Crazy as a loon yard bir.., p.1
Crazy as a Loon (Yard Birds Book 1), page 1
CRAZY AS A LOON
HAILEY EDWARDS
Copyright © 2023 Black Dog Books, LLC
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Sasha Knight
Copy Edited by Kimberly Cannon
Proofread by Lillie's Literary Services
Cover by Damonza
CONTENTS
Crazy as a Loon
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Join the Team
About the Author
Also by Hailey Edwards
CRAZY AS A LOON
Yard Birds, Book 1
Ellie Gleason has protected the town of Samford, Alabama for decades. It’s not as glamours as her glory days as the WitchLight Hub, but it keeps her active during her golden years.
Life is good.
Well, it’s okay.
Fine.
It could be bloodier with a smidge more gore, but retirement is meant to be low-key. It’s not like her fragile bones could handle the strenuous hunt for monsters, even if her current duties are dull as dishwater.
But when her great-nephew shows up on her doorstep in tears—or is he her great-great nephew?—begging for help, Ellie straps on her beloved shotgun, Bam-Bam, and gets the coven back together.
Sure, Betty just had a hip replacement, and Flo would rather flirt than fight, and Ida is busy with her anniversary plans, and Joan is…Joan. But Ellie is certain she can whip the girls into shape in time to defeat the creature preying on kids at a nearby summer camp. She might even have them home in time for dinner.
CHAPTER ONE
If I had a dime for every time a piskie infestation ruined my Sunday afternoon plans with a blender and a margarita mix, I wouldn’t have to clip coupons from the weekly sales flyer. Come spring, the weather got warm enough to thaw their wings, and they descended like locusts on gardens within a three-mile radius of their underground hive. Worse, they were ovoviviparous, and females birthed fully self-reliant piskets every single place they fed during that first week. The only thing harder to kill than piskies were roaches.
And that made me a glorified exterminator.
Welcome to retirement, old girl.
For eighty years, I hunted the most dangerous paranormal creatures to prowl the night as a Witchlight Hub, but there was a reason why other agencies called us WitchLite. Without each other, we were about as useless as tits on a bull.
“Ellie.”
“Why do we bother?” I kicked a fallen tomato cage. “The little pests always come back twice as hungry.”
Piskies were barely the height of a pinkie finger and resembled Tinkerbell, except for the needlelike teeth, red eyes, razor-sharp claws, and…well…I guess they didn’t much resemble Tinkerbell after all.
Give me a kraken to wrestle, a griffin to ride, a manticore to defang. Not this penny-ante pest control.
“Ellie.”
Shelving memories of our glory days, I turned to find Ida on her knees beside a raised bed. “What?”
“Look.” Her orange-cream shirtwaist dress pooled around her. “Oh, Ellie, just look.”
“I know that tone.” Flo, whose expression had frozen in place decades ago, sashayed over to us. “Babies.”
Her disgust mirrored mine whenever I imagined her welcoming botulism injections to banish wrinkles.
“Already?” Betty, still recovering from hip replacement surgery after a boggart tripped her on the stairs at the library, picked her way across the uneven terrain with her walker. “Feed them to that stray Pastor Joe adopted.”
First swarm of the summer, and they had to go and target the Samford Baptist Church’s small garden.
“Is your memory that bad?” I scowled at the six piskets dozing under a lettuce leaf. “The fundraiser?”
“Oh.” Betty stepped over a shattered watermelon rind longer than my arm. “Yeah.”
“I don’t remember a fundraiser.” Ida sank back on her heels. “Did it happen during my cruise?”
Every year, Ida and her husband, Eli, cruised to the Bahamas for their anniversary.
Most of us were widows now, so we didn’t begrudge her the romantic getaway.
“The stray ate a litter of piskets.” I rubbed my thumb alongside my nose. “They didn’t agree with her.”
“The pastor decided she got in a fight with a tom, and we encouraged his notion.” Flo righted her pillbox hat. “I don’t know what possessed that cat. Piskie teeth are sharper than Betty’s tongue. The poor thing.” She adjusted the wisp of netting against her silver curls. “She required emergency surgery, which Colin paid for, but the congregation hosted a bake sale to pay us back.”
Colin Rourke preferred golf to Jesus, and more conservative parishioners took offense to his priorities.
But mostly, they resented Flo for taking the most eligible bachelor in Samford off the market.
Any chance to snub her, they took with glee. Not very Christian behavior, but Flo didn’t care.
Flo didn’t believe in getting mad. She believed in getting even. And she looked fabulous doing it.
“We need to hurry this along.” I checked the clunky gold watch my husband wore for forty years before I picked up the habit to feel closer to him. “Service begins in thirty minutes.”
“I would do the honors…” Flo extended her leg to flash her white pumps, “…but they’re new.”
“More Mew Mews?” Betty reached us with a grunt of effort. “How many pairs of shoes do you need?”
