Every Witch Way But Up

By Emily Elliot

Blago was almost relieved when she discovered a dead body—it would get her out of the terrible blind date she was stuck on. It did, but it also got her into a mess of trouble with a serial killer, her best friend's new girlfriend, and Toronto's magical mob. 

Instead, Blago, a witch with no training and no familiar, wound up coerced into investigating a serial killer preying on members of Toronto's magical community, sucking their magic out of them.

Between her investigation and attacks from the magical mob, who are convinced she's working for the killer, Blago finds herself facing down more than one new enemy on the streets of Toronto's gay village, with her life—and the lives of her friends—on the line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Elliot
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781738645404

Book preview

Every Witch Way But Up

Copyright © 2022 Emily Elliot

ISBN 978-1-7386454-0-4

Edited by Chelsea Outlaw

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedication

To the Rotten Girls Writing Club: MA, Jill, and Mari, who put up with ideas like Blago gets hit on the head and does a big magic.

Chapter 1

The Blind Date

Blago had been trying to end the date for thirty minutes without success when a dead body did it for her.

It wasn’t the first blind date her father, eternally hopeful, had set her up on, but if Blago had her way it would absolutely be the last. Marcus had begrudgingly agreed to meet her at a sushi place near High Park in the west end. He was tall, with very well-coiffed hair and an artificially white smile. When he arrived, fifteen minutes late and without an apology, he immediately made a face and asked the server if they served anything cooked instead of raw. It had continued downhill from there.

By the time their food had arrived, Blago knew that Marcus had an inflated sense of his own role at police headquarters, where he ran their social media, thought raw fish gave people brain infections — they didn’t. Then the conversation pivoted to hobbies and he mentioned he would be attending a party under a bridge that weekend. I’m really into this nouveau-street scene, he explained. It might be too edgy for you.

When Blago went to the bathroom, he put down cash for his half of the bill— sans tip. Blago tripled her own tip to make up for it, and planned to part ways at the exit, never to see Marcus again.

Marcus had other ideas. I’ll walk you home, he said. I’m a gentleman, after all.

Oh, no that’s okay, Blago had fumbled. It’s far. I was going to grab the streetcar.

On a night like this? No way. The sky was clear and dark, the air warm, and to her left, the CN Tower light show cycled through a rainbow of colours.

If not for the company, a walk home would have been ideal. Instead, Marcus looped his arm through hers, even though she had kept it straight down by her side and started walking, forcing her to follow.

Did I tell you I’m in a band? he continued as Blago fruitlessly tried to slip her arm free of his. I write all of our songs. They’re based on the stuff I see and hear at work, really dark police stuff.

Blago interjected several times when he paused for breath, or they passed a streetcar or subway stop. Marcus either didn’t hear her or, more likely, didn’t care. He was too busy listening to himself talk. Blago contemplated several options for how to kill her father.

When they approached University Avenue, almost two-thirds of the way back to Blago’s apartment, the intersection was blocked off with police barricades, tape, and flashing lights. Marcus, distracted by the activity, paused, his arm slack, and Blago finally pulled free. A slick, dark energy oozed out from the traffic island in the centre of University. Blago hadn’t ever felt anything like it before. She stood on tiptoe to try and see over the heads of other people stopped outside the Campbell House Museum even as the hair on her arms stood up.

Maybe we should go another way, Marcus said weakly.

It was the first interesting thing he’d said all night. Blago turned to look at him. I thought you saw ‘really dark police stuff’ all the time at work? In the blue and red strobe he looked paler than he had in the restaurant. Come on, let’s get closer. She grabbed his hand and tugged him through the crowd, closer to the wrought-iron fence that lined the edge of the museum property.

The Campbell House Museum, a two-story brick Georgian house, had been part of the city since the 1800s and moved in the 1970s. Despite the move, a dense system of magical roots dug deep into the ground, anchoring it to Osgoode Hall on the east side of the street. Blago had always associated the structure with a sort of weighty, sturdy energy. It reminded her of her mother, when mother had been alive. Stable, serious. Stubborn.

When she got right up to the fence though, the slick dark energy of something wrong came into focus. It spilled wide across the lawn and cobble walkway, and a body covered in a dark sheet lay stretched diagonally under the tall tree that marked the corner of the property.

