Fangs and Frenemies Read online

  Fangs and Frenemies

  A Blue Moon Bay Cozy Mystery: Witches with Anxiety Book 1

  Cherry Andrews

  Enigmatic / Elixir

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  Copyright © 2019 by Cherry Andrews

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events, and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  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

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Blue Moon Bay’s “antique” cast-iron street lamps were brand spanking new, but you’d never know it to look at the hideous things.

  The town’s latest bid to charm tourists, the lamps blazed with an eerie orange glow that only stoked my anxiety as I sped past Ocean Street’s deserted bistros, yarn shops, and taffy stands at dawn.

  Come hex or high water, I could not be late for work again.

  Not today, when Grandma Sage was counting on me to bake a very special wedding cake. Raspberry crémeux, three tiers of it, draped with glossy fondant. A cake that had to taste like heaven and look pretty enough to grace a magazine cover. Literally, since our bride’s swanky reception would be featured in Oregon Coast Bride.

  But the baking was . . . well, cake, compared with the other task Gran expected of me. Like her own grandmother before her, she imbued each wedding cake with a signature magical marriage blessing. As her apprentice witch, it was my job to assist with the spell.

  A tough spell that called for deepest focus.

  Bleary-eyed, I guzzled milky coffee from the to-go cup balanced between my knees. No doubt binging Netflix last night, cuddled up with my new boyfriend, was a bad life choice. But Bryson and I had only been dating since summer, and the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me melted my brain every time.

  I was still daydreaming about Bryson’s soft, full lips when Trixie, my ancient VW Rabbit, hit a red light at the corner outside Java Kitty Café.

  “Check them out, doll,” she exclaimed, speaking telepathically straight to me. “How come their parking lot’s full at 6 AM while I’m sittin’ alone in our dinky lot? What are they putting in that coffee, cocaine?”

  “I don’t know, Trix.” Just the sight of Java Kitty’s pink neon sign—a smug cat outline with winking eyes—sizzled my blood. Ever since their grand opening a month ago, the trendy new café had been a real burr in my boot.

  I’d made a point of avoiding the place, of course. Wouldn’t want to look like I was spying on the competition. But here we were, stuck at the light, and it was hard not to peek through the window . . . seeing as how the entire wall was window.

  Sleek design, I must admit.

  Inside, Java Kitty’s modern-looking dining room bustled with Type A early birds. I was stung by the sight of familiar faces—former regulars at Sage’s—leaning across the modern white counters. Happily typing and texting. Morning shows lit up jumbo flat-screens on the wall behind them. A smiling barista, gliding by on a Hoverboard, offered nibbles from a pastry tray.

  My stomach sank. No wonder they were picking off our customers. What chance did we have against a Hoverboard?

  “Now that is how it’s done, doll-face.” Trixie sounded way too impressed. “You might want to take a few notes.”

  I gritted my teeth. “More driving, less chatting, please.”

  Trixie went silent, so silent I could suddenly hear the engine. Her primitive spirit was hardwired into the car, though, so I could still sense her sulking. If experience held, she’d drive passive-aggressively for the next mile and then go right back to yakking.

  It was times like this I bemoaned not having a cat for a familiar, or one of those cute owls. But you don’t get to choose your familiars, like you don’t choose your family. In Trixie’s case, when I won a used car in a business card drawing at the Blue Moon Bay Area Green Witch pancake breakfast, I won her into the bargain. A year later we were still struggling to find our groove together.

  Trying to calm my nerves, I averted my eyes from the turncoats—er, customers—back to the street. The blasted light was yellow again.

  “I’m late,” I begged the car. “I can’t play games with you this morning.”

  Trixie hesitated, then floored it.

  As her front wheels entered the intersection, a flash of khaki uniform appeared on Java Kitty’s patio. Sheriff Gantry’s hawk eyes clocked me from behind his to-go latté cup. Et tu, sheriff?

  Trixie slammed on the brakes. They screeched. I yelped as hot coffee lurched into my lap, scalding my stomach through my knit top. It rivered down my jean skirt and onto the floor mat.

  As I drove the rest of the way to work drenched and coffee stained, I silently cursed the Third Vow of a Green Witch, “Thou Shalt Not Use Magicks to Augment Thine Appearance.”

  The first two were way more reasonable.

  “Thou Shalt Not Use Magicks To Commit Murder.” Well, duh.

  And “Thou Shalt Use Magicks to Cause A Person to Fall in Love.”

  I wasn’t a monster.

  I just didn’t see why conjuring a clean, dry outfit should get me bounced from the sisterhood.

  But whatever, rules were rules.

  I was bending over the utility sink in the bakery’s back room, wringing out my sopping skirt, when the savory scent of Granny Sage’s rosemary-cheddar-scallion scones baking in the oven wafted in.

  “Hazel dear, you’re late again.”

  I looked up to see Gran gazing with apparent concern from the kitchen doorway. Her white hair—silvered on the ends like a raincloud—hung over one shoulder, twisted into its usual side braid. She frowned at the wet spot on my skirt.

