Fae Witch Chronicles Books 1 - 3 Read online

  REALMS OF GHOSTS AND MAGIC

  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

  REALMS OF MIST AND ASH

  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

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  REALMS OF FIRE AND SHADOW

  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

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright © 2021 J.S. Malcom

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  REALMS OF GHOSTS AND MAGIC

  J.S Malcom

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  When the fae beckon, very few resist their call. Even fewer return.

  As a veil witch, I’m used to taking out the supernatural trash. Everything from poltergeists to vampires, you name it and I’ve dealt with it. So opening a paranormal cleanup business just seemed to make sense. If I’m already dealing with the pests, why not get paid?

  But when I accidentally breach the faerie realm to see a girl recently reported missing, start encountering the ghost of a witch whose disappearance has never been solved, and discover a Book of Shadows that opens only for me, I can't just go back to business as usual. Especially when I also gain the interest of a sexy and mysterious mage. Timing is everything, and even as my desire grows, a little voice inside keeps reminding me to step carefully. I know all too well that, in the supernatural world, opening doors means facing consequences. In this case, those consequences might just mean never being heard from again.

  CHAPTER 1

  I hesitate before knocking on the door of the old brick townhouse. It's not fear that makes me pause. More than likely, I’ll just be dealing with a ghost and they don't scare me. Hell, half the time they want to leave every bit as much as they're wanted gone. Instead, it's the realization that I forgot my pepper spray. I have no idea, really, who will answer the door.

  Well, I mean, I know his name is Dean Richardson. And I know he got my number from the flier I put up at Grimoire. Still, anyone can tear off a little paper tab and make a phone call. Anyone can say their house is haunted. On the other hand, only an idiot would agree to meet with a total stranger. At night. Alone. Right, I’m the idiot.

  I remind myself that Dean Richardson sounded fine on the phone. And, right now, the hairs don’t stand up on the back of my neck. I feel no sense of threat or looming danger. I may not have a psychic sense quite as keen as my sister’s, but I'm not without survival instincts. Besides, a girl's gotta eat and the rent is due next week. And life is never without risks. So, I knock on the door and hope for the best.

  A few moments pass before I hear footsteps. A man says, “Who is it?”

  Actually, he sounds nervous too, but that’s probably a good sign. After all, living with a paranormal entity typically has that effect.

  “Cassie,” I say. “I'm here about the cleaning.”

  I wasn’t sure what to call my new business, so I decided on “supernatural cleaning service.” Even for a flier tacked to a bulletin board in a “new age” bookstore, it seemed like a good idea to go subtle. I wasn't sure if advertising “demon removal” or “evil entity ejection” might raise too many eyebrows. After all, half the population doesn’t even believe in ghosts, never mind the other intruders trespassing in this realm. And it wasn’t like I could afford a marketing team. Provided I survive getting my business off the ground, I can always work on my branding later.

  The door creaks open, an eyeball peeks out and a chain slides back. Dean Richardson opens the door to reveal himself as looking pretty much what he sounded like on the phone. White guy, forties, short hair and glasses. A businessman, basically, although he must either be into new age stuff or be somehow connected with the witch community if he saw my flier. My guess is he used to be a new-ager, with sage burning and crystal healing hidden somewhere in his past.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says.

  “Sure, no problem.” I step inside and look around.

  From what I can see, it’s a basic old Richmond townhouse. A staircase starts to my right leading the way upstairs, although it hooks left after a few steps so I can’t see past the corner. Beyond the little bit of hallway, there’s a living room with hardwood floors, devoid of furniture at the moment. Past that, there’s a dining room featuring a dated light fixture, and beyond that no doubt the kitchen. But what I see isn’t really what matters. It’s what I feel. Not good. My skin tingles with irritation, and I fight the urge to scratch as an edginess starts to build. Shit, it’s not a ghost. It can’t be. Still, I decide there’s no point in going there just yet.

  “So, tell me what’s going on.” I adopt what I hope sounds like the tone of an experienced paranormal professional.

  Dean raises his eyebrows, then blows out a puff of air. “Well, like I said on the phone, I’m kind of at a loss. I bought the place six months ago. Investment property, basically. Since then, I’ve had three tenants. All of them thought it worth breaking their lease to get out of here.”

  “Did they say why?”

  He shakes his head. “They didn’t say anything. They just left. Fast. In case you were
wondering, I chose not to litigate.”

