Arse-on-Wharfe, England

Incoming. Beelzebub’s bitch at twelve o’clock.

The sarcastic tone of her familiar whispered through Amethyst Sophia St. John’s mind. She straightened up from the magical artifact she’d been bent over for the last hour. Rubbing her aching lower back with grubby hands, she cast him an admonishing glance. “Oliver … be nice.”

Meh. I call them like I see them. The huge gray-and-white tabby yawned, then began to groom his thick fur.

Amethyst couldn’t really scold Oliver for his low opinion of her mother since she totally shared it.

Mildred Earlene St. John was a horrible mother and an even lousier person who lived only to further her wealth and status.

Amethyst took a fortifying breath as the unique signature of her mother’s magic preceded her into the dusty bowels of the United Kingdom Covens’ Magical Artifacts Library where Amethyst had chosen to work today.

Don’t you mean chosen to hide? Oliver shot her a fess-up stare, proving he could groom and poke through her thoughts at the same time.

Amethyst rubbed her tired eyes. “Okay, hide. But in my defense, I have a lot of work to do.” Plus, her mother hated the basement, called it that “rat-infested cess pit.”

Whatever.

As much as she loved her position as the library’s head curator, the demands on her time and attention were frequent and seemingly unending. She scanned the stacks and stacks of artifacts that needed to be classified and their specific magic either defined, repaired, or, for some of the more dangerous artifacts, contained before they could be made available for the library’s members and invited guests to study.

Oliver uttered a disgusted meow over Amethyst’s equivocation. Work-shmerk. You’re hiding because Beelzebub’s bitch called and said she planned to visit today.

That, too. When it came to her rapaciously ambitious mother, Amethyst followed a strict avoidance policy and had even moved out of the family’s manse several months ago, much to her mother’s severe disapproval.

Bottom line, what Amethyst wanted out of life and what her mother demanded were so diametrically opposed as to place them in separate universes.

The only reasons Amethyst still dealt with her mother were—one: her mother, the High Witch for the local coven, was nominally her boss, and, two: there was still a part of Amethyst that wanted her mother’s love and approval.

Fat chance at that ever happening. Oliver sniffed. That bitch doesn’t have a heart.

“Amethyst!” Her mother’s strident tones had her clenching her jaw.

Oliver rubbed his head against her arm and purred. His energy soothed her. After an affectionate head butt, he plopped his furry arse next to the artifact she currently worked on. Maybe they could move the library to Timbuktu?

She wished.

Mildred—as her daughters were told to address her—stopped in front of Amethyst and cast a haughty glare at Oliver who’d stuck a leg in the air and had blithely begun to groom his balls with vigor as if the task was essential to the continuation of life on the planet.

It could happen. Good grooming is next to godliness.

Amethyst snickered, then immediately sobered as Mildred focused her death-ray glare on her.

“What in the name of the Blessed Goddess are you wearing?” Her parent sniffed, a sour expression fixed on her too-thin face.

Frowning, Amethyst looked down at the much-washed tee featuring the iconic Rolling Stones’ tongue, her distressed blue jeans, and her favorite black-and-white Chuck Taylor high-tops and shrugged. “Clothes?”

Mildred, as always, was dressed as if she were about to have an audience with the Queen of England. Today’s ensemble was Chanel and pearls.

“Rags, more like it. Really, Amethyst, you’re twenty-four years old and born into one of the most prestigious families in England. Yet, you still dress like a cross between a teenager and a homeless person. Don’t you have any pride in your appearance? Any respect for your family’s ancient lineage and reputation?”

A right snot-nosed social bigot, isn’t she?

Her mother’s criticisms weren’t anything Amethyst hadn’t heard before, but she refused to engage her mother on topics that weren’t important in the grander scheme of things—such as clothing choices. A long time ago, Amethyst had made the decision to save her energy for far more dangerous points of disagreement.

Mildred circled around the room, a look of rampant disgust on her face as she swiped a perfectly manicured finger over a dusty box of magically warded Celtic grave goods. “Look at this filthy place. Amethyst, if you had a decent job, one befitting your station—”

And there it was; one of the battles Amethyst had decided was worth fighting. Mildred loathed Amethyst’s job and was horribly embarrassed by her daughter’s peculiar mix of magic.

But Amethyst loved her job, relished the challenge of taking on every dirty artifact and potentially explosive bit of ancient magic. Her magical abilities, unlike many witches, were neither healing nor creative, but something totally unique. Her power allowed her to sense, track, fix, and survive magical wards and spells thousands of years old. Her specific abilities were the main reason she’d been chosen for her current position at a very young age. Most curators of magical artifacts were far older.

