Magic and Mayhem: The Seven Year Witch (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - Zelda Makes a Promise

  Chapter 2 – New York, New York

  Chapter Three – A Ride in the Park

  Chapter 4 – I Love the Nightlife, I Love to Boogie…

  Chapter Five – Love and Tenderness

  Chapter 6 – Return to Assjacket

  Chapter Seven – The Horse You Rode In On

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Robyn Peterman. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Magic and Mayhem remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Robyn Peterman, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  The Seven Year Witch

  by

  Melinda DuChamp

  Acknowledgements

  Cover by Rebecca Poole of dreams2media

  Proofreading by Chereese Graves of Grammar.RulesAtoZ

  Chapter 1 - Zelda Makes a Promise

  Marilyn was fat.

  Not that that was an unusual problem to have. She’d read somewhere that a full 35.7% of Americans were considered to be obese. But mortals carrying a few extra pounds were one thing. Marilyn was not a mortal. Marilyn was a witch. And witches were never, ever, ever, ever supposed to be fat.

  Everyone knew that. Take a look at any supernatural romance novel. You know the ones; they have cartoon characters on the cover who all look like a cross between Cinderella and Sofia Vergara. Ever seen a fat witch on a book? Nope. They're drawn as thin as they are in real life.

  Baba Yaga, the powerful leader of witches, had once told Marilyn that every seven hundred years, a witch like her was born. A fat witch. And that witch was known as The Seven Year Witch.

  “Shouldn’t it be The Seven Hundred Year Witch?” Marilyn’s friend Zelda asked Baba Yaga one day.

  The three of them were standing in the kitchen of the old Victorian Zelda inherited from her aunt Hildy. The house was huge, beautiful, and recently it had been blown up. But Baba Yaga, witch leader extraordinaire, had rebuilt it with a zap of her fingers. It was now just like before, with the addition of disco mirror balls in every room.

  Marilyn stared at the kitchen mirror ball now and blushed. Only Zelda had the nerve to talk to the mighty Baba Yaga this way. But then, Zelda was the Shifter Whisperer; powerful, beautiful, brave, smart, and very, very, very thin. Like runway model thin. She could wear nothing but a pillowcase and make it look good.

  The only time Marilyn felt powerful, beautiful, etcetera was when she was curled up in her tiny apartment with her dozen familiars, watching glamorous, old movies. Then she could feel what it was like to be the characters, having adventures, falling in love. But in her regular life, there was little glamour to be found. Little love, too. And as far as excitement went, visiting Zelda in AssJacket, West Virginia to attend the fashion show she’d planned was about the pinnacle.

  Marilyn watched the dizzying lights of the mirror ball reflect off the cabinets and waited for Baba Yaga to answer.

  “Zelda, are you questioning my knowledge of witch lore?”

  “No, I’m questioning why you dropped the word hundred.”

  “Because I'm in charge, and I can do what I want.”

  “Or because you just want to reference that old Marilyn Monroe movie. I've stood over subway grates. They don't blow wind like that. They just smell like exhaust and unhappy commuters.”

  Baba Yaga crooked a brow. “Are you looking to spend a little more time in the pokey, Zelda?”

  The pokey was the witch prison in Salem, Massachusetts. Zelda had spent some time there before, and Marilyn really didn’t want to see her friend—and personal role model—have to go back.

  “I think it’s because a witch like me isn’t worth the extra syllables. Isn’t that right?” Marilyn asked Baba Yaga, careful to keep her focus on the floor. “If I was a powerful, beautiful, slender, goddess of a witch like Baba Yaga, I wouldn’t waste the time on extra words, either.”

  “You forgot fashion plate,” Baba Yaga said, twirling to show off her oversized fuchsia shirt plumped up with shoulder pads and cinched with a jaunty, asymmetrical belt.

  “Nice shirt,” Marilyn said.

