Never Date A Warlock (Sister Witchcraft Book 4)

  Never Date a Warlock

  SIster Witchcraft book 4

  J.D. Winters

  Dakota Kahn

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Mailing List

  Also by J.D. Winters and Dakota Kahn

  About the Authors

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2017 J.D. Winters and Dakota Kahn

  Cover images from Shutterstock.com

  First Edition April, 2017

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  Magic isn’t magic.

  When people say something works “like magic” they mean without effort. As if some hidden hand guided it seamlessly, without problems and without having to think about it. That’s how magic is on TV shows, too - some skinny blonde wiggles her nose, or salaams, and poof: whatever she’s thinking about just happens.

  But magic isn’t like that at all. It’s a lot of hard work, and trial and error, and sometimes when you feel like you need it the most there’s nothing it can do. At least nothing that you’d want.

  Because at one precise moment in time, while I was at a table in my tea shop, staring intently as a (coincidentally enough) skinny blonde was wiggling her nose across from me, I wished magic could just make things happen. I would whip my hands around, and Trish Tarkington would quit making those patronizing faces that said, “Oh, nice try dear, but not good enough for my wedding.”

  There were four cups of tea laid out in front of her. They had all been expertly brewed by yours truly to exacting specifications. Each was a custom blend of leaves that had been perfected years ago by my grandmother as being such a delicate balance of flavors and spices that, yes, it was almost like magic how they could lift your spirits, calm your mind.

  Dang it, my tea kicked butt, and skinny Trish was wrinkling her nose at it. I wanted to magic her right out of my store. Out of my town.

  Her and the burly, wanly smiling guy who sat next to her. He was well over six feet tall, and looked huge in the cute wooden chair. He wore a bespoke suit, perfectly tailored to contain his college football player bulk with a dandy veneer, right down to a flower in a buttonhole. He still towered over his fiancee while just sitting next to her, but somehow the force of personality contained in that one wrinkled nose made him seem meek and humble next to little Trish, with her exacting demands.

  “Well,” she said, and gave me another patronizing look. “It might do. That one, and that one, but not these two. Nothing green. It’s a wedding, I need something blue, not green.”

  She giggled at what she’d said, and her soon-to-be-husband laughed along, like a political prisoner at his show trial making his confession. This was the fourth time I had met with Trish to “go over” the menu for her marital High Tea, and with the event just a week away I was in no mood to giggle about anything, especially not her lame jokes.

  “So, just the two teas. And the scones, you still like the scones?” I said, keeping an edge out of my voice with great, Herculean effort.

  “Hmm,” she said, as if she was considering throwing over that part of the menu, too. While she put a knife to one of my absolutely to die for orange marmalade and raspberry cream scones, I imagined her nose wrinkling, and again tried to magic her into the cornfields.

  I knew that this was not only counter-productive and childish, but churlish and ill-tempered. Doing a wedding was not a common thing for a tea shop, but it wasn’t unheard of. Catering a High Tea at the Tarkington - Grainer union, that was a big freaking deal.

  Randy Grainer was one of those rarities in modern California - he came from old money, and money that wasn’t attached in any way, shape, or form to Silicon Valley or Hollywood. His family owned something or other (I don’t read society pages - I don’t even know if they have society pages anymore) and there was a Grainer hotel a few miles out of town, and a Grainer street somewhere in the middle of our lovely little Lafay.

  Trish Tarkington was a few years ahead of me in HS, and looked like she could fit into all her old gym clothes without even sucking in her gut. She was prim, pretty, poised, and as far as I was concerned absolute poison.

  But these rich people wanted to use my tea shop services for their insanely large wedding, so who was I to complain?

  “I think the creme fraiche needs some essence of something,” she said. “We’re not plain people, I don’t want anything plain at our wedding.”

  “Well, the creme friache is one of the few things that we don’t make here at the shop,” I said, keeping my voice level and friendly, like I agreed with everything she said and just died to hear her say more.

  “Hmm…” she said, again.

  A hand descended on my shoulder, tapping me lightly. I turned to see Kari Groves standing over me, with her normal wide smile and friendly expression. She and her sisters were the only regular customers I have, and the other three were sitting at their usual table, a pile of cookies rapidly diminishing in the center. All around them were voluminous rolls of yarn, and the click-clack of needles going had been a constant in the background for the last two weeks.

  “We’re going to need some more tea, dear,” Kari said, her voice as warm as her expression.

  My tea shop had been turned into a workshop for the sisters. They were knitting little friendly-looking yarn animals for the county Children’s Hospital. There was no special occasion, but the Groves, under their cover name of “Secret Angels” would periodically deliver surprises to whomever the current crop of unlucky kids were. And, as always, they were in a friendly competition with each other to make the cuddliest, or most elaborate, or goofiest animals

  I watched Lana, the oldest of the Groves, working furiously on creating a blue and purple octopus that, for some reason, had a yellow crown knitted to the top of it. Next to her was Tina, who had such control over her needles that, when need be, she continued to work one-handed as she reached out to drink her tea. She was making not one, not two, but three monkeys all connected by the tails. So, who would win in the kids hearts, King Octopus or The Monkey Brothers?

