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  Copyright © 2019 by Dakota Cassidy

  All rights reserved.

  Witch It Real Good

  Published 2019 by Dakota Cassidy

  Copyright © 2019, Dakota Cassidy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Dakota Cassidy.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.

  Manufactured in the USA.

  Acknowledgements

  Cover artist: Renee George

  * * *

  Editor: Kelli Collins

  Author’s Note

  My darling readers,

  * * *

  Please note, the Witchless in Seattle series is truly best read in order, to understand the full backstory and history of each character as they develop with every connecting book.

  Especially in the case of the mystery surrounding Winterbottom (I know it drives some of you crazy. Sorrysorrysorry!). However, his story is ever evolving and will contain some mini-cliffhangers from book to book. But I promise not to make you wait too long until I answer each set of questions I dredge up.

  And, too, I promise the central mystery featured in each addition to the series will always be wrapped up with a big bow by book’s end!

  Also, please note, I’m prone to taking artistic license with locations and states, so forgive any places near and dear to your heart if they’re not completely accurate or if they’re totally made up.

  Thank you so much for coming along on this adventure with me. I hope you’ll look for more of them in 2020!

  And as always, warmest wishes to you and yours for the coming holiday season!

  Dakota XXOO

  Witch It Real Good

  Chapter 1

  “My dove?”

  “Yes, International Man of Mystery?” I smiled up at Win’s lean, handsome face in the late-afternoon glow of a setting end-of-November sun.

  “Might I disturb your Twinkie nirvana? I know how you treasure these moments alone with a fake spongy cake made of dyes, preservatives, and a gritty cream filling. They’re so few and far between these days. I loathe taking you from them, but I must. We have a matter of great import. ”

  He was right—we’d had an exceptionally busy year at Madam Zoltar’s since our last hair-raising adventure. Between his hearing ghosts and my seeing them, the afterlife had taken notice, and everyone and their grandmother had crawled out of the woodwork looking for help.

  From finding last wills to passing on messages to those left behind, we’d done it all. And I’m happy to report, along with Arkady and Bel, we still make a good team—even with Win here on the physical plane.

  Not that we’ve had any earth-shattering mysteries to solve, mind you. They’ve all been fairly tame and no murders to speak of, but there’d been a steady flow of constant ghosts popping up in every corner imaginable these days.

  Add to the mix, keeping Win hidden from prying eyes until we knew how to explain his existence, and our plates were full to overflowing.

  To say our lives have been hectic is an understatement. It’s also left our budding courtship on a slow simmer while Win’s become accustomed to his new body, and I’ve become accustomed to him physically being in our lives.

  As promised, we’ve dated or, in Win’s words, he’s wooed me. He occasionally makes me breakfast (a healthy one of egg whites and citrus fruits, of course) and there’s always freshly brewed coffee in a cup waiting for me when I came downstairs—even if he’s nowhere to be found.

  We’ve shared meals and we’ve snuggled often while watching movies together. I’d even coaxed him to indulge in a Housewives marathon or two. I made him his first ever Twinkie cake and he ate every last bit of his slice with a smile slathered on his face, even though I know he died a little inside at the mere idea.

  Sometimes we went on picnics outside Eb Falls and away from potential scrutiny. Win packed us a lunch of cheese and crackers or a charcuterie platter and a bottle of wine, and we would find somewhere scenic and private, where we’d talk about our future once he was able to reveal himself to everyone.

  All in all, I was happy, and I think Win was, as well. He’d also kept busy by doing exactly as he’d said—turning the back shed into the most lavish man cave one could imagine.

  A ninety-inch flat screen with some sort of pixels and doodads I didn’t understand, a wet bar, full kitchen, and a bathroom with a sauna and whirlpool tub made the space not exactly shed-like anymore.

  Yet, as always, he’d been right in his reasoning behind converting the shed in the first place. Eb Falls and its gossipy chatter was on fire with conversations about why Stevie Cartwright was turning her shed into some kind of pleasure palace.

  I swear, that’s what Glendora Gorwinski called it after she saw a truck from Big Mike’s Sounds in Surround—a store with some very hefty price tags—drive up our driveway.

  A pleasure palace.

  We’d laughed so hard, we’d both doubled over while tears poured from our eyes and into our laps.

  Win had mostly kept a very low-key profile while he waited on his new passport, license, and necessary identifications from someone named Mandrake. We hadn’t introduced him around to anyone, and our trips to Madam Zoltar’s were done under the radar with great care taken to keep him hidden.

  There had been a load of loose ends from our last endeavor with the body snatchers from the funeral parlor—a boatload of them. In particular, when the investigation had first launched, the description the accused had given to the investigating officers of a man in a crazy Christmas sweater.

  We couldn’t afford to have Win discovered, simply because, in all reality, he’s Balthazar and, as far as the law’s concerned, responsible for all of Balthazar’s crimes. We needed to get all our ducks in a row and we needed to do it soon.

  But still, when people drove by the house and caught him outside, throwing a ball to Whiskey or sitting with me while we watched the sunset, my phone literally burned up the cell towers with the calls from “concerned” folks with questions about who my gentleman caller might be.

