Brimstone and Broomsticks: Accidental Witches Book 1 Read online

  Brimstone and Broomsticks

  Accidental Witches Book 1

  Debra Dunbar

  Copyright © 2018 by Debra Dunbar

  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 author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Debra Dunbar

  Chapter 1

  Lucien

  “Here? Seriously?”

  I stared at the dilapidated building, at the flickering neon sign announcing the joint to be Pistol Pete’s, at the enormous oil stain in the parking space next to what I took to be the front door. When I’d told Charon to take me “anywhere”, I’d expected a swank club or a political fundraiser, or the middle of a gruesome battle, not a dime-beer bar in some rinky-dink town called Accident.

  “Don’t judge a drinking establishment by its paint-peeled siding,” he told me.

  I was totally judging this establishment. And the town. And by association all the residents. The only reason I wasn’t throttling Charon right now was because there’d been a strange zing of electricity we’d passed through about a mile down the road that had piqued my curiosity. Ley lines? Remnants from some arcane ritual? An old crossroad summoning?

  “I’m trusting you on this one, Charon,” I warned.

  The demon grinned. “Have fun. Call me when you’re ready to return to hell.”

  I fingered the coin in my pocket and nodded, assuming this was probably payback for something I’d done centuries ago. No one held a grudge like Charon. And no one would dare to stick it to me like this besides Charon either. Outside of being summoned or granted what amounted to a travel visa, he was my only ticket out of hell.

  And my only ticket back to hell.

  Charon laughed, the sound very much like nails on a chalkboard, then vanished, leaving me to either find something to entertain myself in this…Pistol Pete’s, or walk down what looked like a long road and hope to come across an orgy, or at the very least someone screwing a goat.

  I wasn’t into people screwing goats. Sacrificing a goat: yes. Screwing one: no. The entertainment in the latter would be the punishment of said individuals, not because of any sort of interest in the carnal act they were performing.

  Punishment. That was the mission statement for hell’s minions and I embraced my job with all the wholehearted enjoyment of a spawn of Satan, because, well, I was a spawn of Satan. Technically this was a vacation, but when something was pretty much your entire reason for existence, was there ever really a vacation?

  I headed through the parking lot and saw a group of women walking out the door of the bar—tiny, well-proportioned women with tight clothing and fuck-me stilettos.

  Their skin was an odd pearlescent gray color. They had glittery, translucent wings and pointed ears that rose like pale, thin horns through the fine curtain of their identically shaded platinum blonde hair. They laughed, and it sounded like a high-pitched silver-bells sound that humans never have, no matter how much they like to describe female laughter as such.

  I stopped in the parking lot and gawked. I’d seen fairies before, but not strolling out of a bar without any attempt at glamour to mask their non-human appearance. One of them saw me and flashed me a row of jagged teeth in her red slash of a mouth.

  “Look girls, it’s a newbie!”

  They strolled over towards me. If I’d been human, I would have been fighting the urge to flee, but instead I was intrigued. And entertained. Huh. Charon was right. This might be a fun evening after all.

  “Let’s take him home,” one purred before giving me a toothy smile. “We won’t bite. Much.”

  “Careful,” one of her friends warned. “We have to follow the rules.”

  “Bah, rules,” her companion scoffed. “Those witches haven’t done anything to enforce the rules since the old lady died. We can do what we want. This newbie vanishes, and no one will know.”

  “Or care,” one of the others added. “That stupid dryad of a sheriff can’t figure out his ass from a hole in the wall. And the witches don’t care.”

  Normally I would have been all up for fairy orgy action, especially since they would have gotten the surprise of their dramatically shortened lives once they tried to kill me. But there was one word that pushed every thought of a fairy massacre out of my mind.

  “Witch?” I stuttered, suddenly a bumbling fool instead of a powerful demon. We demons respected witches. In a disagreement, they were fully capable of opening a whole can of whoop-ass on us. But our relationship over the many millennia had rarely been contentious. Witch energy was like a drug—sensual and captivating. Getting summoned by a coven, becoming their go-to demon was the dream of every one of hell’s minions. Partnering with a witch meant the perfect power combo. We were stronger with them. They were stronger with us. Yes, there were some trade-offs on either side, but overall it was a win-win situation.

  The only problem was that roughly two thousand years ago the humans had decided to kill off the witches. There were a few internet frauds and weak wannabes, but we demons hadn’t seen a real witch in a toad’s age. Was there really a witch in this town? Witches? Or were these fairies just blowing smoke up my ass?

  One of the women sidled up next to me. “Don’t you worry about witches, sweetheart. They can’t even start a fire without a match and a gallon of gasoline. Unless they’re in the courthouse with their ex-boyfriend that is.”

  The whole group erupted into their wind-chime laughter, leaving me wondering about the joke I’d obviously not gotten. So not real witches, then. Damn. I’d hoped otherwise, but just because these fairies were bold enough to walk around without glamour didn’t mean there were actual witches nearby.