Amethyst’s magic had been discovered at the age of five during a family visit to the British Museum. While viewing the Egyptian exhibit, she’d accidentally unleashed a mummy’s nasty curse. Purely on instinct, she’d quickly reversed and contained the curse’s effects. Her father had laughed and praised his “very talented daughter.” Mildred had looked horrified and stated no child of hers could possess such a lowborn skill.

From that day on, nothing Amethyst had done pleased her mother—yet, Amethyst had continued to try … until recently.

“Amethyst, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” Her mother’s lips had thinned to the point of disappearing.

You didn’t miss much. Blah, blah, blah-da-dee-fucking blah. Repeat. Oliver yawned and curled into a ball, his eyes slitted as he glared at Mildred. Acid-tongued bitch.

Amethyst petted Oliver’s head and let the witch-familiar connection calm her nerves. “Mildred, why are you here?”

“Two reasons.” Her mother paced back and forth in front of the work table. “First, you turned down Reginald Wolverstone’s offer of marriage.”

And there was one of the other battles Amethyst would engage in with her mother.

Amethyst refused to marry a warlock of Mildred’s choice merely to further her mother’s skewed ideas of power.

Offer? Oliver sat up and hissed. His fur stood on end, his tail fluffed, and body arched. His front claws dug into the hardwood table. Try attempted rape. Took care of that bloody fucknugget, didn’t we?

Yes, they had—barely.

Amethyst shuddered at the horrific memory. Somehow, Reginald had nullified her wards and repelled her normally strong defensive magic. He’d then shoved Amethyst over the back of her mother’s eighteenth-century fainting couch and pulled down her jeans. Her cries for help had gone unanswered by the servants and Mildred, even though they had to have heard them.

Only Oliver had raced to her rescue. He’d clawed his way up the bastard’s body to his shoulder and then latched onto Reginald’s ear, breaking the warlock’s hold on whatever dark magic spell he’d used to counter her magic. And it had to have been dark magic, because no white magic had ever broken through her defensive wards before.

Once freed from the paralysis of Reginald’s spell, Amethyst had cast a defensive spell which froze Reginald in place until she and Oliver could escape. She’d moved out of the family home for good the next day.

Tasty ear for a twat-faced, rat-arsed wankstain. I do love the taste of warm, bloody flesh. Oliver let out a small burp in remembrance. Though Reggie boy’s ear was no Beluga caviar.

Amethyst petted Oliver in long, slow strokes from head to rump. She’d been blessed by the Goddess the day the little kitten with the ego of a lion had barreled his way into her life and claimed her as his witch.

“Reginald and I don’t suit.” Amethyst finally answered her mother.

“Don’t suit?” Mildred shrieked. “Don’t be ridiculous. Reginald has a trust fund paying a million Euros a quarter and is heir to one of the most magical estates in northeastern England. What’s not to suit?”

Amethyst stared at Mildred and again wondered if somehow the hospital had sent her home with the wrong mother. Though Amethyst would never regret her father, who’d been wonderful and loving until the day he died.

Answering Mildred’s question honestly would do no good. In her mother’s worldview, the only truths were her own. The best way to deal with Mildred’s matchmaking plans was to handle them as they arose and avoid the aftermath as much as possible.

Time to change the subject. Mildred could natter on this topic for hours. Oliver butted his head against her hand. You’re not petting me. Why?

“You said you had two reasons for being here.” Amethyst resumed stroking her cat and thought about the half bottle of wine in her office’s mini-fridge, calling her name. “What’s the second?”

Alcohol? It’s only ten in the morning, Oliver pointed out.

Who cared? It was five o’clock somewhere.

Lush.

Fish-egg addict.

“I can see there’s no reasoning with you now.” Mildred sniffed, a disdainful sound. “We’ll be revisiting the issue of Reginald again…”

No, they wouldn’t. What Amethyst wanted in a man—in a husband—was a loving partner who’d respect her wishes and back her against the world.

“…but there’s no time now, that nutcase Baba Yaga will be arriving soon, which is the second reason—”

Mildred’s words were cut off as a thundering, raging whirlwind of magical power swept into the room.

Now that’s some magic! Oliver raised his head and sniffed. Pu-r-r-rfect.

Amethyst held onto Oliver, but the tempest passed around them as if they were encased in a protective bubble—and not one of Amethyst’s making.

