All My Witches (A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Fantasy Book 5) Read online

  Landon cocked an eyebrow. “Stories?”

  “Soap operas,” Thistle supplied. “She loves soap operas. She used to make us watch them with her when we were little – even though they were beyond stupid – and I’m still traumatized by the experience.”

  “Watch it, mouth,” Aunt Tillie warned, her expression serious. “You want to be very careful when you’re talking about my stories.”

  Thistle snorted. “You made us watch that one where the guy had a twin brother hidden in his house and no one knew it. For like six straight months I thought we had people hidden in the basement.”

  “Everyone has secret twin brothers and sisters in Pine Valley,” Aunt Tillie argued. “That show is gone, by the way. They’ve canceled almost all my stories. I only have four left and it’s criminal, quite frankly. In fact … .” She turned to Landon. “Instead of arresting poor pot growers you should focus your attention on taking out the people who canceled my soaps. That would be a much better way for you to spend your time.”

  “I’ll get right on that.” Landon prodded me to sit in the open chair next to him, grabbing my hand and tracing his fingers over my palm. “Bay, I’m serious about this Brian Kelly situation. Maybe you should let me talk to him.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Aunt Tillie didn’t give me a chance.

  “Bay will handle her own issues with Brian Kelly. You don’t always need to swoop in. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

  “I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Landon countered. “I’m just … worried. He’s getting progressively worse and he seems a bit unbalanced.”

  “And not in a fun way, like you, Aunt Tillie,” Thistle added, grinning.

  “You’re definitely on my list,” Aunt Tillie warned.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Landon announced. He was clearly ignoring the other conversations bouncing around the room. “He needs a good warning.”

  “If you were in a soap opera, you’d throw a drink in his face and slap him around right about now,” Aunt Tillie said. “That would be a lot more fun than whatever you’re planning.”

  “Yes, well, we don’t live in a soap opera,” Landon said. “I know it feels as if we do sometimes, but we don’t.”

  “Think about how much fun it would be if we did, though.” Aunt Tillie’s eyes momentarily sparkled, but she remembered where she was and quickly turned dour again when facing off with Thistle. “I would make you the person trapped in a well for months if this were a soap opera.”

  “And I would make you the person locked in a basement,” Thistle fired back. “Our lives are close enough to soap operas. We don’t need to make things worse.”

  She had a point. “So … who wants to start drinking before dinner?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  A bevy of hands shot into the air, including Chief Terry’s.

  “What?” he protested. “I can already see how this night is going to go. I want to numb myself appropriately.”

  He wasn’t the only one. “Let’s start with chocolate martinis and go from there.”

  “Now that sounds like a good idea,” Landon enthused. “Now if only you smelled like chili while drinking your chocolate martini, all would be right in my world.”

  What kind of city has one serial killer, one mobster, one deranged doctor without a medical license running the hospital, the ancestor of a woman who wanted to freeze the world living on a nearby island named after a kitchen utensil, and a spy organization that doesn’t handle any of these things? Seriously, I want to start my own crime ring and move there.

  – Aunt Tillie on soap law enforcement strategies

  Three

  I would like to say that we turned in early and drank only a respectable amount of liquor before realizing we didn’t need alcohol to have a good time.

  That’s simply not how we roll.

  We drank until things turned silly. Landon even decided we needed to try our hand at ballroom dancing at one point, spinning me around the lobby until we both laughed so hard I thought there was a chance we might wet ourselves.

  Thistle and Aunt Tillie got into a spirited debate about soap operas, Aunt Tillie singing their merits while Thistle explained the absurdity of the genre. When Aunt Tillie wouldn’t agree, Thistle gave up and started barking at her whenever our elderly great-aunt spoke. That, of course, set Aunt Tillie’s teeth on edge and she started threatening curses.

  I lost track of the conversation somewhere – probably when we started dancing – and by the time we found our way to our bedroom on the second floor it was midnight and we knew we were in for a rotten morning thanks to what was sure to be some rough hangovers. We would be snowed in, so we weren’t too worried about it.

  I woke with a start, the sunlight filtering through the window. I had a headache the size of the chip on Thistle’s shoulder and I instantly reached for the bottle of aspirin I distinctly remembered leaving on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. In fact, the nightstand in question didn’t resemble the antique one I was sure I’d spied the evening before.

  “Landon?” My tongue was thick, my throat dry.

  Landon didn’t move. “Shh.”

  I thought about letting him sleep. He was crabby when he had a hangover. Heck, we both were. Still, something was definitely wrong. I didn’t think there was any way to save him from it, so letting him escape in slumber was a wasted effort. Plus, well, I didn’t want to deal with it alone.

  What? I have a hangover. I can’t be giving and selfless when I feel as if there’s an alien inside my brain and it’s knocking really loudly in an attempt to escape. It’s simply impossible.

  “Landon.”

  “Sweetie, I love you dearly, but if you don’t lower your voice I’m going to have to get my own room.”

  I was barely talking in a rasp – trust me, I couldn’t take my voice on full volume either – so I knew he was in rough shape. “Landon, I don’t want to alarm you, but … it’s morning.”

  “We’re snowed in. We can sleep all day.”

