THE WITCH SINGER by Heather Long
Title: THE
WITCH SINGER
Author:
Heather Long
Series: Magic
& Mayhem, Kindle Worlds
Genre:
Paranormal
Publisher:
Independent
Format:
Digital
Synopsis:
Curses. Vampires. Skunks. Allergies. Sore throat. The life of a Witch
Singer shouldn’t be this complicated.
After years spent paying off an old
debt by working for the vampires, Bridget the Witch Singer receives the
opportunity of a lifetime. Solve on
vampire’s oops – he turned the wrong person – and she’s a free witch. Desperate to win her freedom, she heads to
Assjacket to find the solutions to the vampire’s problem and everything goes
wrong along the way, including a flat tire, getting sprayed by a skunk and the
allergy attack from hell.
Unfortunately, Martin is no ordinary
skunk and his spreay is a nervous tick.
She does her best to save the beast when her scream accidentally wounds
him and springs him from his curse. Good
news for Martin, not so good for Bridget who can’t get rid of him. Once in Assjacket, she’s tasked by the
BabaYoMama to unite at least two couples and sing at their weddings in order to
gain the cure she needs for her freedom.
Only one, small problem – a witch
singer with a sore throat can’t perform.
Excerpt:
You know how, when you’re young, you dream
of how your life will go? Sometimes, the crap you watch on TV influences you.
You always think they have it better—I mean, who wouldn’t want to be an
invulnerable superhero who makes it at the last minute and saves the day? If
you were a superhero, did it really matter if you were vulnerable to a bit of
meteor rock? The last time I was afraid of a rock collection was, like, never.
Too bad I hadn’t been born on another planet then jettisoned to Earth when my
planet was destroyed. No matter how ridiculous, I had dreams. Big dreams. I
always thought I would be a star. If not of the stage or screen, then at least
at every backwater pub, club, and high school dance where someone let me hold a
microphone. Hecate knows, I’m a damn karaoke expert.
But nope. No, I have a problem. A wicked
temper, salted by way too much sarcasm. I got up on a stage and strutted my
stuff. Okay, I was drunk, and it was a dare, but how was I supposed to know
that half the audience in that club that night was there ashors d’oeuvres
for the local vampire enclave? Did they have a sign out front? No. No, they did
not. So there I was, doing my best Sandra Dee impression and rocking out to Summer
Lovin’ with this really good looking guy when some jackass in the audience
boos us.
Booed.
Okay, he got up, turned around and farted
in tune to the song. Not just offensive, but really profane. It really threw me
off my game, so much so that when we got to the part about the true love vow, I
said cow. My gift, it’s got some serious kick, and all the mortals in
the place—including Mr. Farts-A-Long—were moo-ved along.
Yep, I said moo-ved, ‘cause I crack
myself up.
Anyway, long story short, the vampires in
the bar were pissed. Beyond pissed. Like
metric-nuclear-to-the-max-you-wouldn’t-like-me-when-I’m-angry furious.
Fortunately, or maybe not so fortunately, they saw me as asset to be co-opted
rather than feasted upon. Of course, it could also have something to do with
the fact that the potent herbal teas I drink to protect my very valuable throat
also makes my blood taste like ass. Or so I’ve heard.
For the last few years, I’ve been the
local enclave’s version of a jukebox. They want jazz? Well, I’m their girl.
They want blues? Yep, there I am. Bubblegum rock? Just crank Bridget up and
press play.
It’s so effing boring. I got hauled
across town in the dead of night, while in my pajamas, my hair is standing
straight up—not to mention I lost one of my favorite slippers when Goon One and
Goon Two hustled me into the car. If only I didn’t have to wear the stupid
choker. If my voice went even a fraction of a decibel above normal
conversation, it zapped me.
I tested it once. My hair didn’t comb
straight for a week. Not even with product and a flat iron. Again, I digress,
the point being… if I could have shattered the vampires’ eardrums, I would have
but nope. I ended up standing in the too-plush living room of one Alistair
Hethrington Nasty-Face.
Yes, I know. It wasn’t his real name.
“Good morning, Mr. Nasty-Face, what can I do for you today?” Keeping them on
their toes required a lot more coffee than they’d provided. “Please tell me you
want me to take off the collar so I can sing you a lullaby to permanent sleep?”
“Sit down. Shut up. Listen.” Awww, he was
in a foul mood.
