Witchful Thinking: A Jolie Wilkins Novel

  BY H. P. MALLORY

  THE JOLIE WILKINS SERIES

  Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

  Toil and Trouble

  Be Witched (novella)

  THE DULCIE O’NEIL SERIES

  To Kill a Warlock

  A Tale of Two Goblins

  Great Hexpectations

  Witchful Thinking is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2012 by H. P. Mallory

  Excerpt from The Witch Is Back copyright © 2012 by H. P. Mallory

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53155-1

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Witch Is Back by H. P. Mallory. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Cover illustration: Anne Keenan Higgins

  Cover design: Eileen Carey

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from The Witch is Back

  “So, no more ghostly encounters?” Christa, my best friend and only employee, asked while leaning against the desk in our front office. She was referring to the fact that the previous evening I’d seen my first ghost.

  I shook my head and pooled into a chair by the door. “Maybe if you hadn’t left early to go on your date, I wouldn’t have had a visit at all.”

  “Well, one of us needs to be dating,” she said, knowing full well I hadn’t had any dates for the past six months.

  “Let’s not get into this again …”

  “Jolie, you need to get out. You’re almost thirty …”

  “Two years from it, thank you very much.”

  “Whatever … you’re going to end up old and alone. You’re way too pretty, and you have such a great personality, you can’t end up like that. Don’t let one bad date ruin it.” Her voice reached a crescendo. Christa has a tendency toward the dramatic.

  “I’ve had a string of bad dates, Chris.” I didn’t know what else to say—I was terminally single. It came down to the fact that I’d rather spend time with my cat or Christa than face another stream of losers.

  As for being attractive, Christa insisted I was pretty, but I wasn’t convinced. It’s one thing when your best friend says you’re pretty; it’s entirely different when a man does.

  And I couldn’t remember the last time a man had said it.

  I caught my reflection in the glass of the desk and studied myself while Christa rambled on about all the reasons I should be dating. I supposed my face was pleasant enough—a pert nose, cornflower-blue eyes, and plump lips. A spattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose interrupts an otherwise pale landscape of skin, and my shoulder-length blond hair always finds itself drawn into a ponytail.

  Head-turning doubtful, girl-next-door probable.

  As for Christa, she doesn’t look like me at all. For one thing, she’s leggy and tall—about five-eight, which is four inches taller than I am. She has dark hair the color of mahogany, green eyes, and rosy cheeks. She’s classically pretty—like cameo pretty. She’s rail skinny and has no boobs. I have a tendency to gain weight if I eat too much, I have a definite butt, and the twins are pretty ample as well. Maybe that made me sound like I’m fat—I’m not, but I could stand to lose five pounds.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Christa asked.

  Shaking my head, I entered the reading room, thinking I’d left my glasses there.

  I heard the door open.

  “Well, hello to you,” Christa said in a high-pitched, sickening-sweet, and non-Christa voice.

  “Afternoon.” The deep timbre of his voice echoed through the room, my ears mistaking his baritone for music.

  “I’m here for a reading, but I don’t have an appointment—”

  “Oh, that’s cool,” Christa interrupted, and from the saccharine tone of her voice, it was pretty apparent this guy had to be eye candy.

  Giving up on finding my reading glasses, I headed out in order to introduce myself to our stranger. Upon seeing him, I couldn’t contain the gasp that escaped my throat. It wasn’t his Greek-god, Sean-Connery-would-be-envious good looks that grabbed me first, or his considerable height.

  It was his aura.

  I’ve been able to see auras since before I can remember, but I’d never seen anything like his. It radiated from him as if it had a life of its own—and the color! Usually auras are pinkish or violet in healthy people, yellowish or orange in those unhealthy. His was the most vibrant blue I’ve ever seen—the color of the sky after a storm when the sun’s rays bask everything in glory.

  It emanated from him like electricity.

  “Hi, I’m Jolie,” I said, remembering myself.

  “How do you do?” And to make me drool even more than I already was, he had an accent, a British one. Ergh.

  I glanced at Christa as I invited him into the reading room. Her mouth had dropped open like a fish’s.

  My sentiments exactly.

  His navy-blue sweater stretched to its capacity while attempting to span a pair of broad shoulders and a wide chest. The broad shoulders and spacious chest in question tapered to a trim waist and finished in a finale of long legs. The white shirt peeking from underneath his sweater contrasted with his tanned complexion and made me consider my own fair skin with dismay.

  The stillness of the room did nothing to allay my nerves. I took a seat, shuffled the tarot cards, and handed him the deck. “Please choose five cards and lay them faceup on the table.”

