Demons Don't Play Fair: Suburban Witch Mysteries

By Ruby Blaylock

There's something rotten happening in the suburbs...

There's something stinky happening in Kensleigh Landing East. First, the PTA president makes eyes at Mischa's man. Then, she winds up dead, leaving Mischa looking as guilty as sin. To make matters worse, there's a demon on the loose, one of the witches gets a nasty case of the witch flu, and the Council of Magical Creatures threatens to disband the coven and take away all witches' magical abilities.

Can the witchy ladies of Country Acres Coven solve the murder, catch the demon, and keep the Council off their backs?

Join Mischa, Ellie, Seneca, and Poe—and two talking cats—as they keep magic on the down low while living the high life in suburban North Carolina in this fun, cozy paranormal mystery.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Woods
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386534464

Ruby Blaylock

Ruby Blaylock grew up in a small, southern town surrounded by colorful characters and lots of food. She loves a good helping of gossip and great food, not necessarily in that order. She is a country girl at heart and can often be found sitting on the back porch, sipping sweet tea and watching her fat hound dogs chase bugs. If she's not reading a book, she's writing one, or reading one to her kids, who can always help her think up new ways to kill off annoying characters.

Book preview

1

Chapter 1

Mischa Henley glanced at the clock in her minivan for the millionth time and swore under her breath. She was running late. She was never late. Punctuality was her thing, despite juggling motherhood, magic, and making cookies.

She scowled at herself in the rearview mirror. The niggling thought that maybe she’d spent longer than she should have perusing the linens at her favorite store tried to rear its ugly head, but Mischa pushed that thought back down like a naughty puppy. If there was a problem, Target was never to be blamed.

Daisy and Simon always made it to school on time. Joe’s lunch was packed and waiting for him every morning well before he left the house. But, the biggest PTA meeting of the school year, when all eyes would be on Mischa and her impeccable, delicious suggestions for the Spring Fling at the elementary school? Nope. Mischa was running hopelessly late and could only imagine what Charity Hooper was going to say to her once she finally arrived.

Charity Hooper was the meanest Mean Mom in Kensleigh Landing East. Mischa imagined that Charity had been the inspiration for Mean Girls. She couldn’t have given off a worse ‘queen bee’ vibe if she tried and Mischa had no idea why all the other moms at the school just bowed down and accepted Charity’s self-assigned role as top dog.

Maybe it was Charity’s assertiveness. She never had a problem with asking for exactly what she wanted, unlike Mischa, who preferred to float around the perimeter of the various mom cliques that formed in the schoolyard. Like their kids, the mothers of Kensleigh Landing East grouped themselves off, herded by Alpha types such as Charity and her friends. Mischa didn’t belong to any specific mom group, but she didn’t feel the need to, either. She had her own group, not all of whom were parents, but who had more in common with her than any of the other moms could possibly ever imagine.

Charity’s face filled Mischa’s head. She could imagine the peroxide blonde’s aquiline nose and beady blue eyes boring into her, demanding to know why Mischa had dared to miss the first ten minutes of the single most important PTA meeting of the entire school year.

As Mischa’s van rolled into the elementary school parking lot, her eyes rolled up towards the roof of the car. Some days, she wasn’t sure why she still volunteered for the PTA. She knew the real reason why she didn’t quit—her children were her biggest pride and joy and she wanted to be completely involved in their lives as much as humanly possible—but the whole socializing with other parents thing was getting old. And so was Charity’s tyranny.

It wasn’t like they didn’t have options. The PTA members were voted in every year, but despite the whining and complaints made behind Charity’s back, all the parents seemed to forget how awful she was come election time. Charity had been the head of the PTA for four years straight, ever since her one and only child, Charmaine, had started pre-K at Kensleigh Landing East Elementary.

Mischa pulled into the first parking spot she could find at the tiny elementary school. Her car’s clock told her that she was fifteen minutes late. She wished, at times like this, that she was a witch with some sort of time travel skills instead of one who baked amazing cupcakes and who could heal scraped knees with kisses and a few choice spells.

Reaching for the door handle, she paused long enough to chug the last of her Starbucks latte. With a gasp, she realized two seconds too late that the lid was loose. Crap. A gush of cold coffee covered her chest, leaving her shirt looking like something a kindergartner painted in art class. Glancing around to make sure the parking lot was empty, she murmured an all-too familiar spell under her breath. Evanescet marcam portubio. She wasn’t sure why the latin-sounding spells worked the best, but they did, and she was able to leave the car without so much as a drop of coffee on her clothing.