Mildred, on the other hand, didn’t fare so well. The wind picked her up, tossed her around like dandelion fluff, then dumped her on the floor in an ungainly heap.

Are those Spanx? Oliver craned his neck to check out her mother’s exposed lower half.

Amethyst bit back a laugh as she eyed her parent’s wind-tossed hair and disheveled clothing. Somehow Mildred had also lost both her shoes.

And, yes, the undergarments were Spanx.

“Hey there, Mildew, you old bat. How’s tricks?” The speaker was a beautiful, 30-ish-looking blonde wearing an off-the-shoulder black-and-white striped top paired with a short ruffled denim skirt over fishnet leggings, white sneakers, and a lacy scarf tied in her curls a la Madonna of the Desperately Seeking Susan era. The magic coming off the sartorially stuck-in-the-80s witch was old—hundreds of years old—and extremely potent. “And if I’m a nutcase, you’re a battle-ax.”

Baba Yaga had arrived.

The wily witch, the Goddess-chosen leader of the world’s witches, had probably been present all along, cloaking her magic as she spied on the two of them. As far as Amethyst knew, no magic user, no matter how old and proficient, could sense Baba Yaga’s presence if the witch didn’t want them to.

Baba Yaga looked over at Amethyst and winked. “Love the tee, chica. I have it in four colors. Mick signed one for me after a long night of sexual bliss. That man sure knew how to use those skinny hips—and that tongue.” She laughed as she did a little bump-and-grind move. “So … how’s the most-talented magical artifacts curator in the world doing?”

“Fine, Baba Yaga.” Amethyst smiled shyly. She adored Baba Yaga who’d always gone out of her way to boost Amethyst’s self-esteem after the death of her father in a spell gone wrong when Amethyst was eight years old.

“So-o-o, Milly Vanilli, did you tell your lovely and so-gifted daughter about the little job I have for her?” Baba Yaga’s face was now blank of all expression, but the underlying tone of her words was testy.

Mildred pursed her lips as if she’d sucked a lemon and, with a shaky hand, attempted to smooth her hair back into place.

Amethyst’s mother both hated and feared Baba Yaga. For good reason—Baba Yaga had some herculean mother-fricking mojo and didn’t suffer supercilious fools gladly.

“We hadn’t quite gotten that far,” Mildred finally replied.

“No?” Baba Yaga’s eyebrows arched in mock disbelief. “Maybe it’s because you were too busy tearing into your daughter for kicking Reggie the Wanna-Be-Rapist to the curb. Didn’t think I knew about that, did you?” A green aura surrounded Baba Yaga as she pulled energy from Mother Earth and held it in place in a chilling display of power.

With a don’t-cross-me,-bitch smile aimed at Mildred, Baba Yaga said, “Over your desiccated body will Amethyst marry that butt-faced, gutless, teensy-dicked moron. Got that, Milly-moo?”

I love her. Oliver stared fondly at Baba Yaga. If I weren’t a cat, I’d be all over her.

Amethyst choked back a laugh. Trust her familiar to make her laugh in a tense situation.

Mildred swallowed hard and nodded.

“Good!” Baba Yaga clapped her hands like a cheerleader on speed. The ominous gathering of power poofed into a cloud of rainbow-colored bubbles. “Since you didn’t share my plans with Amethyst, I will. Because I’m sure you would’ve botched the telling just as you’ve mucked up all those lame-ass match-making spells you’ve been tossing at your daughter.”

Match-making spells? Amethyst growled in harmony with Oliver.

“Mildred—” Amethyst shook with rage as sizzling energy flickered over her skin like sheet lightning. “If I wanted a man, I’d find one.” The sparks coalesced into a roiling ball of purple-and-white lightning hovering over Amethyst’s outstretched hand.

“Chill, child.” Baba Yaga waved a hand, dissolving Amethyst’s magical version of a spit ball, one with more bite than spit. “You handled the dickwad. Well, you and your familiar did.”

Smiling fondly at Oliver, Baba Yaga conjured a small bowl of caviar and floated it to him.

Amethyst’s cat perked up at the scent of his favorite food and gave Baba Yaga a loud, happy purr, then fell on the bowl of the costly fish eggs as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

Baba Yaga bent over and scratched Oliver’s head. “Yes, I made a good match between the two of you. I knew his finely tuned assholedar would come in handy with a mother like yours.” She winked at Amethyst. “Now, I have an exciting task for you. Across the pond … in West Virginia. You and Oliver will leave today … right after you pack.”