  He took a seat across from me, stretching his legs and resting his hands on his thighs. I chanced a look at him and took in his chocolate hair and caramel eyes. His face was angular, and his Roman nose lent him a certain Paul-Newman-esque quality. The beginnings of shadow did nothing to hide the definite cleft in his strong chin.

  He didn’t take the cards. Instead he just smiled, revealing pearly whites and a set of grade A dimples.

  “You did come for a reading?” I asked.

  He nodded and covered my hand with his own. What felt like lightning ricocheted up my arm, and I swear my heart stopped for a second. The lone red bulb blinked a few times then continued to grow brighter until I thought it might explode. My gaze moved from his hand up his arm, and settled on his eyes. With the red light reflecting against him, he looked like the devil come to barter for my s
oul.

  “I came for a reading, yes, but not with the cards. I’d like you to read … me.” His rumbling baritone was hypnotic, and I fought the need to pull my hand from his warm grip.

  I set the stack of cards aside, focusing on him again. I was so nervous, I doubted any of my visions would come. They were about as reliable as the weather anchors you see on TV.

  After several long uncomfortable moments, I gave up. “I can’t read you, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. I shifted the eucalyptus-scented incense I’d lit to the farthest corner of the table and waved my hands in front of my face, dispersing the smoke that seemed intent on wafting directly into my eyes. It swirled and danced in the air, as if indifferent to the fact that I couldn’t help this stranger.

  He removed his hand but stayed seated. I thought he’d leave, but he made no motion to do anything of the sort.

  “Take your time.”

  Take my time? I was a nervous wreck and had no visions whatsoever. I just wanted this handsome stranger to leave so my life could return to normal.

  But it appeared that was not in the cards.

  The silence pounded against the walls, echoing the pulse of blood in my veins. Still, my companion said nothing. I’d had enough. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  He smiled again. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  Adonis.

  No, I couldn’t say that. Maybe he’d like to hear about his aura? I didn’t have any other cards up my sleeve … “I can see your aura,” I almost whispered, fearing his ridicule.

  His brows drew together. “What does it look like?”

  “It isn’t like anyone’s I’ve ever seen before. It’s bright blue, and it flares out of you … almost like electricity.”

  His smile disappeared, and he leaned forward. “Can you see everyone’s auras?”

  The incense dared to assault my eyes again, so I put it out and dumped it in the trash can.

  “Yes. Most people have much fainter glows to them—more often than not in the pink or orange family. I’ve never seen blue.”

  He chewed on that for a moment. “What do you suppose it is you’re looking at—someone’s soul?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I do know, though, that if someone’s ailing, I can see it. Their aura goes a bit yellow.” He nodded, and I added, “You’re healthy.”

  He laughed, and I felt silly for saying it. He stood up, his imposing height making me feel all of three inches tall. Not enjoying the feel of him staring down at me, I rose too and watched him pull out his wallet. I guess he’d heard enough and thought I was full of it. He set a hundred-dollar bill on the table in front of me. My hourly rate was fifty dollars, and we’d been maybe twenty minutes.

  “I’d like to come see you for the next three Tuesdays at four p.m. Please don’t schedule anyone after me. I’ll compensate you for the entire afternoon.”

  I was shocked—what in the world would he want to come back for?

  “Jolie, it was a pleasure meeting you, and I look forward to our next session.” He turned to walk out of the room when I remembered myself.

  “Wait, what name should I put in the appointment book?”

  He turned and faced me. “Rand.”

  Then he walked out of the shop.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  Queen.

  I’m not even really sure what to make of the word.

  And the worst part is that it’s not a detached, unfamiliar, or unthreatening word. Nope, Queen is an up-close-and-personal sort of thing, as in I’m going to be living and breathing it. Some would say being Queen is my destiny, I don’t know about that but what I do know is that Queen is now my reality.

  I am Queen of the Underworld.

  Jolie Wilkins, Queen of vampires, werewolves, and other creatures you wouldn’t want to invite to dinner.

  Somehow the title just doesn’t fit me. It’s like trying to wear a pair of shoes that are way too big for my size eight feet. I’m not a Queen, I never wanted to be a Queen, and I definitely don’t have the makings of a Queen. I’m just me—a witch with some magical abilities, one of which is the power to reanimate the dead. But Queen? Not by a long shot.

  One of the lessons I learned when I first became involved with the Underworld (less than two years ago) is that whatever the Underworld wants, it gets. It’s like the mob—once you get in, ain’t no gettin’ out. And I’m in—up to my neck.

  So how did I become Queen? Was there a royal celebration? Were Prince William and Harry in attendance? Was Kate Middleton pissed? No, no, and no. My entry into the royalty of the Underworld was more like trial by fire—I’d been in the middle of a war; Gwynn (the bitch) had just run me through with a blade in return for destroying her lover; I’d died and then I’d been on the receiving end of reanimation, myself.