“The designer is Miu Miu.” Flo’s lips crimped in a hard line. “Though I would hardly expect someone who still hunts Pokémon to appreciate art.” She curled her lip at Betty’s black orthotic sneakers. “Or style.”
“I have grandkids.” Betty twisted and sat on her walker’s built-in seat. “Of course I catch Pokémon.”
“That app reminds me of our rookie year in Witchlight.” I cracked a smile. “Those were the days.”
Our handler, Walter Gleason, dumped us into a pond with a kelpie stallion on our first day.
The thing almost drowned Joan, broke two of Ida’s ribs, and dislocated Betty’s shoulder. Flo froze, and it was her or me. I threw myself in front of the charging beast, stuck to its gummy fur, and it hauled me under.
We passed the test on a technicality. I did catch it, as per our assignment, but it caught me right back. Had Wally been a hair slower, it would have drowned me and then eaten me.
“He’s coming.”
The four of us angled toward the flagstone path as Joan burst through the garden gate in a lather.
“Pastor Joe.” Her quilted purse thumped hard against her back. “He just left the pastorium.”
The small house provided for the pastor sat maybe a quarter acre from the church.
We didn’t have much time to handle this before he got here and started asking questions.
Good thing I favored orthotics with a nice chunky sole too.
A loud squelching noise caused the rest of my coven to whip their heads toward me.
“Problem solved.” I wiped pisket goop off on the trampled grass. “Who brought the lye?”
One look at my face and Betty burst out laughing. Even Flo allowed herself a modest chuckle.
Lord knows, we were a violent bunch. Practically a death squad in our heyday.
“Me.” Joan dug into her oversized bag. “It’s in here somewhere.”
Alkaline hydrolysis was our preferred method of body disposal, but it wasn’t easily achieved in the field. That was why we mixed up magically regulated batches to supply the heat and pressure for the reaction.
“Found it.” She tossed me a prescription bottle. “That’s the last of it.”
One good thing about getting old was all the free prescription pill bottles we recycled for spell storage. Sure, the containers were plastic and not glass. And those childproof lids gave Betty fits, but free was free. Plus, no one looked twice at a granny with a few bottles rattling around in the bottom of her purse. They were perfect camouflage.
“You know what that means?” Betty danced in her seat. “Margarita night at Ellie’s.”
Footsteps rang out on the flagstone path, and I dumped the chalklike powder over the pisket remains.
The five of us joined hands, power trickled into me from them, and I murmured words to ignite the spell.
In these rare moments, as borrowed magic swam in my veins, I felt young again. But all too soon, the remains reduced to goo, then to liquid, and seeped into the earth to fertilize the next food crop.
“Well, well, well.” Pastor Joe entered the garden dressed in a black suit with his hair parted just so. “If it isn’t five of my favorite parishioners.”
Joe Deckle was new to Samford, in his midsixties, and in possession of a full head of thick silver hair.
Both the wedding band he still wore, and the bible he always carried, worked like catnip on single ladies.
They screamed I am not afraid of commitment in a subtle way women our age appreciated in eligible men.
“Ellie, you’re looking lovely this fine morning.”
Part of my uniform as village kook entailed wearing a housecoat and slippers around town. I used to be a lot sadder about that, but then I took to carrying Bam-Bam everywhere I went as an accessory. When no one batted an eye, so long as I took pains to match my shotgun to my outfit, I decided I could live with it.
Better to be armed to the teeth than dressed to the nines, in my opinion.
“I showered.”
A snort blasted out of Betty’s nose. “Jesus, Ellie.”
The girls sucked in a collective gasp, but Pastor Joe just laughed under his breath.
“Jesus saves.” Betty folded her hands in her lap. “That’s what I meant to say.”
“I’m sure you…” His gaze slid past her to the garden. “What on God’s green earth?”
“Slugs.”
“Rabbits.”
“Deer.”
“Possums.”
“Tarantulas.”
That last one was Joan, so nobody blinked about her assertion there were vegetarian tarantulas with a hankering for fresh summer fruits.
“All at once?” He tried to make it a joke, but it fell flat. “The farmer’s market is in three weeks.”
The farmer’s market was seasonal at the church, and we did our part to ensure a bountiful harvest.
Proceeds got invested into community programs overseen by the church, which was as good a reason as any to pitch in. Leftovers were taken home by the congregation and used in meals that would then be delivered to the elderly and less fortunate. Those were also fine and noble things, but we weren’t either.
We founded a garden club, not only to get ahead of piskies, but to mix our special fertilizer into the soil.
The resulting fruits and vegetables didn’t hurt anyone, but they might leave folks open to suggestion.
That’s not a rock troll, it’s a hide-a-key.
That’s not a brownie, it’s a dirty mop.
That’s not a sprite, it’s a lost doll.
