Witch on a Roll Read online

  Witch on a Roll

  An Evangeline Jinx Paranormal Mystery Book 1

  Evelyn Snow

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  The jinx goes on…

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Fae danced on my open palm, tiny feet tickling smooth skin, an elemental princess I’d lured from her home in the huge chestnut tree in our backyard.

  “Put the Fae down and come inside this minute!”

  I jumped as my mother’s voice boomed through the open kitchen door, and the princess stumbled, cursing in a pitchy little voice. I knew most of the magical bad words and also knew better than to repeat them. Words were powerful; they built spells and wove magic.

  “Evangeline Jinx,” my mother added, as if big girls of seven forgot their names, “this means you!”

  I huddled deeper into the embrace of the giant tree, bending my head close to the dancing princess. “Come with me, please? It’ll be fun. I promise.”

  If my parents intended to drag me across the bridge to the Greater World on a boring family visit, the least they could do was allow me to bring a friend. I wasn’t above begging. What law said the friend had to be human?

  To be on the safe side, I’d checked in all of my mother’s books and grimoires for guidelines regarding friends and different species and found nothing. There were a few books on the top shelf I missed—books my mom said I wasn’t allowed to read until I was older. They were too high to reach despite standing on a stack of books piled on a chair that sat on an ottoman. I would have scrounged around for bricks to push under the ottoman if the arrangement hadn’t been the teensiest bit wobbly. The forbidden books blew kisses at me and whispered they would wait. I wasn’t good at waiting.

  “I left a pocket in my backpack open just for you,” I told the princess. “I even put one of my mom’s silk scarves inside to make it comfortable.”

  She kept on dancing and ignoring me. I kept on waiting.

  My cat, Ophelia, leaped onto one of the gnarled tree roots snaking over the ground. She perched with her fluffy tail coiled around her body; her pink tongue visible, and her golden gaze fixed on the Fae. “I’ll go with you,” she purred. “All you have to do is ask.”

  “I’m sorry, Phee, but you can’t.” She knew why she couldn’t come. We’d been over it a hundred times. Why did she keep asking?

  Cats.

  “Wicked child,” Phee muttered and proceeded to lick her pristine paw.

  A sudden gust of wind snatched a fallen leaf from the pile my dad had raked around the base of the tree. It floated on the updraft, sliding back and forth like a tiny boat on an invisible ocean. Before I could stop her, the Fae jumped from my hand onto the orange and brown leaf. She twirled around and around as it surfed the currents, laughing and singing in her silvery voice.

  I rocked back on my heels, watching in amazement, fearing she might trip and fall with the next breeze, only to notice Phee watched her, too. Ready to pounce, the cat licked her lips.

  In my sternest voice, I said, “You know you aren’t allowed to eat Fae. We’ve been over this.”

  “Sweet, crunchy little morsel.” Phee rumbled deep in her throat.

  The princess turned her back, lifted her filmy yellow dress, and mooned the cat.

  “Phee, no!” I yelled, but my warning came too late as a streak of snowy white launched into the air.

  Somehow, my body was already in motion. I scooped the leaf and the Fae into my hands and rolled onto the ground with both hugged safely to my chest. Phee landed a few feet away, snarling her rage while her tail lashed fallen leaves into a miniature windstorm.

  I sat up, keeping the princess close with one hand and shoving messy hair out of my face with the other. “You could have killed her!”

  Phee studied the empty distance over my head. “That was the idea.”

  I didn’t say anything more because I was too angry. If I did, I might say words that would get me in trouble—words that Phee would overhear. That would be a problem because she never forgot anything and had a tendency to tattle if she thought there was something in it for her.

  Finally, she growled. “Fat little witch is faster than she looks.”

  “I am not fat.”

  “Are so.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are so.”

  “Am not.”

  “STOP!”

  Phee and I fell into shocked silence. Who yelled? My mother was still in the house. My dad had gone to find out when the bridge would open, and Fae never talked to …

  Or did they?

  My mom was an elemental witch, so I knew she’d talked to Fae before. She was the only person I’d ever heard of who had because Fae didn’t talk to humans. Or witches. Or wizards. Or nosy little girls, no matter how nicely they pleaded.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Phee, noticing that once again she’d fixed the Fae with a hungry gaze.

  Without waiting for an answer, I raised the princess on my hand to eye level. Her pointed little face had gone splotchy pink and pale brown while her eyes had leached to a green as light as shoots in early spring. She stood with her hands fisted. Her wings fluttered with a frantic beat, lifting her into the air only to lower her once more in waves of agitation.

  “Was that you?” I asked softly. “Were you scared because we were arguing?”

  She pointed a finger at my cat. “Toil and trouble, I should turn that beast into rubble.”

