Witches' Spells Read online

  Witches’ Spells

  Morgana Best

  Witches’ Spells

  (Witches and Wine, Book 5)

  Copyright © 2017 by Morgana Best

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-925674-64-4

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The personal names have been invented by the author, and any likeness to the name of any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book may contain references to specific commercial products, process or service by trade name, trademark, manufacturer, or otherwise, specific brand-name products and/or trade names of products, which are trademarks or registered trademarks and/or trade names, and these are property of their respective owners. Morgana Best or her associates, have no association with any specific commercial products, process, or service by trade name, trademark, manufacturer, or otherwise, specific brand-name products and / or trade names of products.

  By this act

  And words of rhyme

  Trouble not

  These books of mine

  With these words I now thee render

  Candle burn and bad return

  3 times stronger to its sender.

  (Ancient Celtic)

  Contents

  Glossary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Connect with Morgana

  Also by Morgana Best

  About Morgana Best

  Excerpt from Miss Spelled

  Glossary

  The author has used Australian spelling in this series, so for example, Mum instead of the US spelling Mom, neighbour instead of the US spelling neighbor, realise instead of the US spelling realize. It is Ms, Mr and Mrs in Australia, not Ms., Mr. and Mrs.; cosy and not cozy; 1930s not 1930’s; offence not offense; centre not center; towards not toward; jewellery not jewelry; favour not favor; mould not mold; two storey house not two story house; practise (verb) not practice (verb); odour not odor; smelt not smelled; travelling not traveling; liquorice not licorice; leant not leaned; have concussion not have a concussion; anti clockwise not counterclockwise; go to hospital not go to the hospital; sceptic not skeptic; aluminium not aluminum; learnt not learned. These are just some of the differences.

  Please note that these are not mistakes or typos, but correct Aussie spelling and terms.

  * * *

  AUSTRALIAN SLANG AND TERMS

  Big Smoke - a city

  Blighter - infuriating or good-for-nothing person

  Blimey - an expression of surprise

  Blue - an argument

  Bluestone - copper sulphate (copper sulfate in US spelling)

  Bluo - a blue laundry additive, an optical brightener

  Boot (car) - trunk (car)

  Bonnet (car) - hood (car)

  Bunging it on - faking something, pretending

  Cark it - die

  Cling wrap - Saran wrap

  Come good - turn out okay

  Copper, cop - police officer

  Coot - silly or annoying person

  Drongo - an idiot

  Dunny - an outhouse, a toilet, often ramshackle

  Fair crack of the whip - a request to be fair, reasonable, just

  Flat out like a lizard drinking water - very busy

  Galah - an idiot

  Garbage - trash

  G’day - Hello

  Give a lift (to someone) - give a ride (to someone)

  Goosebumps - goose pimples

  Icing - frosting (on a cake)

  Laundry (referring to the room) - laundry room

  Like a stunned mullet - very surprised

  Mad as a cut snake - either insane or very angry

  Miles - while Australians have kilometres these days, it is common to use expressions such as, “The road stretched for miles,” “It was miles away.”

  Mow (grass / lawn) - cut (grass / lawn)

  Stone the crows! - an expression of surprise

  Takeaway (food) - Take Out (food)

  Torch - flashlight

  Tuck in (to food) - to eat food hungrily

  Ute /Utility - pickup truck

  Vegemite - Australian food spread, thick, dark brown

  Wardrobe - closet

  * * *

  Indigenous References

  Bush tucker - food that occurs in the Australian bush

  Koori - the original inhabitants/traditional custodians of the land of Australia in the part of NSW in which this book is set. Murri are the people just to the north. White European culture often uses the term, Aboriginal people.

  Chapter 1

  I was sitting with the aunts at Mugwort Manor, having breakfast on a pleasant morning. It wasn’t a wholly pleasant morning, because the aunts were bickering, but that was nothing new. The subject this time was Aunt Dorothy’s homemade arthritis medication.

  “I tell you, it was right in this cupboard.” Aunt Dorothy drew herself up to her full height. The trouble was, Dorothy’s eyesight was somewhat lacking, and she was staring at the refrigerator.

  Aunt Agnes wasted no time in pointing that out. “You haven’t taken your arthritis herbs in at least one hundred years,” Aunt Agnes added. “Why the sudden interest in them now?”

  Aunt Dorothy folded her arms over her chest. “I’m getting twinges in my back and hips, so I want to take some. Does anyone know where that old recipe is?”

  Aunt Agnes shook her head, but Aunt Maude spoke up. “It’s mainly cat’s claw, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, cat’s claw and devil’s claw and I can’t remember what else,” Aunt Dorothy said. “It’s in that old herbal medications recipe book we had. Now where could that be?”

  “I remember that book!” Aunt Maude exclaimed. “I think it’s in the attic.”

