Magic and mayhem sh t my.., p.1

Magic and Mayhem: Sh*t My Zombie Says (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Witches Gone Wild Book 4), page 1


Magic and Mayhem: Sh*t My Zombie Says (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Witches Gone Wild Book 4)

1 2 3 4 5

Larger Font   Reset Font Size   Smaller Font   Night Mode Off   Night Mode

Magic and Mayhem: Sh*t My Zombie Says (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Witches Gone Wild Book 4)

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Robyn Peterman. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Magic and Mayhem remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Robyn Peterman, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds:

  Sh*t My Zombie Says

  A Magic & Mayhem Novella

  Book Four in the Witches Gone Wild Series

  By Michele Bardsley


  For Renee. We are the zombies.

  Can a dangerous necromancer help a desperate witch escape an impending death curse?

  With only two weeks before her 30th birthday/deathday, cursed witch Bea Crawford seeks out Lucas Dark, a newcomer to Wild, Texas. Although many in the magical community consider the warlock to be dangerous, Bea’s desperation drives her to his door—with her zombie godmothers, adorable dog, and milk snake familiar in tow.

  The handsome warlock with the dimpled chin and stormy gray eyes agrees to help Bea remove the death curse, but the price is steep—one half of her soul. With time running out and the hex-happy witch bitch hunting her, Bea doesn’t have a choice.

  To make matters more complicated, Bea and Lucas are falling head over broom for each other. And in Wild, Texas, nothing is safe—especially when it comes to love.


  Once upon a time in the small fairy kingdom of Gallia…

  The sweet fairy-witch baby, Beatrice Elaine Crawford, lay in her elaborately decorated cradle, swaddled in glittery pink cloth, her green eyes as bright as emeralds.

  Fairy Queen Skye and her warlock husband Jeremiah Crawford stood next to the bassinet of their one-month-old daughter, accepting the gifts and congratulations from Gallia’s citizens. The formal presentation to the kingdom of the fairy queen’s firstborn was a royal tradition. Indeed, the castle’s massive ballroom had been decorated in silvers and pinks, magic glittering the air. The buffet tables were laden with decadent food and plentiful desserts—and of course, bubbling fountains of fairy wine.

  Finally, it was time for the child’s fairy godmothers, Gretta, Dretta, and Tretta, to bestow their gifts. The women had been godmothers to all royal firstborns for the last thousand years—and Bea would be their last godchild. It was time for the elderly fairies to hang up their wands and retire to the Elysian Fields Home for Senior Godmothers, located in the Underworld.

  As they lifted their hands over the cooing infant, their final wish hovering on their lips, a cold, bitter wind blew through the ballroom, ripping decorations, knocking over tables and people, and dousing all the magic. Just steps away from the newborn’s cradle, a dark purple cloud arose.

  After the magical fog disappeared, a tall woman dressed in purple robes, her face thin and sharp, her obsidian eyes lifeless, and her hair as black as a priest’s sins, stepped forward.

  “Eartha,” said Queen Skye. “You are not allowed here.”

  “Here?” scoffed Eartha. “In the kingdom and castle that you stole from me?” Her low chuckle chilled everyone in the room. “I am the eldest. This kingdom should be mine.”

  “You made your choice,” said Skye, “when you accepted evil into your heart and killed our parents. You should be grateful you were only banished from the fairy realm.”

  “I wouldn’t say I accepted evil into my heart, but I did let him into my bed.” Eartha smirked. “You’re a child compared to me, Skye. I’ve spent my entire life gathering power. I am stronger than you—I am better than you.” Eartha grimaced. "This is my life you have taken. And if I can’t have it…neither can you.”

  Eartha lifted her arms, palms out. Black and purple magic twined together and blasted into the room. Screams filled the air as the hideous sorcery wrapped around the guests.

  “Fare thee well to my traitorous sister, you fool

  "Good-bye to the people under your rule

  “So long to the kingdom that you serve as queen

  "As I take from you and yours every damned thing.”