  Thus far, I’d evaded the Nosy Nellies by telling them I had some old friends from college dropping by on and off during the summer months, and that’s who they must have seen.

  I didn’t doubt they were truly concerned. I loved my fellow Eb-Fallers with all my heart. Truly. When you needed them, they were there with casseroles and sympathy. But there was no way you could tell me those phone calls were one hundred percent out of concern.

  And then there was Dana. I held my breath every time Dana dropped by. I was sure he was eventually going to make mention of the big coup in Seattle at Vera Brothers Funeral Home—the funeral home we’d barely escaped without police interference—and the case of the owners selling body parts.

  I mean, Dana had actually met Win when he was wearing my ugly Christmas sweater on his person—which granted, was only one among many pretty outlandish statements the accused in the case had babbled on and on about. Still, Win’s sweater, along with his accent, matched the Vera brothers’ description exactly, and if Dana ever put two and two together…

  And it wasn’t as if Officer Rigid didn’t watch the news. That would be like saying a stockbroker didn’t watch the Dow. The case had made national news, for Pete’s sake. But he hadn’t even mentioned he’d met Win, and I’d seen him many times over the last year since the incident in question.
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  Making this whole thing curious indeed. Dana was a tried-and-true dog with a bone. The only thing I could think of that had kept him from mentioning it was that he simply hadn’t made the connection between Win and the lunatic man the Vera brothers described.

  I don’t know how many men Dana’s encountered in ugly Christmas sweaters like the one Win wore that day, but it was the only plausible explanation we had, because my favorite police officer was a crackerjack. He noticed everything.

  Add to that, our worry only intensified when a program called Primed for Crime aired recently, showing a soundbite of the Vera brothers case and one of the goons we’d encountered, carrying on about a man with a British accent and a Christmas sweater.

  It was a mere blip of a scene, and hardly made mention of in the broadcast, but it still worried me it would trigger Dana and he’d start to ask questions.

  Still, for now, we were in the clear. I’d managed to keep everyone else at bay, but I couldn’t do that forever. Not if Win ever wanted to have a life worth getting up for in the morning.

  Anyway, I was in the midst of relishing my fake spongy cake-filled moment on this unseasonably warmish last day of November and sipping on some of Enzo’s amazing hazelnut brew while I thought over what to do during our slow time at Madam Zoltar’s.

  The holidays were approaching, and that meant it was time to reorganize and do all the things we’d put off while we had summer hours at Madam Zoltar’s. Eb Falls being a tourist town brought in a lot of business for us—which meant the donations we made from the money earned were going to make some charities very happy.

  Win, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do during our slow time.

  Decorate.

  We’d just finished up Thanksgiving, but to tell you the truth, I was still getting over Win and Halloween. It was a holiday he found he loved, and I merely tolerated, because when you’d dealt with ghosts every day of your life since you were a child, the spooky isn’t so spooky.

  It’s just yawningly redundant.

  Christmas is, and always will be, my love language. Still, I’ll admit, I miss the rituals of my coven during Halloween, the friendships with the other witches, the unity of community, as we used to say.

  Now, Win? Win had decided to go all out for this year’s Halloween and Thanksgiving celebrations. He’d decorated every bough every window, every railing, every tree with lights. He’d hung every kind of decoration you can imagine, from skeletons to his personal ode to me—a screaming witch on a broom he’d put on the roof that cackled every ten minutes—and when Halloween was over, he’d upped the ante by replacing skeletons and witches with turkeys and harvest scarecrows.

  Carved pumpkins still lined the porch staircase, with dried cornstalks and a cornucopia stuffed with fake fruit tied to each post.

  It all really had been quite a sight—a fun one, if I’m honest, and I was happy to see him so engaged. Apparently, as a spy, you don’t get to celebrate holidays very often, and if the decorating Win had done was any indication, he’d missed doing so and was certainly making up for it now.

  Anyway, I’d been busy admiring the fruits of Win’s labor in the backyard, where he’d been grousing about taking down the lights around Strike’s outdoor turkey coop to prepare the space for my Christmas extravaganza.

  I sat on the back patio in a cushiony chair, sipping coffee under a cozy blanket while reveling in the crisp yet unusually tolerable day and enjoying some quiet. Whiskey was at my feet, Bel was off napping, and my world, for the moment, was peanut butter and jelly.

  So long story short, Win wasn’t really disturbing me. Though, I never considered him an intrusion anyway. He was the love of my lifetime. He could intrude anytime he liked.

  He leaned down and dropped a quick kiss on my forehead, the scent of his fresh cologne whirling about my nose. “Have I told you how lovely you look today, Stephania?”

  I took a sip of my coffee and eyed him as he towered over me. “In my ratty flannel shirt and holey jeans?”

  He cupped my chin with his large hand, caressing it with his thumb. “In anything you wear, my dove.”

  Win, on the other hand, was dressed to the nines, or at least, as he joked, the eights—nines, according to him, were reserved for tuxes and ascots.

  His black cable-knit pullover clung to his ever-evolving abs of steel and his jeans—dark denim and insanely expensive—weren’t exactly my idea of the kind of clothes you relax in, but he seemed to think they were.

