Introduction
My crazy witch of a grandma placed a spell on my locket.
A love spell.
I don’t think so. Which means I’ll have to find my cursed necklace and nullify the magic. But first, I apparently have to go on a cruise with Grandma.
She’s booked a berth on some fancy boat with others like us. You know, the special folk—as in horns, magic, and a bit of fur. No sooner do I park my broom and find my sea-legs when the locket turns up on board—thankfully, not in the possession of the annoying shapeshifter.
Oz is hot, but he’s not my type. Neither is the pirate whom the locket tries to hook me up with. Or the sea monster who gets it next and tries to drown me.
Busy avoiding potential suitors, I find myself hoping the locket will end up in the one place it doesn’t belong: in the grasp of the lion who makes me purr.
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1
Jane: But officer, it was justified…
“Have you seen my locket?” I asked as I scrounged through the many layers of crap on my dresser. And by crap, I mean my hoarding of every knickknack I’d ever collected in my life.
The chipped black and white porcelain kitten my mom had given me when she announced I could not have a real one because she was allergic. The broken jewelry box—gifted by my dad—that no longer played music no matter how hard you cranked the brass knob, the ballerina atop the lid, her tutu ragged. The outside of it appeared no better, with peeling stickers from my youth including some truly ancient scratch and sniff. The inside wasn’t any more impressive, holding a plastic ring that had come out of a vending machine, a necklace with my birthstone, and a few sets of discreet studs for my ears.
A modest collection for me. Unlike Grandma, who had a dresser taller than she was—which wasn’t saying much, given that she didn’t quite make five feet—to store her goodies. She had a penchant for dangly earrings to match the holidays. A good number of them blinked with lights, and I could always hear her coming when she wore the ones that played Carol of the Bells.
Good thing I loved the crazy old witch. And I loved the damned locket I couldn’t find. It should have been on top of the pile. I’d only removed it that morning to take a shower, but then I’d forgotten to put it back on because I was running late. Finding a way to bun my hair without looking as if I’d slept with my finger in a socket proved challenging, and I blamed Petra. The damned house fairy probably stole my brush again. I really hoped that it wasn’t for the hair on another voodoo doll. Last time, the backlash of Petra’s spell almost got me kicked out of school.
And what did Petra do when I came home ranting about the essay I had to write about dancing in class? She giggled.
The house fairy always tittered. Which was probably why I didn’t kill her.
“Where are you?” I muttered aloud. Not the strangest thing, considering many objects replied back. It was a matter of asking them properly. Oh, and being a witch.
The locket wasn’t in my room, and Petra knew better than to touch it. I’d spelled it, and she’d not liked the result the last time it zinged her—she’d hidden in her birdhouse until her breasts re-inflated.
“Grandma!” The word held a dose of warning. Because there was only one person who would dare invade my personal space.
“Calm yourself, child. I borrowed it,” Grandma replied with no need to holler. She used a spell to project her voice into the room.
It should be noted that her reply filled me with anxiety. Because when Grandma appropriated things, they didn’t always come back. Just ask Great-Aunt Maisy. Grandma had borrowed her fiancé to move some furniture, then eloped with Gerald rather than return him.
Centuries later, the sisters still weren’t speaking, which meant I’d never met Maisy.
Just like I’d never met Grandpa Gerald. I’d just heard all the stories, especially the one about where he died. He’d gotten crushed by a mountain when a certain dragon woke up and smashed its way out. Never wake a dragon, was inscribed on Grandpa’s tomb.
I’m sure mundanes—humans without magic—would claim that my family wasn’t entirely normal. Yet I was determined to be different than the witches in my family line. I would be the one who wore clothes that matched. Who had a job and paid into a retirement plan. Who took regular vacations to normal places like Mexico and Spain rather than the fifth circle in Hell, or the Elven realm, where the disdain on their faces reminded you why you never visited.
Exiting my room, I didn’t have to go far in our cozy house to find my grandmother. There was limited space to hide in the tiny home. Enough for Grandma and me. When I was young, we’d often come for extended visits. Well, I did, at any rate. My parents didn’t usually spend the night. Daddy couldn’t stand to sleep on land.
He also couldn’t stand the cutesy gingerbread-trimmed cottage. He said it emasculated him to be seen anywhere near it. I understood his point. With its pastel green shutters, pale yellow siding, pink window frames, and baby blue front door, it did resemble that of the witch who liked to lure children. I’d given up on having Grandma empty the front lawn of its ornaments. I didn’t think a gnome statue existed that we didn’t own—and that included the vulgar ones.
Grandma was in the kitchen at the stove, her tiny, round figure swathed in a frilly apron over a pastel pink tracksuit. Her white hair was a mess of wild curls, and she hummed as she stirred a large cauldron, the smell wafting from it divine—which meant nothing. It could be a hardwood floor cleaner for all I knew. Smart people never tasted from the cooking pot of a witch.
“Why did you borrow my locket?” I asked, peeking over the edge.
“I needed it for a spell.”
“What?” I tried not to yell at my grandma. She was old. You weren’t supposed to yell at old people because they were wise. Which, in Grandma’s case, I had my doubts about.
“And they say I’m hard of hearing.” Grandma cackled, something she did quite well, given that she was a few centuries old. “I needed it so I could use it as the focal point of a spell. I am delighted to say it worked. Which is why you can’t find it.”
I sighed, a better move than grabbing hold of the old lady and shaking her. It wasn’t her fault she’d finally gone senile. She’d lived a long time. Still spoke of the Salem Witch Trials as “those upstart girls getting what they deserved.”
“Grandma, you know that locket is the only thing I have left of Mom and Dad.” They’d been taken from me a few years ago. A tragic accident. Although I didn’t know how someone intentionally sinking my dad’s ship could be an accident. After all, someone had hit the button that fired the missile. Then again, it was bound to happen eventually. My dad, an old-school pirate, quite enjoyed taking his ship out and reliving the good old days, flying the jolly roger, firing off a few cannons, boarding ships, and demanding treasure. Then doing unmentionable things to his wench—also known as my mother.
If I ignored the scarring from my parents’ lusty habits, then I could admit that I missed sailing with Dad. Missed him dragging me out of school for months on end so I could enjoy a proper education at sea—and in the various ports. I knew swear words that would make a sailor blush. My knot-tying skills were without compare. And I could navigate by the stars.