Oh god. Is that a dead body? Marcus whined. Blago ignored him.

An officer stood up from where she crouched nearby, her foot accidentally jostling the sheet. The movement exposed a man’s left hand, dirt-smudged but smooth; a younger man.

I, you know what, I’ve gotta-- gotta go. Marcus pulled free of Blago’s grip and raised one hand to cover his mouth. I’ll uh, text you or whatever. He stumbled backwards into the crowd without waiting for a response.

She wouldn’t hold her breath waiting for that text.

Instead, Blago turned back to the cordoned-off lawn and fumbled for her phone, not taking her eyes off the sheet-covered body. There was something really, really wrong here.

Blago? Elżbeta picked up on the third ring. It’s awfully late, dear, are you okay? The old woman sounded half asleep, her usually frail voice slightly foggier.

Sorry if I woke you. I’m okay, but there’s a dead body at University and Queen. I think it might be a problem your friends in government would want to know about.

Chimera? Elżbeta asked. Blago didn’t have a lot to do with the local magical government, despite Elżbeta’s regular request that she attend a meeting or accept an introduction to some of the people involved. Did you say a body?

Blago swallowed, her eyes still fixed on the body even as the officer readjusted the sheet. Elżbeta, I think someone was murdered.

* * *

They weren’t related, but Elżbeta was the closest Blago had to a grandmother, or what she imagined a grandmother to be. She had welcomed Blago to the neighbourhood when she first opened her magic shop and remained a calming, sensible presence ever since.

After Blago had explained the situation more clearly, Elżbeta thought for a moment. I will inform Chimera, of course, but Blago the most important thing is that you get home safe. Have you called Lau?

Not yet. Her best friend was smart and focused, but like Blago she didn’t have much to do with the official side of the magical community. She wouldn’t have known who to contact the way Elżbeta did.

Do that. I would feel better knowing you two were together tonight. I’ll stop by the shop in the morning.

Blago agreed and hung up. She let herself be swallowed up by the crowd and, once past it, continued north-east. Her phone rang before she hit Yonge Street.

Hey, I was just about to call you. Don’t freak out, Blago said instead of greeting Lau properly.

Are you okay? Lau asked immediately.

As a seer, Lau specialized in sensing death. As a best friend, she specialized in worrying about and keeping Blago out of trouble. I’m fine, Blago reassured her. But uh, do you think you could come over tonight?

Lau sighed. I’m already on my way.

* * *

Contrary to her voice on the phone, where she had sounded almost annoyed, Lau arrived with the tea she drank when she had trouble shutting out the world and two orders of fresh sfoglia from the Drake Mini Bar— a mutual favourite. Despite the late hour, she looked as well pressed and put together as always, her red hair swept back from her face in a loose bun and dressed in a bright linen shift dress.

Blago parked herself behind the counter, her back safely tucked into a corner and her eyes on the large windows out front. Despite the late hour, foot traffic up and down Yonge street hadn’t slowed, and she looked away only to watch Lau lock the door again.

 Do we need to kill the guy your dad set you up with? Lau asked. You said you were okay, but you look… she trailed off.

No, it’s not that. Blago shook her head and accepted her order of sfoglia. The pasta-pastry had a sweet-sharp citrus taste, bright and cheerful on the tip of her tongue, and Blago sat up straighter, immediately revived.

Lau waited for her to finish the pastry before she demanded answers.

Slowly, Blago explained the situation as best she could. I sort of wish you had been there. Except, well, I wouldn’t want you to feel that… whatever it was. She shivered.

I’d rather be with you, Lau said after a moment. You should still be careful. Call me, next time. Did Elżbeta know anything?

She was going to call someone at Chimera. They’ll probably handle it.

Lau gathered up their takeout containers back into the bag and stood. Well, then, we’ll have a sleepover and tomorrow it will be someone else’s problem. Come on, I’ll make tea.

Gratefully, Blago followed her best friend up the stairs to her little apartment and did her best to put the night out of her mind.

* * *

The rabid dog’s initial attack had taken even the hunger by surprise. They’d escaped to safety, which was enough for the host, but the hunger roiled inside, unsettled by the attack. It wanted to prevent a repeat. They circled back.

