The Wonkiest Witch Page 14

  “You put something to my tea?” I realised. “Yes, enough to knock me out there and then, but not enough to stop me from worrying.”

  “I gave you a mild sedative.”

  I shook my head. “I guess it was all for the best.”

  “I’m sorry. I went through your phone while you were asleep. I wanted to see photos of Jed. I recognised him, mostly because of how similar he looks to his father at that age. His father is a very big noise among The Mori. He defected from the Circle of Querkus many years ago. It seems Jed is intent on following in his dad’s dark footsteps.”

  “So Jed is the one that’s been in league with Talbot-Lloyd and Pimm?” I asked and Shadowmender nodded.

  “The good news is that we can sort all that out now. Take care of things so that you won’t be bothered by the local officials.”

  “What about Penelope Quigwell?” I asked, and saw Mr Kephisto mask a smirk.

  “Don’t worry about Penelope,” Shadowmender responded smiling. “She’s … an oddball certainly, and can be abrupt and a little haughty, but believe me, she’s wonderful at what she does. She’s been working with me for decades. You’ll find that the inn’s accounting and all your legal affairs are perfectly in order.”

  “Alright,” I said, weary now. I suppose at some stage I would have to start trusting again, but it might take some time. I shook my head, thinking bleakly of Jed. “He had me fooled. I thought I could trust him. I thought he was … my friend.”

  A gentle hooing noise from beside me drew my attention. Mr Hoo had fluttered down to perch on the bench beside me. I smiled at him. “Thank you. You are my little friend,” I said. “Sterling work little fella.” I smoothed his feathers. “You don’t have much of the night left, you should get to your hunting. I’ll see you this evening.”

  “Hoo-ooo,” the owl responded, and took flight in an explosion of feathers and dust.

  I watched him go, fondly. With Mr Hoo in situ, I wouldn’t be totally alone at the inn tonight after all.

  Wizard Shadowmender threw his arm across my shoulders. “Come this way, Alf. There’s something else you need to know. And someone you should meet,” he said, and led me out of the clearing to where two of the green globes were hanging about. The rest had dissipated into the woods. I watched this pair as they span, ever quicker, and then, with a blinding flash shattered in a fantastic shimmering explosion. In their place stood a man in his fifties, and a woman, far older.

  “Alf,” said the man, and there was a warmth in his voice that melted my soul. The voice I’d heard in the woods when I’d encountered the red globe. A voice from my past.

  “Dad?” I asked in disbelief, stepping forwards to stare into the man’s face. I gazed up at him, at his clear wise eyes. The hair was longer, greyer, the appearance more lived in, his face more jowly, but it was indeed my father. “Dad?” I asked again, my voice breaking. “Where have you been? Why did you go away?” And then with my arms wrapped around him, I sobbed my broken heart out.

  “I had to follow my calling,” Dad told me, as we made ourselves comfortable back at the inn. He had introduced me to the older woman, known only as Anima, and she sat with us, in a quiet corner of the reception area, as Wizard Shadowmender and Mr Kephisto huddled at the bar discussing the night’s events and their next move.

  We had—all of us—trekked back through the woods. I was relieved to find the inn safe and sound. Some members of the group headed straight for bed, others wanted baths. I disturbed the ghosts as I entered, mentally shook them awake. “How about breakfast?” I asked them. “And find more seats. And towels.” They leapt to the challenge, flying around the inn, lighting the big fire in the grate and sending chairs down from the attic. Baths were run, towels located. The kitchen rang to the noise of crockery and pots and pans flying around the room, bacon sizzled and eggs were beaten.

  At one stage I thought I heard a cow mooing.

  I don’t own a cow.

  I didn’t go and check.

  Instead I sat next to my Dad and held onto both his hand and his every word. He described how his calling had been to become a member of the Circle of Querkus, and how ever since he’d been a boy, playing in Speckled Wood with Millicent, he had wanted to nourish the environment and cherish our green spaces.

  “Your mother understood,” he told me. “She wanted me to follow my heart. I joined the Circle of Querkus to help them guard the forests … and fight The Mori. I have been the guardian of Speckled Wood ever since, watching over the inn and its inhabitants.”

  “You killed Edvard Zadzinsky?” I asked.

  “Yes. He came upon me in Speckled Wood one day and took me by surprise. I hadn’t realised The Mori had made a move into Whittlecombe.”

  “You used The Curse of Madb?”

