Of Heists and Hexes, page 1
S. L. Prater
Of Heists and Hexes
First published by S. L. Prater 2022
Copyright © 2022 by S. L. Prater
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
S. L. Prater asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
Contents
Trigger Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Also by S. L. Prater
Trigger Warning
This kissing book was written for adults. Please be advised that witches in Loreley like sex, use curse words, and enjoy showing injustice their middle finger. In this fantasy story, romance is the central plot. There are numerous explicit sexual scenes depicted between consenting characters (loud, enthusiastically consenting characters), which includes some fun bondage games.
Although the overarching tone is lighthearted and hopeful, there are scenes in this book that are emotionally difficult to read. The sheriff interviews children during his duties as a lawman who share descriptive disclosures of abuse that were challenging to write. If abuse, sexual abuse, the cycle of abuse, or the impact of trauma is a trigger for you, please take care of yourself. Consider skipping the child interview scenes. This book contains tobacco use and some depictions of violence, including gun violence and depictions of capital punishment through hanging.
Chapter 1
“Sheriff Noah Nottingham, isn’t it? The Red Sheriff?” the watchman asked. His wiry build made his horse look bulky beneath him. Noah hadn’t been listening to his rambling introduction earlier and hadn’t caught his name. “Do they call you that because of your ginger hair?”
Noah ignored him. The man had failed to take a hint when the trail forked. The sheriff didn’t want company on the rough road through Sherwood Forest, and his gut told him this watchman wasn’t the trustworthy sort. He eyed him cautiously, taking in his thin goatee and sandy hair, and slowed his horse in the hopes the man would grow weary of the pace and hurry ahead.
“You’re the Red Sheriff, all right. Saints,” the watchman cursed with a friendly chuckle, “you’re just as big as they say you are.”
Stejins weren’t a particularly tall people. Noah stood out, a giant amongst them. Instead of responding, he took in the wildlands, certain that the watchman would grow weary of being ignored soon enough and be on his way. Spring had arrived in the mountains. Sherwood forest ran rampant with new animal life and colorful poisonous flowers. Noah removed his peaked hat, a black felt piece with a flat-topped crown and long visor, favored by servicemen. He swiped his hair out of his eyes. His large horse, a dappled gelding, bumped along beneath him.
“How do they even make boots for someone like you?” the watchman carried on, awe in his voice. “They’d have to murder an entire family of cows.”
Noah chuckled. As the sun rose higher, the air grew warmer than he was accustomed to. The crimson stole knotted at his neck that hung to his navel heated him to an uncomfortable degree, and the watchman’s insistent interest added a level of disquiet.
“You’re hunting somebody then, yes?” the watchman asked with his brows arched toward his peaked hat. His own crimson stole was tied at the neck and thrown back over his shoulders.
Noah was usually hunting someone. The only sheriff who brought in outlaws using instinct, rope, and horse alone. He didn’t have patience for the steam-powered contraptions growing in popularity. The sheriff frowned at the revolver on the watchman’s hip with its automated reloader and clockwork hammer, the binoculars with the extra lenses. He didn’t have any of the upgrades on his equipment. Such things interfered with his instincts.
The watchman stared at him expectantly. Noah picked absently at a piece of gilded thread that had come loose on his black tunic. His uniform was embroidered on the breast with a golden leaf, the crest of Sherwood.
“I’m not hunting,” the sheriff said gruffly, and his horse shook its big head, mirroring his agitation. “I’ve been informed that a poacher living in the woods would like to turn himself over to the magistracy for fair discipline.”
“A poacher in the king’s woods? Steep fine for that, isn’t there?”
Noah scratched fingers through his beard, two days’ worth of growth. “It’s either the fine or they spend a month in a cell at Bolwerk.”
“And he’s just giving himself over to you? Just like that?” The watchman pulled on his ear. “In your experience, is it normal for men of the criminal persuasion to grow a conscience out of the blue?”
Noah grunted in response. He found the whole thing odd too. The poacher wanted to turn themselves in for a crime he wasn’t putting effort into ending. Poaching harmed the crippling grip the crown had on trappers and hunters, and as a defender of the king’s law, he was supposed to care about the throne getting all its coin. But Noah knew the elk taken from the woods were being used to feed the neediest in destitute villages like Arm. Places that couldn’t afford the king’s prices for a hunting license or the taxes in the butcher shops. This poacher was quick, efficient, and didn’t leave waste behind that drew big predators into towns. As long as they didn’t grow greedy, and the meat continued to find its way into the mouths of the desperate, Noah planned to allow the poacher to remain at large.
He’d received a wire that morning, delivered to his townhouse in Bolwerk, claiming the Red Sheriff had been named specifically as the only lawman the poacher would cooperate with. Noah’s red reputation had absolutely nothing to do with his hair. The city watchman riding at his side didn’t know better, but locals of Sherwood’s wilds would.
No criminal in their right mind would entrust themselves to the Red Sheriff.