  “Good thing you’re not a witch then,” Phee spat, clearly unconcerned with the threat. “Oh wait, don’t bother to pretend you’re strong or clever. Woodland Fae are no better than rats—just tastier.”

  A knot of worry formed in my stomach. It wasn’t smart to make the Fae mad. They were small and powerful and deeply connected to the immense magic threaded through every rock and blade of grass in all the Nightingale Lands—even here on the edge of the borderlands at Serenity Point. We were so close to the Greater World, we could see it on the far side of the bridge on clear days.

  The Fae flipped Phee a rude gesture. Then she turned and dropped into a deep curtsey. She dipped so low, the ends of her long, silky hair dusted my hand. I looked around, wondering who was on the receiving end of the honor, only to realize it was me.

  When she stood upright again, she spoke in a light, clear voice. “You saved my life and for that, you have my gratitude and my gift.” With that, she intoned:

  By daylight bright and evening gloom,

  may this child’s fate evade the tomb.

  Through storm and song, may her life prolong.

  By wand and tatter, will her peace be shattered,

  but in shadow and fade, her hopes shall be made.

  I speak no lie by earth and sky.

  I say it true, by air and fire, for I am Ivy Butterbriar.

  After she finished, I blinked once and then twice, af
raid to move and destroy the moment. Even Phee’s tail had stilled. Not a whisker moved. A shiver rippled down my spine.

  “Evangeline!” My mother’s voice startled me, and the Fae princess vanished.

  This time my mother marched onto the back porch. “For the last time, you need to come inside. Your father is back. Come on. We need to leave now if we want to beat the bridge rush.”

  Scrambling to my feet, I dusted leaves and debris from my jeans and scuffed my foot against a rock to clean my shoes.

  “Don’t worry about your clothes,” Mom said. “You can change when we get to the other side.”

  As I ran to the porch, I sneaked a look to the east where the topmost spire of the bridge could be seen over the treetops. All day the light at the tip of the spire had been flashing red, signaling the bridge to the other world was closed.

  Now, it glowed a bright green. Gray-tinged clouds clustered in the sky above. It wasn’t unusual to see clouds around the upper reaches. They were an effect of the Pale which was the magical spell guarding the paranormal fault line between the worlds.

  If not for the Pale, the bridge between the worlds couldn’t exist. Long ago, powerful witches known as stormbringers had created it to save the Nightingale Lands. The dark clouds, though, weren’t normal; I knew that much.

  I pointed to the sky, but Mom shooed me inside. “Yeah, yeah, I saw the sky, too. Your dad couldn’t find out how long the bridge will be open, so we need to hurry in case they decide to close again. Don’t forget your backpack. He already put your suitcase in the car.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?” I grumbled and dragged my feet across the black and white tile.

  There was hardly any magic in the Greater World, and what was there didn’t work properly, not the way it did in the Nightingale Lands. And it’s not that I had anything against my relatives. Uncle Delano and Aunt Phoebe were nice enough. Uncle Delano worked for the newspaper and knew lots of stories. Aunt Phoebe was always baking, and their house smelled yummy.

  Cookies and stories didn’t make up for the lack of magic. What did people do all day in a world of cold iron? I didn’t pretend to know the answer and didn’t want to know.

  The thing that bothered me was the rule that no one could carry magic across the bridge. If that was true, then why were witches and wizards allowed to cross. Because they were magical, right?

  Grownup rules made no sense.

  I folded my arms. “The Greater World is stupid.”

  “Don’t let your father hear you say that.” Mom had a smile on her face. Not because of anything to do with magic or the Greater World. It was because my dad had walked through the door.

  “Hear Evie say what?” Visiting his brother on the other side always made my dad happy. His smile cheered me up.

  It wasn’t all bad; I supposed. The day had seen my first conversation with a real, live Fae. Not even snooty Cassandra in my class at school who thought she knew everything could say that.

  When we were back in school after break, I planned to tell Cassandra about the princess. And then rub it in to make up for all the times she’d called me a half-wit … er, half-witch. That would be a perfectly magical day.

  I shot my dad a cheeky grin. “Mom says I can take Ophelia with me on our trip.”

  “Nice try,” my mom admitted. “No way.”

  “Points for persistence, though,” Dad said, shaking his head. “If this is what she’s like at seven, by the time she’s a teenager we’ll be doomed.”

  My mom snorted. “Speak for yourself, Earthling. Witches stick together.”

  “Please?” I begged.

  “No, you can’t take your cat,” Dad said as he collected his newspaper and his briefcase.

  “Even if it were a cat,” my mother added darkly, “which it is not.”

  “I heard that.” Phee strolled through the kitchen door and plopped down under the round table in the corner.

