One Minute to Midnight: Magic and Mayhem Universe: Midnight Chronicles, #1

By Jane Hinchey

To protect the townsfolk of Assjacket, West Virginia, from my out of control, wonky magic, I'm unceremoniously thrown in the magic pokey. Until Baba Yaga herself offers me a lifeline. With conditions. Accept the role of magic bounty hunter or remain in the pokey indefinitely.

 

My first assignment? Track down a witch suspected of practicing blood magic. Armed with rusty investigative skills and a shaky handle on my magic, I'm determined to bring the rogue witch to justice and prove everyone in Assjacket wrong.

 

The trail takes me to New Orleans, and just when the witch is within reach, she slips away, leaving a dead body at my feet. Fortunately for me, smokin' hot local cop Jax Lincoln is on the case. Unfortunately for me, I'm his number one suspect.

 

Now I not only need to find the rogue witch but clear my name and prove to everyone back home that I'm not the disaster they think I am.

 

With All Hallows Eve fast approaching, I'm determined to one: get a handle on my magic before I blow up another building, two: apprehend the dark witch before she releases any more of her doodoo with the voodoo, and three: convince Jax that setting his pants on fire was purely accidental and that I'm not that bad a witch, I promise.

 

Meet magical bounty hunter, Midnight, in book one of the Midnight Chronicles, and part of the Magic & Mayhem Universe. Full of mystery, romance, and laughs, this book is suitable for lovers of cozy mystery and paranormal women's fiction.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baywolf Press
• Release date: Oct 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393144823

Book preview

Chapter One

A withered hand with nails that had never seen a manicure trailed along the iron bars of my cell, one eerie, incredibly annoying clink after the other.

What do you want? I grumbled from my position on my cot. I’d been staring at the ceiling but now turned my gaze toward the older than dirt witch who’d appeared moments earlier.

Why, I’ve come to wish you a happy birthday, Midnight, she cackled, the sound setting the hairs on my arms on end.

What’d ya get me? I asked. A file hidden in a cake so I can break out of this joint?

Even better… she trailed off, glancing over her shoulder and peering into the gloom. Had she heard something? I strained my ears to listen but heard nothing, nothing but the same old silence I’d heard for the last three months.

I was locked up in the magical pokey in Salem, Massachusetts. My prison was a hotel from the early 1900s that had been converted to a jail for witches. From the outside, the decrepit building was glamoured to look like a charming bed-and-breakfast, complete with climbing ivy and flowers growing out of every conceivable nook and cranny.

Inside it was a different story. Cold and ugly, with barren brick walls covered in some sort of oozing slime, like a festering sore that just wouldn’t heal. The building was warded to keep mortals away.

My crime? Uncontrollable magic. Ever since the hot flashes had started, I’d been blowing up buildings and turning lakes into sludge—granted it was a sweet, syrupy kinda sludge, the kind that kids thought was wonderful. Their parents? Not so much. Not to mention creating havoc in the greenhouse—ever seen a zucchini the size of a bus? Oh, and let’s not forget the time I accidentally set Bernice’s hair on fire. I still feel bad about that.

None of it was my fault, I didn’t do it on purpose! But as hormones raged through my body, my magic blasted off any which way, creating havoc and mayhem in its wake. The Council had sentenced me to prison, which is a pretty harsh penalty considering my only crime is being a menopausal witch.

How old are you now, anyway? Eighty? Ninety? the old crone at my bars asked in a nasally voice.

Haha. I turned my attention back to the moldy ceiling. The view was better. I’m forty-nine. As if you didn’t know.

Out of nowhere, the magic level shot through the roof. No way it was coming from old haggard and horrendous standing outside my cell. She didn’t have that sort of power. My nose twitched. The distinct scent of Malibu Musk filled the air, and only one witch I knew wore that perfume. Baba Yaga. The witch responsible for my incarceration.

Easing off the cot, I stood in the middle of my tiny cell and waited. It wasn’t a long wait. She appeared in a cloud of smoke, surrounded by the rest of her posse, an angry looking bunch of warlocks who accompanied Baba Yaga wherever she went. They seemed discontent with their current surroundings. Or constipated. Possibly both. That would explain the angry faces. I mean, if you were backed up and hadn’t pooped in days, the last place you’d want to be was in the pokey with minimal bathroom facilities.

Baba Yaga was a powerful, beautiful witch who had to be at least three hundred years old yet didn’t look a day over thirty-five. As I admired her creamy, flawless skin, I ran a hand over my neck, frowning at the crepey-ness. Would it kill them to supply moisturizer in this joint? Only powerful witches could slow the aging process, and I clearly was not a powerful witch. I had the wrinkles and gray hairs to prove it.

Nice outfit. I eyeballed the witch who’d appeared on the other side of the bars. The old crone who’d turned up earlier blended into the background compared to Baba Yaga. For while Baba Yaga was undeniably powerful and stunning to look at, she had appalling fashion sense. Straight out of the eighties. Today’s ensemble was a hot pink satin leisure suit with geometric stripes in purple and teal streaking diagonally across her upper arms and lower legs. Around her ankles? Leg warmers. Her flaming red hair—that clashed terribly with the pink of her leisure suit—was teased within an inch of its life, giving her a good eight inches in gained height. A matching hot pink headband adorned her forehead.