The watchman chattered on, trying to weasel information out of Noah. The sheriff paid more attention to the breeze through the trees, the scent of threatening rain in the air. Riding back to Bolwerk with the poacher would take hours as it was without a storm to slow them further. Beside him, his persistent travel companion rambled on about the new electric lighting coming to cities in the form of large glass bulbs. Noah let him prattle until a passing phrase caught his attention.
“. . . witches in Arm,” the watchman said. “Friendly witches, if you know what I mean.”
“Hm?” Noah shifted in his saddle.
“Pretty ones.” The watchman’s slanted smile went sly. “A bit wild, but pretty all the same.”
Noah looked the watchman over with new eyes, and his stomach tied into a knot. He sensed a darkness in the rider. Noah had been a lawman for just over a decade. He recognized that darkness. It showed itself in the foulest of the criminals he hunted, the kind that found their enjoyment in hurting those more vulnerable than themselves, in taking their pleasure whether their advances were invited or not.
The sheriff straightened in his saddle. “Witches are always wild and usually pretty,” Noah said, glowering, and the watchman finally gave up trying to force a conversation.
It was a common aspect of witch culture to be flirtatious and free with oneself. The constabulary and the church insisted that this welcomed trouble and required regulation. Noah didn’t buy in to any of that. Innocent people deserved protecting regardless of who they were or how they carried themselves.
Dawn redwoods shadowed the path. Sunlight warmed their bark, tinting the trail in scarlet. Ahead, the route curved and the trees ended, opening into sprawling pasture and rolling hills dotted with flocks of sheep. The tiny village of Arm nestled between two newly planted bean fields. An abandoned rail station—one of the many projects started and never finished by the king—served as the town’s general store and was its tallest building, made of steel and lumber and thin glass windows.
“I’d like to meet this poacher with a conscience,” the watchman muttered, “and have a gander or two at the local witches.”
Noah followed the curving trail as it widened and then descended into Arm. The watchman kept at his back, raising the fine hairs on Noah’s neck. A rusted-through automaton with brass wheels for feet shouted the general store’s specials. Blue candles burned behind the windows to ward off demons. Red candles flickered above the doorways of the modest buildings to welcome the blessings of God’s seven holiest saints.
Most of the villagers appeared to be elderly or orphans or mechanical.
Or witches.
The witches stood out from the other locals. Witches favored inking colorful spells onto their skin with needles, showing off their decorated flesh with short dresses and low necklines. They never wore shoes, even in the winter. It encouraged the feel of magics against their skin, or so Noah had heard. Their male counterparts were rarer, but he spott
The poacher was supposed to meet Noah by the salvaged rail station. A silver horse stood hitched outside, nosing at the low grass, its saddlebags stuffed with arrows. Noah spotted their fletching peeking out beside a long recurve hunting bow. A man napped on the bench under the general store’s awning, a felt hat hiding his eyes. He didn’t look like a hunter with his husky build and thin, patched clothing, but he was closest to the horse that likely belonged to his mark.
Noah brought his gelding to a stop in front of the general store. He slid from his saddle, feeling the stares of the entire village weighing down his shoulders. Out of habit, he hooked his thumb into his belt beside his worn holster. Conversation turned to whispers. A group of elderly women hurried inside the neighboring tenement, long skirts swishing. He patted his horse’s flank, then made to cross to the refurbished rail station.
The watchman pulled his horse up alongside the sheriff, and at the same moment, the stench of vomit and stale alcohol stopped Noah in his tracks. The man snoring on the bench was a drunk. Not his poacher.
The general store doors parted. A red candle hanging above the door frame flickered and a bell chimed, startling the sleeping man awake. A hooded woman exited the store, bare feet padding on the porch planks. The drunk peered at her with widening eyes. He wiped drool from his scruffy chin and fled, stumbling as he went.
A black cloak draped the woman’s willowy frame, the hem skimming the tops of her naked feet. She wore trousers. Wearing trousers was frowned upon for women in Stejin, but Noah saw the practicality of it in the wilds. The road emptied around them, though he still felt the weight of eyes on his back. A calm hush fell over the village, as though everyone was intent on listening.
“Sheriff,” the hooded woman said in greeting, her voice low and self-assured. She wore the leathers of a hunter, with the forearm guard of an archer on her left wrist. Noah had never suspected the poacher was female, and he was even more shocked to be greeted by a witch. Natural magic, an essence that favored living things, hovered about her. It showed itself in a sunflower yellow aura that faded as his focus shifted.
Noah wasn’t a magic user like a witch or a priest. He’d never successfully prayed through a rite or cast a spell with natural essences in his life—and it wasn’t for lack of trying. That aside, he had an uncanny ability to sense and see magics. The magic on the woman before him was potent and energetic. As she drew near, the essence brushed against his exposed skin, thick and warm and soft like wool.
“I received a wire,” Noah said, still looking her over, gathering information, filtering out the pieces that did him no good, and filing away the others to be examined later. An automated response from his years serving the king’s law.