  Definitely not a good sign. Most of the time, people don’t even notice ghosts, and those that do often aren’t all that bothered. I suspect that’s because the same ability allowing certain people to see ghosts brings with it the sense that ghosts are just people who’ve passed away. On the other hand, pretty much no one can live with demons, and you wouldn’t want to meet those who feel differently. I’ve met a few and it didn’t go well.

  “What do you think your tenants might have experienced?”

  Dean shakes his head. “I’m not sure.”

  “But you said you think the place might be haunted. Have you seen a ghost?”

  Dean averts his eyes. “Not exactly. But I have, well…”

  His words trail off and I wait for him to resume. He doesn’t.

  “Had some bad experiences?” I say. Which, of course, he’s hesitant to admit, since he still tried to rent the place out. I get it.

  Apparently, Dean decides that the best course is to keep things moving. “So, how does this work, exactly? Do you, like, bring in a team?”

  That he thinks I might need a team doesn’t give me the best feeling. But, what the hell, I’m here. I shake my head. “No team. Just me.”

  This seems to stop him. “No special equipment?”

  I know what he means, of course. Like in Ghostbusters. You have to love the concepts of those movies, with all of those electronic gizmos for detecting paranormal intruders and sucking them up into convenient little traps. So cute.

  “Nope, just me,” I say again.

  Dean studies me dubiously, which is somewhat understandable given that, at five-four and a hundred and twenty pounds, there’s not all that much of me. Also, like my sister, Autumn, I look ten years younger than I am. That’s a veil witch thing, we’ve come to realize, one of the traits shared by those of us capable of ejecting paranormal trespassers from our realm. Another is a certain level of immunity to the toxins involved in taking out the supernatural trash. While we can get hurt, we can't die. At least for a certain period of time. Apparently, that aspect can change without warning. Comforting.

  But Dean doesn’t know anything about veil witches. And, right now, I can understand why it might not be reassuring for him to be standing across from someone who looks like a raven-haired teenager.

  He frowns, confused. “Are you psychic or something?”

  “Or something.”

  Dean cocks his head, and I can see where this is going. He expected more explanation. I get that too, but I’m not about to tell him that I’m basically the human equivalent of a supernatural guard dog. I think it’s safe to assume that the concept would be lost on anyone other than my fellow witches.

  “So, payment,” I say.

  Dean brings his eyes back to mine. “Two hundred, right?”

  Yep, definitely a businessman. “Three,” I say. “Cash, please.”

  It’s not like I didn’t tell him that up front, but Dean looks reluctant. Sure, he expected a van with a nifty logo, a team in coveralls and high-tech gizmos. Instead, he got me.

  “How will I know—”

  “You’ll know. Plus, there’s the money back guarantee.” I flash him a smile.

  I threw the “money back guaranteed” part into the fine print of my ad, although I have to admit I was winging it there. After all, one could easily claim that nothing changed even if I knew otherwise. And it’s not like I could re-haunt the house again. At least, I don’t think I could. I’ve never tried. But it’s a new business. Really new. As in, Dean is my first client, but I’m not about to tell him that either.

  A few moments pass as Dean considers his options. Which are basically zero, so I’m not bothered. The fact that my skin has gone from tingling to crawling tells me he’s got a serious problem on his hands. A problem that I seriously doubt a psychic could deal with. Add to that, I can’t imagine one being dumb enough to try. Any true psychic would steer clear. So, Dean has me or no one, and he needs tenants or he’s going to be carrying the mortgage on an empty townhouse.

  Finally, he opens his wallet and hands me three one-hundred dollar bills. Sweet. I slip the cash into my pocket.

  “So, what now?” he says.

  I step back and open the door. “Now, it’s on me. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  He opens his mouth to speak again, but then thinks better of it. His cash is gone, either way, and he needs a problem solved. I close the door behind him and get ready for my first day of supernatural freelance work.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sniffing out a ghost usually isn’t very difficult. They’re habitual beings. Way more habitual, in fact, than their living counterparts. As a rule, ghosts tend to repeat a certain set of actions every day. That differs from ghost to ghost, of course. Some walk from kitchen to dining room every evening at sunset like clockwork. Some appear in bathroom mirrors every morning. Some hang out in a particular room, almost never leaving. There’s always a reason for these actions, although most of the time we can’t know what those are. A trauma, a memory, a longing. Each case is different.

  I’ve been observing ghosts for a long time now. In fact, since I was a child. Our old house held the ghost of a woman who spent most of her time gazing out from my parents’ bedroom window. My parents remained completely unaware of her, as did my sister, who hadn’t yet learned to see ghosts. I tried telling my family a few times, about that ghost and others, but they didn’t take me seriously. So, eventually I kept things to myself.

