Bad to the Crone Read online

  Bad to the Crone

  A Spell’s Angels Cozy Mystery

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2019 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Prologue

  Twenty-five years ago

  The woman cut through the night, determined, silent.

  Her feet made no sound on the pavement even though she wore hard-soled shoes that should’ve clicked against the cement. She’d cast a spell to muffle the sound because she was on a timetable and it was simply easier to use the magic she had at her command than to risk the wrong person seeing her.

  The little girl at her side emitted the occasional sniffle but was otherwise silent. Because of the darkness, it was hard to make out anything about the duo. The only hint came from beneath the child’s inky hoodie when a trace of blond hair peeked out.

  The woman with the child was careful when they came to a stop in front of a fire station. Light illuminated the windows, but no silhouettes floated past to suggest someone was inside. The woman knew the skeleton night crew was present — she’d checked to make sure before collecting the girl — but she didn’t call to them and request help. This wasn’t that sort of visit.

  “Hey.” She forced a tight-lipped smile onto her face as she knelt before the child. “I’m sorry about this ... all of this.” She felt strained as she debated what to say. She’d practiced this speech in the mirror several times the last few days. The words never got easier, and they never felt right.

  “What am I doing here?” the girl asked, confused. She stared at the building for a long time. “I don’t know where I am.”

  The woman sighed, misery and worry colliding. “I know. I don’t want to leave you here, but I don’t have a choice.”

  The child’s lower lip trembled. “You’re going to leave me here?” Her eyes turned furtive as she darted around, a wave of terror so strong it caused the nearby trees to ripple and bend as they gave way to the power washing over her. “I don’t want to stay here!”

  “I know you don’t.” The woman adjusted her position to ease the wear on her knees, hunkering low to stare directly into the girl’s eyes. “You don’t want to stay and I don’t want to leave you. But I honestly don’t have a choice.

  “You’re not safe with me right now,” she continued, choosing her words carefully. “I have to run, and where I’m going, well, you can’t come with me.”

  Tears flowed freely now as the girl fought to maintain some semblance of calm ... and failed. “But you can’t!” She gripped the front of the woman’s dark cloak. “You can’t leave me here. I don’t want to stay. I ... please!” She was taught never to beg and yet that’s what she did now. “Don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone!”

  Though she had voluntarily taken on the job of leaving the child behind out of a sense of practicality, the woman choked back a sob as emotion got the better of her. This was the hardest thing she’d ever done. That didn’t mean it wasn’t necessary.

  “You’ll never truly be alone.” She pressed a finger to the girl’s forehead and immediately the child stopped whimpering, instead swaying as her eyes went glassy. “We’re here,” she whispered, pressing a hand to the girl’s heart. “We’ll also be here.” She kissed her forehead. “Hold onto this.” She slipped a silver necklace into her pocket and made sure it wasn’t poking out in case someone decided to lift the trinket in the melee of the girl’s discovery. “You will see at least one of us again.

  “Whatever happens, you must know that it wasn’t our choice to leave you,” she continued. “You’re the future, our only hope. We wanted to keep you. You have no idea how much. Your safety is more important than what we want, though.”

  She cast a terrified look over her shoulder at an unexpected noise and peered into the darkness. She sensed malevolence closing in and knew she must be quick.

  “You need to go to the building and knock,” she instructed, turning grim. “Tell them that you don’t know how you got here, or where you’re supposed to be. They’ll look for relatives, your next of kin, but we’ve protected you with an incantation. No one will be able to claim you unless their hearts are pure … and they can protect you. That second part is the most important, although you might not always see it that way.

  “If we can, we’ll come for you,” she said, sobs clogging her throat as she fought to maintain her demeanor. “I don’t think that’s going to be possible for a very long time. Even then ... well ... you might never see us again, our magic will sustain you until it’s time. You will feel us even if you don’t know us.”

  She ran her finger down the girl’s cheek as she fought the overwhelming urge to cry. “You’re stronger than you realize. I’m only sorry that we won’t have a chance to teach you our ways. You’ll have to figure out this world on your own.

  “It’s not an easy world, or even a good one at times,” she said, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end as she registered a dark presence closing in. “It’s what you have to overcome. I have faith that you will, that you’ll figure everything out in due course. Until then ... you will live in the darkness because that’s the greatest gift I can give you.”

  She pressed her lips to the child’s forehead. “Someday you will remember.” Another kiss. “May we meet again.”

  With those words she shoved the girl toward the door. “Knock on the door. Go inside. Leave this behind you.” Her tone, suddenly cold and devoid of warmth, didn’t allow for argument.