  I was certain to hear all about it when the animals were delivered. They were called Secret Angels, but it was very much an open secret. The Groves took pride in all they did to help make their world a little brighter, and I contributed by keeping the tea hot and coming, and the cookies fresh-baked and delicious.

  “Excuse me, dear, we’re having a meeting,” Trish said, plying Kari Groves with a sweet as sugar smile and eyes that said… something much less nice. “I’m sure her assistants wil
l be able to take care of you.”

  “Well,” I said, standing up and giving Trish an apologetic smile though I did not feel like apologizing for an instant… “I need to freshen up everyone’s tea, and there’s the finger sandwich samples right there. You two can try them and discuss while I’m up.”

  Trish turned her smile on me, and said, “All right, then. Take your time.”

  I turned to give Kari Groves a secret “thank you” look for rescuing me from the Trish-chill, but I got caught up in something I hadn’t noticed before. The shop didn’t consist just of the patience-trying couple and the generous Grove quartet. I had also somehow acquired a pair of the oddest looking customers I had ever seen come into my shop.

  Both were men alone (which at my tea shop was odd enough) and though they were seated at tables next to each other I don’t think they had anything to do with each other, other than not looking like any human being I had ever encountered in my life.

  The weirdest was the young man, sitting ram-rod straight in a chair that faced the back of my shop toward the kitchen. He was dressed in all black, which wasn’t that unusual, but he also had black-dyed hair and black glasses that covered much of his face. His lips were pursed, and… I supposed if he’d been 10 years younger, and 20 pounds fitter, the look might have been impressive. A bit showy for an afternoon tea, but reasonably hip in an 80s goth way. This man looked like a dad who only got to see his kids on weekends and wanted to impress them by dressing up like a rock star the kids didn’t even like.

  And he never moved a muscle, said a word, or looked anywhere but at the kitchen door. Weird.

  Closer to me was an older man, with a sparse comb-over and hair that was mostly gray, but still clung to what must have once been a brilliant ginger color in spots here and there. He was small and thin, but with a full face that seemed to indicate he’d lost a lot of weight, and recently. His clothes, too, looked like they belonged to a man maybe a hundred pounds larger than him, and bagged around his body so shabbily he looked like he’d been tossed into a pile onto his chair.

  He would look odd enough, even if he didn’t have a leather eyepatch attached to his left eye, kept in place by no visible band. He also had somewhere acquired a cup of tea and a little plate of sandwiches even though I certainly hadn’t served him. He had his tea cup in one shaking, nervous hand, while his other arm was occupied pinning a brown-paper wrapped parcel to his chest.

  When he caught my eye, his nervous tremors got worse, and when he put the cup back down on the table, the rattling almost out-competed the knitting needles click-clack for noisiness. He stood up as I approached him and stammered out, “You are an Auclair?”

  “Uh, one of them, yes. How long have you been sitting there?” I said. Which was not, I know, the best and most hospitable question for a hostess to ask a guest in her shop, but I was too genuinely curious not to start out right nosy.

  “For ten minutes I have sat and watched and waited,” he said, with the hint of some European accent coming through. “And still she does not arrive.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said, totally not following.

  Just then, the door to the kitchen opened, and Lucy bounced out, with a smile on her face and newly brewed tea on her tray. Which was surprising not just because she was working, but because I had no earthly idea what she was doing here.

  “Hey, kid,” I said, looking confused. “When did you get here?”

  “I’ve been here for an hour. How do you think things have been getting done?”

  “I didn’t see you,” I said, and she answered with just a smile.

  How could she have gotten in without me noticing? And why bother? It was as if this entire afternoon were a conspiracy just to make me go a little bit out of my head. I was a witch and a witch shouldn’t go out of her head. There are consequences for such things.

  “The sister,” the odd, deflated man said again, reaching a hand out toward me, but not quite touching me. “I need to know if she is coming, or if she will not see me.”

  I looked at Lucy, who smiled and just shook her head.

  “I texted Sibyl and told her some guy was looking for her. She hasn’t responded,” Lucy said to me, by way of explanation. “Do you like your tea, sir?” she said over to the man, while pouring fresh tea for the deeply focused Groves, who clicked-clacked away at their animals.

  “This is not the way it should be,” the man said, his accent coming in thicker and weirder by the second. “No, no, this is not auspicious. I must…” Then he stopped, pointed at the counter, and gasped.

  I looked where he pointed and gasped, myself. Not from shock at what I saw, but outrage.