  As the evil spell took form, people began to disappear. The castle, the lands and the villages, faded into nothingness. Not even the rolling green hills and verdant forests survived the magical desecration. Skye and Jeremiah cast their own spells, but it was too late to do more than launch a protection bubble. The black magic continued to erase Gallia and all who lived in it…until only the queen, her husband, the fairy godmothers, and the babe remained.

  Eartha snapped her fingers and the protection bubble popped. She pointed a finger at the cradle, but Skye launched herself toward her sister. The purple lightning bolt meant to destroy Bea hit her mother instead.

  “No!” Jeremiah caught his wife as she fell. Her breaths were shallow, her eyes filled with pain.

  “I am not without mercy,” said Eartha, her voice filled with vitriol. “Die with your true love.” Jeremiah lifted his arm and muttered a spell. White light met the dark of Eartha’s terrible magic—and was no match. Only dark magic could defeat dark magic. As Skye took her final breath, Eartha struck down Jeremiah, and he collapsed against his wife.

  Cackling, Eartha turned toward the godmothers and the infant.

  “You can’t save her,” hissed Eartha. “Death to the babe!” A noxious purple cloud issued from her palm and smoked toward the infant. The magic took its hold, and Eartha smiled, her black heart rejoicing.

  Then she watched in horror as the fairy godmothers clasped hands and created a circle around the cradle. The bright pink and purple and blue lights of their magic blended together. The godmothers gave every bit of magic and life force they had left to give to Beatrice. As their magic and lives drained, their bodies turned gray and gaunt.

  Eartha refused to let the old hags win. She lifted her hands, calling on her dark magic with every intention of obliterating them.

  In the blink of an eye, they disappeared.

  Her final act of vengeance denied, Eartha screamed—and the sound of her hatred echoed throughout the entire fairy world.

  Chapter One

  Wild, Texas…

  Lucas Dark slipped through the tall gates made up of blackened and gnarled bones—and raced across the obsidian sand toward the gleaming silver water of the River Styx.

  The Underworld had its own devastating beauty, one he’d admired as a child growing up on the banks of Styx. Even now, the stark splendor was breathtaking. He’d never been afraid of his birthplace, despite its terrifying reputation among mortals.

  But now … now the fear grew in him like cold slithering vines, squeezing his heart and his lungs.

  I’m not too late.

  I’m not too late.

  As he drew closer to the barren shore, he saw his father Charon help the beautiful redhead into the bone-white gondola.

  “Dad!” he screamed.

  Charon, dressed in gray robes, a cowled hood drawn over to hide his face, shook his head.

  “No! Stop!”

  The woman looked over her shoulder, her expression one of sad resolve. That desolation struck him to the core. She turned her back toward him and sat down, facing the argent water. He knew they would not cross to the other side to the entrance of the Elysian Fields. No. They would head downstream, toward the tributary that led to the River Hypnos. There, she would wander the shore with no memory of who she was or the life she ha
d lived. Or of him.

  I’m not too late.

  Lucas realized he’d been running as fast as he could, but now he was stuck in one place, feet digging into the hot silt, chest heaving with exertion.

  His father used the oar to push the creaking boat away from the shore.

  Lucas opened his mouth to scream his protest, yet no words issued forth.

  Pinned into place, helpless, he watched his father direct the boat down the river—taking away the other half of his soul.

  Lucas bolted upright, drenched in sweat. He took several steady breaths and attempted to calm the frantic beating of his heart.

  For the last seven nights he dreamed of the redhead with the green eyes and the sad expression. He pressed his fingers against his temples, frustration curling through him. Dream portents were not his specialty and all attempts to figure out the meaning of the nightmare had proven inadequate.

  He felt connected to the woman. Like … like she really was his other half. Lucas rubbed a hand through his short blond hair. How was it possible to know someone he’d never met? Hell, who probably didn’t even exist except in his imagination?

  Maybe he needed a consultation with his mother. Her gentle manner and caring nature was nearly always soothing. That unique kindness was part of her healing gift. She was the opposite of Dad. Charon tended to be brusque and no-nonsense with mortals and immortals alike. Dad needed Mom’s softness, her sweet benevolence to counter his practical nature and rough edges.

