Spells and Spirits Read online

  Spells and Spirits

  A Paranormal Cozy Mystery Sampler

  Amy Boyles

  Contents

  Also by Amy Boyles

  SCARED WITCHLESS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Southern Magic

  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

  Epilogue

  Soul Food Spirits

  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

  The Witch's Handbook to Hunting Vampires

  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

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  Series Reading Order

  About the Author

  Also by Amy Boyles

  SWEET TEA WITCH MYSTERIES

  SOUTHERN MAGIC

  SOUTHERN SPELLS

  SOUTHERN MYTHS

  SOUTHERN SORCERY

  SOUTHERN CURSES

  SOUTHERN KARMA

  SOUTHERN MAGIC THANKSGIVING

  SOUTHERN MAGIC CHRISTMAS

  SOUTHERN POTIONS

  SOUTHERN FORTUNES

  SOUTHERN HAUNTINGS

  * * *

  SOUTHERN GHOST WRANGLER MYSTERIES

  SOUL FOOD SPIRITS

  HONEYSUCKLE HAUNTING

  THE GHOST WHO ATE GRITS

  * * *

  BLESS YOUR WITCH SERIES

  SCARED WITCHLESS

  KISS MY WITCH

  QUEEN WITCH

  QUIT YOUR WITCHIN'

  FOR WITCH'S SAKE

  DON'T GIVE A WITCH

  WITCH MY GRITS

  FRIED GREEN WITCH

  SOUTHERN WITCHING

  Y’ALL WITCHES

  HOLD YOUR WITCHES

  * * *

  SOUTHERN SINGLE MOM PARANORMAL MYSTERIES

  The Witch’s Handbook to Hunting Vampires

  The Witch’s Handbook to Catching Werewolves

  The Witch’s Handbook to Trapping Demons

  SCARED WITCHLESS

  Bless Your Witch Book One

  Chapter 1

  "If that ain't the other side of stupid, I don't know what is."

  Reagan Eckhart, all platinum-blonde ninety-eight pounds of her, shoved a newspaper in my face. I winced, barely avoiding a massive paper cut to the nose.

  "Those idiots put you in Arts and Leisure. You should have been on the front page of the Birmingham News." She tapped the newspaper with a single red fingernail. "With as much business as you do, Dylan Apel, you should have been the main story of the day."

  "Don't you think technically they should have put me in the business section?" I said.

  Reagan fluffed the foot of hair teased up at her crown. At least it looked like a foot. Okay, it wasn't a foot—only six inches. But those were a tall six inches. Big enough to practically be their own person. "Whatever," she mumbled.

  The debutante was in rare form today. Reagan was dressed to the nines in a black halter top and pants that resembled Spandex. Personally, I was waiting for her to break out into the chorus of “You're the One That I Want,” à la Olivia Newton-John. Harry Shaw, her fiancé—a smallish, bald financial advisor—definitely wouldn't join her if she did. His idea of playing John Travolta probably resembled hot-and-heavy talk about how gross grease and lightning were and why would you want to put the two together?

  I grabbed the paper and scrutinized the picture of me and my sisters, Seraphina and Reid. Bright, beaming smiles on our faces, we stood in front of our side-by-side stores—Perfect Fit and Sinless Confections. Seraphina, tall and slender, her hair shimmering like glass in the sunlight, looked absolutely perfect. Even Reid, my eighteen-year-old baby sis, looked cherubic and innocent, her doe eyes and cheeky smile radiating youthful exuberance.

  Then there was me. I sighed. It had taken two hours to smooth my hair, and it had still frizzed on the edges. I wasn't as tall or slender as Seraphina. But what I lacked in athletic build, I made up for in curves. Good for me. I might not look statuesque and perfect, but I could put on a slutty dress and have enough T and A to get noticed.

  Was that a zit on my cheek?

  "When I realized you had this store, Dylan," Reagan said, "and I saw how beautiful the dresses were, I told Harry—I said, 'Harry, that's who's going to design my wedding dress.' Didn't I, hon?"

  Harry, nose-deep in the business section, remained silent.

  Reagan kicked him.

  "Ow!" Harry rubbed his ankle. "What'd you do that for?"

  "Didn't I, Harry? Didn't I say that?"

  Harry shrank a little, his bald pate looking even balder under the fluorescents. "Yes, of course you did, dear."

