilight Zone too?”

  “I didn’t arrive on time to the ceremony.”

  “What’s the deal with you and your penchant for belatedness?” Ursula sighed and shook her head.

  Lizzie didn’t answer because she couldn’t explain it herself.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “The old hags snuck up on the coven while they were preoccupied with the ceremony.”

  “Tsk, tsk. All it would have taken is some salt spread around the place to ward off evil spirits.”

  Lizzie bristled. “That’s done on a regular basis, so I can’t imagine how these hideous creatures breached the salt line.”

  “Now you’re hanging out in a tree like a Dodo bird? How’s that working out for you?”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “They chased me out here after I went to the Rose Mansion to get my father’s grimoire. I was hoping to find a spell that would send them packing. They’re wreaking havoc like hounds from hell.”

  Ursula narrowed her gaze. “What do they look like?”

  Lizzie described their grayish-blue ragged clothing, long white hair, glowing white eyes, and haggard appearance. Spotting several of them passing overhead, she pointed toward the sky. “I think they are banshees.”

  Ursula looked up. “Nasty looking critters.”

  “They fly around like vultures circling road kill. They shriek and wail and carry on like they’re insane. And when they get very angry, their features turn into skulls.”

  “Do you know what they want?”

  “One of them named Sorcha said she’s the leader of these spirits. She said they want the coven to grant them life. She spoke with a Scottish accent.”

  “It sucks to be you. You’ve got a swarm of Scottish banshees crawling up your ass.” Ursula slapped her knees. “Their attacks are one of the worst things that can happen to a coven.”

  Lizzie’s blood filled with ice. “So, they are banshees.”

  Ursula nodded emphatically. “They’re called different things by different cultures. In Scottish Gaelic society, they’re called bean sith.”

  “I thought those things were just myth. At least, I hoped they were.”

  “You wish. There are constant sightings of them, especially this time of year when it’s only weeks away from Samhain. That’s when the veil between the Earthly Realm and the spirit world wears the thinnest. Every so often, they get bold enough to pierce the veil and cross over. When that happens, they randomly target witch covens to try and convince them to bestow them with life.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I need to do some scrying to see what the spirits think,” Ursula said. She snapped, and a wooden bowl full of water appeared. She held it closer to her face and after a few moments, she spoke again. “You will have to free your coven within forty-eight hours.”

  Lizzie blinked in horror. “What happens then?”

  “The veil between the living and the dead will disappear. The passageways between the Earthly Realm and the spiritual world will seal. This will trap your coven and they will disappear from the living. They will become banshees.”

  “Holy witch’s creed.” Lizzie placed a hand on top of her racing heart and swallowed the lump swelling in her throat. “I c-can’t let that happen.”

  Ursula sighed, her ample bosom heaving. “You need to find someone trained for otherworld exorcisms. Someone skilled in handling Scottish banshees.”

  “Can you do that?” Lizzie grasped Ursula’s plump hand and squeezed it.

  “Sorry princess, that’s not in my area of expertise,” Ursula snapped. “But I know who can help you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Spirit Wulver.”

  Lizzie’s toes curled at the mere thought of that otherworldly character. Shrouded in mystery,
the Spirit Wulver claimed to help witches and other supernatural entities, yet rumors abounded about his tendency to betray and double-cross those who called upon him. To top it all, he charged outrageous prices for his work.

  “I don’t like the idea,” Lizzie said.

  Ursula shrugged. “The Spirit Wulver isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but I’m not in the hot seat like you are. What do you say, dearie? Do you want me to summon him?”

  Lizzie understood the risks all too well. Yet it broke her heart to think she might lose her coven, her family, and all of their beloved brooms if she didn’t try.

  “If you believe the Spirit Wulver can help me, then let’s call on him.”

  Ursula swept one of her chubby, be-ringed hands through the air, then began to chant in an ancient language. Eyelids closed, she extended her arms, her thumbs pressed against her middle fingers.

  “Sparks of power invoke the flame of understanding. Manifest yourself and send forth thine request to seek the truth,” she said. Like a shaman performing a mystical ceremony, she made a low moaning sound. A few moments later, she opened her eyes and turned to Lizzie. “The spirits have given you permission to seek otherworld assistance from the Spirit Wulver. Even as we speak, he’s on his way to help you with your Scottish banshees.”

