Kiss Me, My Darling: Witch Hunter fantasy, #1

By Tracy Connor

Morgan Sullivan has been hunting witches ever since she threw a chemical vile during class at one to save her friend from being eaten, and landing herself in the nunnery school across town for anger management rehabilitation. She escapes to college in New York City and enters the National Witch Hunter's League.  As Morgan gets her footing at her new home, a gangster-hotel- turned apartment, she realizes she is being followed, receiving strange visitations by Fairies (they haven't made contact with humans since before World War I) and the Grimm Reaper. Just when things couldn't get any worse, her brother is abducted! Almost immediately after, our witch hunter meets a mysterious and handsome stranger at Ground Zero, the local goth club in Minneapolis, who she is inexplicably drawn to, almost as if under a spell.   While this heroine soon learns all of her sword fighting skills and nerves of steel in the face of violence will not help her cope, she grapples with what it means to be a faithful friend, loyal family member and what does intimacy and vulnerability truly mean.  Will Morgan take a leap of faith and believe in magic and save herself and her trimaritive, or will she succumb to the darkness and lose herself to the abyss? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Connor
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223621713

Tracy Connor

Tracy Connor grew up in rural, southern Minnesota and currently lives with her spouse in Minneapolis.  She has a degree in Journalism and works as an editing and proofreading contractor, as well as a yoga teacher, dancer and performance artist.  Tracy has been writing poetry and short stories all her life and her travel essay, The BDR Mutiny is published on the PoorChef.com's website.  Kiss me, my Darling is her first book and she is currently writing her second, a vampire series based in the Twin Cities. 

Book preview

Kiss me, my Darling

The Warehouse Kill and an Unexpected Meeting

I wished for things to be different, to be anyone else other than me, but knew at the depth of my Wiccan heart, my yoga soul, my writing-inclined brain, that wasn’t so, not really. I liked being me -however on nights such as this, when the world’s weight was upon my shoulders and I was scared, tired, wired and facing a she-wolf in an abandoned flour mill in the Northeast Minneapolis arts district at midnight on a rainy October night, I am not going to lie; it was hard being me, it was hard as shit. 

I leaned against the cool stonewall, allowing a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark.  Moonlight shined in from the high slanted windows above and I made out the shadow of the beast at the other end of the room. Her eyes gleamed magenta and I heard belabored breathing, muffled hisses from the lycanthrope. I knew it was a she, as she was sleeker shaped. Male shape shifters had more girth. She was taller than most werewolves though; her shadow outlined by the window as she prowled, almost reached the ceiling. 

I took a breath and steadied myself. She could be a big as the room for all I cared. I unsheathed Heart Seeker, my silver, ten-inch long sword. I only needed one free, clean stroke and I never missed.  Sinara’, Big, Bad wolf.

The abandoned mill was converted to artist studios, hosting Art a Whirl, the nation’s largest open art studio crawl - painters, musicians, art enthusiasts alike and basically half the town, reveled the midway weekend of May in creative fervor and celebrating Spring, touring from one building to the next.

Now, the place was perfect for the opening of a murder scene in a mystery novel - empty space and darkness.

The overpowering smell of oils and clay were lucky for me, as it would hopefully cover most of my human scent to the animal. She could pick up on me yet, I was sure, but since this place during the week had so many people in it, she couldn’t be certain if it wasn’t residue leftover from a crowded place in general. Another point in my favor was the loud generator from the basement, lulling a rhythmic hum through the entire mill. I didn’t have to be as quiet as I normally would, and took the wolf's lingering to take a few practice swings. I pushed myself off the ledge and let my Marc Jacobs two-toned riding boots’ heels click firmly across the cement tile and threw off my leather jacket, my ebony hair running down the length of my spine. Reassuring the boots were, my personal security blanket; I could face Hell itself in these boots, and often did. 

I waited for the she-wolf to exit the room to strike, backing up to give the arch of my swing a wide enough space from the distance next to the door. 

