Tarot witch, p.1
Tarot Witch, page 1
Haunted Witch
A Seashell Cove Paranormal Mystery
T. Thorn Coyle
For my Kickstarter supporters.
May one thousand blessings rain upon your life.
Copyright © 2021
T. Thorn Coyle
PF Publishing
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Cover Art and Design
by T. Thorn Coyle & PF Publishing
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Editing: Dayle Dermatis
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Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-946476-28-9
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.
Welcome to Seashell Cove, where the waves are treacherous, and the inhabitants are… strange.
1
It was a beautiful spring day in Seashell Cove, which meant light rain with intermittent sun, and a temperature of sixty-five-degrees Fahrenheit. My spirits were up, and breakfast with my boyfriend, Stefon, had only improved things.
The bookstore was fairly busy, even for a Sunday afternoon. About six people browsed the stacks or were tucked into reading chairs scattered here and there beneath windows or in lamplit corners.
The Widening Gyre is the reason I returned to Seashell Cove after going to college up in Portland. It’s the family shop, and with both of my parents gone now, the tiny palace of books is all mine. Well, mine and Rhiannon’s, the black cat currently blinking green eyes at me from the long wood countertop.
Well…mine, Rhiannon’s, and Biff the ghost’s. Biff has been here longer than any of us, and owned the shop when he was alive. He died when I was a little kid, and the photos he took of Seashell Cove from the 1960s through the 1990s still hung on the walls in between the wooden bookshelves he’d made by hand back in the day.
The bookshelves had been gleaming in the sun for the past half hour. The golden sheen also graced the current indie author bestsellers display on the bookshelves closest to the door, lighting up the bright covers.
Hopefully it would help sell a few.
My name is Sarah Endora Braxton—name a deliberate misspelling of the Stevie Nicks song—and the less we say about my middle name, the better. The only person who uses it is my honorary uncle, Cyrus, and then only when he’s feeling particularly exasperated. Luckily, strange and magical Seashell Cove had been quiet since the winter excitement and I’d been determined to settle into my witch studies, so Uncle Cyrus was currently pretty happy with me.
All in all, life was good. Add in a little sunshine and a cup of tea? I was one happy Sarah.
On spring days like this one, I could barely contain a hum of contentment. Smiling, I reached for my fourth mug of tea for the day as Rhiannon cocked her head and sneezed.
Onto my hand.
Into my mug.
Oh well, the tea needed refreshing, anyway.
“Thanks a lot, Rhiannon,” I said, reaching for a tissue from the box beneath the counter to wipe my fingers.
She just licked her whiskers and ignored me, turning her whole body to face the front of the shop, as if trying to decide if a spot of window sun was in her immediate future. I couldn’t blame her.
May in our quirky little town on the Oregon coast is a sweet time. With the intermittent sun and light rain blessing the earth, the gnomes and other fae spirits in charge of gardens were all lively and happy. The chaneques—Mexican fae beings—were working hard in the garden of the Vargas’s tamale shop next door. I could hear the digging of their little shovels and their small boots stomping about.
It was also a good time for all the shops on Main Street, because folks were out and about again. Not only were the locals happy with the weather, which increased foot traffic, but the early tourists had begun to arrive.
After the events of January, I needed a sweet time. I had finally recovered from the murder of the dryad and was past the phase of testing and ordeals at the hands of whatever super-secret witchy-warlock counsel Uncle Cyrus was part of. Turns out, every witch or warlock went through that around age twenty-eight.
My testing turned out to be less than ordinary in that they sent someone with a vendetta against my parents who really, really wanted to kill me for some reason.
But, you know, water under the bridge. Right?
Oh, added to that was taking up the mantle of Justice left by my parents, which was not a job I’d ever wanted. I had watched it take its toll on my dad, and plus, it turned out that work had been partially to blame for my mother’s death. Cyrus couldn’t prove it, but it seemed pretty clear.
But…the powers that be had decided I had avoided my destiny long enough.
Some people, it turns out, can dodge their destinies for quite some time. Not witches. Once you reached a certain age—in my case, the tolling bell of my first Saturn Return at, you guessed it, age twenty-eight—time was simply up. Around that time, a person had to face down their destiny and decide who was in charge. Otherwise, things tended to not go very well.
Believe me, I decided pretty quickly that me being in charge of my own destiny was a much better deal than the other way around.
So here I was, proprietor of The Widening Gyre, New and Used Books and Fancies. I was also a hereditary witch, and what passed for a magical detective around these parts.
At least I had help with that. My uncle Cyrus had semi-permanently moved back to the area. Well, Portland, which was closer to Seashell Cove than Paris. And I was settling into my routine, trying to make the bookstore a success, and spending more time with Stefon than I used to. I finally realized how much I’d grown to count on him for support. Not only was he tall, dark, and handsome, he was also quite literally my knight in shining armor. He’d stood at my side during the magical battle to take down the sorcerer responsible for the death of the dryad and my mother, despite not having any magic himself.