  The child was confused but had no choice but to obey. The memory spell had done its job. She didn’t remember the past four years of her life. The woman in front of her was a stranger.

  “I ... knock on the door,” she murmured, staring at the fire station. “Ask for help.”

  “Yes.” The woman was back on her feet and glaring at a shadow detaching from the tree line across the street. “You must go now. We’re already out of time.”

  As the child obeyed, the woman walked away from the past. There was no changing things now. They’d waited too long. All they could hope for was that the child would do what she was born to do.

  It would take time, but as long as she was alive there was hope.

  How long that hope could sustain them was anybody’s guess.

  She pushed worry out of her mind and focused on the coming battle. She would have to fight until the child made it out of the danger zone, away from the creatures that stalked the night, to relative safety. Then she would have to fight for an openi
ng to flee. There was no assurance that either would happen. If she didn’t fight, though, it was guaranteed she would fail.

  So, with only one option in front of her, she did what was necessary. She fought ... and for one day, she won.

  The battle was over, but the war had just begun.

  One

  Present Day

  I’m a city person.

  I like tall buildings and busy skylines. I like movie theaters that are open at midnight. I like being able to shop in the middle of the night. Heck, I like knowing where the after-hours bars are — and they had better not be too far — so I can party well into the wee hours.

  I like action … and street noise … and the hint of danger that accompanies both.

  So, given all that, how did I end up here?

  “Welcome to Hawthorne Hollow.”

  The words were benign, but they sent chills down my spine as I focused on the man who uttered them.

  Rooster Tremaine was in his mid-fifties and burly. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, which allowed him to display a set of biceps that would’ve been welcome in a 1980s action movie. He was bald — whether that was a choice or not, I couldn’t say — and he wore a red bandanna tied over his bare head.

  He was tough and looked mean ... but as a witch, I could read his aura and knew it was all an act. He had a giving heart and soul. He simply didn’t want anyone to know it.

  “I saw the sign when I was coming in,” I said dryly, leaning a hip against the counter at The Rusty Cauldron, northern Lower Michigan’s version of a biker bar. It left a lot to be desired ... and yet it was somehow homey, too. “Population four-thousand, huh? That’s not exactly what I would call a happening spot.”

  Instead of being offended, Rooster snorted. “Don’t let the town’s size fool you. This place finds trouble faster than a Kardashian finds something stupid to say.”

  The reference threw me for a loop. “You watch the Kardashians?”

  “No. I make fun of the Kardashians.”

  Maybe I was going to like this place after all. “Scout Randall.” I introduced myself by jutting out my hand. “I’ve been transferred here for the time being. I have no idea how long the assignment will last.”

  Amusement filtered through Rooster’s eyes as he rested his weight on his elbow behind the counter. I wasn’t sure if the bar served as an office — in Detroit, the local chapter of the Spells Angels rented actual office space — or was simply a hangout, but I was determined to find out without making myself look like too much of a ninny.

  Rooster stared at my hand a moment and then took it. “What’s your real name?”

  I wasn’t surprised by the question. “Scout.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Your parents named you Scout, did they? Somehow I have my doubts.”

  This was hardly the first time I’d participated in this very discussion. “I have no idea what my parents named me.” I wasn’t bucking for sympathy but it was best to get this part of the conversation out of the way. “I don’t know if I even had a name. I was abandoned when I was four or five — I’m not really sure of my birthday so they made an educated guess — and the firefighter who found me named me Scout after a character in his favorite book.”

  Rooster’s forehead wrinkled. “From To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  I shrugged. “That would be my guess. I don’t really remember him either. He died not long after I was found. A heart attack, I believe.”

  “Wow. That’s quite the story.” Rooster was somber. “So, your name really is Scout.”

  “That’s what it says on my license.” I flashed a smile to put him at ease. My origin tale made most people uncomfortable. I was used to it. I had no idea where I’d come from, but I’d put that behind me.

  Er, well, mostly.

  “And how did you end up here?” Rooster asked. “I mean ... you don’t look the type to willingly choose Hawthorne Hollow.”

  That was an understatement. As far as I could tell, Hawthorne Hollow was one stoplight and eight churches. It definitely wasn’t my chosen place to hang my hat. Still, I was a team player. When my regional boss in Detroit said that Hawthorne Hollow was down a person and needed a body right away, I was eager to help.

  Okay, that’s a total lie. I wasn’t eager and fought the effort. We drew straws between the other available Spells Angels and me, and I lost. Rooster didn’t need to know that. There was no need to make him feel bad.