The Exit sign suddenly flickered off. I squinted my eyes. Why was she taking so damn long? What was the mongrel searching for?

I knew what was happening; a spell was being summoned, as I felt the energy being messed with deliberately. The generator was still working, so why did the door sign turn off? Was there a witch here as well, somewhere else? Outside? 

I hesitated, then resumed my stance by the door. No matter, the plan was the same. I pictured the diamond, sparkling surface of Lake of the Isles, the nearest body of water to my apartment, and forced the witch out. No one invaded my mind. Instinct of the creature should eventually prevail; the lycanthrope growing restless in tracking, would eventually move out of here. Then I would hunt the witch down and kill it as well. Just another typical night for yours truly, Morgan Sullivan.

A gust of wind shot through the area, knocking out the windows, glass spraying everywhere. I stooped down and covered my head. Holy shit, this thing could control elements as well! Who was this witch? I got down on my hands and knees and crawled over to the shelves lined with colored bowls. A cloud shifted outside, allowing light once again to enter. 

Air gusted in in all directions. I hoisted myself up the corner of the shelves for balance, grabbed a bowls and whipped them at the beast. Perhaps I could hit her in the head and knock her out.

The wolf ran to the right behind the shelves opposite from me, while my pottery clattered and broke on the floor to the left. She howled as if in mirth. Wait.... was the werewolf the one casting the spell? That was impossible. 

I saw the beast back up and rise on its haunches. It was going to jump at me! An animal, and shape shifters are the same, never came directly at a human. Silver-plated guns and all.    

As she reared back on her haunches, legs and furry chest exposed, I dropped my sword, and brought my Pirates of the Caribbean lighter, complete with Jack Sparrow’s scheming face, up. I didn’t smoke, but more often than I could count, the lighter gave me light in peril and saved my Irish ass. 

The flame flickered just as the wolf raced towards me, her eyes losing focus, no doubt, from the mechanism glowing at my wrist and gazed at the light, became hypnotized, exactly where I wanted her. 

I dropped my sword during the chaos and pulled out my silver switch-blade, aiming it at the dog’s heart.  I’m Goldie Locks, bitch, and the three bears came home. No more porridge for you. I stabbed up in a quick and precise motion into the dog’s chest.  She had just enough time to look at me, eyes wide like she comprehended what I said, before her head tilted back forever, blood spurting in all directions and spraying my t-shirt.  Did she understand me? God, I must have been more tired than I thought. 

The wolf slumped to a lifeless heap on the floor; I rose to my legs, clearing wolf guts from the blade on my jeans and took a deep breath. I killed because I needed to, not because I liked it. I haven’t gotten used to it yet and I hoped I never did. I walked over to wear I left my sword and kept it out. 

There was a witch to be dealt with, as I walked out of the room into the hallway. 

My agitation was expected; what happened next wasn’t. All of the lights went out in the mill and I thought I heard faint melodic harp music or a woman’s low keening; I couldn’t tell which. A few strands of lights streamed across the hallway like beams from a lighthouse. I thought it was the witch revealing itself. If only things would have been that simple. 

Three transcendent beings stood at the other end of the hallway by the stairs, blocking my exit.  To describe them as striking would be an understatement: the one to the left, fair complexion like snow lacing the bare treetops in Loring Park after a blizzard, had what appeared to be black snakes for his hair coiling down his back; the center one had fire engine red hair in a buzz cut and chiseled cheekbones; the dwarf stood to the left and at a slight distance from the other two, having shaggy rocker hair and tentacles for hands. All of them were dressed in punk rock clothing, as if they belonged in a garage band. 

Are you the witch hunter? asked the little one. 

I stared much like a child seeing a great natural wonder for the first time, like gaping up at Paul Bunyan’s statue in Bemidji or the never-ending expanse of Lake Superior up North. They were freakishly beautiful and took your breath away.

Are you fairies? I whispered, as if not making it audible would make it not so. 