  Aunt Agnes huffed. “Australian houses don’t have attics, Maude, as you well know.”

  “What would you call it, Agnes? That dusty old room where we shove all our old junk and things we haven’t looked at in years?”

  “A spare junk room,” Aunt Agnes said as quick as a flash. “Why don’t you go and look in there, Dorothy?”

  I jumped to my feet. “I’ll go,” I offered. “What does this herbal recipe book look like?”

  “It’s green,” all three aunts said in unison.

  “And it has notes and drawings of herbs,” Aunt Dorothy added. “You can’t miss it. It’s about so big.” She demonstrated the size with her hands.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any werewolves chained up in cages in the attic?” I asked them. I was only half joking.

  “They’re called Shifter wolves, Valkyrie, not werewolves,” Aunt Maude said.

  I sighed and escaped from the room as fast as I could. I had only reached the doorway when I realised that I had no idea where this attic was. “Where is the attic?” I said as I spun around.

  “It’s not an attic,” Aunt Agnes said. “It’s a junk room. You go straight past my bedroom and
keep going down that hallway as far as you can. The last door on your left is the spare junk room.”

  I hurried from the room, the aunts bickering behind me. I realised I hadn’t explored all of Mugwort Manor, which was why I had no idea this room existed. And why would I want to explore the place? It gave me the creeps, to be honest. I wasn’t one for antiques. Sure, a nice antique here or there, but when they were all overcrowded and on top of each other, it made me quite uncomfortable. And then there was the fact that Mugwort Manor itself was quite dark and gloomy. Whoever built it had never heard of passive solar. In fact, there was nothing about it that was light and airy.

  It was with trepidation that I passed Aunt Agnes’s bedroom door and continued down the musty hallway. I had never been this far before, and I was a little concerned about what I might find. I flung open the door and reached for the light switch. I couldn’t find one, so I held up my phone to the walls on either side of the door. Still no light switch. I noticed a funny black cord hanging from the ceiling and remembered that electric lights in the early days sometimes had cords dangling from the ceiling instead of switches. I pulled the cord. To my relief, the light came on.

  Heavy brocade curtains, in what was probably once a green colour, but had now faded to an unpleasant shade of beige, hung heavily over the two windows. I walked to the nearest window and tried to open the curtains with a flourish, but they didn’t budge. I found a rather complicated cord arrangement, and managed to open one curtain, but it only opened a short distance. I had the same problem with the curtains on the other window. I reached between the curtains and tried to open the old sash windows, but they were stuck.

  I gave up and turned back to survey my surroundings. I had thought the living rooms downstairs were cluttered, but this was something else again. It looked as if someone was moving house and had put everything in the one room in readiness to move. Boxes were perched on top of boxes and some had tipped over, spilling their contents onto the floor.

  A thick coat of dust clung to everything I could see, and the sunlight, now tentatively making its way through the windows, showcased the thick particles of dust. At first glance, I couldn’t see a recipe book, let alone a book of any kind. The items strewn on the floor were mainly vintage clothes.

  I carefully stepped between a row of boxes to discover a heavy pump organ against a wall. I had no idea how anyone managed to carry that heavy item up the stairs. I also had no idea if it worked, but I hoped it didn’t. The last thing I needed was for my trip to the attic to prompt the aunts’ memory of the pump organ and for them to start playing it.

  I didn’t want to stay in the dusty room too long, so stepped up my search. Most of the cartons were unsealed, so I peeped inside. So far, I had only come across clothes. While the room wasn’t big, it was crammed full. I figured I could get lost here for a day sorting through all the mess.

  Five minutes later, I noticed a thin green book on top of the pump organ. At first, I had assumed it was sheet music, but perhaps it was the recipe book, after all.

  As I reached for it, my foot caught on something which, as I was flying through the air, I managed to identify as a mummy’s head snow globe. My left hand fell heavily against the green book, dislodging it from the top of the pump organ.

  I picked myself up and dusted myself down before retrieving the book from behind the pump organ. It was indeed the elusive herbal medication recipe book. Some dusty envelopes were stuck next to it, so I reached for them, hoping they weren’t harbouring any redback spiders.

  There were five envelopes, all of which looked quite old. I turned them over one by one, trying to make out the postmarks, but most were too faded to read. One of the envelopes was addressed in a scrawl.

  The envelope was addressed to the aunts, so I have no idea why I opened it. I just did so, automatically. I expected to find a letter, but there was simply a thick, white square card. I gasped. On it were the words:

  I have urgent news about Dahlia and Baudelaire Jasper.

  Come to

  5555 West Giro Road,

  Lighthouse Bay.

  Burn immediately after reading.

  Chapter 2

  It’s a local postmark,” Aunt Agnes said.