  Poor guy. He probably wouldn't last a year in the marriage. He'd be whipped, beaten down and likely castrated after two months.

  Did I say that out loud?

  "Anyway," Reagan continued, flitting about the room. "I told Harry, Dylan Apel and I were best friends in high school—"

  "Mortal enemies," I corrected.

  "—and of course she's going to be the one to design my dress." Girlfriend didn't miss one beat. I don't think Reagan listened to what people said. Did she even hear them when they talked?

  From the corner my assistant, Carrie Dogwood, snickered. I shot her a look of warning. She turned a deep shade of red and pretended to straighten a rack of sequined gowns.

  "Reagan, do you want to see your dress again?" I asked.

  "Of course," she squealed. "I can't get enough of it."

  Carrie crossed to me. She leaned over, kept her voice low. "Wonder what she'll complain about this time."

  I turned away from Reagan. "Hopefully nothing," I whispered. "Can you grab the dress?"

  "Sure thing."

  An unfinished blue gown caught my attention. The color of a robin's egg, the dress would be the envy of the Silver Springs solstice banquet, what with its deep vee neckline and overlay of chiffon. I needed to finish it before the dance, which was barely two weeks away.

  I sighed. I'd been working a lot lately, thanks to Reagan's never-ending changes to her gown. There was less than a week until the wedding, and after that I'd have plenty of time to work on my own dress. That is, if I survived Reagan for a few more days.

  I stared vacantly at the gown until a bodiless hand thrust the newspaper into my face once more. Reagan popped up in front of me and wiggled the now crumpled article. "But this reporter nails it. She absolutely gets it right. I could have gone anywhere for my dress, but there's just something about your gowns and your sister's food. It's like I'm transported to another place. I don't know how to describe it."

  I had heard the same mantra over and over from clients. There's something about your clothes that I can't put my finger on. It's almost like they're magical.

  Yeah. Right. Not that I didn't appreciate the compliment. Believe me, I did. So did Sera. If it weren't for the folks in our lakeside community of Silver Springs, Alabama, we'd be beggars. Hoboes maybe. Vagabonds most likely. And not the good kind. Not the sexy kind you see on the covers of romance novels.

  Wait. There
weren't hoboes on those. Well, anyway, we'd be dirty, covered in rags that smelled of oil and sweat, with grit under our fingernails that not even the best manicure technician could lift.

  "Here's the dress," Carrie said.

  Reagan's smile vanished. "Oh."

  My dreams, my hopes, my wishes for a beautiful future crashed and exploded like a car careening off a cliff in a 1970s B movie. What could possibly be wrong this time—the hundredth time? I swear, every occasion this girl saw her dress, she found something to criticize. It was a wonder I hadn't strangled her before now.

  I smoothed the lines of frustration that were forming on my forehead. "What's the problem?"

  Reagan wrinkled her nose. "It's just…well…that's a lot of sequins."

  I took a deep, cleansing breath and thought happy thoughts. "Last week you wanted more sequins. You said it didn't have enough bling."

  Carrie bit back a giggle.

  I flashed her a seething look. I mean, seriously. I knew it was funny, but it was only good service not to laugh at the customer while she's standing right in front of you. At least wait until the door hits her backside as she's leaving.

  "Well," Reagan said, "last week there weren't any sequins. What were there? Like five on the whole thing?"

  I steepled my fingers beneath my chin. "There were two hundred."

  "Oh. How many are there now?"

  "Five hundred."

  "It's too many. Listen, Dylan, just because we were best friends in high school—"

  "Mortal enemies," I said.

  "—doesn't mean you can take advantage of me. If this dress isn't to perfection by Saturday, then I'm getting it for free. Right?"

  Whoa, Nelly. "I'm sorry?"

  Reagan batted her fake eyelashes. "That's just plain old good business. The customer is always right. I mean, we go way back. Too far back to let a little disagreement over some sequins ruin what we had."

  I poked the air with my index finger. "Once again, we were mortal enemies. Reagan, you have brain damage when it comes to what high school was like."

  A tittering laugh escaped her throat. It sounded like a thousand butterflies taking flight. That was right before I lifted my imaginary rocket launcher, aimed high and fired, sending the beauties crashing to the ground in a blazing explosion.