Knowing the sanctimonious pearl-clutchers who gave Flo such a hard time ate produce from mass piskie gravesites? It made my old and bitter heart rejoice. Just not enough to irritate my pacemaker.
“Colin would be happy to donate enough plants to replace the ones we’ve lost.” Flo anchored her hands on her slim hips, ready to take charge. “I’ll make a list after service and have them delivered tomorrow.”
“Thank you for your kindness and generosity.” Pastor Joe raked his fingers through his hair. “I regret this means we’ll have to cancel the farmer’s market this year. Perhaps I can get my brothers to come down.” His shoulders fell over the devastation. “We’ll need better fences to prevent this from happening again.”
Fences wouldn’t deter these flighty pests, but I couldn’t very well tell him that.
Guilt gnawed on me that I had failed in my duty, however insignificant it felt these days. Maybe that was the real problem. So little was expected of me, I struggled to hold myself up to my old standards. I didn’t put much effort into meeting an already low bar, and that wasn’t me.
The real me.
The old me.
Before I got, well, old.
“Maybe host an auction to sponsor individual plants or entire beds? Winners get their names engraved on a plaque on a stick? That way we replace what’s lost and the church earns some money for the fund.” I ignored the eye daggers Flo hurled at me for usurping her, but I fully intended to pass her the scepter. “I’m sure Flo would love to head up the committee.”
A handful of women would mortgage their houses to beat her out of pure spite, which she well knew.
She lived for excuses to goad them into competitions they couldn’t hope to win and couldn’t fuss openly about without showing an uncharitable spirit, since all proceeds went to the church and the community.
“That’s brilliant.” Paster Joe embraced me, his scent warm and woodsy. “We’re so lucky to have you.”
Awkwardly, I patted his back. “Yeah.”
Behind him, Betty rubbed her hands up her arms and made kissy faces.
I don’t know why she was my best friend. I should have let that kelpie finish the job the day we met.
“I’m happy to spearhead a committee.” Flo inserted herself. “I’ll spread the word after service.”
Pastor Joe smiled at her, deep wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes. “Thank you, Flo.”
Preening under his attention, she smoothed her hands over her hips. “You’re very welcome.”
“Ladies.” He held out his arm in a sweeping gesture. “Let’s go on in.”
Joan, who stood clutching her purse strap, smiled stiffer than some corpses I had seen.
Ida rose with the kind of grace you’re either born with, or you’re not, and dusted off her skirts.
Betty, draped in a flowing housedress that was more my usual style, grunted and pivoted in her walker.
Once assured his flock was ready to be shepherded, Pastor Joe led us down the path toward the church.
“He’s tougher to fool than poor old Father Orr was,” Betty murmured, bringing up the rear with me beside her. “He’s prettier, though.”
Father Orr suffered from dementia and moved to Wyoming to be near his children.
That was the official line. The truth was, he quit eating Samford grown veggies after his wife died and he had no one to cook for him. Without that dietary staple, he began remembering the strange happenings in our small Southern town since the coven relocated here fifty or so years ago.
We dosed him with a mild hallucinogen, drove him to the airport, and passed him into his sons’ care.
Seventy-two hours later, he was back to normal, but his kids didn’t believe a word out of his mouth.
For a while, he sent postcards to his former parishioners, warning them of evil spirits in our fair town.
Luckily, they didn’t believe a word out of his pen, and life went back to as normal as it ever got for us.
“He is rather handsome,” Flo agreed, a glint in her eye. “A widower too.”
“Oh, lord.” Betty clutched her chest. “Did y’all hear that?”
Heart tripping, I scanned the area for threats. “What?”
“A cougar yowling.” She dissolved into laughter. “Rawr.” She lost her breath. “Flo is on the prowl.”
“Better a cougar than a spinster.”
“Just because I never married doesn’t mean I’m a spinster.”
“That’s exactly what spinster means.”
“I aged out of that bracket at twenty-six.” Betty shook out her sleek gray bob. “I’m a thornback, baby.”
“A humpback more like,” Flo muttered under her breath. “You’ve always had horrendous posture.”
“Do you still qualify if you have children?” Joan pondered. “You have so many.”
“Only six.” Betty lost her footing, leaning hard on the walker as I steadied them both. “It’s grandkids that get you. I have fifteen of those and counting.” She huffed her thanks and kept going. “Men never did appeal to me. Women either. But kids? They’re the most fun you can have. And if you adopt paranormal kids, you never know what you’re going to get. It’s fantastic. Like Christmas. One day they’re this chubby toddler. The next, they’ve shifted into this whole new form that neither of you knows how to control.”
As an adoptee herself, taken in by a warg couple when she was one month old, Betty was a pack animal at heart and the foremost expert in mixed-species home placement for paranormal children.
“Oh, let Betty have her fun.” Ever the peacekeeper, Ida waded in. “She can be a thornback if she wants.”