It didn’t take long after that to give in to what had been building between us.
And by give in, I mean tell that handsome knight that I loved him. Let’s just say that Valentine’s Day was extra-special. Like, dancing-unicorn-and-glittery-twenty-sided-dice special.
But as I said, on the magic front, things had been blessedly quiet. That gave me a chance to practice my witchy skills in a more leisurely fashion. And to focus on the bookstore, which, despite the day’s customers, still needed some help.
“But we’re doing a little bit better, aren’t we, Rhiannon?”
The shop cat didn’t deign to reply. With bright green eyes and a mind of her own, Rhiannon could run the place if she wasn’t so lazy. She yawned at me from her perch on the desktop where I was packaging up shipments to head out with the parcel service. Speaking of which, I really need to finish it up. The driver would be arriving soon.
I heard a gasp, and a whispered “Stop it! Be serious!” from the back of the store. Tracy and Tabitha were doing their usual Sunday afternoon browse in the paranormal/occult section. They were two teenagers I met on their winter break from school, and once they found out that not only was I a witch, but that the bookstore had its own ghost, they’d been haunting the stacks every week.
So far, all Biff had done was throw a couple of books on the floor when the teens were around, but that seemed to be enough for them. It didn’t take much to keep spooky teenagers happy, and I knew that firsthand.
I had been one myself.
If I’d stayed in Portland, I might’ve even maintained more of my Goth sensibilities, but in a sleepy town like Seashell Cove? Where you need to wear fleece and sensible boots for the bulk of the year? Pretty much everyone just succumbed to what I called “Basic Pacific Northwest,” which was a uniform of jeans, sweaters, and heavy rain jackets in shades that ranged from forest green to navy to burgundy for the more daring. Oh, and either rain or rugged hiking boots for the practical, though the hiking boots are special-ordered black in if you’re a person like myself.
I weighed and stamped the final package, and stacked up the orders in neat piles at the end of the counter, ready and waiting for the parcel pick-up truck.
The shop door slammed opened, sending the bells clanging. Rhiannon hissed, tail swishing at the disturbance.
In burst the newest resident of Seashell Cove, tan trench coat fluttering around his too-big jeans and battered sneakers. Chip Lancaster, camera phone aloft, had a very determined look on his face.
It was a look I’d unfortunately grown used to. I did not like it one bit.
“Sarah Braxton! The citizens of Seashell Cove demand answers!”
2
I bit back a startled growl.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Chip swooped close enough for me to see the bleeding corners of his fingernails where he must have been biting hangnails. I danced and dodged behind the counter, trying to avoid that dang camera phone.
Chip Lancaster was a self-styled independent journalist and blogger or VideoTube-er, or TokTok-er, or whatever the heck people were using these days. I avoided social media like the plague, much to the dismay of the teenagers who really wanted me to “put the store on the map” and rolled their eyes when I objected, accusing me of being old.
Considering my actual age, I had to admit, that stung.
Chip had barged in a month back, insisting the public had a right to know about Biff.
&nbs
But today, it was just me, and the still-browsing customers who hadn’t yet been alerted to the disturbance in the air.
“Sarah Braxton, do you have any comments?”
I held up my right hand.
My casting hand.
“Stop right there, Chip. And put down your camera. I already told you I don’t know a person named Biff.”
The fact that I knew a ghost named Biff was beside the point. I mean, some people would argue that ghosts still have personhood, yada yada, but I wasn’t going to split those hairs. The ghost was a ghost, and if saying I didn’t know any people named Biff kept Chip out of the bookstore, my small prevarication was fine with me.
He leaned even closer, looming across the counter despite my protestation, still waving the camera phone around in a menacing fashion.
Chip was one of those early-twenty-something white kids who—in a place that wasn’t Seashell Cove—would’ve been a barista, or a skateboarder, or something more useful to society than whatever he was.
I mean, I have a lot of friends who went to art school—my ex-girlfriend Cecilia among them—and I’m not one to squash other people’s dreams. I even think that journalism is still important, indie journalism included. Folks who put themselves out there to cover right wing protests at the state capitol? I had nothing but respect for their efforts.
But that wasn’t Chip.
With his sandy, unkempt hair and pasty skin, face slightly bloated from copious amounts of salt and sugar, Chip was one of those basement-dwelling annoyances that I wasn’t predisposed to think too kindly of. He was some weird cross between a self-styled journalist and one of those old-fashioned paranormal investigator type cranks that used to have late night radio shows back when I was still a kid.
Come to think of it, those cranks should have swarmed Seashell Cove and never did. I would have to ask Uncle Cyrus about that. I bet my parents had something to do with maintaining a bubble of protection around Seashell Cove. I mean, people came for the super-haunted Historic Kelpie Inn up the highway, but that was sold as all in good fun, kind of like the McMinnville UFO Festival.
