Ghostly Games Episode Three

By Odette C. Bell

They say once you have a witch in hand, you shouldn’t let her go. It’s the point of indenturing, isn’t it? Winchester is about to find out he’s always been wrong. Greed and arrogance might have tethered Lisbeth to his side, but a far purer emotion will keep them together. Right up until the end. And trust him, it’s coming.
He’ll soon find out an earth-shattering secret about his brother. It won’t be the last. Every truth he’s ever known – and stood upon – will soon crumble. And when they’re all gone, there’ll only be one person he’ll ever stand beside again.
But the future will call for more. To save the kingdom, Lisbeth and Winchester must find the root of their power and fight the curse with everything they have.
...
A light-romance historical-fantasy, Ghostly Games follows a pompous wizard and his rare witch as they’re thrust into a battle to find out each other’s secrets. If you love your fiction with magic, heart, wit, and a smattering of romance, grab Ghostly Games Episode Three today and soar free with an Odette C. Bell series.

Ghostly Games is the third Trapped by Your Side series. In this world, witches can be indentured by strong wizards - if the wizards are stupid enough to try. Witty, fun, and fast, they'll appeal to fans of light historical fantasy and cozy mysteries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Odette C. Bell
• Release date: Oct 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005314163

Book preview

Chapter 1

Winchester Stone

Lisbeth… Lisbeth… Lisbeth… I couldn’t spit the sentence out, even in the privacy of my own head. For why use words when actions are far more appropriate? All I had to do was reach my fingers out and clasp Lisbeth’s tender hand once more to confirm yes, she was a dead practitioner, just like me. She’d been sitting right underneath my nose. Or rather, running, kicking, jumping, and otherwise saving the day.

But while we’d had time previously, it was soon taken from us. That perilous moan shook up through the floor once more, this time louder and grating, sounding like someone trying to digest their teeth first by turning them to dust in their own mouth.

Lisbeth had already been through the ringer, but that didn’t matter. Somehow the ribbon transforming her skirt into trousers still worked fine, and it enabled her to take a quick step up to me. You have the book. We must get out of here.

Yes. We had to flee. But go where? My tired, fraught mind pointed out. Lisbeth was the witch Bram was after. This was the book Bram was after. And Bram had always been after me.

For a few seconds, my mind ground to a halt, the gears of my thoughts no longer working. For the exact thoughts they tried to transport up through my cerebellum were simply too heavy and far, far too destructive.

But circumstances conspired not to let me pause another second. A large section of the ceiling above crumbled down. Lisbeth, showing her usual speed, agility, and importantly, loyalty, shouldered me out of the way. When that wasn’t enough, and the ceiling continued to rip itself to shreds, she grasped me by the arm and dragged me down into the main section of the ritual room.

And there, I imagined she would aim for the door.

We must have been followed. That was the only thing to conclude. And my mind couldn’t even begin to guess what that meant. Had we been followed by a mere spell that had tracked our progress? Or had our conversation been captured, too? I had been practicing some form of a silence spell since my abode, but did that count? Especially when I had no clue what I was up against.

I could think all of these thoughts freely only because I had someone else to save me.

Lisbeth launched herself toward the door, somehow darting through the falling ceiling with skills alone. She didn’t even have to use a shred of magic.

She inclined her head half to the side, using her left ear to hear what was happening on the ceiling as she stared at the ground. And with that, she dodged everything that fell, even most of the smaller chunks of paint-encased plaster. Paint that had once shown such a startling mural, I hadn’t even begun to get to the bottom of it.

But what was at the bottom was very important, because another zombie hand suddenly thrust through the ground. It angled toward Lisbeth’s ankle. She kicked it out of the way, her dress and hair flying around her. She looked like some kind of swirling children’s toy. Though that, of course, ignored her two central abilities: her grace and her bare-knuckled determination.

She showed the latter as a zombie sliced out of the ground just before her. Without pausing, without even grunting for breath, she locked one of her brown buckled shoes against it, grunted, and forced it back. This time she did use magic. She cast it on her hand first, then let it charge over her body. It chased around her waist, shot into her leg, pushed up her foot, and charged into the zombie’s face.

It was just as the fell brute opened its mouth and screamed. I was not in the direct line of sight of its mouth, but I imagined, with a scream like that, it detached its tonsils from its throat. For who cared what kind of damage one did to a dead man’s body? Especially not Bram Stone.

I was finally jolted out of my reverie as Lisbeth dragged me another step toward the door. I saw something out of the corner of my eye – the slightest of darting ethereal movements. Then the same ghost who’d led us here appeared, sallow-cheeked, even for the dead. Miss, she cried. This way. Now. Before it comes. It has crimson soul stones, and you won’t have a chance. Now, the lass called.

I didn’t have the time to appreciate the fact that Lisbeth appeared to know this ghost. She spun quickly, dragged me over, and soon discovered the hidden door. In her usual Lisbeth style, rather than use her hand, she kicked it with another charge of magic, and my oh my, it was an impressive sight. But more than that, effective. And just in time.