  The crowning glory of the whole battle came when Mercedes Berg, the supreme witch of all witches (also known as the prophetess), basically shell-shocked everyone with a magical burst of energy that lit up the entire sky. It was like God’s television had short-circuited. Everyone just stopped in their tracks, as if their brains had gone dormant. No one had been able to function. As if waving their white flags of surrender, everyone laid their weapons on the ground and just stared at one another dumbstruck. And that was the end of that.

  Well, for them. For me it was just the beginning.

  After Mercedes put the kibosh on our little war (a war for independence against the tyranny of the witch Bella, who wanted to be Queen), she informed me that I was now the Queen of the Underworld. And it wasn’t like I ever submitted my résumé for the position. It had come completely out of left field, and the craptastic part of the whole situation was that I couldn’t say no. Mob, remember?

  So now I’m Queen and I want nothing to do with the position.

  About now, Diary, I imagine your head is spinning. Crap, my head is spinning and I’m the one who lived through all of it. In a fit of desperation, I decided to write it all down—to document how absurd my life has become in an effort to make sense of it all.

  Actually, this is my first journal entry. I never really got into diaries because my life didn’t warrant recording. It was a quiet, mundane existence fixed in routine, but I liked it well enough. I had a best friend, Christa, who never ceased to amuse me with her frivolous talk about sex, sex, and more sex. I had my cat named Plum and I owned my own business—a tarot-card-reading shop. My skills, though limited, included reading people’s fortunes through cards as well as detecting auras to determine if someone was sick or healthy by glancing at the colors reverberating off them.

  The day Rand Balfour walked into my life, he changed it forever. Rand is a warlock and the first to inform me of my witchiness. He taught me pretty much everything I know … not to mention, I’m also head over heels in love with him. But more about Rand later.

  At this point the important things to know are: First, the Underworld is polarized in a battle of good (Rand’s side, which includes me, a handful of witches, a few hundred vampires and werewolves, and the entire legion of fairies) versus bad (the evil witch Bella and her minions, including an equal number of vampires and werewolves, none of the fairies, but all of the demons).

  They say religion is at the core of most wars. Well, that wasn’t the case with this one. This war began over me—and I’m not saying that to sound vain or to make you think I have an inflated sense of self-importance. Trust me, I’m really not that great. But once word spread throughout the Underworld that I could reanimate the dead, all the creatures went into a tizzy because no one before me had ever been able to do that. Bella, in true Bella form, wanted me on her side because like most villains, Bella sought power—power over all the Underworld species. I guess I was a sharp arrow to have in her quiver.

  As with any other war, what happened was heart wrenching—vamp fighting vamp and witch fighting witch. Of course, I didn’t get to observe too much—just as I was impaled by Gwynn’s blade, I was whisked back in t
ime to Alnwick, England, in the year 1878. There I met the prophetess, Mercedes Berg. Well, as it turned out, she’d been the party responsible for sending me back to 1878 in order to save me as well as herself. To put it bluntly, Mercedes needed a ride back to the future to avoid her own untimely death, and I played the part of bus.

  As I mentioned earlier, Mercedes ended the war by raising her hands and causing that big ol’ magical burst, looking like a conductor leading the orchestra of the skies. After Gwynn stabbed me, Mercedes brought me back to life and I learned that she was the only other person besides me who could reanimate the dead.

  And now? It’s only been about two hours since Mercedes stopped the battle. Now I find myself sitting in a cottage, alone, in a fairy village in the middle of the Cairngorms Forest in Scotland, waiting for I don’t know what. After the war ended, we took care of the injured and the dead, while also taking Bella’s remaining forces captive. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention our victory—Mercedes was on our side … thank God.

  So here I am, camped out in this room, with not a whole lot to occupy myself, just waiting for word on what our next course of action will be.

  PRESENT DAY

  FAE VILLAGE, CAIRNGORMS FOREST, SCOTLAND

  At the sound of a knock on the wooden door, I lifted my gaze from the parchment in front of me where I’d scribbled my journal entry. I laid my pen on the oak desktop and stood up, catching a glance at my outfit as I did so, and I had to laugh.

  One fact about the fae and fae communities in general was that magic ruled. When you were in a fae village, and if you happened to be female, fae magic dictated you be dressed in what looked like Renaissance garb. My dress had an empire waist and was so long that it skimmed the ground. The material was light and gauzy, off-white, and bedecked with pink ribbon piping around the waist, the bust, and the wrist-length sleeves. I didn’t even have to look at my hair to know it was three times its usual length, now grazing my butt in a mass of golden sausage curls, kissed by pink cherry blossoms.

  I’d gone into battle dressed in stretch pants and come out of it looking like Rapunzel.