It wasn’t supposed to be serious.
The fact that Chip’s seriously obnoxious self got through meant those protections must be fraying.
I gave an internal sigh and added “reinforce Seashell Cove wards” to my growing list of tasks. Though how one went about protecting a whole town, I had not a clue.
“This isn’t about Biff,” Chip sputtered, eyes gleaming dangerously, “though I still think you’re lying about the ghost. Everyone knows your shop is haunted.”
Once again, I tried to dodge the camera, but he just kept coming. Rhiannon arched her back and hissed again, giving the camera a swipe before leaping from the counter to barrel towards the back of the shop.
Chip yelped and stuck his stuck a finger in his mouth.
“Your cat drew blood,” he said. “If get some strange disease, you’re paying for it.”
A few customers poked their heads out from between the stacks, trying to figure out what the commotion was about. I heard the pitter-patter of sneakered feet, and sure enough, here came the teenagers.
Tabitha and Tracy.
“Do you need help?” Tabitha asked, hands on her hips. An Asian teen with dark hair cut into a bob, today she wore maroon boots, dark gray jeans, and a long maroon sweater topped with a striped scarf. Her best friend and counterpart, Tracy, was a blond, peaches-and-cream white girl also in jeans, but hers were black, and her oversized sweater was a pale blue that matched her eyes.
Her witch of a mother had the same blond hair and blue eyes.
And by witch of a mother, I mean, it turned out Tracy’s mother, Carol, was actually a witch like me.
I found that out when we faced down the sorcerer who everyone thought had just been sent to test me, and she had. But she also came to Seashell Cove with another agenda and was currently serving time planting three thousand trees to recompense for the killing of a dryad.
“I don’t need any help, but thanks,” I replied. “Chip here was just leaving.”
“I am not! I demand to know. My public demands…”
Tabitha stepped forward, Tracy right behind her, arms crossed over their chests.
“You’re making an awful lot of demands, mister,” Tracy said.
Chip paused and puffed up his chest. “That’s because I’m a journalist. And as a journalist I have a right to know what’s happening in Seashell Cove.”
“So what is happening?” Tabitha asked.
“There’s been a murder at The Kelpie Inn.” He turned to me and pointed. “And I think you know all about it.”
“Human, fae, or something else?”
It was a question I had to ask, because you just never knew in Seashell Cove. There were some seriously weird beings living in and around the town.
“Human,” he spat out, phone still waving in the air.
I’d had enough of that. “Can I see your phone?” I held out my hand.
“What? No!”
He feinted toward me, and then jerked away, just as Tabitha and Tracy flanked him. Tracy bumped his hip as Tabitha reached in and grabbed for the shiny object.
Chip yelped and fumbled the slippery phone, sending it skittering across the hardwood floor.
I dove around the counter, hand reaching for the phone just as his reached, too. Our foreheads smacked in some weird slapstick moment, just as the magic in my right hand loosed itself and zapped his still-filming phone.
The scent of fried electronics joined the smell of books, lemon wood polish, and tea.
“You broke my phone!”
I hadn’t intended on it, but clearly my subconscious felt otherwise. I gave an internal shrug.
Sometimes a witch has to do what a witch has to do.
“Cool!” Tabitha exclaimed. “Did you see that?” She turned to Tracy. The other teen stood very still, mouth hanging open as if she had just seen some amazing feat.
Well, I guess she had, but after the big battle they witnessed when we took down the sorcerer, me zapping someone’s phone hardly seemed like cause for excitement.
“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Tracy murmured.
“That makes two of us,” I replied. I studiously ignored the other customers who seemed split between standing slack-jawed like Tracy or pretending that nothing strange had just happened.
Uncle Cyrus would not be pleased. My using magic inadvertently like that was a problem. And using it in front of civilians? Even worse.
But that was a problem for another day. Right now, I had to deal with a sputtering Chip Lancaster.
“I can’t believe you broke my phone!” the intrepid citizen reporter moaned, scrambling on the floor as if picking up bits of shattered electronics.
Picking up pieces of his dignity, more like, because other than a slight crack in the screen I couldn’t see anything else wrong with the device, though he cradled it as if it were a wounded bird.
He glared at me. “You owe me a phone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one who barged in here, pointing that thing in my face when I asked you not to. And I didn’t drop the thing.”
No need to mention that little zap. Maybe the people who’d seen the magic would think they’d imagined the spark that shorted out Chip’s electronics.
One could hope.
Chip drew himself up in his trench coat, chin thrust into the air like Napoleon. “I told you, I am a journalist.”
“I don’t think so,” Tracy muttered.
He whirled to glare at her. “Who are you?”
“Okay. Stop,” I said, before he could get into it with the teens. “Everybody calm down.”
I snapped my fingers. “Chip.”
He looked at me, eyes startled. Did I see a flash of fear?
“What do you know?” I asked him.