  Aunt Dorothy peered over her shoulder, while Aunt Maude made sounds of disgust as she looked at the other envelopes. “They’re all bills,” she said in an irritated tone.

  “They seem to be a few years old,” I said. “I’m sure they’re nothing to worry about now.”

  Aunt Agnes snorted rudely. “Honestly, Maude, this is something to worry about.” She stabbed her finger at the card. “This date is five years ago, just when your parents disappeared, Valkyrie.”

  I already knew that. Aloud I said, “Yes, I know, because the sender says he knows something about them. If you genuinely don’t know where my parents are, then this person probably did. Maybe everything would have been different if this envelope had been opened at the time.” I didn’t mean that to come out harshly, but it was a simple fact.

  Thankfully, my remark didn’t set my aunts off into a round of finger-pointing which would lead to another round of bickering. Aunt Agnes jumped up and fetched a bottle of Witches’ Brew. “I think we need this,” she said.

  I readily agreed. I was feeling quite sick to my stomach, nauseous even, at the thought that someone might have known where my parents were all this time. “Does this address seem familiar to you?” I asked them.

  All aunts shook their heads. “It would have helped if the sender signed it,” Aunt Agnes said dryly.

  “I think it’s a trap.” Dorothy set down her goblet of Witches’ Brew with a thud. “Someone was kidnapped and forced to write the address.”

  Aunt Agnes groaned. “For what purpose?”

  Dorothy sighed and rolled her eyes. “To lure us into a trap in order to harm us, of course.”

  Aunt Agnes took a big gulp of Witches’ Brew before answering. “My dear Dorothy, if anyone wanted to harm us, they would have just come here and done the deed.”

  I broke into the conversation. “Okay, someone wanted you to go to that address so they could tell you about my parents.”

  “I don’t like it,” Dorothy said.

  “Are you sure that address doesn’t ring a bell?” I asked them.

  “Well, it’s right out of town,” Maude said. “It’s in a fairly secluded area. Most of the farms there are tiny, more like thirty acres or so—you know, hobby farms.”

  Aunt Dorothy clapped her hands. “See! A secluded area. Someone wanted to lure us out there and kill us!” Her voice ended in a note of triumph.

  Aunt Maude and Aunt Agnes disagreed with her vehemently, and an argument broke out. I picked up the card and left the room. The aunts didn’t even notice. Aunt Agnes had already promised to lend me her car that morning as I was going to check out one of the local curtain stores to price some block-out roller blinds. I needed one in the front room of my cottage that I had turned into an office. The glare in the mornings was so bad that I couldn’t even see my laptop screen. Sure, I could take my laptop into my living room, but I liked to work in a designated office space.

  I wondered what I would find at the address. I tried not to get too excited. It was five years ago, after all. For all I knew, the writer of the note could have moved on. I wondered why they hadn’t made a second attempt to contact the aunts. Maybe they had fallen victim to foul play. I shook my head and concentrated on the GPS on my phone.

  I found West Giro Road readily enough, although I almost missed the turnoff. As the road wound its way between deserted sheep paddocks and large boulders of granite, I had some misgivings. A lot could happen in five years.

  I slowed down as I approached my destination, and passed a small house with an extensive rose garden. A man was in the garden, brandishing pruning shears. I waved, but he did not respond.

  I pulled off to the right after I saw a little white letterbox with the number 5555. The house beyond it was still standing, and t
hat was a plus. It was an old house, surrounded by plenty of bushes and small trees. The lawn was green, quite a contrast with the parched paddocks surrounding it, and I wondered if the house owner had bore water. Certainly, no one would spare tank water to water a lawn. I parked the car, scrambled out as fast as I could, and was heading for the house, when an elderly man stepped out in front of me from behind a thick bottlebrush tree.

  I started with fright and exclaimed, “Catweazle!”

  The man clutched his throat and stepped backwards. “What did you call me? A weasel?”

  I hurried to explain. “Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry. You scared me, you see. You look exactly like a favourite actor of mine. When I was a child I used to watch reruns of an old children’s show called Catweazle. You look just like the lead actor. The likeness is amazing.”

  The man narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “And what did this man look like?”

  “He was um, a very handsome gentleman,” I lied. I shook off the fleeting moment of concern that I was getting better at lying. “My name is Pepper,” I said. He frowned, so I quickly added, “My aunts call me Valkyrie, Valkyrie Jasper.”

  The man gasped, then bent forward and peered at me. “You’re really Valkyrie?”

  I nodded. “I can show you my driver’s licence…”

  He held up a hand. “No need. You look just like your mother. My name is Dr Beckett Maxwell, but you can call me Beckett.” He leant forward and wrapped his bony fingers around the upper part of my arm. “Were you followed?” He looked over my shoulder.