  “Oh, yes,” Zelda added, sarcasm dripping from each word. “It goes with your humongotoid, teased hair, your acid-washed mom jeans, and your leg warmers.”

  Marilyn shot a glance at Baba Yaga, worried she would pick up on Zelda’s derision, but the powerful witch leader seemed oblivious.

  Better end this quick before she caught on.

  “I just love the outfit, your Baba Yaganess. The Jane Fonda Workout look is eternal.”

  Baba Yaga gave Zelda a sniff. “See? Now that’s how you treat your elders.”

  Baba Yaga was older than both Zelda and Marilyn, but she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Of course, the more powerful the witch, the slower she aged, and as the leader of the witches, Baba Yaga was powerful indeed. That’s the way witches rolled. Youthful, beautiful, brilliant, and slender. All witches except one born every seven hundred years.

  The Seven Year Witch.

  Why not just call her The Seven Year Fat Ass Who Will Never Find Love Because Of Body-Shaming Culture?

  Probably because that was too long. It didn't roll off your tongue the same way as Seven Year Witch.

  Marilyn cooed a few more compliments, and finally Baba Yaga poofed away to some glamorous place for thin people, promising to return the next day for the fashion show Zelda was hosting in her home.

  “As if Baby Yellowstone is going to find something at my fashion show,” Zelda said when she and Marilyn were alone. “Does she think the theme is going to be eighties night?”

  “You really shouldn’t insult her like that, Zelda. She really will zap you back into the pokey one of these days.”

  “Sometimes I can’t control my own witchiness,” Zelda said, sighing in an annoyingly cute way. “Listen, I appreciate what you did there with Baba Yolo, Marilyn. I really do. I’m planning to wear Dior at the fashion show I’m hosting, not an orange jumpsuit.”

  “Aren't the new prison uniforms designed by Dior?”

  “Yes. But they are so last season.”

  Marilyn had never been sent to the pokey. Probably because she never did anything to upset Baba Yaga. Or anyone. Marilyn was as nice as she was fat. But she wondered if the real reason she'd never been punished by the queen of the witches was because Baba Yaga didn't have any jumpsuits in size 18.

  “Well, I’m glad I could help,” Marilyn said, wondering why more of the best designers didn't have plus size outlet shops.

  “And just to show you how much I appreciate you covering for me, not to mention how much I like to mess with Bibi Yogi’s witch lore bullshit, I will heal your metabolism.”

  Marilyn couldn’t believe her ears. “Heal?”

  “Yes.”

  “My?”

  “Yes. Metabolism? Yes.” Zelda finished for her.

  “You can do that?”

  “Of course. And then you’ll be able to eat whatever you want and stay crazy thin and beautiful just like the rest of us. Either that, or the spell will blow up the continental United States. And parts of Canada. Not really sure.”

  Marilyn had seen Zelda’s healing act with the Shifters. “But you absorb the injuries of the Shifters. Does that mean you’ll absorb my fat?”

  She could feel Zelda cringe as
if the horror was her own.

  “Oh Goddess no. I mean, I appreciate your sacrifice, but there isn’t a chance I’m going to take on your rotundity, not even for a second. I mean, how do you even shave? Can you see down there, with that… do you lift… well, you know what I'm saying. So I'm not going there. That’s why, if you want me to heal you, you’re going to have to bring some of your own magic.”

  “My magic?” Marilyn wanted to cry. The Seven Year Witch wasn’t just fat, she was weak in the magic department.

  Fat, weak, and too nice. Every man and woman's fantasy.

  “I’m not sure my magic will be strong enough for that to work, but thanks for trying to help, Zelda. You really are a good friend.”

  “No, I’m not a good friend. I talk behind your back all the time, mostly making fun of your weight.”

  “You do?”

  “Everyone does, Marilyn. Sassy once conjured up a manatee with your face on it and that awful housedress you always wear. You know, the one that looks like a king-size comforter from an old west bordello. It was hilarious. I almost spit up my kombucha, I was laughing so hard. The manatee even started to cry.” She frowned. “I didn't know they had feelings.”