Instead of finding the creature licking his wounds, it had already set off across the city, twitchy and incoherent, fingers shifted into claws as though the dim light of a summer evening would keep the public from noticing.

Put him down, the hunger whispered. You’ll be doing these people a favour.

Of course, the hunger only wanted to feed. But that didn’t mean it was wrong.

* * *

The next morning came too bright and too early. Blago’s phone blared out the obnoxious ringtone she’d set for her dad, and she had slapped haphazardly at the decline button, switched the ringer to vibrate, and passed out again.

When she woke again much later in the afternoon, she had a voicemail from him asking her out for lunch or a snack.

Lau, her hair mussed and fuzzy against the other pillow, squinted blearily at Blago as she played the message out loud. He hasn’t learned how to text yet?

He has, he just prefers voicemail because he’s old. Blago sighed and sent him a text saying she could do froyo in an hour if he had some free time. He would’ve preferred the fancy ice cream place a little further from his office at police headquarters, but she only had one parent left and froyo seemed like a safer option for the long term. Want to join us?

I’ll watch the store instead, Lau offered. You can’t just close up any time you feel like it, you know. People like regular hours so they know they can stop in and grab something.

Blago hummed noncommittally and rolled out of bed. As technically the only employee, Blago didn’t see that changing any time soon. You want the shower first?

You can have it, Lau said directly into the pillow. One of us has to make coffee and you do it wrong.

Can’t do it wrong if there’s no way to do it right!

She deserved the pillow Lau threw after her.

* * *

A dead bird lay awkwardly across the pavement outside the shop in near-perfect condition, ruffled slightly, a few stray feathers around it, but otherwise unmarked. One wing pointed to the door, like a macabre welcome mat, the other across and down the street.

Blago checked the front windows, but didn’t see any marks from where it might have flown into them. She would have preferred not to read anything into it, but after the night before, it seemed an obviously bad omen.

She scraped it off the sidewalk with a dustpan, carefully placed it in the green bin around back of the shop and washed her hands twice all while trying not to think about it. The bird could be future Blago’s problem – current Blago had to rush to meet her father.

But even as she stepped out into the busy crowds along the street, the image of the dead bird circled through her mind, refusing to leave.

* * *

Blago didn’t seem to take after either of her parents closely. Her mother had been tall and dark, with long hair and darker eyes. Her father looked nearly the opposite: average height, light hair, pale eyes. Somehow, Blago had come out looking like a watered-down version of neither, with mouse-brown hair, a perpetual tan, and eyes somewhere between the two.

She found him along the back wall, where the pumps were arrayed in a semi-circle behind the cash, sample cup of key lime in hand and a blissful expression on his face. Don’t forget what your doctor said. Blago greeted him and took a full-sized cup of her own. You’re not getting any younger.

If I’m getting so old, you should get married and give me some grandkids before I’m too decrepit to enjoy them, he muttered in return. A familiar line of complaint. Blago ignored him.

The froyo place had served as an auto shop in the eighties, and the bones were still the same under the brightly coloured paint and pop music. The store front’s massive garage door had been pulled up against the ceiling for the day, completely open to the hot Toronto air. A crowd of regulars already populated the space, even though it they had arrived barely after lunch on a Wednesday.

Don’t even think about the Nutella one.

You’re sucking all the joy out of this, her father grumbled, but that didn’t stop him from over-filling a cup with piña colada, half of which would melt before he could finish it.

I do what I can, Blago replied, sing-song, and happily filled her own cup up with Nutella and a heap of Nanaimo bar.

When they looped around to the cash, she noticed the cashier had a definite second aura. A full wolf of a second aura.

My treat, she said and elbowed her dad out of the way. You grab a table. He might have been ‘in the know’, but he was still completely mundane and Blago wanted to avoid a long discussion about whether or not a werewolf in a froyo shop was a danger to society.

Blago slid both cups of froyo onto the counter. Why does no one tell you that you have to parent your parents later on? she asked and he grinned at her, wide and easy. He had floppy brown hair, an easy-going attitude, and a battered name-tag that read Antonio.

Same reason they don’t tell you anything else about adulting and stuff, I guess, he replied with a shrug as he rang her up.

To be fair, if Blago’s mom were still alive, she might have some more help on the supernatural front, but she and her dad were the only members of the family left. To keep us from realizing that being responsible sucks?