Baba Yaga preened at the compliment. Thank you. Oh, and happy birthday, Midnight.

I inclined my head. Thank you.

Baba Yaga studied her manicured nails—the old crone should take note—before raising her eyes to examine me.

I’ve brought you a present, she cooed, seemingly pleased with herself. I looked around for a gift, but nothing was forthcoming.

Where is it?

Why, it’s here! She slid one slender arm through the bars and held her palm out flat. I stepped closer. There was nothing in her hand.

I don’t understand… I looked at her bobble-headed companions who were nodding away like mad at this apparently wondrous gift Baba Yaga had brought me. Did one of them have it? But no, no sign of gift wrapping anywhere.

Baba Yaga tossed back her head and laughed, pulling her arm back through the bars. Silly girl. What do you want more than anything?

To get out of here. My unfair incarceration still rankled. Then realization dawned, and I clutched my hands to my throat, clenching the collar of my orange jumpsuit, not daring to believe my freedom was within reach. Do you mean? I breathed.

Baba Yaga nodded regally. You have served your term.

Since the Council hadn’t even bothered to tell me how long my term was, this was news to me. But I knew better than to argue with Baba Yaga, not if I wanted out of this place. After all, she’d been instrumental in having me thrown in here.

I’m sorry about Prudence’s house. Prudence was a dear friend of Baba Yaga’s, and on my last hot flash, I’d torched her house. Unintentionally, of course, but the flames could be seen for miles around. Baba Yaga had been furious, and before I knew it, I’d found myself in my current home-away-from-home.

Baba Yaga stiffened at the reminder, and her beautiful eyes flashed. Lucky for you, we built her a new one.

I didn’t mean to. Despite telling myself I wasn’t going to argue my case—again—here I was, arguing my case. It’s the hot flashes. They send my magic wonky.

You know what happens to witches that can’t control their magic? Baba Yaga arched a brow. "The Council strips them of their magic permanently."

I sucked in a breath, gripping the collar of my jumpsuit tighter until I nearly strangled myself. Is that what’s going to happen? I squeaked. You’re here to take my magic? Some gift!

Actually, no. I have an assignment for you. If you accept, you are free to go. If you refuse… she trailed off and waved her hand around my tiny cell. She didn’t have to spell it out, I got it. Accept the assignment or stay here. Indefinitely, I assumed.

What’s the assignment?

Baba Yaga stiffened, and the bobbleheads sucked in a breath in unison. Uh-oh. This didn’t bode well. Backtracking, I quickly blurted, I mean, I accept! I accept the assignment!

Seconds ticked by. The bobbleheads were frozen, waiting to see what Baba Yaga would do. She’d either smite my ass for questioning her or grant my freedom. At this point, it could go either way.

A sly grin spread across her face. Wise choice.

We considered each other in silence, me wondering what on earth I’d just gotten myself into. But anything was better than the pokey. Wasn’t it? And Baba Yaga appeared to be waiting. For what, I wondered. I scuffed my toe on the floor, clasped my hands behind my back, and swayed back and forth. The silence grew to uncomfortable proportions.

What? I finally snapped.

I’m waiting for you to ask me. She leaned against the bars and examined her nails.

Ask her? I was at a loss. I had nothing to ask her. Except what the assignment was, which considering her reaction when I’d first asked, was not a question currently on the table. My next question would be, when? When do I get out of the pokey? And what could I do to keep from getting sent back here, for there were no guarantees my magic was stable. The dampening effects of the prison had kept things nicely under control while I’d been incarcerated, but back outside in the wide-open world? Who knew? Ohhhhh. Now I knew what she wanted me to ask.

What happens with my magic? How can I control it?

She straightened. Excellent question. Here. She reached through the bars again, and this time in her hand was a bracelet constructed from woven strands of leather. I took the bracelet and studied it. It was… nice. A bit plain, but the leather was supple, and the way the strands were woven was intricate and well-executed. There was a sapphire stone nestled in amongst the woven band that winked when the light hit it.

Put it on. She instructed. Wrapping the bracelet around my wrist, I was fumbling with the clasp when it unexpectedly tightened, like a blood pressure cuff squeezing tight. I gasped, then shook my arm. Ow!

Relax. It’s bonding with you. Give it a second, and then it’ll feel like you’re not even wearing it.

I watched as the bracelet came to life, the woven threads moving and twisting, slithering around my wrist. What does it do?

Think of it as a surge protector, Baba Yaga explained. When your magic reaches critical levels, this will dampen it. At least, that’s the idea.

You mean you haven’t tested it? I couldn’t hide my alarm.

Or I can petition the Council to have your magic stripped, she snapped. We are White Witches. We use magic to heal and make Mother Earth a better place. If you can’t do that, you don’t deserve your magic.

My stomach dropped, and it was my turn to nod like a bobblehead. I can do that, I whispered.

Baba Yaga was all smiles once more. Excellent. Here’s your assignment. Failure is not an option. An envelope fluttered through the bars to land at my feet. Before I could pick