Hoping to sneak into the back of the cafeteria, where the PTA planning meeting was now likely getting into full swing, Mischa pulled the heavy, creaky cafeteria door towards her with a silent prayer. Miraculously, the door held its breath, making not a peep as it glided open a little too quickly. Unfortunately, Charity Hooper stood on the other side.

Mischa Henley, how nice of you to finally join us. If you wouldn’t mind getting in here and passing out these itineraries, one of the other moms can fill you in on all the important stuff you missed. You really do need to learn how to be punctual. It reflects badly on your kids when you can’t even make it to a PTA meeting on time.

Mischa’s face, which normally had a lovely olive tone, turned fifty shades of red. She opened her mouth to reply, but Charity had already breezed past her, out into the hallway of the school with her phone in her hand. Mischa watched Charity as the door swung shut behind her. Whoever she was talking to on the phone seemed to be getting an even worse lecture than Mischa had just received. Mischa wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or worried. She decided that she felt a little of both as she slid into an empty seat near the back of the room.

Five minutes later, the tornado that was Charity Hooper blasted back into the cafeteria. Her mouth set in a tight line, she glared at the parents brave or foolish enough to make eye contact with her, then she climbed onto the little stage used for assemblies in the cafeteria and picked up her own copy of the itinerary. For the next forty-five minutes, few people spoke as she laid out the plans for the Spring Fling.

I have the sign-up sheet for volunteers, she said in closing. I expect everyone to do their part and remember, no food products or prizes are to be distributed without my approval first. That includes donated prizes from local businesses, she warned. I will be checking everything personally. This year’s Spring Fling is going to be the biggest and the best, people. It’s our biggest fundraising event and I don’t want to see any crappy, half-hearted attempts at school pride.

Mischa made her way to the signup sheet, hoping to grab a slot under the baked goods donation category. She’d make a few dozen cupcakes for the Spring Fling and drop them off on the day. It was easy, quick, and kept Mischa out of Charity’s crosshairs on the actual day of the event. She never signed up to run a booth or manage one of the bouncy rides that the school hired, she paid her parenting dues in baked goods rather than in blood and sweat, thank-you-very-much.

Mischa found the baked goods section on the signup sheet and placed her name in the slot. The tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in her chest eased up as she dropped the pen onto the signup table and she made a beeline for the cafeteria exit. She didn’t quite make it.

Mischa Henley—your husband is a carpenter, is he not? Charity’s question sounded more like an accusation. I am thinking of the right guy—he’s white, isn’t he?

Mischa’s face felt hot again, but she forced a smile. Most people in town had no clue that she was a real, honest-to-goodness, magic spewing witch, but everyone seemed to know who her husband was. It may have been the twenty-first century, but mixed race marriages in North Carolina were still somehow mildly taboo.

Yes, Joe is a carpenter. He’s more of a wood artist, really. Mischa’s husband could work magic with wood despite not having an ounce of actual magic in him. It was an endearing trait, and he was awfully good with his hands in other ways, too.

I want him, Charity sniffed. She smiled lasciviously, then added, to do some work for me. I need some storage built into my closet and I want it to be custom-made, none of this prefab crap.

I’m not sure what his schedule is, Mischa began, but I can ask him for you.

I’ll pay double whatever he asks for, Charity exclaimed. Actually, my ex will. He thought he’d cheat on me and get out of paying alimony, she scoffed. I’m trying to burn through as much of his money as I can and home repairs is one of the things he’s agreed to pay for so I will have my new closets. She leaned closer to Mischa and handed her a slip of paper. Here’s my cell phone number. Have your husband call me. I want him to get started right away so he can do a thorough job.

Mischa crumpled the paper in her hand. I’ll see what his schedule is like, she uttered again.

Please do. I have big plans for him in my closet, Charity teased before turning and disappearing into a sea of moms.

Mischa’s tension returned. She clenched her jaw along with her fists and hurried back to her minivan, pausing only long enough to toss Charity’s phone number in a nearby trash can.

2

Chapter 2

That trashy bimbo is after your man, Mischa. Ellinor ‘Ellie’ Watkins pointed a finger at her fellow witch and waved it menacingly. I’m telling you, don’t let him near her.

Mischa shook her head. I don’t plan on it. I mean, it’s not that I don’t trust Joe, because I totally do, but that woman is not to be trusted.

Who exactly are we talking about again? Seneca Wolfram pushed her long blonde hair behind her ears and sipped her glass of pinot grigio. Do I know her?