  Lucas shook off his thoughts. Not for the first time he wished he could call Mom on a cell phone. Technology didn’t work in the Underworld—not that anyone would want to put cell towers on the silty shores of the River Styx. Dad would hate that. Besides, Cerberus would just knock them over and gnaw on ‘em like chewies.

  Sighing, Lucas lay back down and pulled the covers up to his chin. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t go back to sleep.

  And he couldn’t forget about the mystery woman who haunted his waking hours, too.

  Was she real?

  Chapter Two

  Assjacket, West Virginia…

  “You should wear a dress.” Dretta’s rheumy blue gaze appraised Beatrice Crawford’s jeans and the navy-blue T-shirt emblazoned with “I crochet so I don’t kill people.” She frowned as she studied Bea’s bright green Converses. “Why do you insist on wearing those shoes?”

  “Because they’re comfortable. And not high heels.” Bea pulled her wavy red hair into a ponytail and whispered a spell to keep it that way. “Let’s not forget the sad tale of the Heels of Regret.” Bea spread out her hands. “A cocktail party. A marble staircase. And the stilettos from hell.”

  “Well, it’s not like you had to walk around with that broken ankle. Zelda fixed that right up for you,” said Dretta.

  Bea remembered her emergency trip to Zelda’s house. The witch was the area’s Shifter Wanker. Hidden from the humans, who believed Assjacket, West Virginia was a decrepit town on its last legs, the town had been a much-needed haven for her and her godmothers for the last ten years.

  “Now there’s a witch who knows fashion. You could ask her for some tips,” said Dretta.

  “No way. Don’t you remember? She laughed the entire time she healed my ankle. And then she stole my heels. That woman has a serious addiction to Prada.”

  “Forget about the shoes.” Tretta she shuffled around her sister. She only had one eye and wore a sparkly blue eye-patch over the other desiccated socket. “What you need is a leisure suit. Red plaid with a white belt.”

  “She’s not going to a 1970s disco.” Gretta pushed her way between her sisters and pointed a gnarled gray finger at her godchild. “Ignore them. They wouldn’t know fashion if they tripped over it. What you need, Bea, is low-cut blouse to show off your boobs.”

  “I’m not changing clothes.” Bea loved her zombie godmothers, she really did. But they were not exactly fashion icons. Her godmothers were dressed in tracksuits—Dretta in purple, Tretta in blue, and Gretta in pink. Add to that bright white orthopedic shoes, and you had the opposite of stylish. So, Bea was going to ignore their clothing advice and shelve it right next to their dating advice. Not that she needed opinions about her love life because she’d never really had one.

  “Dearheart, you need to be presentable. It’s not like you’re asking the warlock next door to borrow a cup of frog toes,” pointed out Gretta. “You’re requesting serious magical help.”

  “That’s right.” Dretta put her bony hands on her wizened hips. “In our day, you couldn’t slap on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and expect to be granted an audience with a powerful magicker. And Lucas Dark isn’t any ol’ warlock, either.”

  “I’m aware,” said Bea. After all, Baba Yaga—the head witch who’d suggested she contact the mysterious and isolated Lucas Dark—had made it clear the warlock was dangerous. Bea thought dangerous was exactly what she needed if she expected to get rid of Aunt Eartha’s hex.

  “Are you going to put on lipstick?” Dretta’s gaze narrowed. “Or at least some lip balm.”


  Bea felt a pinch of guilt, but pushed it deep down where her grief waited for the inevitable. If she did manage to escape Eartha’s cruel hex, Bea would have to learn to live without these loving, yet crazy, women who’d saved her and raised her as if she were their own. Maybe if Lucas could fix her situation, he could help her godmothers, too. But … was it really fair to keep them around just so she didn’t have to be alone?

  She tucked her wallet into her purse and heaved the strap over her shoulder. “C’mon. We gotta see a warlock about a death hex.”

  “What about Bermangoggleshitz?” Gretta offered a smile that revealed yellowed teeth and drew attention to the gash by the right side of her mouth.