  “I did. He had already attacked me. If I hadn’t killed him first, he would have killed me.”

  I remembered stumbling across the burn mark in the clearing on my first walk in the wood. “And then you moved him.”

  “I knew from Shadowmender that you were on your way to the inn. I wanted to find a way to warn you of the danger. Perhaps even warn you off entirely.”

  “You didn’t see that I would fall in love with this old place,” I replied, looking around fondly at the exposed beams and original features. The inn was buzzing with the goings-on. Ghosts and witches and pixies and warlocks and who knows what else. “Why couldn’t we all have lived here, back in the day? Couldn’t mother and I have come here and stayed with you?” I asked.

  “We both felt that you would be safer away from the inn and the forests here. I couldn’t abide the thought that you might be caught up in The Mori’s evil. I wanted you to be protected until you came of age, and I would pass the inn on to you. What I hadn’t accounted for was how stubborn you are. I didn’t for one moment think you would forsake the craft and fall out with your mother.”

  “Oh dear,” I said, cringing as I remembered the arguments, and regretting the years of angst between myself and my mother. “I did her a huge disservice. She was trying to protect me, and I thought she was interfering in my life.”

  “We seem to have gone about this all the wrong way,” my father said mournfully.

  “Couldn’t you have been a member of the Circle of Querkus and lived here at the inn?” I asked but he shook his head.

  “No,” he replied simply, “because I’m no longer alive.”

  My heart stopped. “What do you mean?” I leant forward in my seat, to prod him. He felt solid enough.

  “I’m not a spirit like these,” he gestured at the various ghosts in the room supervising flying teapots and mugs, and knives and forks that flew through the air like arrows intended for hungry victims. “But I no longer exist on the mortal plane.” He gestured at Anima, who had been quietly listening to our conversation. “The Circle of Querkus live half in the spirit world, and half on the earth. We inhabit the globes of energy that you saw in the woods. They are shells, our minds reside within. They allow us to travel superfast and at will. They are an effective weapon against The Mori, although of course The Mori use their own similar device.”

  “So you’re still dead,” I said sadly, and my father reached for my hand.

  “I am,” he said, “but you are not alone anymore, not least because you have stepped into your own powers. You’ll find that Penelope has all of the accounts up to date, and there is money enough for you to finish renovating the inn, and spread a little love among the properties in the village. You will make this inn something wonderful with the help of the spirits you call to your side. And remember this: I too am part spirit and you can therefore call me to you at will. Whenever you need me, come to the clearing in Speckled Wood and summon me. I’ll be here in a flash.”

  “And in the meantime you’re still the guardian of Speckled Wood?” I asked.

  He nodded. “And you’re the saviour of Whittle Inn.”

  A few days later I found myself in a clearing in a different forest, wh
ere several months before I had witnessed Wizard Shadowmender hold the funeral ceremony for my mother. So much had changed since then, most of all within myself. I wanted to make reparations, and to that end, I built a small fire and once it had taken hold, added damp moss to the flames to make it smoke.

  I stood in front of the fire, blinking as the smoke blew into my eyes, then dashing away my tears. I commanded an image of my mother to me. Her face appeared as plain as day and I smiled to see her.

  I unfolded a letter I had written to her, and read it out.

  Dear Yasmine

  “I’m sorry,” it said. “It was wrong of you and Dad to keep the truth from me, but I behaved badly too. I can see now that you were trying to prepare me for the life you imagined I would lead, and it must have been a disappointment to you when I lost my taste for magick.

  I want to let you know that I have found my way back. And that I am learning more every day. I’m going to keep right on, practicing my skills, and summoning my spirits, and I hope one day that I will be half the witch you were, and half the warlock my father was. I intend to keep a righteous route, to err on the side of good, and stay away from the dark path.

  But you should also know that when I turned my face away from the craft, it was not time wasted. Quite the reverse. My life among mortals taught me all about hospitality, and running a business, particularly the inn.

  So Mother, we should take comfort in the fact that in the end, we were both right for different reasons.

  I’m opening my inn, but not in direct competition with The Hay Loft in Whittlecombe. I remember that a friend in the village, Rhona, told me I should consider my target market, and given the enormous success I’ve had over the past few days, entertaining witches, wizards, druids, warlocks and seers – among others – I think I know exactly who my clientele will be in the future.