  “Yes, but … the thing is … um … .” I had no idea how to broach the obvious problem. You would think after being shoved into Aunt Tillie’s memories, a fairy tale world and even the future I would know how to tell Landon we’d been transported to an alternate reality … again. I recognized the truth instinctively when I saw the nightstand – there’s no way my mother would have a marble nightstand with pearl accents, for crying out loud – and I figured Aunt Tillie had gotten her revenge after all.

  “Shh. Sweetie, we’re snowed in. We can’t often say that. I have the day off. You have the day off. Let’s spend the day in bed … but let’s make it a quiet day, at least to start.”

  Even though my head throbbed thanks to my personal choices from the previous evening I was strong enough to take offense. “Quiet day, huh?”

  “I still love you.” Landon absently patted the spot between us. “I just really need you to be quiet.”

  I licked my lips as I stared at him for a long moment, annoyed. “Fine.” I tossed off the covers and stood, taking my first gander at the new room. The decorations were ornate, bordering on garish. It was as if someone took a catalog from the most expensive furniture store in existence and opted to purchase every item they could … whether it matched or not. “It’s almost as if Dynasty and Miami Vice met, had a drunken one-night stand, and then made a baby.”

  “We’ll watch Miami Vice later,” Landon murmured.

  “Yeah, yeah.” His disinterest agitated me. I headed toward the bathroom to my left and, after giving the tacky bathroom the once over I rummaged in the medicine cabinet until I came up with aspirin and filled one of the glasses next to the sink with water. I popped the tablets, downed all the water and then refilled it. After the second glass of water, the leading edge of the dehydration was gone and I could actually stand to look at myself in the mirror. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a horrifying sight. I looked relatively clear-eyed and awake, a small miracle all things cons
idered.

  “Holy crap! Where are we?” Landon’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

  I moved to the doorway, smirking when I saw the look on his face. He was bare-chested, his black hair wild from a night of hard sleep, and his eyes were full of incredulity as he looked around the room.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” I drawled. “Welcome to another nightmare brought to us by Aunt Tillie. Fasten your seatbelt and enjoy the ride.”

  Landon’s expression was dark when he swiveled. “Do you think this is funny?” His eyes were so red from the hangover that he almost looked possessed. “This is pretty far from funny, Bay. In fact … nope. I’m not doing it. She can’t win if I refuse to play.”

  I watched as he pulled the comforter over his head and dived beneath the covers, a small smile playing at the corners of my lips. He tossed and turned, reminding me of an agitated bed bug with attitude, as he tried to get comfortable.

  I decided to approach him carefully. “Landon.”

  “Nope. I was serious. I’m not playing.”

  “Fair enough.” I knew he wouldn’t stick to his claim. For now he needed to feel as if he was in control, though. “There’s aspirin. Would you like some?”

  Landon jerked down the comforter so I could see the top of his head. “How do you know it’s not cursed aspirin?”

  “I took three tablets myself. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine, Bay. You’re trapped in another nightmare. You have no idea what’s going to happen. We could be in the past. We could be in the future. If it’s the future and Aunt Tillie is hanging around with the pope again, by the way, I’m totally going to become an atheist … or one of those people who preps for the end of the world. Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. Get ready for the end of the world.”

  He was ranting. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. “So … where did we land on the aspirin?”

  Landon heaved out a groan. “Fine. I’ll risk the cursed aspirin.”

  Somehow I knew he’d say that. I delivered the aspirin and water, pursing my lips as he downed both. When he was done, he seemed a bit calmer … although only marginally.

  “Where are we this time?” Landon asked, resigned.

  “I don’t know.” I gestured toward the ornate mirror on the wall. “It’s like we’re living in a bad eighties movie or something. I can’t think of another way to describe it.”

  “Why would she send us to the eighties?”

  I shrugged. “That always was her favorite fashion era.”

  “Yeah, I should’ve seen that coming.”

  “I’m not sure this is the eighties,” I cautioned. “It merely reminds me of the eighties.”

  “Does it really matter?” Landon rested against the pillows. “We don’t have to play, Bay. She’ll let us out eventually. She’ll have no choice. We can spend the entire day in here … in this eighties bedroom … and spend alone time together. We don’t have to look out there and see what horrible things she has planned for us.”

  It was a thought, although it wasn’t one I was particularly fond of entertaining. “We’ll get out faster if we play.”

  “You don’t know that. We haven’t refused to play yet. We have no idea what will happen if we don’t engage with her ridiculous stories.”

  He had a point, still … . “I’m going to look around. You can stay here. I’ll come back and tell you what’s going on when I have a better idea. You can make your decision then.”

  Landon was incredulous. “Do you really think I’m going to do that?”

  I shrugged. “No, but I think you need to work yourself up to play this go around. It won’t hurt for you to rest while I look around and then report back.”

  Landon’s expression was grim. “I’m not playing.” He was stubborn under the best of circumstances. He obstinately grabbed the remote control from the nightstand on his side of the bed and clicked on the television. The volume was high and caused me to jolt as a voice – a voice that was oddly familiar – started to speak.

  “Previously on All My Witches … .”