  Then, when I was eleven, I became something of a ghost myself. As far as the “normal” world was concerned, I went missing. Just another kid nabbed for whatever reason, presumably by some deranged whacko. I’d been with my sister at the time, at a neighborhood park in the evening, so Autumn had been the only witness. Although, she wasn’t much of a witness, given that all she could recall was a vague memory of having seen flickering lights. A few conspiracy theorists chalked that up to a UFO encounter. Most, including the police, attributed my sister’s hazy memory to trauma. She’d been barely thirteen at the time, I’d been entrusted to her care, and somehow I’d been abducted right in front of her. It made sense to the professionals that my sister’s crushing sense of guilt would distort her memories.

  As far as the paranormal world was concerned, they assumed that my sister’s particular brand of hazy memory could only mean one thing, that her mind had been paralyzed by the Vamanec P’yrin. And that it was the Vamanec P’yrin who’d taken me. Which was true. Well, one member of that body snatcher tribe, in particular. Opal, a first-class supernatural bitch who’d been hoping to tap into my veil witch magic while I was still young, pliable, and not yet aware of my own ability to end her existence. What Opal hadn’t banked on was a defense mechanism unique to veil witches. Namely, the ability to escape my own body before she locked me in as a prisoner with her in the driver’s seat. That’s one of the Vamanec P’yrin’s particularly nasty tricks. They call it “occupying the host.”

  That’s when I became a ghost. Well, something like a ghost, in that I entered a state of non-physical existence. Until I came upon Julia, a girl whose pronounced psychic abilities allowed for me to take refuge within her. She was just a kid at the time herself, even younger than me, but she literally took me in, hosting my consciousness alongside her own. In a sense, I became physical again, as the two of us shared one body. Needless to say, my adolescent years were bumpier than most.

  Years later, when I finally got my body back, my sister thought I couldn’t see ghosts anymore. The truth was, I just refused to see them for a while. After being one myself, I was just sick of the vaporous little fuckers. As a group, they’re pretty pathetic. Hanging on when no one wants them around anymore. Obsessed with what could have been, should have been, or what happened in the past. Kind of like ex-boyfriends who can walk through walls. Ghosts just got on my nerves. Besides, I had way more important supernatural ass to kick.

  These days, I’ve come full circle. I
see ghosts pretty much everywhere. Like ex-boyfriends, once you open the door and let them back in, you’re pretty much screwed. But as I explore Dean Richardson’s townhouse, the still increasing sense of irritation rippling through my body confirms that I’m not dealing with a ghost. Now, I just have to figure out what the hell I am dealing with, since I have no intention of having my first customer invoke my money-back guarantee.

  A quick check of the downstairs shows the floor plan to be pretty much as I expected. Living room, dining room, and kitchen, where there’s another staircase. This one goes down. Shit. There’s a basement. Despite all the supernatural freakiness I’ve faced off against, basements in old houses always give me the creeps. Nothing good hangs out in dark, musty places like that. And I don’t mean spiders, cockroaches and rats. Compared to some of the things I’ve seen, I’ll opt for cuddling up with those guys any time.

  Despite certain physical signals compelling me downward, I head up. Maybe I’m wrong, I try to convince myself. Maybe whatever is hanging out in this house doesn’t prefer a place of perpetual darkness. And maybe it’s just my cheap laundry detergent irritating my skin. Yeah, right. Still, I opt for denial, telling myself I’m just being thorough.

  The second floor shows itself to be freshly painted and clean, as I walk from room to room flicking on lights. Despite the quick departures of recent tenants, no damage has been sustained. In fact, the only wear and tear shows itself in the scuff marks left on the restored wood of the hallway floor. The feeling I get is that no one stayed long enough to leave much of a trace. The third floor, where there’s just one more bedroom, a sitting room and a bathroom, looks basically the same. I stand in the sitting room, sighing and looking at the window, where the gleam of a streetlight reminds me that it’s night and I’m stuck here until I figure this mess out.

  The icy chill suddenly rippling up my spine also reminds me that I’m not alone. Well, that and the darkened window suddenly fogging up, where writing appears as if traced by an invisible finger. You will die here tonight.

  Oh, wow. Special effects. A nice touch. I can see why Dean Richardson’s tenants didn’t leave any picture hooks on the walls. They probably never unpacked. I tell myself I’m not scared as I trudge back down the stairs. So, it’s going to be the cellar. Perfect. Okay, I lied to myself a little. I’m kind of scared. Who wouldn’t be? To bolster my conviction, I pat the crisp bills in my pocket and keep going.