All My Witches (A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Fantasy Book 5)
Amanda M. Lee
Soaps shouldn’t handle real-life stuff like school shootings and health care reform. They should stick to the important stuff like time travel, music montages and evil twins. If I want to watch real-life stuff I’ll opt for the news … which is completely boring to think about.
– Clove on what’s important in regard to storytelling
One
“Don’t make me come out there!”
I glared at the door that separated The Overlook’s kitchen from the dining room, my temper flaring as I pictured what sat on the other side. Or rather, who.
I could practically see her.
She would be sitting in her recliner, a mug of coffee on the counter, her feet buried under a blanket, a plate of cookies on her lap and her eyes trained on the small television where she preferred to watch her stories when it was cold.
Most people would find it an adorable sight, a grandmotherly figure cuddling up to spend her afternoon lost in a fantasy world.
I know better.
I know her.
“Don’t make me come in there!” I shot back, my temper getting the better of me.
That’s right. I, Bay Winchester, am officially out of patience. Under normal circumstances, I’m the one calling off my cousin Thistle when she decides to move on Aunt Tillie. These battles are generally an attempt to make the woman come to heel, or act like a normal great-aunt. You know, stop selling pot or threatening to curse us within an inch of our lives. I was feeling something different today, although I couldn’t put a name to it.
“I’ll make you wish you’d never been born if you don’t shut your mouth,” Aunt Tillie barked. I couldn’t see her but that didn’t make the sound of her voice any less grating. “I already wish you hadn’t been born, so we’re almost there, you little witch.”
My eyes flashed as I moved to push myself to a standing position, but my mother stilled me with a hand to my shoulder. Winnie Winchester was used to the endless fights. That didn’t mean she liked them.
“You need to let it go.” Mom was calm, her face reflecting a serenity that I couldn’t possibly share. “You’re making things worse.”
My eyebrows flew up my forehead. “I’m making things worse?” How was that even possible? Aunt Tillie is the queen of making things worse. “She’s the one who said … well, you heard what she said.”
“I did,” Mom confirmed. “That’s hardly the worst thing she’s said this week. Heck, it’s not even the worst thing she’s said today. Before you showed up, Aunt Tillie told Twila she was going to buy one of those ball gags used for … um, sex games … and make her wear it if she didn’t stop trying to talk to her.
“Twila had no idea what she was talking about, so she looked it up on the internet,” she continued. “Then she started screaming and carrying on – just like you are right now – and now we have to call a computer technician because I’m pretty sure Twila downloaded a virus from one of those sex sites.”
I pressed my lips together, unsure if I wanted to join forces with Twila and call Aunt Tillie on her crap or simply burst out laughing because imagining Twila’s reaction to all the porn would keep me entertained for weeks to come. Finally, I merely shrugged. “Aunt Tillie is evil.”
It was a simple statement, appropriately dark and pointed. Mom didn’t look bothered by my assessment.
“She is,” Mom agreed. “But in this particular case, you’re the one in the wrong. She’s in there minding her own business … .”
I balked. “She’s not minding her own business. She never minds her own business. She pretends to mind her own business while really taking an invisible needle the size of my arm and poking people with it when she thinks they’re not looking. That’s not minding her business.”
Mom pressed the tip of her tongue to her top lip as she debated how to answer. I didn’t give her a chance.
“That woman is up to no good,” I added. “She’s plotting the downfall of civilization. In fact … yeah, I’ve given it some thought and I know this is true. I’m pretty sure she traveled through time and took down the Roman Empire. Also, there’s a very good chance she’s the one who crashed Amelia Earhart’s plane. Oh … and you know that thing in Roanoke? Totally her.”
Mom made a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “I’m so glad your head is in a good place. I can’t tell you how proud it makes me to know that you’re not unbalanced … or potentially psychotic … or frustratingly stubborn … at all.”
I didn’t care. “She’s evil,” I repeated.
“That’s hardly news.”
“Who is evil?” My cousin Thistle asked as she breezed into the room. Her hair, which was four different colors this week (she was trying something new), was covered with snow. Thistle learned to be evil at Aunt Tillie’s knee, so she brushed off the snow as she stood next to me and the bulk of it landed in my lap.
“Do you want me to make you eat dirt?” I challenged, narrowing my eyes.
Instead of reacting out of fear, which is what I was going for, Thistle merely snorted. “You’re in a mood.”
“She’s completely in a mood,” Mom agreed, unbothered by the fact that she was talking about me as if I wasn’t even there. “I think it’s because Brian is at the newspaper office today and tomorrow to pack up the rest of his stuff. Bay feels she can’t be there, because it’s uncomfortable for both of them.”
“I’m right here,” I reminded my mother.
“I could hardly forget.” Mom gave my shoulder a sympathetic pat. “You’re channeling Aunt Tillie today, so it’s not as if your personality is small enough to overlook.”
Oh, well, that just did it. “That is the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Thistle let loose with a smirk and a chuckle as she poured herself a mug of coffee and settled at the rectangular table. She was a few seats down from me – which I was convinced was on purpose so she could easily escape when she said something to irritate me – and she looked ready to start poking about in an effort to enrage. She definitely gets that from Aunt Tillie. I, on the other hand, am nothing like the woman. I’m not evil.
Yes, I’m a witch. I’m not a diabolical one, though. I leave that to Aunt Tillie and Thistle.
“You’re clearly agitated,” Thistle said after studying me for a beat. “Are you nervous about being the owner of the newspaper?”
I’d been getting this question from family members and people on the street ever since news went public that I was buying The Whistler, Hemlock Cove’s lone newspaper. Brian Kelly was the grandson of the man who’d hired me, but the younger Kelly’s efforts to turn The Whistler into something it wasn’t – mainly a multimillion-dollar profit machine – failed. He finally tried to fire me, and the advertisers turned on him, resulting in me purchasing the newspaper (with a little help from my friends, family and boyfriend) while he prepared to slink out of town with nothing but a few thousand dollars and a chip on his shoulder.
Yeah, it wasn’t exactly a comfortable environment at the office these days. I was still a week away from closing on the property thanks to an error in the initial paperwork. Brian refused to hang out anywhere else because he was keen to punish me for stealing his birthright. That’s how he termed it once, mind you. I’m not the one who came up with that lovely complaint.
Wait … what were we talking about again?
“I’m not nervous about owning the paper,” I shot back. “I’m annoyed with Aunt Tillie. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, there’s definitely a difference,” Thistle agreed. “What did that old shrew do now?”