  Uh-oh.

  “What’s this?” Landon furrowed his brow as he stared at the television screen.

  The announcer’s voice droned on.

  “Jericho Steele, an undercover police officer, continued to work his case even as danger closed in at every turn.”

  “Son of a … that’s me!” Landon jabbed at the television. “Look at that. It’s me.”

  As if drawn by something outside of myself, I sat on the end of the bed and focused on the television. The man on the screen was clearly Landon, although he was dressed much differently and apparently had trouble keeping his shirt on … at least if the montage was to be believed.

  “This isn’t good,” I muttered.

  Landon was beside himself. “Oh, what was your first clue?”

  I ignored the sarcasm and kept my attention trained on the television. The voice reminded me of my mother, and I was certain Aunt Tillie did that on purpose.

  “Jericho’s biggest problem isn’t the mobster who wants to kill him; it’s the woman who has stolen his heart.” Someone who looked remarkably like me – although with a much more expensive and impractical wardrobe – appeared on the screen. “Echo Waters is a former model, current artist, possible bar owner and potential philanthropist who married an evil man. Michael Ferrigno is a mobster known for three things: his charisma, his ruthless ambition and his pretty if conflicted wife. Oh, yeah, he’s also known for his rather impressive dimples.”

  Landon snorted. “She named you Echo Waters. That is just … mean.”

  “Laugh it up, Jericho,” I muttered.

  “Soap opera names are stupid.”

  He wasn’t wrong. I rolled my neck until it cracked and continued watching.

  “Jericho is determined to bring down Ferrigno no matter who gets hurt in the process. Unfortunately for Jericho, he might not be able to follow through on his promise because his love for Echo runs deep … really deep, like to the tips of his toes deep. Like if there were giant sharks living in hidden trenches at the deepest part of the ocean, we’re talking that deep.”

  “Oh, geez.” Landon slapped his hand to his forehead. “This is unbelievable.”

  I lifted my finger to silence him, intent on the television.

  “Joining Echo and Jericho on their journey are Cora Devane, a former spy and current fashion designer who married for money and now suffers for love,” the voice said as Thistle’s image appeared on screen. Her husband looked like an extra from Cocoon he was so old and wrinkly. “Cora never loved Dominic Woods, but that’s okay because she gets her thrills with his son, Darko Woods.”

  I wasn’t surprised when Marcus appeared in a scene with Thistle. His handsome features looked right at home on a soap opera.

  “Wait, Thistle is married to the old dude, but sleeping with his son, who just happens to be Marcus?” Landon was baffled. “That sounds about right. Wait … did she say his name was Darko Woods? Like Dark Woods? Who picks soap opera names? I mean … seriously.”

  “I don’t know.” I was fascinated by the story playing out on the television, so I couldn’t spare much effort for Landon’s disgust. “Let me watch.”

  “Cinder Cramer could be friend or foe – nobody knows – because she’s never one thing on any given day,” the television voice explained. “She’s from a rich family, yet earns her money in a variety of different ways. She’s a naughty nurse by day and a steamy waitress by night, stripping for tips at the local dive bar when she wants extra money.”

  “Oh, Clove won’t like this,” I muttered when I recognized the dark-haired woman cavorting on screen.

  “Of course, it’s not Cinder’s fault,” the voice continued. “That’s what happens when you have multiple personalities and only one body for them all to share.”

  “Multiple personalities?” Landon was flummoxed. “Is that really a thing?”

  I shrugged, noncommittal. “It depends on
who you ask,” I replied. “Some people think it’s real. Some don’t. It’s a regular fixture on soaps, though.”

  “Oh, well, good. I thought things would be boring otherwise.”

  I ignored his sarcasm and pointed at the screen. “It’s not done.”

  “Cinder isn’t alone in her struggle. She has the love of a good man to help her … that is when he’s not helping Ferrigno with his criminal empire. Cane Wharton is a famous attorney who survives off the proceeds he makes from defending Ferrigno – even though the guilt is almost too much for him to bear – but he follows his true heart’s desire when he has the time. That means long shifts in the hospital where he volunteers his free time as a brain surgeon on weekends.”

  This time the laugh Landon let loose with was so loud it caused me to jerk my shoulders. “He’s a criminal attorney during the week and a brain surgeon on weekends? Who comes up with this stuff?”

  “If you watch soaps, you know that you have to suspend disbelief,” I explained. “Aunt Tillie used to have us watch with her all the time when we were kids. She’d get really into it.”

  “Did you like it?”

  I shrugged. “The guys were hot.”

  “Now they’re really hot.” Landon pointed to his image on the screen. “I’m like the hottest soap hero ever, huh?”

  “You’re not bad.”

  “Not bad.” Landon moved closer, poking me in the side to cajole a smile. Apparently he was feeling better. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t expect the feeling to last.

  I opened my mouth to tease him, fully embrace the light mood, but I didn’t get the chance because the television was talking again.

  “Pulling all the strings in the quiet hamlet of Camelot Falls is Alexis Kane,” the voice intoned. “She’s more than the mother of a mobster. She’s more than the smartest woman in town. She’s more than the most powerful being on the planet. She’s … everything.”