  Marilyn could relate to the manatee, and felt like crying herself. It really was hopeless.

  “Don't make that face,” Zelda said. “Self-pity is even less attractive than those extra eighty pounds. Seriously Marilyn, feeling sorry for yourself will get you nowhere. I’ve tried. It never works. You either have to choose to change or accept yourself as you are.”

  “Change?”

  “Or accept yourself as you are.”

  “By change do you mean help you heal my metabolism?”

  “Yes. But if you don’t want to do that, you could always accept yourself as you are.”

  “But how can I change when my magic isn’t strong enough to help?”

  Zelda let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re hell bent on the change option, I see. Well, we can still fix your weight. With city magic. All you have to do is take a trip to New York.”

  “New York City?”

  “Didn’t I just say that? You know you do that all the time. You repeat the last thing I said.”

  “I repeat the last thing you said?”

  “Now you're just being irritating.”

  “Why do I have to go to New York City?” Marilyn asked. The only exotic place Marilyn had ever visited was Las Vegas, and in the three days she was there, she’d lost eight hundred dollars, was stood up by her fiancé at the Elvis wedding chapel, and the hotel had closed down the endless buffet every time she’d stepped out of her room.

  But New York?

  Out of all of her collection of old movies, Marilyn’s favorites were those set in New York. She’d never had the confidence to actually visit, but when she was soaking in those glorious movies, she felt as if she was there.

  But Marilyn was confused. “What does city magic and New York have to do with my metabolism?”

  Zelda gave her eyes a roll. “Like I said, in order for me to heal your metabolism, you’re going to have to bring some of your own mojo into the mix.”

  “I don’t have any mojo.”

  “No shit. That’s where city magic comes in. Mojo is fed by magic and magic is created by mojo. It’s what we call the Circle of Fabulous. And there’s plenty of city magic for you to absorb in New York.”

  Marilyn was nervous. But since Zelda said she should try this, she would give it her all. “How do I absorb city magic?”

  “Oh my hell, Marilyn. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Why are we friends when you keep insulting me all the time?”

  “Since you have low self-esteem, I like hanging out with you because it makes me feel better about myself.”

  Marilyn nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “It could also be that I’m trying to motivate you to do something besides feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Marilyn thought about that for a second, but in the end, she decided that it didn’t make sense, at least it wouldn’t until the end of the story. “So how do I absorb city magic?”

  “City magic is concentrated in makeovers, shopping, and hot nightclubs. So that’s where you go.”

  “I should be writing all of this down. So much to learn.” Marilyn looked around for a pen.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll set everything up for you,” A flash of magic flame sizzled up Zelda’s arms. “Look at your hand.”

  Marilyn turned her palm up. There scrawled between her life line and her love line was a complete itinerary.

  “You could have just put it on my iPhone.”

  “Way to look a gift horse in the mouth, Mama Cass. Now, all you have to do is promise you’ll be adventurous and absorb as much city magic as you can. That will feed your mojo. Which in turn will strengthen your magic.”

  “How will I know when I have enough?”

  “The forces of nature will attempt to rip off your clothes.”

  “You’re teasing.”

  “Not teasing. You’ll know when it happens. Then you come back to Assjacket, and I will heal your metabolism and make you just like the rest of us. Maybe you can even walk the runway in my fashion show.”

  Marilyn was still absorbing this when the door leading to the basement flew open. She turned around to see Mac, the sexy wolf Shifter who was widely rumored to be Zelda’s mate, leaning on the doorjamb like James Dean.

  “Zelda. I need to see you.”

  “What is it?”

  He gave her a smoldering, rebel look. “I need to see you.”

  Zelda turned back to Marilyn. “Off you go. Off you go. Out of my hair… um, I mean have a good trip. Get out of here. Bye.”

  “To New York? Now?”

  “Absolutely now. I have a feeling Mac is going to do a sun salute to my downward dog.”