Pretty much, Antonio agreed. But hey, on the upside, you get to do stuff like eat cereal for dinner and binge-watch Netflix in your pyjamas all weekend.

Point, she agreed, managing to pick both cups up again without spilling. See you around, man.

Good luck.

So… her dad started, once they both got comfortable. No one looked at him twice, even though he hadn’t changed out of full uniform, since he needed to go back to work. To be fair, with police headquarters around the corner it wasn’t unusual to see officers in the neighbourhood, picking up elaborate Starbucks orders or having some froyo on their lunch breaks.

So…? Blago repeated.

How was the date? he asked, his eye wide and expression hopeful.

Blago took a large bite of her froyo and tried to think of an appropriate way to break the news. She came up blank. Well, we came up on a murder and he fled the scene, so. Not great.

What? What did you do? he asked immediately.

I didn’t do anything!

He’s a nice young man without a dangerous job! What could possibly have gone wrong? Did you find a crime scene on purpose?

Blago rolled her eyes so hard they actually hurt. He’s self-involved, rude to waiters, doesn’t tip, and doesn’t take no for an answer, she said flatly. And no, I didn’t ‘find a crime scene on purpose’. It just happened!

Her dad sighed. Listen. If you weren’t interested in Warner because he’s too boring, and an officer, I thought maybe I could find you a nice civilian. But if you don’t like that, either, what about a nice magical law enforcement person? You have those, right? Someone who can take care of you?

The blind date with Warner, her dad’s junior on the force, hadn’t gone well. But not because Warner worked for the police, or because he lacked magic. For one thing, he wasn’t mundane. Blago couldn’t be sure what Warner was, or if he knew either, but regardless, two things had been abundantly clear: neither Blago nor Warner had known they were being set up until Blago's dad hadn’t shown for dinner; and Warner’s interests lay exclusively with men.

Dad, no.

Dad, yes, he countered.

First of all, I can take care of myself. His dubious expression indicated that he doubted that very much. Secondly, it’s not the— no, you know what? Blago cut herself off before she could give him any pertinent information. I’m not going to help you out on this one. No more blind dates!

Your biological clock’s gotta start ticking soon, kiddo, her dad said, his spoon pointed to her waist.

Blago scowled. Whatever he tried next would be awful.

* * *

 Blago didn’t care if someone had been born completely mundane and free of magic, or if they were the legendary wizard Merlin. That wasn’t what got her. Blago had a type: semi-jerk with a heart of gold. And because Blago had awful luck, that person actually already existed in her life. Every day was agony and it the blame lay entirely with Dermid Flannagan.

Most days when she looked out from her shop and across Yonge Street to the charming storefront of Dermid’s veterinary practice, with its paw prints painted on the sidewalk and the pet watering stations in summer, he ruined her without trying.

Blago had seen more than enough romcoms with Lau to understand the concept of a meet-cute, though she’d always assumed meet-cutes didn’t actually happen in real life. They were too, well, cute.

That hadn’t stopped her from having one.

Lau had decided it was high time Blago updated some of the decor in her store, before I’m embarrassed to be seen in there. And, since Lau made a lot of Blago’s decisions, she’d gone along with it. They had spent the entire morning trawling through furniture stores on Queen West, and though most things would be delivered, somehow Blago had wound up hefting several bags of accent pieces, as Lau called them, for both the store and her apartment.

Lau, my darling, light of my life, Blago had started as they drew closer to the store, my sunshine, my raison d’être— She always made a point of emphasizing how full of life Lau was. The seer had been born with a strong sense of death, the weight of it in her aura palpable, pushing down on her every moment of every day; a constant, electrically tense weight.

To the point, sweetie, she interrupted. And watch where you’re going.

Just for that, Blago turned to walk backwards. You know I adore you, she continued, but is all of this necessary? she lifted her arms to show off the many bags that dug into the skin of her hands and forearms.

It is if you ever want to get laid again, Lau replied faux-sweetly, arching one eyebrow. Not Blago’s number one priority. Not even her number ten priority, honestly, but it would make Lau happy, which definitely ranked in the top ten, so she rolled with it. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t complain a little during the process.