“You received the wire from me. I had the shopkeeper send it.” The crooked smile she gave him from under her hood was naughty—Noah had no better word for it. That smile combined with her husky voice made him eager to see the rest of the face she kept hidden.
“Well, here I am,” Noah said briskly.
Recognition struck him as her hands lifted toward her hood. A sketch of a similar willowy cloaked figure, half her face covered, featured on wanted posters in Bolwerk. Last seen fleeing the scene of a heist in Kriegspiel. Precious art had been stolen. The unknown woman was wanted in connection with several heists that robbed rich nobles of their jewels and expensive heirlooms in Stejin’s largest cities.
Arguably, the hooded thief could have been any number of women, but Noah’s instincts never steered him wrong. He knew some of those stolen gems and heirlooms had ended up in the hands of the needy around Sherwood. Just like the poacher’s meat. The notion made him even more curious.
The witch pulled back her hood, revealing ashen hair thick with loose curls, a sharp chin, and large, expressive eyes the color of warmed honey. Her eyebrows were long, delicately shaped, and dark, nearly black. A stark contrast to her light hair.
“Saints,” the wiry watchman cursed. His mouth fell open, gaze fixed on the witch as she shook out her tresses. Noah had forgotten he was there, still astride his bulky horse. The watchman’s gaze went heavy lidded, staring hungrily at the witch. Had Noah been closer, he’d have pushed him off his horse, anything to make him stop staring at her like a predator studying his prey. “You lucky devil,” he murmured.
Noah growled low in his throat. His hands made fists. “She’s turning herself over willingly. Your help isn’t needed.”
“It wasn’t help I planned to offer,” he said. “Just my eyes.”
“It’s a long ride to Bolwerk,” the witch said to Noah. “Have you eaten?” She seemed content to ignore the watchman outright. Other than a slight firming of her mouth, she gave no indication she’d even heard him. Noah chose to do the same. For now.
“I’ve eaten.” He squinted at her. What was this witch up to, turning herself in? Offering him food? Was she being witchly, a friendly flirt, or was she after something more? “We should leave soon, before it rains.”
The witch nodded then made toward her horse, gliding out from under the awning. Sunlight caught in her snowy hair.
Noah stopped her with a raised hand. “Whatever you take with you, the magistrate will seize and turn over to the crown. Including your horse. I recommend you bring nothing but your person.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Bolwerk is a long way on foot.”
“I’m your ride.” Noah reached back and patted his horse’s nose. Normally criminals walked behind his mount, secured with a long rope and leather cuffs, but this witch had earned some kindness with her efforts to feed the poor. He’d treat her gently.
It had nothing to do with the fact that she was beautiful—it had little to do with the fact that she was beautiful . . .
“Lucky devil,” the watchman said again. Noah fantasized briefly about shooting him in the foot. “I’ll accompany you, Sheriff. She can share my saddle.” He patted his thighs welcomingly.
“You’ve mistaken us for friends,” Noah snapped. His gut clenched, another reminder from his instincts that the wiry man couldn’t be trusted. “She’s coming with me. You’re not.”
The watchman’s mouth went tight. His cheeks filled with color. “Very well, then,” he sputtered, and he tugged on the reins, turning his horse. He clicked his tongue, and his bulky mount carried him back up the unpaved road.
When he was gone, swallowed up by redwood trees, Noah turned back to the witch and found her standing closer than he’d expected.
“Are you going to put me in irons?” She studied him, her lip in her teeth, poorly concealing a secretive smile. Her magics flared bright yellow, haloing her hair briefly. The essence smelled like cinnamon.
“Do I need to?” Noah said, thinking of the special cuffs he had in his saddlebags, the ones with a thin band of pure gold fitted between the leather, kept just for witches. Gold placed around pulse points dispersed their natural magics and made spells and hexes impossible. The thought of shackling her in such a fashion, subduing her magics—an intimate part of any magic user—unsettled him deeply for reasons he couldn’t quantify.
She released her lip from her teeth, and he found the motion distracting. “I’d rather you didn’t shackle me.” Her nose wrinkled. “I plan to come with you freely.”
Remembering his first sighting of her wanted posters, Noah had found it extravagant that the artist had spent a great deal of time sketching the thief’s mouth. He knew something of drawing and recognized the effort made. Drawing was an important skill for a sheriff. He used it to update maps and keep features of the criminals he hunted clear in his mind, or to show to locals when he needed a lead. But no one was ever identified by their lips alone. It had seemed like a waste, a sordid fascination that had bemused him.
Seeing her now, in the flesh, those full pink pillows made for pouting, he understood the interest. The drawing had been a valiant effort, but they didn’t do her justice.
“Thank you for the warning about my belongings,” she said, expression placid. “I’ve never been arrested before. I didn’t realize Stejin’s crown could simply seize my things. How considerate of you to share your horse.”
