A Witch In Time: Magic and Mayhem Book Three (2 page)

“Of course you are,” I told him with an eye roll. “But I was talking about the treadmill. It was fine in the foyer.”

“Zelda, those cats can barely make it to the front yard without passing out. You think they’ll survive a round on a human walking machine?”

“Point,” I agreed with a giggle. “However it was a good blackmail device.”

“I’m sure it was,” he agreed. “But I think a padlock on the refrigerator would suffice.”

“Wrong,” I countered with a shudder. “They have food stashed all over the house so they won’t starve.”

“Are they planning on eliminating all the mice we’re going to attract by turning our home into a two story grocery store?” Dad inquired as he dropped a few high-end shopping bags on the coffee table.

“They’re keeping them as pets.” I sidled closer to the bags. “Are those for me?”

Nordstrom, Neiman and Fleur of England—my dad had taste far superior to any woman I knew.

“That depends,” he answered coyly as he stepped between my hands and the treasures on the table.

“Depends on what?” I asked with narrowed eyes. He had ways of getting me to do things that I had no intention of doing. Cashmere was his evil weapon… and Prada… and Gucci and the list went on and on.

Yes, I was materialistic, but I was getting a grip on it. Part of my maturity or more accurately, my parole, was that I could only use my magic for the good of others. Therefore, I was now unable conjure up shoes that cost more than most people made in six months. It was difficult, but doable thus far. Dad’s excessive shopping habits helped tremendously.

If I was being honest, I felt better about using my power for others—not that I would let it be known. My reputation as an uncaring, selfish, irresponsible witch was getting seriously tarnished here. The Shifters in Assjacket, West Virginia thought I was a good and compassionate witch. Being thought of kindly was taking some getting used to and I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop—it always did.

But back to the matter at hand.

“Depends on what?” I repeated, not liking the smirk on my father’s face.

My dad, Fabio was a crafty sucker. How did I know? I was cut from the same cloth.

“Well, it’s a funny story,” he started as he got comfortable on the couch next to me.

“Funny as in
ha-ha
or funny as in
oh my Goddess are you freakin’ serious
?” I asked, trying to peek inside the bags.

Dad paused and scratched his head as he considered his answer. This did not bode well. If he had to come up with a story I would find palatable, we were in trouble before we began and I sooooooo wanted what was inside the bags. Damn.

“I suppose a bit of both,” he conceded as he pushed the bags farther away, but not without revealing some of the contents first.

My breath caught in my throat as I spied a very expensive purse I’d been eyeing and
of course
some cashmere. He was a total butthole.

“Out with it,” I snapped wanting to find out if I had to deny the bribe on the table. I really didn’t want to, but my dad’s hemming and hawing was making me uneasy.

“So I applied for a position and they don’t want me to have it,” he huffed and threw his hands in the air. “It’s just not fair.”

“Was it Town Treasurer?” I asked with a snicker.

My dad’s finessing of finances made the good folks of Assjacket a little wary—and with good reason. He was the BIG winner at my cat’s illegal gambling ring and from what I’d heard everyone in town owed him money.

“No, although that would have been a smart move on their part. I could raise millions for this area. All we need is a casino and a few well heeled out of town guests,” he pondered aloud with an evil gleam in his eye. “Maybe a horse track… ”

“Bad idea,” I said redirecting my flighty father. “Let’s get back to the story that involves me tearing into the packages on the table.”

“Right,” he agreed and clapped his hands together twice. “I’ve applied to be the artistic director of the community theatre.”

“Whoa, there are so many weird things about that statement I’m not sure where to start.”

He gave me an
I’m going to ground you
stare and pressed his fingers to his temples. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” he pointed out.

“I am,” I insisted, “especially when there are bags involved. But what kind of place puts the artistic director of a dinky ass community theatre on the Town Council?”

“Assjacket,” he shot back with a grin.

My newly adopted town wasn’t really called Assjacket, but it was how I referred to it. The new name was catching on, much to the displeasure of the older Shifters in our community. I also referred to my job as the Shifter Wanker, formerly known as the Shifter Whisperer. Wanker fit me better. I was a healer who could talk with the Shifters in their animal form. Not my first choice of vocation, but since I hadn’t come up with anything better or less life threatening, I took the post.

I was good at it even though it hurt like a mother humper to heal the clumsy idiots. I secretly loved my job—not the pain—the job.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why won’t they let you be the
artistic director
?”

“They consider me high risk since I’m not a Shifter,” he pouted.

“What about community theatre is risky at all?” I asked perplexed. “I mean, my Goddess, you would costume the hell out of any show you did.”

“Right?” he grumbled in agreement. “I told them this, but apparently Assjacket’s thespian society is the laughing stock of West Virginia.”

“First of all, never say the world thespian again. And secondly, because I enjoy asking questions that I don’t want the answers to… why?”

Dad’s grin was positively contagious and my own grin pulled at my lips in response.

“The last show they produced was a musical version of
Silence of the Lambs
. Several audience members got eaten and the Fava Bean number was lewd,” he replied trying desperately not to laugh.

“Bullshit.” I slapped my hands over my mouth as I too tried not to laugh. Eating paying customers was
not
funny. “You’re making that up,” I accused through splayed fingers.

“How could I even begin to make something like that up?” he demanded, insulted that I would doubt him. “The disaster before that was a musical version of
Friday the 13
^th
.”

Fabio, my several centuries old
father figure
of questionable maturity, could hold back no longer. He fell to the floor and laughed so hard tears streamed from his eyes. He could barely breathe. I was now convinced this horrific story was true… which was why I was appalled and furious with myself that I was in hysterics too.