  It’s what he wore daily unless he went into Seattle, which was cause for putting on trousers with sharp pleats down the front of the legs.

  Of course.

  “What are you buttering me up for, fake James Bond?” I whipped up a finger before he could give me one of his weak protests. “Don’t even bother. I know you, and you want something. You no more think my jeans with the holes in the knees and faded flannel shirts are pretty than you consider a bowl of Fruit Loops an acceptable food for dinner. So spit it out. Do you want help taking down all the Thanksgiving stuff? I told you, that’s your gig. I’m not getting up on that roof to get the blowup turkey, Win.”

  He shook his head. “It’s absolutely not about the Thanksgiving decorations. A deal’s a deal. I put them up, I’ll take them down—”

  “Then is it about putting that horrid steel sculpture we saw in Seattle, made by an equally horrid man, in the backyard as the centerpiece of a fountain? Because I’m here to tell you, Spy Guy, I’m still a firm no. That thing looked like the crazypants artist—and I use the word artist loosely—had melted his little brother’s box of crayons and threw it at a wall.”

  Win chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as he drove his hands into his pockets “It was a neo-classical piece, Stephania. Pudge said so.”

  “It was neo-nuts, and Pudge is neo-nuttier if he thinks I’d let you waste good money for something like that. I wouldn’t put that neo-pile o’ duck dung on a deserted island, let alone our backyard.”

  “Ghost intrusion here,” Arkady said on a hearty laugh. “I would like to add my six cents.”

  “It’s two cents, Arkady,” I chirped with a grin. “And if you’re going to side with Pudge’s number one fan, you can keep your change.”

  “I remain on your side, malutka. That was good decision. It was ugliest thing I ever see.”

  Win looked skyward, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, what would you know, good man? You think the Happy Meal toys are art.”

  “Dah, Zero. The little Woody from Toy Story—so tiny it make Arkady Bagrov wonder how they make his little nose—is art. The thing Pudge make? No art.”

  “I assure you, this isn’t about Pudge and his brother’s crayons. This matter is, as I said, of great import and rather delicate. Otherwise, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your utterly unpalatable afternoon delight.”

  Pushing the last of the Twinkie between my lips, I said, “Afternoon delight complete. What’s up?”

  Win smiled down at me, but his smile held hesitance. I knew that smile. That was the one that said something was happening, and he wasn’t sure I’d be happy or how to tell me about it.

  As the sun began to set, the rays landed on Win’s dark hair, making it gleam with chocolate highlights. “There’s someone here to see you, Dove.”

  “Okay,” I said, my response slow and as hesitant as his smile. I rose from my chair, gathering my coffee cup and Twinkie wrapper. “Why am I hearing hesitation in your tone?”

  He held out his arm for me, and I hooked mine through it, allowing him to escort me into the French doors off the back patio, leading to our kitchen. “Well, the someone here to see you is… How shall I say this?”

  I paused and gave him a strange look. “Probably how you say everything else. With your no-nonsense approach. Remember when you told me you wanted a woodfire oven in the kitchen? Did you beat around the bush or did you just come right out and say it? I think you just said it. In fact, you said it as though I had no say in it anyway, and that wa
s pretty no-nonsense, not to mention daggone forward, because you weren’t even on this plane when you said it. So, my suggestion is—just say it.”

  His gorgeous blue eyes searched mine, warm and gentle as always whenever I was the subject of his gaze. “I think it’s better I allow your visitor to ‘just say it.’”

  My stomach jumped a little. He was making me nervous with his evasiveness. Maybe it was someone he knew I wouldn’t want to see? I couldn’t think of anyone I wouldn’t want to see. Unless it was someone from high school, maybe? There were a couple of those people running around the world I’d be happy to pass on ever seeing again.

  “Is it my former classmate and bitter prom queen rival, Daphne Davenport, who whooped my butt in her bid for prom queen by rigging the votes? Because then you should be hesitant, buddy. I owe Daphne Davenport a good shaming, the cheater.”

  “Prom queen?” he asked in genuine surprise. “I thought your younger days were spent as an angry, rebellious Goth?”

  “It was. I mean, they were. Goth girls can be prom queen, too—which was the point of my platform. Inclusivity,” I said with pride.

  Though, if I’m honest, I probably didn’t stand a chance of winning back in those days. But still, even though I couldn’t prove it, I was pretty sure Daphne had cheated to cinch her win.

  “Then no, it’s not Daphne Davenport. Though, she sounds like quite a character. I’d be disingenuous if I didn’t say she’s piqued my curiosity. No. It’s not a bitter prom queen rival, my dove. This is someone you’ve never met before.”

  I rasped a sigh. “Is it a ghost? Sweet candied nuts, what is it with all the ghosts? Ever since word got out about us, the afterlife is teeming with ghosts with issues.”

  “I assure you, after a thorough vetting, it is neither Daphne Davenport nor a ghost.”

  I pulled my arm from his and gave him a skeptical look. “You thoroughly vetted them? I’m afraid, Win. Very afraid. Did you Kiefer Sutherland 24 spy vet them, or vet them vet them?”