“Did Mr. Nasty-Face not get a good day’s
sleep?” Flopping onto the sofa, I folded my arms and put my feet on his really
nice table. Since I was missing a slipper, I’d likely leave a mark on the wood.
“Bridget…” He growled my name. It was
pretty sexy, if one discounted his rather disgusting penchant for feeding on
blood, his need for dominance, and the overwhelming arrogance in his silk black
power suit. “We have an issue.”
“Didn’t do it.” Holding my hand up, palm
forward in a show of surrender, I did my best to keep my expression empty of
doubt or at least not sneering. “I’ve been home all night. Bridezillas
marathon.” Awesome cat fights, too. The whole brides turning into
monsters the closer their wedding day came served as a fervent reminder what a
crapfest love could be.
Mr. Nasty-Face sighed then pinched the
bridge of his nose. “I’m shocked no one has ripped your throat out yet…or at
least your tongue.”
“Pity I need both to do your dirty work,
isn’t it?” Mom used to accuse me of being too confident. On the one hand, I
suppose I see her point. I mean why else would I have let the word ‘cow’ slip
into my lyrics? I knew what would happen. Then again, the vampires didn’t kill
me and, while working for them sucked, it certainly beat the alternative.
Most of the time.
With a baleful look, he stared at me. He
might as well have had “shut up” stamped on his forehead or maybe he wanted to
stamp it on mine. Either way, I mimed zipping my lips closed then waited.
I wasn’t going to give him long, a fact he
seemed to grasp. “I have a job for you, a difficult task to which I believe you
are uniquely qualified.”
“Peachy.” I flashed him a view of my
pearly whites. Then stopped. I hadn’t actually had a chance to brush my teeth
before they dragged me to his house. “What’s the job?”
“Always straight to the point with you.”
The vampire sighed then cut his hand through the air. “Fine. I don’t care.
Here’s the task. Montague turned a succubus.”
“The fuck you say.” Thank Hecate I didn’t
have coffee in hand. I might have choked on it. “You can’t turn other species.”
“Not typically, no.” Mr. Nasty-Face strode
across the room, retrieved a file then carried it to me and dropped it on the
coffee table. The folder opened to a photograph of a very messy bedroom. Blood
stained the sheets, the walls, and something dark and sticky seemed splashed
liberally over the carpet. At no point in my existence did I possess a desire
to be a crime scene tech or in any way attached to a crime scene.
“Gross.” I flipped the folder closed.
Clearing my throat, I gave myself a minute so I didn’t hurl. “How does a nasty
photograph tell you a vampire turned a succubus?”
Hands curling into fists, Nasty-Face stalked
away to the bar and poured himself a drink. The agitation within him made for
short, jerky motions. He slammed the crystal decanter down with enough force, I
thought it might shatter. The amber liquid sloshed out of the glass onto the
cherry wood counter, but he ignored it.
“Oh…dude.” Real shock rippled through me.
“You did it.”
He held up a finger. “Not another word,
never repeat that sentence outside of this room. Understood?”
Laughter bubbled up, and I pressed two
fingers to my lips to keep it from escaping. As funny as the whole situation
might be, Master Nasty-Ass was in a mood. Clearing my throat again, I fought
for some semblance of control. “How can I help?”
“And delivered so nicely, too.” Nope, my
attitude didn’t fool him a bit. Hey, at least I tried. “I need a solution to
the problem. You will reach out to other witches and to Baba Yaga and find out
how to reverse the transformation.”
Oh. Was that all? “Really? You just want
me to track down the biggest, baddest witch and ask her how to undo something
impossible?”
“If anyone knows what to do, it would be
the witches. You will find the answer to my problem, and you will fix it.”
“Sounds like you have it all thought out,
so forgive me if I’m stepping on your toes, but I see a couple of small problems
with that plan.” At his baleful glance, I spread my hands wide. “I’m bound to
your enclave, can’t travel out of the state. And, the last I checked, Baba Yaga
isn’t a big fan of Texas.”
“That’s an inconvenience, not a problem.
The collar will come off for the trip.”
“Dude. Seriously?” He had my attention
now. How to play this? How to spin it so it worked for me?