  My mom reached for the broom and swatted with it aimlessly. “Show me where it is, Evie. I don’t want that thing in the house while we’re gone.” I’d never understood why I could see her, and my parents couldn’t. I wasn’t sure if Phee knew; either that or she didn’t want me to know.

  “She’s over there.” I pointed in the opposite direction and, when my mom’s back was turned, stuck my tongue out at Phee. She might be mean, but she didn’t deserve to spend a week outdoors while we were gone. She’d be bored inside the house, but bored was safe.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and a neelie will eat that thing while we’re gone,” my mom muttered.

  Phee smirked. “You wish.”

  “Ophelia can stay in the house,” my dad insisted. “We’ll be back in a few days and she’ll be safer that way.”

  “What’s a neelie?” I asked.

  “A demon that eats little girls who don’t do as they’re told!” Then my dad was tickling me, and I shrieked with laughter.

  My mom stowed the broom in the pantry and glared at my dad and me. “Why are you two still standing around? Get a move on.”

  “You didn’t mean that about Phee, did you?” I asked my mom. “I don’t want her to die.”

  “Sweetie, you don’t understand. She’s not—”

  “Jaz…” my dad warned. “You promised.”

  She let out a long breath and propped her hands on her hips. “We’ll talk about Phee when we get home, okay?” Then she shooed me with her hands. “Go!”

  As I headed for my room, I heard my mom say, “What did the bridge tender say?”

  “She said the storm looks like it will be a big one,” my dad responded, “but she thinks she can hold it off long enough to give everyone a chance to get across.”

  “We need to hurry.”

  And we did.

  Twenty minutes later, I was riding in the back seat of the family Toyota. My mom drove while my dad read the newspaper, so he could catch up on all the Greater World news. He held the paper opened all the way with his hands far apart. My mom sniped at him to fold it in half because she couldn’t see to drive.

  In the end, it didn’t matter that she couldn’t see because a minute later we were in free fall.

  The trans-dimensional bridge had vanished.

  I didn’t remember the car hitting the water or even if the car ever hit the water. I woke on a vacant stretch of beach on the California side of the Pale.

  A boy found me and took me home with him.

  Later, he and his father helped me find my aunt and uncle. They took me in, no questions asked, and raised me in a world where magic pretty much didn’t exist.

  All I remembered was the newspaper spread wide like wings and my dad’s square hands and my mother’s smile.

  For sixteen years one memory was enough.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Chapter 1

  Sixteen years later

  "Are you going to kill that thing or is it already dead?"

  The question floated into the darkness of the garden shed from the door behind me. I’d forgotten that I’d left it open.

  In some respects, it wasn't an unreasonable question. Then I considered who was asking — my uncle Delano. Apparently, the sight of me toiling into the night on what looked like a plant-based Frankenstein was cause for alarm. Who knew?

  I could never predict what would set him off. Whether that was a failure of imagination on my part or merely a fact was another question. It also summed up my life so far—too many questions and too few answers.

  What had changed lately was that I’d finally found a way I hoped would help fill in the blanks of my spotty memory. I needed to find out what really happened the day the bridge collapse killed my parents.

  Call me crazy, but I had zero confidence in the official explanation handed down by ODiN, the Office of the Disclosure Network. It was part of Homeland Security and tasked with handling all things paranormal and supernatural. ODiN’s party line on the disaster didn’t amount to much more than: Random bad stuff happens. No one knows
why. Deal with it. Meanwhile, in other news…

  Yeah, no. Not this witch. Not anymore.

  “Does it matter whether it’s alive or dead?” I asked, surveying the mess I’d made. “Seriously.”

  He sighed. “That you’re even asking that question is part of the problem.”

  My project sprawled all over the top of the workbench. It comprised two long branches and two thinner, shorter ones pruned from the elder tree in the backyard last fall. I'd scrounged an empty burlap sack and stuffed it with plastic shopping bags from the recycling bin. After roughing up the smooth plastic of an empty gallon milk jug, I slapped on a few layers of white glue. The next steps involved wrapping the jug and the branches with strips of fabric and slathering the whole thing with many layers of mud. Dirt and grime still caked my fingernails. The mud was critical. I needed to apply a spell, and without organic matter to ground the magic, the spell wouldn’t stick.

  With more duct tape and lengths of twine, the milk jug would become a head and the burlap bag a body. The tree branches would make arms and legs. Sort of. In the attic, I'd uncovered a pair of old rain boots to use for feet. They were bright pink with orange polka dots. I hadn’t worn them since I was eight or nine. I couldn't imagine why my aunt had held onto them all these years.

  “Is that thing going to come after me when I least expect?” my uncle asked. “Should I have invested in body armor or new locks on the doors?”

  He wasn’t crazy; he’d witnessed more than a few of my “experiments” that had gone haywire. He’d survived them, so there was that.