  All things resolve themselves in the end, and I am only sorry that I wasn’t able to tell you that I love you before you departed this plane. Perhaps one day, when we are both ready, I will call your spirit and we can sit and yarn about the old days.

  Your ever loving daughter

  Alfhild

  I took a deep breath and fed the letter to the fire, watching as it stubbornly held onto its physical form, until at last the flames caught it and gobbled it up greedily. I could see the ghost of the shape of the paper for long seconds, until at last it crumbled to ash and fell into the heart of the fire.

  Remaining where I was for a few more minutes, I tilted my head back to watch the grey smoke drift up into the milky sky above. Was it my imagination or could I see the outline of my lopsided hostelry taking shape up there?

  Smiling, I turned for home. The wonkiest witch heading back to her wonky inn.

  The end

  The series continues in Wonky Inn Book 2 – The Ghosts of Wonky Inn

  Alf has tried to banish her demons.

  And her ghosts. But memories of Jed linger and keep her awake.

  Every night it’s the same. When she does eventually drift off, she’s woken almost immediately by a sobbing spirit.

  He’s lost. And worse than that, someone is trying to kill him. Who is this sad specimen of a spirit? And where does he belong?

  And how do you kill someone … who is already dead?

  Find out what Alf gets up to next.

  Preorder The Ghosts of Wonky Inn now! And don’t miss the Wonky Inn Christmas Special.

  The Witch who killed Christmas

  Both available from Amazon

  What started out as an experiment, rapidly became all consuming. I wasn’t sure it was possible for me to write clean and cozy, because I am so used to living on the dark side with my other work. However, as Alf’s story began to come alive, I totally fell in love with her and the other wonderful assortment of characters contained in this novel.

  So much so, that I knew there needed to be more. I hope that’s good news!

  I have a growing street team: Jeannie Wycherley’s Fiendish Author Street Team, who are so engaged and supportive that it is a little like having a cheerleading squad. Given that I’m British, and rather laid back (okay – introverted), this is odd, but wonderful. I can certainly get used to it!

  High fives are therefore due to Debbie Rodriguez, Rosemary Kenney, Heaven Riendeau, Bax Al, Morag Fowler and Sandra Tickner-Hobson, among others.

  I couldn’t do any of this without my husband, John Wycherley, and this year he has really pushed me to go for it. Similarly, my author bestie, Julie Archer, continues to be in my corner - and mailbox -whenever I need a kick up the backside. Big loves! Go and check out Julie’s work – what are you waiting for?

  Special thanks are due to two new-to-me people who take what I’m doing very seriously. Firstly, JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed for her phenomenal covers. Not just The Wonkiest Witch but the next four in the series too! I am blown away. Wait till you see them.

  And secondly to Anna Bloom, who is not just a wonderful editor - constructive, strict but funny, kind and compassionate too - she’s a pretty phenomenal mentor as well. The Wonky Inn series will be amazing, because she believes in it, and me, and that makes a huge difference.

  Finally, thanks to you, the reader. I love bringing you stories, reading your reviews, and receiving your feedback.

  You complete my circle.

  Much love ♥

  Jeannie Wycherley

  Devon, UK

  31st October 2018

  Coming Winter 2018/2019

  The Municipality of Lost Souls by Jeannie Wycherley

  Described as a cross between Daphne Du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn, and TV’s The Walking Dead, but with ghosts instead of zombies, The Municipality of Lost Souls tells the story of Amelia Fliss and her cousin Agatha Wick.

  In the otherwise quiet municipality of Durscombe, the inhabitants of the small seaside town harbour a deadly secret.

  Amelia Fliss, wife of a wealthy merchant, is the lone voice who speaks out against the deadly practice of the wrecking and plundering of ships on the rocks in Lyme bay, but no-one appears to be listening to her.

  As evil and malcontent spread like cholera throughout the community, and the locals point fingers and vow to take vengeance against outsiders, the dead take it upon themselves to end a barbaric tradition the living seem to lack the will to stop.

  Set in Devon in the UK during the 1860s, The Municipality of Lost Souls is a Victorian Gothic ghost story, with characters who will leave their mark on you forever.

  If you enjoyed Beyond the Veil, you really don’t want to miss this novel.

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  Beyond the Veil

  Crone

  A Concerto for the Dead and Dying

  Deadly Encounters: A collection of short stories

  Keepers
of the Flame: A love story

  Non Fiction

  Losing my best Friend

  Thoughtful support for those affected by dog bereavement or pet loss