Something shuddered from underneath her feet. It was no mere zombie. I could tell that, for the resultant energies that spread before it like the first few splatters of rain of a drenching storm drenched me in turn. They shook my dead practitioner energy, grasped hold of it in a violent grip I’d never felt, and told me to flee, flee, flee.

Lisbeth must be feeling something similar, because she turned over her head just as she opened the secret passageway. Whatever is after us?

A question for another time when it’s not trying to kill us, I counseled, locking my hand on her shoulder and shoving her forward.

She teetered slightly, overbalancing for all of about a few centimeters before she righted herself. How she had developed the equilibrium and gymnastic capabilities, I did not know, but everything was starting to slide into place. If Lisbeth McQuarrie was really like me, then she must’ve been on the run for most of her life. But unlike me, she hadn’t had money and privilege to hide behind. And, it seemed, unlike me, she’d made friends with the very ghosts she was meant to control.

For as she set foot inside the passageway, that ghost shot up, one wary eye on me but the situation clearly dictating she be brave, nonetheless. Close the passageway door. There’s a shield. It needs wizard magic.

I did not reach out and try to capture the ghost. I simply didn’t have the time. And as a sinking feeling clunked through my gut and slammed onto the floor beneath me, it told me I may never find the time again. Unless I acted. This very second. So I spun.

Before Lisbeth could turn and fumble through the requisite wizard magic to find the correct spell, I lifted the door back from where it had sunk into the floor. A tricky spell indeed. Especially for a man like me – so fresh from so many devastating fights.

But there is one thing that is germane to all humans, across all time and across all places. Just when you think you’re out of energy, if something you need is threatened, you will find more. And I will leave you to unpack that particular statement. I was busy with the door.

I grunted, lifting it as high as I could then hurling it toward the ceiling. I wasn’t actually picking up a real door. I was interacting with the magic that had spread through the dirt. A lot like human nerves, if I were a witch, perhaps I would mistakenly think the dirt had partially come alive. But as a wizard, I appreciated it meant I had finer control over every single particle. Good, because they soon led me to the one thing I needed: the central spell amongst their midst.

Wizard magic, indeed – it was incredibly strong. I could feel it tickling between my fingers, jumping up my body, and jamming its way between every tooth. It was used to dirt, particulate and many numbered. It sought to find the same multitude in my own body, and the only thing close were my cells. I would not let it have them. I took it in hand.

It smelt and acted old. And though I’d never had much to do with the man, I got the sense of Wintersmith. If I had had the time, I would’ve appreciated the overarching sense of age. Wintersmith had been a very intriguing wizard indeed. Perhaps no one else could have started the Magical Academy. The Academy itself had long since departed from its original roots, but even if half of the legends of Wintersmith were true, then he was a wizard like no other.

I got a sense of that firsthand as I finally reignited the spell protecting the door. Just in time. A fraction of a second too late, and something would have powered through and shot toward us.

I was no longer visually aware of what was beyond the door, but I could certainly feel it.

I was tired of describing the differences between witch and wizard magic to you, but this was a timely lesson. For whatever was beyond the door felt like it was beyond all of my knowledge, too. All the fine, important facts I had learned over the years became irrelevant in the face of its power. And, importantly, its darkness.

Even Lisbeth shook as I turned, went to grasp up her hand, and intended to drag her away quickly. But I was forgetting who my indentured was. She was the one who grasped my hand first, and she pulled me away with far more speed and certainty than I could have ever used on her.

Sarah-Anne, she snapped competently at the ghost, where’s Wintersmith? The game has changed. Shouldn’t we go back to the crypt to find him?

My slow, terribly tired mind took some time to catch up. She was speaking of Wintersmith as if he was still alive. I might have just regaled you with tales of the old man’s power, but they were very much legends.

Unless they weren’t. Unless Wintersmith was a ghost. And, by the sounds of it, in charge of my indentured here.

When Sarah-Anne didn’t answer, Lisbeth cleared her throat hard. The game has changed. Whatever Wintersmith originally intended is no longer possible. We must reconvene and plan something new. We must do so now. For I fear the very king of this twisted country will now be after us. And he will not be kind.

Right you are, Miss, the lass whispered. Very well. I’ll take you back to Wintersmith. He won’t be happy. She winced.

Lisbeth, being Lisbeth, simply snorted derisively. Was it attractive? Let me ask you this – did it need to be attractive?

If I had been careful of my thoughts then, I would’ve realized I was a changed man. I would’ve once answered that of course, a woman’s place was to be there for men in any way she could, whether it be of service or simply visual distraction. Now a twinge chased through my stomach as I realized what a simplistic and useless metric that was. Especially for a man like me, who needed all the assistance he could get, or—

Or, indeed. We had already traveled down a section of the tunnel, and we had reached another. That did not, however, mean we were far enough away from the ritual room to be safe or out of earshot. A critical fact, for there was suddenly a scream. It bounced off the walls. It reached high, and it screeched with the kind of voice that would make even demons shake in their boots.

I