So her apartment could use some work. It, like her wardrobe, fell somewhere lower on the list. Lau, on the other hand, put a great deal of effort into appearances. It had been years since Blago had seen her out without perfectly winged black eyeliner, without nice shoes and a pretty dress. Even complete mundanes could sense something different about Lau, and to compensate she applied her makeup like war paint.

Blago, by comparison, had pretty much decided to try and blend into the background the day her mother died. It hadn’t been hard.

And Blago would have explained that — in detail! — except her heel caught on the sidewalk and she had pin wheeled backwards, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the fall, and stumbled into someone with a loud oof. Luckily, whoever she’d managed to hit caught her shoulders before she hit pavement.

Blago cautiously opened her eyes and found herself face to face with the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life — magazines and movies included. Oh my god, Blago blurted out before anything else. I am so, so sorry.

He —Dermid, she learned later — flushed from the heat, but helped Blago regain her feet. His hands lingered briefly, not unwelcome, and his sharp green gaze unfocused her. Something about him, the sweep of his dark hair and broad shoulders short-circuited her brain. He had a magnetic pull on her, almost on a molecular level. Blago physically shook herself out of distraction.

Are you okay? they had asked at the same time, and Blago stared, helplessly caught up in trying to memorize his face.

Sorry, really, I should’ve watched where I was going, she apologized again.

Me too, Dermid replied, seeming just as struck as Blago. Nothing like a good old Canadian standoff. Sorry, he added a third apology. I was distracted, he gestured, and for the first time Blago noticed the large moving truck in the laneway across the street from his little shop.

See, sweetie, this is why you should always listen to me, Lau interrupted impatiently.

Blago huffed out an overly dramatic sigh and grinned at her. Yes, dear, she agreed. She’d been bossing Blago around since kindergarten and that wouldn’t change any time soon. When she looked back at Dermid, his expression had become much more reserved. Well, welcome to the neighbourhood, she said gamely. I’m right across the street if you need anything!

Blago had thought the whole thing went pretty well, but from that day on Dermid seemed to run hot and cold and Blago had no idea why.

* * *

She returned to the shop after her unsuccessful visit with her father, taking the seat behind the cash back from Lau in time for the afternoon rush.

Yonge wasn’t actually the longest street in the world, despite what people said, but she could see why they might think so. One of the busiest streets in Toronto, it ran straight downhill through Vaughn, Markham and Barrie — all the way down from the north end of Toronto right to the shores of Lake Ontario. It was big, busy, and in Blago’s world it demarcated both the western edge of the gaybourhood, as she called it, and one of several magic-heavy communities, from more mundane neighbourhoods. Not that most of the city’s population knew about that second bit.

Her magic shop had enough mundane tricks and toys up front to keep the general foot traffic happy, while she produced a wealth of charms and potions, raw ingredients and her own set of services, most of which she made up, for her regulars on the magical side of the spectrum. So far, it had worked out fairly well.

But then, the bird. Blago closed her eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of it again: itchy, unsettling. Unnatural in some way she couldn’t put her finger on just yet. The bins in the laneway out back weren’t far enough to get it off her radar, and the spot out front pulled at her focus, splitting it between the body out back and the sidewalk out front when she should have been focusing on tidying the shelves.

She tapped her fingers on the counter, unusually antsy.

Screw it. It didn’t take her long to fill a bucket with hot water, some lemongrass, and a bit of will, and grab a stiff-bristled broom from the back. She even managed to haul it up to the front of the store without spilling, mostly.

Blago didn’t feel badly when she dumped half the bucket of water all over the sidewalk during a lull between afternoon shoppers and the post-work crowd. She only splashed herself, and in the late June heat, she would dry off quickly.

A sickly magical residue remained, and although it left no mark on the sidewalk, no stain or blood to clean up, Blago could tell exactly where the bird had lain by skin of her hands, even half a metre above the ground. That itch in her palms, the shiver up her spine only grew as she scrubbed at the spot with the broom.

Blago leaned her whole body into it, hunched over and shoved the bristles against the grain of the sidewalk in short, sharp susurrations. Her arms and her back hurt, but as she focused her will she could finally start to feel the remaining disruption begin to lift with the water and washed over the curb.

A shadow fell over her just as she finished up. You look like a crazy person, Lau said, nose wrinkled up in distaste. What died?

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