  “Are you kidding me?” Dretta rolled her eyes in disgust. “I don’t trust that evil bastard as far as I could kick him.”

  Tretta harrumphed and crossed her arms. “Well, Lucas Dark doesn’t exactly have a great reputation, either.”

  “What reputation?” asked Bea.

  “Selma Woodhouse told me he was born in the Underworld. The Underworld, Bea. You don’t mess with the afterlife.”

  “Why are you listening to Selma? She’s a busybody,” said Gretta.

  “Yeah. That’s why she always has the good gossip,” said Dretta. “And she’s the only one willing to do our hair.”

  “Enough already!” Gretta flung her arm up in the air. Her hand detached and sailed over Bea’s head, landing on the bedroom floor.

  The white and black barking mop AKA Shameless the Shih Tzu skidded across the freshly waxed wood and grabbed the grayish-green hand.

  “Shameless! No!” Bea scooped up the shaggy and enthusiastic dog, trying to pry Dretta’s thumb out of his growling mouth. Shameless clamped his tiny teeth into the decrepit skin. “Let go. G-Mom needs her hand back. It’s the one she uses to show her exasperation.”

  “Not true,” said Gretta. “I use both of my hands.” She shuffled across the floor and peered at the dog. “Let go, you overgrown Swiffer!”

  Bea rolled her eyes. This was her life. Body parts flying everywhere. Walking dead godmothers bossing her around. Adorable pet dog getting into trouble. Her actual animal familiar, a persnickety milk snake named Elspeth, napped in Bea’s purse, which had a magical pocket created just for Ms. Picky. The only drama Elsa liked came from her favorite soap opera, The Familiar Way, an overacted drama that featured a rich raccoon family with their hooks into the small town of Spellsworth.

  Subscribing to Witch TV had been a huge mistake.

  “How about a treat?” Bea asked Shameless.

  The dog paused his thumb gnawing and tilted his head.

  “That’s right, good boy. Let go of G-Mom’s hand, and you’ll get a treat.”

  Shameless immediately released Gretta’s thumb and Bea gave her godmother the no-worse-for-wear hand. “We need to duct tape that. It keeps falling off.”

ll get the Superglue,” said Tretta. “I need to reattach some toes anyway.”

  While the sisters attended to reattaching their body parts, Bea carried her dog down the hallway and into the kitchen. Her ranch style two-bedroom house was small, but cozy—even with three zombies shambling around all the time. Putting Shameless down, she opened the pantry and withdrew the organic peanut butter dog biscuits. Extracting one from the box, she gave the bone-shaped cookie to him. He trotted off to savor his snack.

  As she returned the dog biscuits to the pantry, she guiltily glanced at the door that led to her garage.

  I could make a run for it.

  Nope. She squashed the urge to zap herself to Mr. Dark’s house. It might make explaining why she needed his assistance a whole lot easier if her godmothers weren’t there to “help.”

  Bea heaved a sigh. Alas, she couldn’t ditch her caretakers. After all, they’d given up their bodies so she could live. Especially, since she would be losing them all too soon. Stupid, Evil Aunt Eartha.

  “Some people are too rotten to live,” Bea muttered.

  “That’s not nice,” said Dretta as she and her sisters shuffled into the kitchen. I know we’re rotting, but—”

  “I said rotten, not rotting.”

  Tretta sniffed her underarms. “Now wait a minute. I already have ten layers of deodorant on.”

  “And a gallon of White Diamonds,” said Dretta waving her hand under nose. “You smell like hot garbage anyway.”

  “You should talk. You put air fresheners in your panties.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Pine scented cardboards tucked in your ass crack makes you smell like fresh squirrel shit.”

  “You are rotten to the core!” yelled Dretta.

  “What? Did you say I’m rotting to my sores?” Gretta said.

  “No, damn it. That doesn’t even make any sense. Did you lose your ear again?” Dretta glanced at her sister’s head. “You need hearing aids.”

  “You need to change out your air fresheners.” Tretta snickered.

1 2 3 4 5
Turn Navi Off
Turn Navi On
Scroll Up