  “No, I didn’t pee my pants, before you ask.” I squeezed the bottom of my sweater like a sponge. “My coffee spilled in the car, because of . . . um . . . a bad driver,” I muttered.

  “Dang tourists.” Gran tsked, hands on her generous hips. “Ruining the town is what they’re doing. Probably demon spawn, half of them.”

  Of course she’d blame the tourists. That was, by the way, her catch-all insult for newcomers to Blue Moon Bay. Or, those whose parents had been new. Yep, Gran could be a touch small-minded when it came to her beloved hometown.

  I bit my lip and tried not to think about the fact that Bryson was a newcomer to the Bay himself. I hadn’t introduced him to Gran yet, out of an irrational fear that she wouldn’t like him. Or was it a rational fear? She’d never approved of any of my boyfriends. And, one by one, I couldn’t help but notice, they’d all turned out to be prize jackwagons. Jackwagons who dumped me and broke my heart. Her judgment was like a cosmic pronouncement.

  Please, oh please, let Bryson break the loser chain.

  “Sorry I’m late, I’ll start mixing up the cake batter right away.” I hung my purse on its wooden peg between two old broomsticks (ceremonial, not for transport) and offered a placating smile. “We should be ready to start the blessing spell by 10 AM.”

  “About that, Hazel dear . . . you can take it off your to-do list.” Grandma Sage blew out a sigh, and guilt slithered through my guts.

  “You don’t think I’
m up to helping you today?” If so, I couldn’t blame her. Lately I’d been letting work take second place to Bryson. “Is it because I was late again?” Or because I was erratic. Unreliable. Walking around dreamy and absent-minded.

  Gran cleared her throat and looked away, like what she was about to say was almost too painful. Frankly, if I weren’t her granddaughter, apprentice, and sole magical heir I’d be worried about getting fired.

  Should I be worried anyway?

  “It’s not that.” She sighed again, softly, and I could hear the sadness in her voice. “We’ll be skipping the spell today.”

  My head snapped back in surprise. “Skipping? You mean, no one’s going to bless this marriage? We’re leaving things up to chance?” My voice had pitched up. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  Gran shrugged vaguely. “It’s not like the bride and groom will ever know anything’s missing.”

  “Not the point.” Ordinals, nonmagical people, never knew about our spells but they still benefited from them. The whole community did. “A happy marriage lifts up the whole community,” I began. “You’re the one who taught me—”

  “Yes, well, not every marriage can be harmonious.” Gran’s voice turned sharp. “Some must be below average, by definition.”

  I frowned. What had gotten into her? “But if we have the power to make things better, then we owe it to the people of Blue Moon Bay—”

  “That’s what I’m working up the nerve to tell you, Hazel dear.” Gran exhaled. “I don’t have the power. Not anymore.”

  I stared at her. “What are you talking about? You’re the most powerful witch I know. You poof into work every day while I still drive a car.” If anything, she was a bit of a show-off.

  “Oh, the magic itself is still in me . . . ” She waved her hand at me like I wasn’t getting the point. “But spells take ten times the effort than they used to, and it’s getting worse every day. This past week even minor spellwork leaves me stiff and aching.”

  A chill ran down my back. Gran was in her eighties, but she didn’t look it. Didn’t act it either, most of the time. Her magic couldn't be fading. I was nowhere near ready for her to retire. For me to take over.

  For the sign outside to read “Hazel’s Bakery.”

  “I tried a redecorating spell last night, and broke into hives,” Gran admitted. “Worse, when the furniture rearranged itself it looked dull and sterile, like a dentist’s waiting room. I half-expected to see a tropical fish tank and stacks of Us magazine.”

  “You’re scaring me, Gran.” I shivered. “I thought we’d have more time.”

  I’d meant time with me as her apprentice, not, you know . . . time. But with sudden horror, I remembered that Gran’s own mentor, Granny Marge, had passed away soon after bequeathing her the business.

  “We’ll get through this, Gran.” I squeezed her hand. She squeezed mine back, weakly. How could I not have seen what was happening to her? Answer: I’d been too busy making out with Bryson.

  I vowed to take my calling as a witch more seriously, from now on. I’d have to. There’d be no one to pick up my slack.

  “Or, really, I’ll get through it,” I corrected myself. “While you drink tea and catch up on your TV shows. You’ve been running this store for sixty years. You deserve to relax and enjoy yourself for at least thirty more, don’t you think?”

  “You know us Green Witches aren’t good with retirement.” She smiled ruefully. “When the work is done . . . we go.”

  I wanted to argue, but I kinda knew what she meant. It was hard to picture busy, practical Gran lounging around playing shuffleboard.

  That was when inspiration struck.

  “What if your work isn’t over?” I said. “You’re a community leader and you’re my mentor in the craft. Forget retiring. Why not transfer the bakery to me and stay on as an advisor, part-time? You’ll always be needed here.”

  “I suppose that’s . . . not a terrible idea.” She gave me a shrewd look. “But are you ready to take over and be in charge, Hazel dear?”