  “Leave him alone girls,” a voice behind me rumbled. “Go find some pixies to torment.”

  An arm came around my shoulder and I turned to see myself facing a satyr.

  “Come on,” the satyr told me. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  The only coin I had was the one I needed to call Charon, so I let the satyr lead me into the bar, the fairies behind me promising all sorts of naughty fun later if I was interested and still alive.

  Fairies. A man with spiraled horns rising from his curly dark hair, the lower half of him furred and cloven-hooved with a twitchy tail and oddly angled legs. Let’s just say it prepared me for what I saw when I walked through the door of the bar.

  There were maybe a dozen humans in there. Nine of them had glowing gold eyes that made me immediately realize they weren’t actually humans. The rest of the population had fur or scales, or snakes for hair. There were cockatrices, elves, ogres, and even a smallish dragon wedged over near the band, apparently assisting with pyrotechnics. The silence outside that had made the dive bar seem vacant had magically vanished the moment my satyr friend opened the door. The music pounded. Voices, grunts, growls, and squeals merged in a cacophony o
f sound.

  “Here.” My satyr friend pushed a drink into my hand, then clinked his glass against mine. “Bottom’s up.”

  I threw down the liquor, realizing the moment it hit my stomach that it was far stronger than most human alcoholic beverages.

  “I’m Jeff.” He slapped the glass on the bar and stuck out his hand. “A satyr, obviously.”

  “Lucien.” I shook his hand, admiring the man’s grip. “I’m a demon.”

  He nodded. “I figured as much. You not freaking out about the girls in the parking lot, not batting an eyelid over my appearance, and the fact that you just threw down a shot of dragon’s bane and didn’t fall to the floor in convulsions clued me in. A word to the wise, my friend? Ditch the human form or everyone is going to think you’re a newbie and pester the heck out of you.”

  I hadn’t revealed my demon form outside of hell in three thousand years, and I wasn’t about to do it now, even surrounded by all these other non-human beings.

  The satyr shrugged. “Suit yourself, bro. There’s a nymph over there giving me the eye, so you’re on your own. The ogres are assholes. Fairies bite. Don’t mess with the dragon unless you don’t mind a few burns. Oh, and avoid the shifters—especially the werewolves. It’s two nights before the full moon, so they’re all itching to fight and fuck, and they’re not particular about which of those they’re doing.”

  “Those folk with the glowing eyes?” I nodded toward the four men and two women at the end of the bar.

  “Yep. Good luck. And don’t kill anyone. Those fairies might not think our sheriff is all that, but he’s got back-up if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. This was the first time in nearly three thousand years that I felt astonished, surprised, ready to go with the flow and enjoy whatever hand fate dealt me. And when I got back to hell, Charon was getting a serious bonus. This place rocked.

  Jeff wandered off toward the beckoning nymph. I ordered a drink and put it on my “tab”, then walked right over to the group of shifters. Hey, it was my vacation. Might as well make the most of it and possibly combine business with pleasure.

  Three drinks and fifteen minutes later I was back in the parking lot, trying to beat the shit out of a werewolf. The drink was hitting me harder than it should have. The werewolf was hitting me harder than he should have. I was beginning to feel less like a demon and more like the newbie/human they’d accused me of being.

  Forget the ogres being assholes, these werewolves definitely were. Well, four of them were. The other two were interested bystanders to the whole thing. One of the onlookers, a female with the sort of curves that made a demon salivate, seemed particularly fascinated by the fight. Maybe if I played my cards right…

  But I couldn’t really pay much attention to her, because for the first time in my life, I needed to focus on my opponent. A werewolf. An interesting challenge, but if someone had told me I’d be struggling to keep from getting pummeled by a damned werewolf, I would have laughed.

  The guy hit me. Hard. I saw a flash of light and staggered to the side, throwing my arms up to ward off a second blow. I shook my head, but the pain didn’t go away. My face throbbed where he’d punched me, and something wet tickled at the edge of my lip. I licked it and tasted copper. Blood. I knew what blood tasted like, but I wasn’t used to tasting my own.

  Why wasn’t I healing? And more importantly, why was I so slow? Why was I unable to lay this werewolf onto the asphalt with one blow? Why was this so…difficult?

  The guy hit me again, this time in the midsection, causing me to double over in pain. Okay. Enough of this shit. I couldn’t recall a time when I’d ever been on the losing side of a fight. My left hook usually knocked an opponent out, but this guy wasn’t going down no matter how many times I hammered him.

  Another blow sent my head to the side. I felt blood trickle down my cheek and squinted to focus. Screw it. Pulling my power from deep inside, I went to incinerate this asshole where he stood. Nothing happened. Well, nothing except two more blows into my stomach that sent me to my knees.

  The crowd cheered. Rage flooded me. My abilities might be somehow blunted, but I was still a demon. There was no way in hell I was going to let a damned werewolf get the upper hand here. With a roar I got to my feet and let my anger take the wheel.