Ellie turned up her own glass, draining its contents. Mmhm, maybe. I’ve seen her at KLEBT before, so she may bank with you guys. Her usually pale cheeks had started to more closely match her auburn hair thanks to the alcohol. She’s about my height, bottle-blonde, real bitchy kinda gal. She’s in the middle of a divorce and she’s taking her husband to the cleaners. At least, that’s what I hear.

Seneca nodded sagely. I may not know her, but I know her type. Divorce brings out the ugly in people. Seneca worked at Kensleigh Landing East Bank and Trust. She’d only lived in the small North Carolina town for a few months, but she’d been welcomed into the coven shared by Mischa, Ellie, and their other neighbor, Poe, almost immediately.

Oh, it’s not the divorce that’s making her awful, Mischa countered. She’s always been like this. Only now that she’s single again, she’s trying to see how much she can get away with.

Want me to hex her for you? Poe Landry was the youngest witch in the group, but she was, in many ways, the most independent. She lived alone with her two cats, Cleo, a Siamese mix, and Raven, an overweight, immature black cat with a sick sense of humor and absolutely no filter. Poe had cast a spell that allowed the cats to speak out loud, which was both a blessing and a curse. Most days, the cats had little to say, but some days, they never shut up.

Hexes are so messy, Seneca argued. They’re tricky. If you get them wrong, it can really backfire on you. I went to school with a girl who tried to hex my best friend for talking to her boyfriend during lunchtimes. She got the wording wrong and lost all her hair and most of her teeth. It was gruesome—took the professors weeks to undo all the damage.

Mischa shook her head. No hexes. No magic. The Council frowns on that sort of thing, remember? Besides, I don’t need magic to keep that tramp away from my man, she added defiantly.

Mischa, it’s not like Joe would ever cheat on you anyways, Ellie insisted. He’s crazy in love with you and a real stand-up sort of guy. Now, my ex would have cheated in a heartbeat, but that’s why he’s my ex, she added.

Just tell Joe not to take the job, Poe suggested. I mean, it’s not like you need the money that badly, is it?

Mischa blushed. Well, we’ve been trying to save up some money so that we can afford a real vacation next year. The kids would love to go to the park with all the princesses, but unless I get a part-time job, it’s all on Joe. He says that a few private jobs like this would be all we’d need to afford a week at the park, maybe even stay at a park resort.

Ellie nodded sympathetically. Yeah, the resorts are great. I took Holly when she was about Daisy’s age. We took the witch’s tour—that’s the one where they show you the real magic in the park—and it was great.

But it’s not cheap, Mischa pointed out. So Joe’s going to have to take the job. She crossed her arms and chewed her bottom lip. I don’t like it, but I trust Joe, so that’s that, I guess.

Do you want me to go with him and keep an eye on the woman for you? Cleo appeared from nowhere, having crept stealthily onto the back of the worn out sofa in Poe’s living room. Does she live in this neighborhood?

Mischa smiled at the cat. That’s very sweet of you, Cleo, but I don’t think Charity would like it if my husband showed up with a cat when he goes to do the job.

And it’s not like you could do anything to stop her if she put the moves on Joe, is it? Ellie interjected.

Actually, I could do a lot of things, Cleo purred. I could come back and tell you humans, or I could kill her.

All eyes darted to the cat, who licked her paw languidly before stretching out on the top of the sofa. That was a joke. Don’t witches have a sense of humor?

Ellie eyed the cat suspiciously. I never know when you’re joking and when you’re not. You’re kind of scary, Cleo, did you know that?

The cat’s sable lips parted in a smile. Of course. But you don’t have to worry, witch. I’m a good kitty. Why do you think witches keep cats around, anyway?

Poe shrugged. It’s obviously not to keep mice away. I found droppings in the bathroom again, she grumbled.

Cats are protectors, Cleo replied. Some of us are better than others at our job. She glanced over at the other cat in the room, a chunky black house cat with silky fur who was napping by the window. Some of us don’t just sleep all day and eat all night, you know.

I’m not sleeping, the black cat grumbled. I’m just resting my eyes. And not all of us want to run around the neighborhood pretending we’re Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Raven lifted his furry head and tilted it up to see his sister. Tell the witches what you were up to last night, O great Protector.

Poe’s eyes widened in horror. Were you outside again last night? And were you looking for vampires? She narrowed her eyes and scolded Cleo. Bad kitty.

The Siamese cat shrugged her sleek shoulders. "Someone has to keep this neighborhood safe. And I wasn’t tracking a vampire—there aren’t any around