  “I’m here to help as long as you need it,” I said, forcing a smile. “You’re down a witch ... so here I am.”

  “Uh-huh.” Rooster’s expression didn’t change. “I think you’re going to have a rude awakening here, missy. But it’s not my place to say. I don’t stick my nose in other people’s business.”

  I had my doubts, which were only strengthened when several of the people hanging around the bar cast him derisive looks. I wasn’t surprised none of them said anything, though. Rooster obviously wasn’t the sort to be trifled with. “I was told to check in with you,” I offered. “You’re listed as my liaison.”

  “I don’t know that I want to be anybody’s liaison, but I’m in charge in these parts,” he confirmed. “I guess we should start with introductions.”

  He made an odd throat-clearing sound as he gestured toward a group of people at the other end of the room. They’d stared as I entered — I was the new element in town so there was a natural curiosity wafting about — but remained silent. They clearly deferred to Rooster, which made me think he was more powerful than he let on. He was magical, there was no doubt about that, but he kept his cards close. I couldn’t be sure exactly how much power he wielded.

  “I’ll make introductions,” he offered, moving out from behind the bar and wiping his hands on a raggedy towel. “Come with me.”

  I fell into step with him because it seemed the thing to do, but I wasn’t keen on meeting the rest of the Hawthorne Hollow tribe. They didn’t look friendly, to put it mildly. That was fine, of course, because I wasn’t exactly known for my manners.

  “Gang, this is Scout Randall,” Rooster started. “That’s her real name so don’t give her grief about it. Scout, this is the gang.”

  I forced a smile that I didn’t feel. “It’s nice to meet you,” I offered awkwardly.

  “Yes, we’re thrilled to meet you, too,” a woman drawled, sipping from what looked to be a glass of bourbon on the rocks. It wasn’t even noon, so I had to question her choices ... something I did internally because I wasn’t yet sure what I was up against.

  “That’s Bonnie,” Rooster offered. “She’s kind of a pain in the keister, but she’s good in a fight, which is the most important thing.”

  The woman’s black hair and eyes almost matched, giving her a creepy look that made me indescribably nervous. “Hey.” I bobbed my head and refused to give in to the fluttering fear in my belly. She could be a perfectly nice woman, I reminded myself. The black eyes obviously threw me, but I didn’t sense so much magic that I was worried that she could overpower me. I was good in a fight, too. I just hoped it wouldn’t become necessary.

  “This is Marissa Martin.” Rooster directed my attention to a second woman, this one with flaming red hair that looked as if it came out of a bottle.

  “Foxy,” Marissa countered, extending her hand. “My name is Foxy.”

  A tall man with a cue in his hand snorted as he circled the pool table at the back of the room. He was the only one who didn’t rush over to meet me. He had brown hair that brushed the top of his shoulders, green eyes, a noticeable scar through his left eyebrow and an attitude that rankled. He’d barely said a word yet I could already tell I wasn’t going to like him.

  “No one is buying the Foxy thing,” he called out as he lined up another shot. “I mean ... why would you want that as a nickname anyway?”

  Marissa shrugged, unbothered by his derisive tone. “Perhaps because I’m foxy.” She sent him a flirty wink that turned my stomach, and then focused on me.
“Scout is a fun name, I guess. I mean ... were you a Girl Scout? Is that why you have that name?”

  “She doesn’t know why she has that name,” Rooster interjected. “She was abandoned as a kid and doesn’t know her real name. The firefighter who found her named her that. Let it go.”

  I felt put on the spot thanks to Rooster’s outburst, but I remained outwardly cool because I didn’t want to show my unprotected underbelly to potential enemies. “It’s fine,” I gritted out, shaking my head and focusing on the older man shooting pool with the younger one. “And you are?”

  “Whistler,” he replied, his lips curving. His hair was long and gray and he wore it in a loose ponytail. Of everyone here, he seemed the most at home. “I own this place.”

  “Oh.” Well, that explained that. “It’s a nice bar.”

  He snorted. “It is what it is.”

  “Um … you own the bar and serve the cause?” I felt stupid asking the question but was obviously curious.

  “I’m retired from the cause,” he corrected. “I still help when I can. The bar gets most of my attention. That doesn’t mean I don’t pitch in when it’s necessary.”

  “Oh, well … .” I honestly didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Whistler wasn’t comfortable with awkward silences and decided to fill it himself. He jerked his thumb in the other man’s direction. “This is Gunner Stratton. He’s our local Mr. Fix-It. If you run into issues with your bike, he’s the one to take it to. He’s also involved in other club operations, so if you have any questions he’s a good guy to ask.”