The Witching Hour.pdf

The Witching Hour

Marteeka Karland

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ISBN (10): 1-59596-259-X

ISBN (13): 978-1-59596-259-1

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Changeling Press LLC

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Shepherdstown, WV 25443-1561

www.ChangelingPress.com

Editor: Katriena Knights

Cover Artist: Karen Fox

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Chapter One

ÐBubble, bubble, toil and trouble --Ñ

ÐWhat the fuck is that, Hazel? ThatÓs never worked!Ñ

The bent aluminum pot on HazelÓs rickety stove rattled as its contents

boiled. The bright afternoon sun managed to peek through the drapes of both

her apartment windows, shining on the old mayonnaise jars resting in her

windowsill. SheÓd never been able to afford the expensive glass flagons she

should have been using to store her potions.

Grasping the metal handle with a potholder to stop the rattling, Hazel took a

tentative sniff of her brew. She wrinkled her nose, but gritted her teeth in

determination, wanting only to complete this spell even if it did stink.

Horribly.

Hazel gave her best friend, Irene, an exasperated look. ÐNothing else has,

either. Do you have a better idea?Ñ

Irene snorted. ÐJust donÓt pull out the eye of newt or IÓm outta here.Ñ

ÐBubble, bubble, toil and troubleÈÑ Hazel paused. ÐWhat comes next?Ñ

Irene threw up her hands. ÐItÓs no wonder your spells donÓt work.Ñ

ÐHey, they work. Just not like theyÓre supposed to.Ñ Hazel wanted to be

indignant, but couldnÓt manage the effort. Irene was right, to a point. ÐNow,

are you going to make fun of me, or help me?Ñ

ÐAs much as IÓd love to help you, Hazel, I donÓt know anything about

witchcraft.Ñ

Hazel sighed. ÐThatÓs okay, Irene. Neither do I.Ñ

They looked at each other a moment, then both started to giggle.

ÐOh, well.Ñ Irene hugged her life-long friend with one arm as she picked up

her coat from a nearby chair with the other. ÐAt least you didnÓt turn Mrs.

Johnson into a goat again. ItÓs a damn good thing she didnÓt remember what

happened or sheÓd have you locked up.Ñ

ÐDonÓt I know it! That woman already thinks they should kick me out of this

apartment building simply because IÓm forty years younger than everyone

here.Ñ

ÐWell.Ñ Irene grinned wickedly. ÐNot everyone .Ñ

Hazel groaned. ÐYou could have gone all day without mentioning him .Ñ

ÐYouÓre the one who said he was a hunk.Ñ

ÐSure. But you didnÓt have to tell him I said it.Ñ

Irene held up her hands in mock defense. ÐI only stated the facts as they

pertained to the moment.Ñ

ÐBut that wasnÓt all you told him. Was it.Ñ Hazel made that last a statement.

They both knew she had told the tall, dark, and oh-my-God handsome Drake

Cole more about Hazel than she should have. At least, from HazelÓs point of

view. SheÓd met Drake at the wedding of her friends, Laura and Jake, and

heÓd taken a permanent residence in her fantasies from that point on.

ÐHe seemed to take it in stride.Ñ

IreneÓs innocent look didnÓt fool Hazel for a moment. ÐHe thinks IÓm a

blooming idiot, thanks to you.Ñ Hazel pouted. ÐAnd I really wanted to jump

his bones. Now --Ñ She sighed dramatically. ÐI guess IÓll just have to slip

him this love potion I was making for your hamsters.Ñ

ÐWhy not just cast a spell that makes him forget I told him you were a

witch?Ñ Irene deadpanned. They both knew Hazel couldnÓt ÐcastÑ her way

out of a paper bag.

ÐI would, if I wasnÓt afraid IÓd completely erase his memory.Ñ Hazel sighed.

They joked about it, but it was a very real concern to her. Her spells always

worked. But sometimes what she got and what she intended werenÓt in the

same ballpark. Or the same universe, for that matter.

Irene hugged her sympathetically. ÐOh, honey. I would never have said

anything to hurt you on purpose. It was LauraÓs wedding reception and sheÓd

filled me up with champagne. I suppose my tongue ran away from my

brain.Ñ

ÐNow, thereÓs a mental image.Ñ

They both laughed.

ÐI have to go.Ñ Irene picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and

opened the door. ÐIÓll try to make things right with Drake. He knows I was

tipsy. It shouldnÓt be hard.Ñ

ÐThanks, but no.Ñ Hazel held the door for her friend. ÐIf he canÓt accept me

being a witch, then I didnÓt need him to begin with.Ñ

Irene winked at her. ÐIt would be fun to have a romp in the hay with him,

though. Admit it, Hazel. The manÓs hot!Ñ

Hazel fanned herself. ÐOh, heÓs definitely that!Ñ

ÐSee you later. Are we still on for the Halloween party?Ñ

ÐI guess. As long as IÓm back by midnight. IÓm going to try a spell thatÓs

supposed to draw its power from the Witching Hour on Halloween night.

That way, maybe I wonÓt mess it up with my weird energy.Ñ

ÐOkie dokie. IÓll pick you up at six.Ñ

ÐSee you tonight.Ñ

Hazel Montgomery closed the door and walked to the kitchen of her small,

but homey, apartment. Okay, homey was probably too kind a word. Maybe it

was just crowded. It consisted of two rooms, one that tripled as a

kitchen/living room/bedroom, and a bathroom. Her sofa pulled out into a

bed, and there was one recliner. She didnÓt have room for anything else other

than a coffee table, but it was still hers.

Sort of. She paid $350 a month for the tiny thing, but it was hers as long as

she paid the rent. As long as she had her own place, she could explore the

magic she was trying so hard to master.

So far, she was failing miserably at it.

Taking a deep breath, Hazel closed her eyes and cleared her mind. When she

opened them, she stared intently at the aluminum pot of boiling herb mixture

on her stove.

ÐBubble, bubble, toil and troubleÈÑ She sprinkled a pinch of red pepper

into the mixture and tried to add a few drops of peanut oil, only she sneezed

and missed the pot. The hot burner flamed when the oil splattered onto the

coil and singed her arm. She pulled back with a yelp. Oh, well. If it hadnÓt

exploded now, it probably would have later. She muttered under her breath

as she ran cold water over her arm.

Being a witch wasnÓt supposed to be this hard!

Hazel filled a goblet with the liquid and looked at her ÐwitchÓs brewÑ before

setting it on the coffee table. She wrinkled her nose. It stank. Okay, so it was

positively rank . She pulled a tendril of her jet-black hair to her nose. Pee

euw !

She needed a bath. Desperately.

After cleaning up the mess in her kitchen, Hazel headed to the bathroom.

Stretching as she went, she didnÓt watch where she was going and tripped

over her shoe -- which she had kicked off and left in the middle of the floor -

- and hit the little table with her knee before she fell. Grabbing at anything

she could to try to break her fall, she knocked the foul-smelling stuff off into

her lap. She gave another sharp yelp and pulled her white dress away from

her body. Thank goodness there wasnÓt much of it, and it had cooled

somewhat.

Oh, God! That smelled awful !

She had just gotten to her feet when someone knocked on the door. Thinking

it was Irene -- the woman always forgot something -- Hazel simply flung

open the door as she picked up the goblet from the floor. When she stood,

she got the surprise of her life.

When Drake Cole heard HazelÓs scream, followed by a thump and another

shriek, he decided he should check it out. The phenomenal part was he was

in his own apartment, in his bedroom with the door shutÈ two floors up.

Being a werewolf had its advantages.

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