“Yes. I am aware you will need access to
your magic.” As if the fact he said the words were all that was needed, the
locks on the collar began to turn. I could feel the click clack of it all. “I
also know how that brain of yours works. Once the collar is off, all bargains
and bets are in the air. I know you, Bridget. You’ll do what’s best for you
which means running as far from here as you can.”
No lie. The vampire did know me well. “I
bet you’re going to make it worth my while.”
“I will cover all your remaining debts to
the enclave.” That was a hefty price tag. “I will certify your freedom from
obligation and give you the collar back once the task is complete.”
Give me the collar? The last lock spun
slowly, but halted before it was complete. One more lock off and my voice was
my own again. As would be my magic and the ability to go anywhere I wanted.
“What’s the catch?” I’d been around vampires too long not to look for the
secret out they worked into their deals.
“If you fail to complete your task or if
you decide to ditch and run, I still have the collar and an entire host of
bounty hunters to come after you. Trust me, they will come in force. You might
spend the rest of your life running, no matter how short that time might be.
Then, when you are caught, the collar will go on with a permanent spell.
One that can only be broken when you’re dead and your soul crossed over.”
“I knew there was a reason I called you
Nasty-Face.” He ignored the off-hand comment even as I tried to examine the
deal from all sides. “To clarify, you take off the collar, I’m free to leave.
You want me to go to the Baba Yaga and ask her how to undo an impossible
turning of a succubus to a vampire? That’s it?”
“I want you to get the solution so we can
perform it and undo the unnatural act from having happened.”
There was the rub. “And if there is no
solution?”
“I don’t believe there isn’t one. History
dictates turning her shouldn’t have been possible in the first place. Thus, if
it is possible to turn her, it must be possible to unturn her.”
Gods and Goddesses, I’m going to hate
myself for asking the next question. “Point of order. Don’t you die to become a
vampire?”
Nasty-Face hesitated. Yeah, I didn’t think
he’d considered that angle. “That’s less important than undoing it.”
“Dude, if you don’t care if the succubitch
lives or dies, just pound a stake through her heart and call it good.” Really?
Could I just shut up for five minutes? If he took me up on that suggestion, I
was right back where I started. Of course, in my defense, I hadn’t had any
coffee yet. The man didn’t have any coffee handy that I could see, either. Just
liquor.
Maybe I should do shots.
Other Books by Heather Long:
Haunt Me
Recently divorced author MacKenzie Dillon
has lost her writing mojo. When she inherits her great aunt's haunted house in
Virginia, she is determined to make a new start. The creepy old house provides
inspiration but at what cost?
Successful architect and paranormal skeptic
Justin Kent returns to Penny Hollow to fulfill his father's dying wish of
revitalizing their small town. To do that, he needs the allegedly haunted
estate at Summerfield. Mac, the new owner, may be gorgeous and spunky, but she
refuses to sell.
These two have a dangerous history that spans the ages, but will they
discover the truth in time to save their lives?
Earth Witches Aren’t Easy
He’s supposed to be dead, but he's killing again...
Nearly a decade ago, hedge witch Chance Monroe’s
life irrevocably changed. She survived the attack of a serial killer. His death
should have set her free.
When her ex-lover shows up on her porch, Chance
isn’t ready to hear Randall Oakes is still alive and less prepared for the sea
of emotion swamping her. One man wants her dead and the other just wants her.
When the FBI offers protective custody, Chance refuses. Connected to the earth,
Chance must rely on her supernatural senses and her wits to survive this game
of cat and mouse.
In the farm rich countryside of her native
Northern Virginia, Chance confronts her troubled past, a supernatural adversary
and a sizzling passion that’s lain dormant for years….
This time, she will teach her hunter a lesson:
earth witches aren’t easy targets…
Urban fantasy. Previously published as Prime
Evil, but has undergone significant rewrite and editing.
About
Heather Long:
National bestselling author, Heather
Long, likes long walks in the park, science fiction, superheroes, Marines, and
men who aren’t douche bags. Her books are filled with heroes and heroines
tangled in romance as hot as Texas summertime. From paranormal historical
westerns to contemporary military romance, Heather might switch genres, but one
thing is true in all of her stories—her characters drive the books. When she’s
not wrangling her menagerie of animals, she devotes her time to family and
friends she considers family. She believes if you like your heroes so real you
could lick the grit off their chest, and your heroines so likable, you’re sure
you’ve been friends with women just like them, you’ll enjoy her worlds as much
as she does.