Let’s get some fresh air, shall we, Morgan? the snake-haired one asked. He had a strong Irish accent and bowed formally over in the direction of the stairs.  I did not find it comforting he already seemed to know who I was. Like they were looking for me on purpose.

I pinched my shoulder to ensure I wasn’t sleeping. No such luck. I was at a loss for words. Based on legend, it was the fairies that stopped the witches, when becoming so powerful with their shape shifting abilities or turning people into werewolves, felt compelled to intercede. Fairies were largely non-invasive magical entities, letting creatures and the Earth in peace to do as it would. If they decided to make themselves known, it usually meant they were angry. After the Shooting Star War, their sightings became less and less. The last time it was recorded a human encountered a fairy was during World War I. The exact date I couldn’t recall; I’d have to ask Bobby, my teacher. 

If I survived the night, that was. It’s no coincidence the Spanish Influenza pandemic broke out after their disappearance. Some thought it was the fairies’ last revenge on humanity, whom turned their backs on the old ways and stopped believing in magic.

It felt like an eternity passed while I pondered, but I knew time, much like when a person was high, slowed down in the mist of these beings. 

I looked over at the woman; she held her posture elegant like a model, dipping dramatically on one of her hips and the sleeve of her halter-top dipped off her peach, shining shoulder. In fact, all of their skin shone, shooting out glittering makeup rays of the rainbow, or shooting star arcs, in all directions. I was so disoriented it took me a moment to discern, but this was where the light was coming from.

Awful polite for fairies, I thought. Like I really had a choice if they wanted to talk to me. My best bet was to play along, for now. So far, they weren’t threatening violence. 

I cocked my head and leaned on my sword. After you. 

The dark-haired man almost seemed to smile, if you call grimacing and showing of his large fangs a grin. You must fancy fairies of lesser intelligence if you think we’ll let you out of our sight?

I knew enough not to look them in the eyes. A fairy is so powerful, they didn’t need to make eye contact or even offer up a ritual to cast a spell; their wills and bodies alone were mystical. I would, however, take what precautions I could and realized further protest would only make matters worse. 

I am your abductee. Why?

A crack of thunder rolled so loud it vibrated my torso. It had an ominous effect after the silence from the generator’s soothing hum had stopped. 

We are not kidnapping you, witch hunter, responded the female. We wouldn’t let you keep your weapons if so. 

They lead the way.  I sighed and slowly shuffled over to the stairs, keeping my gaze lowered. Yep, tough as nails this witch slayer was, staring at her boots. Many a witch hunter took bravado, otherwise known as foolishness, for bravery and died. I would not make the same mistake. The little one followed behind me. 

A wave of pleasant fragrances hit me. I felt like I walked into the greenhouse in the Sculpture Garden by the Walker Art Center. The museum was down the hill from where I lived outside of downtown, and during wintertime when my tired bones yearned for warmth, I walked down to the greenhouse, with all its’ chrysanthemums, daisies and roses. I had a similar feeling now, like sunshine was upon me and I started to perspire despite the damp, chilly evening. 

I stopped the generator, you know, the dwarf said.  He had a deep voice.  Whenever I enter an orbit, I have so much electricity in my system, I knock out all other circuits for a several-miles radius. 

Stop bragging, Lightning, the larger man admonished.

I was stating facts, Clover. I bet the little lass doesn’t know, but you invoke my name once more to try and control me and our agreement ends, he continued.  His voice was rising steadily. 

We reached the lobby of the building.

"You know, I thought if a girl ever came across fairies, I’d be in a meadow or in the woods, like in a Midsummer Night’s Dream, having a tryst with my lover. I didn’t picture the Midwest to be a fairy’s ideal scene." 

I had to say something. The animosity between the two men went from a two to a ten. It was stifling and choking my fifth chakra. Fuck it with wariness, no one messed with my energy! They were my own and not for the taking. 

Oh, you’ll know when I’m blocking your Kundalini, Morgan, Lightning said and he suddenly shoved me at my waist level against the wall. He was blinding fast; I didn’t even see him move. My sword clattered to