The States? West Virginia? Images flashed through Amethyst’s mind like a coming-soon trailer. Wooded mountains and valleys. Bow hunting. White water rapids. Canoes. Burt Reynolds. Jon Voight. Kinky backwoods sex acts. The images of the movie Deliverance, Amethyst’s only knowledge of the rural South, rolled out against an internal play list of dueling banjos.

“A task?” Amethyst liked doing jobs for Baba Yaga, because each and every task strengthened her magical skill set. In fact, Amethyst had just returned from Peru where she’d contained an ancient Incan magical virus that had wreaked havoc among the archaeologists and locals excavating newly discovered ruins.

Who’s da witch? You da witch. Oliver patted her hand with a fishy-smelling paw, then burped and licked his whiskers and paws to get every smidgeon of roe. If we can survive the jungles and mountains of Peru, West Virginia should be a piece of cake.

So true. Then Amethyst looked around her workspace and groaned at the months of backlog. She hated to disappoint the powerful witch, but— “I’m sorry, Baba Yaga. I just arrived home and am buried in artifacts.”

“This job is more important. It’s different than your normal workload … more like diplomacy. As for your little backlog issue … not a problem.” Baba Yaga wiggled her fingers which Amethyst noted were topped by long, sculpted nails painted fire-engine red with anatomically correct naked devils drawn on them. Very well-endowed devils.

In a split-second, three-quarters of the artifacts were shifted to the right side of the room. The remaining quarter was now on the left side and encased in a cage of green-and-gold magic.

“Your assistants can handle those.” Baba Yaga pointed to the majority of the boxes. “I’ve shielded the dangerous ones until you can get to them.” She wiped her hands on her skirt and then fluffed her curls. “Now, your task is simple. You’ll represent Arse-on-Wharfe and deliver a gift—a magical artifact of my choice—to its sister city, Assjacket, West Virginia. It’s all a part of my bringing the world covens closer together,” Baba Yaga snarled, “whether they like it or not.”

“Um, sister cities?” Amethyst asked.

“Yeah, I stole the idea from the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. Smart, huh?” Baba Yaga did a little shimmy.

“Sure.” Though Amethyst wasn’t certain how a program used to foster business ties, and maybe a smattering of cultural understanding, between human-populated cities would go over with cities inhabited by a mix of witches and paranormal species. But Amethyst decided not to argue. Getting away from England and her mother—and the Reginald-issue—sounded like a good idea.

“What artifact have you chosen?” Amethyst asked.

“This one.” Baba Yaga held out her hand, and in her palm appeared a vivid purple crystal reliquary shaped like a penis which housed the—

“Foreskin of Merlin?” Amethyst gaped at Baba Yaga.

“Yeah, isn’t that a kick in the balls?” Baba Yaga fondled the phallic-shaped object. “What says friendship more than gifting your sister city one of the most powerful sex magic artifacts in the world?”

Amethyst groaned. What it was, was a recipe for disaster. Thank the Goddess, the magical artifact was encased in a warded reliquary—one she’d spelled herself so visitors to the library wouldn’t have gang bangs all over the damn place. But—

“Baba Yaga, is there something wrong with the sex drives of the inhabitants of Assjacket?”

“Not that I know of.” Baba smiled. “But it’s where the artifact needs to be. Amethyst, do you trust me?”

“Yes. Absolutely. But what if—”

Baba Yaga waved her off. “Don’t worry. Zelda, the Shifter Whisperer, and her father, my hunk of burning love Fabio—not the cover model, but the warlock—can handle any magical fallout from any misuse of the artifact. Your job is to go make nice with the locals, present them the artifact, and give a short speech on its proper usage. Easy-peasy. Now, scoot. Pack. I sent ahead a case of Beluga for Oliver since the Assjacket grocery store doesn’t stock anything more exotic than tuna fish in spring water. Plan on being in the States for a week … or so.”

“But…” Mildred who’d been silent through Baba Yaga’s instructions now decided to weigh in.

Baba Yaga pointed a red-devil-taloned finger at Mildred. “Shut it, Milla-gorilla.”

Mouth gaping like a suffocating guppy, Mildred uttered only breathy squeaks.

Relieved not to hear her mother’s sure to be self-centered objections, Amethyst asked, “A week or so? Why?” A presentation such as this should only take a day, maybe two, tops.

“Or so or so.” Baba Yaga wiggled one hand back and forth and smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “And because I said so. You’ll recognize when it’s time to leave.”

A whisper in Amethyst’s mind said—Or not. And the voice hadn’t been Oliver’s.