  The werewolf went down, but I hadn’t banked on his buddies finally deciding to back him up. By the time I heard the sirens pulling into the parking lot, I was fighting four werewolves instead of one—and losing.

  A law enforcement individual got out of his car, holding what appeared to be a stick in his hand. I ignored his shouted commands to break it up, figuring that stick couldn’t do anything this asshole’s fists hadn’t already done. One of my assailants stepped back with hands raised. The others kept fighting—me as well.

  “Break. It. Up.” He waved the stick. “Let him alone, Clinton. “Killing the newbs is bad for tourism.”

  “We don’t need no fuckin’ tourism.” The werewolf snarled from his position on the ground while I danced around, landing the occasional blow on his three remaining defenders—and taking far more blows than I was landing. The curvy wolf on the sidelines began to chant for Clinton to get up and fight.

  “Back. Down.” The guy with the badge and the stick slapped it against the side of his leg.

  Was this the sheriff? The fairies had said the sheriff was a dryad, but in my experience tree nymphs were always female. So if this guy was the dryad sheriff, he was a Drus, and part of the Mediterranean nymph families instead of the Celtic ones I was more familiar with.

  One of the werewolves pulled a knife and I reacted, twisting his arm until it snapped. He dropped the knife, but not before I felt the sting of three rapid slices across my chest and side.

  The dude with the badge swung the stick and shouted a word. It sparked and blue fireworks hit us all, knocking everyone except the two bystanders to the ground.

  Clinton groaned, then cursed, then threw up on the ground and began to shake. The wolf with the broken arm began to cry, cradling the limb. One of the downed wolves staggered to his feet and ran, or rather limped, toward the wooded section at the end of the parking lot. The other stayed down, staring up at the Law with wide eyes and raised hands.

  “Who are you?” The cop glared at me instead of the three remaining werewolves who’d attacked me.

  Okay, maybe I had started the whole thing, but I sure as hell hadn’t banked on having this guy’s buddies join in, or somehow being blunted of my infernal powers in this weird town.

  “Who. Are. You?” The Law slapped the bully stick against his palm and I eyed it, knowing instinctively that I didn’t want to get hit with that thing.

  “Lucien.” I spat some blood onto the pavement, happy that some splattered the Law’s shoes.

  “Stranger in town, Lucien?” He smacked the stick once more against his palm. Why wasn’t he providing medical attention to the moaning werewolves? Or arresting them? They’d…well, sort of ganged up on me.

  “Humans gotta be careful here, Lucien,” the Law commented. “Maybe not provoke werewolves two nights before the full moon. Maybe apologize and walk away rather than try to take on four shifters in a parking lot. You got a death wish, buddy?”

  He thought I was human. How cute. Jeff-the-satyr’s words came back to me and I grinned. “Just taking out the trash, officer. You gonna arrest these guys for disturbing the peace?”

  “No.” The man pulled a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt. I felt them. I felt that there was more to these things than metal, and instinctively recoiled.

  “I’m filing charges,” Clinton whined. “He attacked me. Look at me. Assault. Look at Stanley. Lock him up. He’s a threat to everyone in this town.”

  “What are you, Lucien?” The Law looked at Clinton and Stanley, at the terrified werewolf with his hands raised, then he sent a narrowed glance my way. “What are you?”

  “A human,” I lied. It felt cowardly to do so, but
I really didn’t want him to put those weird handcuffs on me.

  He bent down and reached for my arm. I dug in my pocket for the coin. Now would be a good time, Charon.

  Nothing happened. The Law yanked my hand out of my pocket and clapped the handcuffs on me.

  Suddenly I felt as if I was in a fishbowl, unable to escape. I had no idea what was happening, but I had none of my infernal powers, and the coin that was supposed to summon my ride wasn’t working.

  Accident. Whatever town this was, me being here was no accident. And when I found Charon, that cursed traitor, he was going to die. Die permanently.

  Chapter 2

  Cassandra

  “Got a case for you, Cass.” Mack sat on the edge of my desk, chewing on a toothpick with the vigor of a lumberjack cutting down old growth pine. “Assault two. Two counts. Possible drunk and disorderly.”

  I stared at the inbox stack of folders that precariously teetered two feet above my desk, then over at the six boxes lined up in mini-towers against the wall.

  “Give it to Russ. It’s his turn.” I had six DWIs, two protective orders, and a burglary. Besides, I had more seniority than Russ. The partners should be dumping the crap cases on him, not me.

  “He’s claiming to be the son of the devil.”

  “Then call a psychiatrist as well as sending Russ over. It’s not my turn.” Where was the Mossburg file? That last deposition? It was here on my desk somewhere.

  “It’s in Accident. City limits.”

  I hesitated, knowing full well what happened inside Accident city limits. Nope. Not my problem. Even though I lived there, not my problem. Even though over three hundred years of my family had lived there, even though my ancestor had founded the town, still not my problem.