  "You're so melodramatic, Dylan. We had a little disagreement about prom; that was all."

  I crossed my arms. "Reagan, let me remind you of exactly what happened in high school."

  "Why don't you do that, since you're so convinced we had nothing to do with each other." Reagan pulled one of her eyelashes. Ouch. Didn't that hurt?

  I shook my head and said, "You had Colten Blacklock ask me to prom for the sole purpose of standing me up the night of." I pointed to her and then to me. "You and I—we were never friends, and I'm not giving you this dress for free. We've done a dozen fittings, and you've found something wrong with each and every one. You can either take it or leave it."

  Reagan's mouth fell. She swung to Harry. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that?"

  Harry squashed the grin on his face and cleared his throat. "Ahem. Well. You have tried the dress on a lot, and Miss Apel has been more than accommodating."

  Reagan stomped her foot. "You," she said, wagging a finger at him. "You wait until we get home."

  Oh no. I didn't want Harry to be in the dog house because of me. I reached out and rubbed Reagan's arm, trying to soothe the savage bridezilla. "Reagan, I'll lose some of the sequins. Stop by tomorrow and see what you think."

  She flashed a tight, bitter smile. "What you have better be good, or I'm taking my business elsewhere. And that means your sister won't be doing the catering, either." She squared her shoulders, swiveled on her heel and stormed out of the shop. Harry gave me an apologetic smile and followed. The little bell above the door tinkled as they left.

  "Do you think she'll back out?" Carrie asked.

  I shook my head. "Of course not. Not unless she wants a dress off the rack and a cake from Walmart."

  Carrie laughed. "She's something else, isn't she?"

  "She's certainly something.” I rubbed my neck. Tension latched to the cords of muscle. I'd have a headache pretty soon if I didn't take an ibuprofen. Extending my palm, I gestured for Carrie to hand me the wedding gown. "I guess I'll alter her dress."

  Carrie stuffed the layers of silk in my hands and nodded to the blue cross-necked dress. "But when are you going to finish that one?"

  I peeked out from behind the mass. "I don't know. We have, what? Two weeks until the summer solstice? I'll work on it soon."

  The bell above the door tinkled. Seraphina crashed in, a whirlwind of flour following her. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight. How I envied those eyes. Mine were poo brown. Some said chocolate, but I knew better. Those folks were just being Southern polite.

  "Oh my God! Did y'all see the article?" She waved the paper like a flag of surrender.

  "I did!"

  "It's incredible. The reporter went so far as to say our work is, and I quote…" She scanned the article. "Where is it? Where did that passage go? Oh, here it is." She jabbed it. "She said our work is 'inspired by the gods themselves.' Ha! You couldn't pay for better advertising."

  "You probably could," I said.

  Carrie flipped the ends of her chestnut hair. "Listen, y'all, I just got this new gel manicure machine in the mail. Do you mind if I go freshen up these bad boys?" She wiggled her perfect coral nails. To my eyes, they needed no refreshing. But hey, every girl has some sort of vice. Carrie's happened to be that she was ADD about her nails. In the three years she'd worked for me, I'd never seen one chip. Ever. Mine, on the other hand, looked like Godzilla had tried to paint them—there were broken wedges of color that Carrie would have deemed unforgivable.

  "Go ahead. We'll be here," I said. She picked up a shipping box and exited to the back.

  I hung Reagan's wedding dress on a rack and brushed my hands of any rogue sequins that hadn't been sewn on properly, which was actually impossible since I'd done the work myself. But my grandmother had always taught me to be humble, so that was my attempt.

  Sera chewed her bottom lip. "The reporter says, 'Dylan Apel's dresses will transport you to another time and place. A claim I can attest to personally, for I experienced this peculiar phenomenon first-hand when I tried on one of her gowns. When I saw my reflection in the mirror, for a split second I was taken back to the cotillion ball where I met my husband thirty years ago. If that wasn’t enough to put a spring in my step, one bite of Seraphina's baked treats and I was back in my grandmother’s kitchen as she created confections on the stove. Truly a magical experience.'" Sera paused, looked up at me. "Seriously. That's some good stuff."

  "Yeah, it’s good,” I said. But the reporter’s description about trying on my clothes bothered me. I shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling and smiled. "Though I have been accused on occasion of drugging my clothes."