  “I didn’t know you were into yoga.”

  “No, we’re going to share a little happy juice.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of those new yoga places with juice bars. How fun!”

  “No, no, no. We’re going to swap rugburns.”

  “If you use a mat, that shouldn’t be a prob—”

  “Marilyn, stop with the yoga. What I’m trying to say is that I am about to ride the cock wagon to cumtown.”

  Marilyn glanced at Mac, then back to Zelda. “Oh, sure. Of course.”

  “So why are you still here?”

  “I would leave, only…” Marilyn was so embarrassed, she couldn’t say the words.

  Zelda plopped her hands on her slim, slim, slim hips. “What in the Goddess’s name is wrong?”

  “I…”

  “What?”

  “I…”

  “Oh my hell, spit it out, Marilyn!”

  “I can’t teleport.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t teleport? You’re a witch.”

  Marilyn let out a long, heavy sigh. “I’m The Seven Year Witch. Or I guess it should be The Seven Hundred Year Witch.”

  Zelda looked her up and down. “Is it because you're too fat to teleport?”

  Marilyn could feel her cheeks heat. “I don't know.”

  “Can't you just use two teleport spells?” Mac asked. “Like buying two seats on coach because your ass is too fat to fit in one?”

  Zelda forced a pained smile. “That's not how teleporting works, sweetie. Not for witches.” She whispered to Marilyn, “He's got abs you could eat a ten course meal off of, and he’s in Mensa, but I swear to the Goddess, there are times he seems to have the IQ of a potted plant. And not one of the smarter plants, either. We're talking ficus, here. I think it’s a problem with blood flow.”

  Marilyn nodded but tried not to think about Mac’s blood flow. Of course, that meant she could focus on nothing but Mac’s blood flow. She stared at the floor and blushed. “I’ll fly… on an airplane.”

  “Buy two seats,” Mac said, holding up his hand in a peace sign. “Then you won't need a seatbelt extender. You could just use
both belts. Probably.”

  “Thanks, Mac,” Marilyn said.

  “No prob.”

  He went back to pouting like he was in a boy band power ballad.

  “Time to leave, Marilyn,” Zelda said. “I’m starting to have a blood flow problem of my own, and I think Mac needs to help me handle it.”

  “Sorry.”

  Zelda patted her arm as she pushed her out the door. “It’s okay.”

  Marilyn gave Zelda a grateful smile. It wasn’t okay, though. And they both knew it. Marilyn was a freak. A fat witch in the midst of beautiful, glamorous, toothpick sized witches. But the sooner Marilyn could soak up the city magic of New York, the sooner Zelda could heal Marilyn’s metabolism and change her into a proper, skinny witch.

  The way all witches were meant to be.

  Chapter 2 – New York, New York

  The Empire State Building. The Statue of Liberty. Central Park. One World Trade Center. Times Square. The Met. Broadway. Grand Central Station. The Brooklyn Bridge.

  Marilyn’s head whirled with all the wonderful things to explore in New York. It was a good thing Zelda had given her an itinerary. Otherwise, Marilyn wouldn’t have a clue what to do first.

  Or second.

  Or third.

  Really, Marilyn had no organizational skills at all. And her legs were still cramped from flying coach. She'd managed to squeeze into one seat--after suffering the indignity of asking for a seat belt extender--but even if she'd been a normal size, airline travel was just plain miserable.

  Or maybe plane miserable. Spelled like airplane.

  Wow, Marilyn thought. Fat, weak, too nice, and a taste for bad puns.

  No wonder I haven't gotten laid in three years.

  Okay, four years.

  You know it's bad when you lie to yourself.

  She opened her hand and stared at her palm.

  One o’clock pm – Mirror, Mirror.

  “Hmm… It sounds like something out of a fairy tale, which seems fitting since making me attractive enough for the forces of nature to want to rip off my clothing would be a fairy tale indeed,” said Marilyn aloud to herself.