“Did anyone die during that one?” I squeaked, hating myself with each request for more details.

“No,” he choked out, as he wiped his eyes and admirably attempted to pull himself together. “A few stab wounds.”

“Wait,” I said as I punched his arm. “When you say eaten do you mean
eaten
?”

“Yesssssss,” he hissed back in hysterics. “But it was only a hand and a foot if I’m remembering correctly.”

I heaved a huge sigh of relief coupled with a gag. I’d envisioned total cannibalism.

“Thank Goddess,” I grunted. “Wait, I’m confused.”

“About the Fava Bean number?” he asked with an enormous grin.

“Um… no—absolutely not. Those are three more words you shall never utter again. About the bribe bags on the table.”

“Ahhh,” he said as he got back up to his feet and began placing the contents of the bags on the table inches from my fingers. “There’s a caveat.”

“And that would be?” I asked as I closed my eyes when he plopped a rockin’ pair of Jimmy Choo pumps on the table next to an obscene pile of green cashmere that matched my eyes perfectly.

“They’ll let me have the job if you agree to star in the next show.”

My dad was a dick of epic proportions. I was not an actress. I couldn’t sing to save my life and I wasn’t going to have any part of a life threatening musical no matter how much I coveted the booty on the table.

“Nope,” I said with my eyes squeezed shut so hard I felt a headache coming on.

“Come on Zelda,” Dad pleaded.

I could hear him placing more items on the table and I was seconds away from shrinking the clothing on his body to extra small. This was so unfair.

“You listen to me,” I hissed as I sat on my hands and kept my eyes firmly closed. It was too risky to have the use of my hands. I’d either zap him, which wasn’t nice, or I’d grab the stash on the table and run. Neither scenario was attractive or happening. “I’m a witch who heals dumb ass Shifters when they get booboos. I do not have the time to humiliate myself in front of the masses on stage. I do fine with that in my daily life. The answer is a big, fat, hairy no.”

“All right then.” He sighed dramatically. “I suppose Sassy might like the black Hermes Birkin bag with the gold hardware.”

“Do you hate me?” I shouted as I threw myself over the bag like it was a fumbled football in the Super Bowl. “Sassy’s coloring does not go with this bag. It would look much better carried by someone with red hair. And you’re a total dick.”

“I’ve been called far worse,” he replied with a chuckle and then sighed dramatically. “All of this is yours. I was just hoping you would humor an old warlock. I so wanted to be in charge of an extravaganza.”

He gently pried me off of the bag and placed it in my arms along with all the other apparel. I stared down at my windfall and wanted to cry. Dad sat down next to me and put his head in his hands… and he wasn’t trying to trick me anymore. Shit.

“I don’t need this stuff. You can give the bag to Saaaa… ssaaay,” I whispered as I felt the need to either put my head between my knees or breathe into a paper bag. “You have to stop spending money on me. I don’t deserve any of it. I called you a dick. I’m pretty sure daughters calling their fathers dicks isn’t good.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he assured me as he put his arms around me and squeezed. “I wasn’t there for your teenage years so you owe me about four years of calling me a dick.”

“Only four?” I asked with a small grin.

“Okay, five,” Dad conceded generously with an adorable lopsided grin.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. It felt so nice to be held by him. I was thirty, but in his arms I was a little girl—a wanted and adored little girl.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this… but I’ll think about it,” I muttered as I shook my head in defeat. “However, I refuse to sing or dance or talk that much.”

“I can work with that,” he promised with a smile that lit his whole face.

“What’s the show?” I asked as I played with the clasp on my brand new, ridiculously overpriced purse.

“It’s a surprise. I don’t even know. Bob the beaver and Roger the rabbit are writing it,” he said as he absently smoothed my hair back.

“Holy hell, that sounds dangerous. Roger’s a perv. If he writes a song and dance filled
Debbie Does Dallas
, I’m out.”

“Me too,” Dad agreed with a laugh and a shudder. “Let’s just wait and see what they come up with. It might be fun and we’ll get to spend some real quality time together.”

Famous last words.

CHAPTER 2

“No, no, no, I’m not
writing
the show. I’m the set designer,” Roger the rabbit Shifter
slash
my therapist assured me with a doctor-ly chuckle. “Bob the beaver writes all the shows.”

“Did he write the last two?” I inquired with raised brows as I made myself comfortable on Roger’s offensively plaid office couch.

“Um… yes,” he whispered and blanched. “Those were dark times for Bob.”

“And the people who got eaten and stabbed? I’m guessing those were dark times for them too?” I added as I pinched the bridge of my nose and winced.

“Well, yes. We had quite a few lawsuits on our hands. The Town Treasury went bankrupt after those very unfortunate incidents,” he replied as he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Thankfully, your dearly departed Aunt Hildy was able to heal most of the victims.”

My Aunt Hildy had been the Shifter Whisperer before me. She was gone now and I owned the job—or rather, the job owned me.

“So what would you like to talk about today?” Roger inquired carefully, as I was here for a session.

He was terrified of me. This was a good thing. I’d randomly discovered his porn addiction much to the displeasure of my over-active gag reflex, but it kept us on an even keel. Hippocratic Oath be damned. If the little turd gossiped about our sessions, I’d reveal his penchant for watching people hump. Win-win.

I didn’t want to do our sessions, but I’d lost a bet to my dad and had to visit with Roger too many times to count—nine to be exact and thank the Goddess I’d already done one. I’d suggested we do them all in one day, but Roger almost had a coronary. Since I was the one who would have to heal the little shit if his ticker blew up, I generously agreed to twice a week—on different days.