  “Thank you,” Lizzie said.

  Shimmering silver light gathered around Ursula and she began to fade from view.

  Lizzie tensed. “Wait, how do I find the Spirit Wulver?”

  “He’ll find you.”

  What am I supposed to do now?

  It didn’t seem smart to lurk up in this tree, considering a pack of bloodthirsty banshees were on her tail. Maybe town, which wasn’t too far away, would be a better place to hide. A little hocus-pocus should keep the banshees from sensing her whereabouts.

  She climbed down from the tree and whispered, “Celer twixis mumundo.”

  As she made her way from the orchard, trees, hills, and sky passed by in a blur. All she could think about was saving her coven.

  Could this Spirit Wulver really help?

  Chapter Four

  The sleepy tourist haven of Wysteria looked like it had been through a world war. Store fronts bore deep pockmarks, as though peppered by a hail of bullets. On buildings, bricks had crumbled, leaving empty spaces. Rubble covered the streets.

  It looked like a bomb had exploded.

  Aggravated the crones had wreaked more havoc here, Lizzie walked down a sidewalk, picking her way past refuse and debris. Not even the housing area had been spared from the creatures’ wrath. Lawns bore deep muddy ruts. Bushes and flowers had been uprooted and strewn like a careless child’s toys. Jagged, broken glass lay like broken, glittering jewels. Patio furniture, barbecues, bicycles, and decorative urns had been overturned and the sidewalks were drowning in litter.

  A scruffy brown dog wandered out from behind a store and began snuffling through an upended trash can, no doubt looking for food scraps.

  “Leave this place, pooch,” she murmured. “Go with the nature spirits’ blessing.”

  She blew softly toward the animal. The hound looked up at her, stared with limpid brown eyes for a few minutes, then trotted back the way it had come. Lizzie relaxed, assured the animal would seek safety.

  It appeared as though the mortals, defenseless against paranormal entities, had fled. Thank the Goddess, she thought. No doubt they’d been scared out of their wits. She realized that not only did she need to rid Wysteria of the banshees for her coven’s sake, she needed to do it for the humans as well.

  As she wandered along the trail of devastation, she found everything in similar disarray. A clammy sensation coated her skin. It made her feel as though she’d lost control of not only her life, but of her entire world.

  She made her way to the oldest part of Wysteria that had once been revitalized with charming shops full of eclectic items and vintage clothing. Referred to by inhabitants as ‘Old Town,’ it was also where her mother and Aunt Aggie had purchased the red brick two-story building to establish the Rose Sisters’ Soaps and Scents shop.

  This was the original part of the city, which had been founded in 1869 by fishermen and farmers. Tall trees still shaded the streets, but now their ravaged and windblown branches were twisted and gnarled. Some of their trunks had even been split in two, and they leaned precariously. Their autumn display of red and gold leaves had fallen, leaving colorful drifts.

  No longer did people bustle about, toting shopping bags and pushing strollers. The area had literally become a ghost town with eroded sidewalks and decaying buildings. With a heavy heart, she hustled toward the family business. Like everything else, the building looked terrible. All the windows were shattered and slabs of lumber ripped from the siding.

  “Sons of Methuselah,” she growled. Reaching for the front door, she uttered a spell to unlock it, then hurried inside. Shafts of sunshine illuminated the interior, and a thin layer of shattered glass sparkled beneath her feet.

  Shelves stocked with tea tins, scarves, soaps, sachets, books, tarot cards, and other whimsical items were coated in glittery glass dust. Items had been strewn about, and the interior had become a sad mess. Filled with a sense of loss, Lizzie glanced at the antique red velvet sofa and the Oriental carpets—all items Aunt Aggie and her mother had lovingly restored. Moth-eaten and in disrepair, they’d been turned into trash.

  She sneezed and rubbed the bridge of her nose until it stopped stinging. Then she walked through the shop and yanked down all of the shades. If Sorcha and her gang came flying past, they wouldn’t see her inside. Hopefully her protection spell would continue to prevent them from sensing her presence.