  Kashmir, the black cat who occupied the kitchen for most of his day, had apparently gotten out when Lucy opened the door and had sat on the counter. A cat. In my restaurant where I serve food that I guarantee is clean, with his big hairy shedding body right up there.

  “Kashy!” I said, in a half-shriek, using a nickname I knew the dignified cat (and witch’s familiar, with magic powers and everything) hated. His eyes whipped toward me for an annoyed instant, then his focus went back to his target.

  It was the man and his package, which he clung to himself like it were a lifeline. With his own shrieking sound, he cried out. “Unclean! Witchcraft!”

  Then he fled, racing toward the door, banging right into a man who was coming in, and falling forward, collapsing onto the sidewalk. With agility that seemed beyond a man of his years, he sprung to his feet and fled, racing down the sidewalk. One hand flapped out like he was warding off invisible birds pecking at him from the air. The other arm kept his parcel tight against him.

  The man who this weirdo had bumped into stood in the doorway looking nonplussed and wary. Unfortunately, he also held the door open, allowing Kashmir to whip off the counter, jump halfway across the room in a single leap, make it out the door in less than a flash, and take off in the direction the strange man had gone.

  “Huh, is that normal here?” the man in the doorway asked.

  I was about to tell him what I thought about snotty questions from strangers, but I got a look at his eyes and my knees decided, for an instant at least, not to be knees anymore. They became well-cooked spaghetti and I nearly fell right into his big, strong arms.

  He was the third male stranger I’d seen today but there was nothing strange about this hunk of humanity. Indeed, he looked like he had been ordered from a catalog to be just like he was - strong jaw, hair so black it was almost blue like a comic book hero, and eyes like floating azure, the exact color of a mid-day sky without a cloud.

  “Holy cats,” I said, and I had only enough personal fortitude not to drool on the spot. “Welcome to Auclair Tea. Take a seat, and I’ll be right with you.”

  I turned around and saw Lucy edge herself around me and step in front of the other weird guest - the gothy black-haired fella. My consciousness suddenly came back into focus, and I was ready to get between this obvious deviant and my little baby sister when she leaned down and spoke closely to him with a smile on her face. Then she patted the man on the shoulder… and there was a white bag in her hands. Where had that come from? What was in it? I couldn’t tell as she gave it to the strange man. He took it, and stood up immediately.

  Then he said, from out of nowhere, “The nights keep getting longer… but I ain’t sleeping. Not yet.”

  And with a flurry of black cloth and weird attitude he was gone.

  I just… stared. Blinked my eyes, and wished I could magic this day to start over.

  “Hey, that weird guy left without paying,” Lucy said, dispelling any hopes I had that I was just imagining things. No, this was my life, and nothing could just magic that away.

  Chapter 2

  Before I could thoroughly interrogate Lucy on just what in the world had happened I saw Trish and Randy get to their feet. Randy had a bit of a moo-cow like expression, the kind he always seemed to wear, while Trish had that pinched smile that wasn’t a smile and looked at
me with eyes that… could have been warmer.

  “We have a dinner engagement we need to prepare for, so we’re going. But I have something to impress upon you, Miss Auclair. In one week from Saturday, I will be joining this lovely man in the holy union of marriage,” she said, with a clipped way of speaking that seemed to hint of boarding schools. She went to my high school, so I know she didn’t pick it up there.

  “I know, and it’s going to be lovely,” I said, with a look of as sincere excitement as I could give.

  Trish paused, to let me know it was not excitement she was looking for. I was not sharing in that joy with her, not for an instant: I was staff.

  “Right, because it will be one large, complicated and thrilling affair. The high tea will be a part of it.”

  “The best part,” I said, my spine suddenly stiffening, my look growing a little challenging.

  To my surprise, Trish’s iciness dialed down about half a degree, and her smile ticked a little, as if some involuntary friendliness just spasmed through her. “Exactly, that’s the attitude I need. The teas are good, the sandwiches… we left you a note. I will be in contact if I have further changes. We’ll still have to talk about the flowers. Come along, Randy.”

  “The flowers are done, I thought…”

  But she was already on to the next thing and wanted out of here. She stepped past me toward the door and glared at the handsome stranger who was still there, standing in front of it. He just looked back at her with benign amusement on his face, and Randy had to bowl past both of them to open the door for his lady.

  When they left, I involuntarily let out a deep breath and collapsed into the nearest chair. I could just stare at the two of them, walking away down the street, repeating a mantra in my mind, “I will do a good job. They will like me. This is not too much work for one woman. I will do a good job. They will like me…”

  “Welcome to Auclair Tea, you can sit anywhere you like,” a voice came out from someone, but not me. It took another second to realize that Lucy had stepped up to do her job and was escorting the handsome man to a table very close to where I was collapsing into a little puddle.