  The question caught me so off guard that I hesitated. The truth was, I didn’t know if I was ready. But what choice did I have in the matter? I answered as honestly as I could. “I love this bakery with all my heart. I’ve memorized all of your spells. I’ll add my own into the family recipe book. And one day I’ll pass it on, to my own granddaughter.”

  Assuming I haven’t driven the store into bankruptcy, of course.

  “I have great faith in you, Hazel dear,” Grandma Sage said as if reading my mind, which she swears is not something our line of witches can do. She patted my hand, but her gaze still looked troubled. “I only wish I weren’t bequeathing it to you at such an awkward time. Java Kitty Café is, well . . . ”

  “Gonna get hairballs from eating our dust.” It was only tough talk, but it made Grandma Sage smile. That’s all I cared about at this moment. She deserved some peace of mind, after pouring her magical energies into this job for sixty years. “Gran, why don’t you work the register while I tackle this wedding cake—including the proper blessing.”

  Humming to myself, I tied on my favorite apron, the one with silhouetted witches on broomsticks flying through a navy sky.

  Doing the spell by myself would zonk me for the day, but I knew I had the chops.

  I was a mere ninth grader when Gran first recruited me to help her bake a mess of Thanksgiving pies for charity. She could have picked my big sister, Beatrix, who was known to be unflappable and a “people person.” Or my little sister, Cindra, who was creative and original and (can I say this?) disgustingly pretty. But she picked me, the quiet bookworm of a middle sister.

  My life’s never been the same.

  On that fateful day, Gran outfitted us both in festive three-cornered hats. She taught me how to make a to die for chocolate pecan cream pie from scratch. I even got to pose for a Blue Moon Gazette reporter writing a feel-good story, holding up the first pie I’d ever baked. That photo, which captured my shy smile and Puritan look, was apparently a real inspiration to my classmates.

  Mainly, it inspired the mean girl trio—Ashlee Stone, Jenna Jeffries, and Britt Hansen—to start calling me “Goody Two-shoes.” It wasn’t like a mortal insult. Just a dumb little nickname that shouldn’t have bothered me, and certainly shouldn’t have stuck to me all through high school. But it did both. Partly thanks to their immense popularity. (Why are mean girls always so popular . . . why?) And partly because the only thing I was ever known for at school was winning a Citizenship Award all four years—still have the trophies.

  What can I say? I find following rules comforting. Like following recipes.

  Whatever—none of that mattered now. The important thing was that Gran had seen the spark of magical talent in me when no one else could. With each passing year under her tutelage, the flame of my Green magic grew brighter. I may not have been eager to take over for my beloved mentor, but I was ready.

  Or I was at least close.

  The next four hours zipped by. While Gran served coffee and pushed fresh rosemary scones on our (sadly few) customers, I got to work whisking eggs, creaming fresh butter and sugar in our industrial stand mixer, and pouring batter into molds. Painstakingly I unrolled thick, satiny fondant. As I stood at the counter chopping up magical herbs for the spell, Grandma Sage watched me from behind the pastry case, a mix of relief and wistfulness in her eyes. And something else, too. Pride.

  Her pride in me made me feel warm inside despite my now chilly wet clothing. As soon as this spell was in the bag, I vowed, I’d finally bite the bullet and tell her about me and Bryson.

  At 11:03 AM, I inspected the final product. Wedding cakes always brought out my inner perfectionist. I tended to work extra slow, meticulous, obsessing on tiny flaws no guest would notice. But today’s cake was by necessity a rush job, and, to my surprise, I was pleased with my work. Fresh cream-colored roses and strung silver beads made of sugar trimmed the smooth expanses of each tier. Raspberry and vanilla fla
vor would explode from every bite.

  Now for the final ingredient . . .

  “I, Hazel Greenwood, humble Green Witch, reach out to the universe with both hands open.” Spreading my fingers wide, I rested my right hand over my heart. Then I plunged my left hand in the small bowl of herbs and charged water that I’d prepped while the cake was baking. Instantly my vision blurred. A familiar low rumbling vibrated in my ears, as if an earthquake was in progress. Then the bakery kitchen’s colors grew bold. Vibrant. Boundaries and edges ran like paint, as if real life had slipped on a Van Gogh photo filter. Suspended in midair, bright green astral trees and plants bloomed between the physical objects in my line of sight. One hand in each realm. Me the living bridge between them.

  Softly, I began to recite the incantation:

  Together shall your hearts endure,

  Through all of life’s trials unsure,

  In times of laughter, times of tears,

  When hair grows from his nose and ears.

  Or when vacations feel like work,

  because your toddler’s gone berserk.

  Like an acorn planted deep,

  With roots of patience love will keep.

  Growing stronger by and by—

  “Drat!” Grandma Sage cried out, rousing me from my magical trance. “Hazel dear, I see the bride, she’s walking up now,” she said in disbelief. “She’s half an hour early.”

  Horrified, I glanced outside to see a tall, elegant brunette reach for the door handle. High heels tapped a staccato beat outside, growing louder as they approached.

  “This can’t be happening. I’m not done yet!”

  “Welp.” Grandma Sage sounded as crushed as I felt. “It’s not all bad. A dud of a marriage could build character, I s’pose.”