  Brushing off broken glass, she plopped down on the sofa. She fought off a wave of nostalgia and focused on the Spirit Wulver’s arrival. Now was not the time to be overwhelmed. Now was the time to take action. Even though she mistrusted the Spirit Wulver, he was her only hope.

  “Psst, hey Lizzie,” a female voice whispered.

  Lizzie jerked her head up and looked around, wondering who else might be in the store. Her heart hammered. Could one of the banshees have followed her? Noting the door to the storage closet stood open, she walked over and glanced inside at the miscellaneous array of contents.

  Was she losing it or had she actually heard a voice?

  “I’m over here. Vera’s my name and vacuuming’s my game.”

  Finally, she spotted the ancient upright vacuum cleaner with a frayed green bag standing in one corner. Amazed, she watched as the cleaning implement flashed the light on her front grill a couple of times.

  “Your Aunt Aggie had a blast bringing me to life and flying me around town on special occasions,” Vera said with a chuckle. “I’m no broom, but I can move just as fast as one.”

  “You know my aunt?”

  “Yep, and your Aunt Aggie is one smart cookie,” Vera said. “She told me she’d endowed me with special talents by a spell that couldn’t be broken by anyone. Strangely enough, I’m still in once piece while everything else in this place has gone to hell in a hand basket. What’s happened?”

  “We’ve been attacked by banshees.”

  “Holy dustbins. That scares the bristles off my brushes.”

  “They’ve taken the coven hostage,” Lizzie added. “But I won’t rest until I get rid of them.”

  Encouraged by the magical vacuum’s presence, she hauled Vera toward the couch and plopped her on the carpet. Maybe Aunt Aggie brought Vera to life and endowed her with exclusive powers as an insurance policy for an occasion exactly like this. She couldn’t be certain, but it was great to have an ally in this bizarre situation.

  Vera coughed. “This place is a filthy mess. Mind if I take a spin around the room?”

  Lizzie tensed. “The noise might rouse the banshees.”

  “No worries, I’ll muffle my motor.” In a silent jiffy, Vera had vacuumed the rug and couch, then loosened her attachments and cleaned up dust and garbage littering the corners. Lizzie wat
ched, amused as the cleaning whirlwind turned the store into fairly habitable quarters.

  “Much better, even if I do say so myself,” Vera declared. She coughed and asked, “Now what should we do?”

  “We wait for the Spirit Wulver. Supposedly, he knows how to expel the banshees.” She shoved her hands on her hips, wincing when her stomach rumbled. “Meanwhile, I’m starved.”

  She rummaged through an old turquoise refrigerator behind the checkout counter, locating an egg salad sandwich and a bottle of water. Curling upon the couch, she pulled off the wrappings and began to eat.

  Bread, butter, and eggs never tasted so good. When her eyelids grew heavy, she wrapped her cloak around herself and leaned back. Hopefully, the Spirit Wulver wouldn’t dawdle. It would be just her luck if he wound up being too busy to help.

  To occupy her time, she considered what she’d heard about the Spirit Wulver. According to legend, he hailed from the Shetland Islands of Scotland and seemed to be a simple man who enjoyed fishing. Yet, he had hidden talents. People said he was actually a cunning, intelligent creature that possessed miraculous hunting skills.

  Rumors abounded about the wulver’s uncanny ability to pass by danger invisibly by transforming into a wolf. Legend said he could outwit his most ferocious enemies. He never sought trouble. Rather, he only struck out when threatened, especially if he needed to champion the poor and downtrodden.

  Despite his seemingly gregarious nature, he possessed a dark side. Reports abounded about how he’d charged high prices and made unthinkable requests of those who employed him. He’d been accused of double-crossing some clients.

  A chill ran up her spine as she realized she was desperate enough to place her coven’s future in his unpredictable hands.

  “Merciful ancestors,” she whispered. “Protect my coven from the banshees. May the Spirit Wulver help us, not harm us.”

  Before long, exhaustion took hold. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she drifted off, worried she’d run out of time to save her coven.

  A long, low wolf’s howl jolted her. She shot up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, a disturbing sensation raising the fine hair on the back of her neck. Darkness filled the room, with the only light coming from slivers of moonlight showing through the windows. Curious, she walked over to one, lifted a shade and peered out. The streets and alleys bore only shadows.