Jinxed_Toxic Bitchcraft Book One Read online

  JINXED

  TOXIC BITCHCRAFT BOOK ONE

  K.B. Ladnier

  Copyright © 2017 by K.B. Ladnier

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design by Daqri Bernardo – Covers by Combs

  Chapter Images by Artemis Drowning

  Edited by Muddy Waters Editing

  Contents

  Connect With The Author

  Other Books By The Author

  Blurb

  Jinxed

  1. “Never Cross a Craft Witch”

  2. “Shakes and Shivers”

  3. “Cinnamon Rolls”

  4. “Poltergeist on PMS”

  5. “Shishka-Witch”

  6. “Bitchy Witchy”

  7. “Brain Bleach”

  8. “Cryptic Words and Seductive Spells”

  9. “That’s Not My Body”

  10. “Vesuvias”

  TO BE CONTINUED

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Buy The Bath Bomb!!!

  Acknowledge

  About the Author

  Connect With The Author

  Website:

  Facebook:

  IG & Twitter:

  Other Books By The Author

  Blood: Under the Skin Book One

  Polarity of Us: A Northern Lights Novel

  Make Me a Wish: The Conduit Trilogy Book One

  Wishful Thinking: The Conduit Trilogy Book Two

  The More the Merrier: A Naughty Nights Novella

  The Arbiter: Divinely Damned Book One

  To Christi of POPnatural for inspiring this story.

  You’re my number one bath bomb dealer.

  To Cece Rose for giving me the covers to this series as a birthday present.

  Your kindness is unparalleled and I’m so grateful.

  To Emma for being the perfect physical inspiration for my witch.

  You’re beautiful.

  Never Cross a Craft Witch…

  Christi Craft is the name and being witchy is my game!

  I own a little shop in rural Salem, filled with all manner of fun things; priceless heirlooms, cursed artifacts, bath bombs, Spills (magically spelled pills, if you get my drift). You know, harmless things.

  However, Milo James, a sexy AF Warlock Warden, disagrees. He's always giving me citations and fines for selling my cursed artifacts to humans who don't know any better. I’ve known him most of my life, and he sees me as a little sister – at least, that’s how he treats me. Damn it…

  If that's not enough, Orrin, my Incubus lover, suddenly wants more from me than just an occasional roll in the sheets, and I have to deal with this poltergeist I unknowingly acquired with a recent purchase. He's demanding I solve his murder. What he doesn't seem to grasp is that I suck at being a witch.

  But things aren't what they seem when it comes to this spirit, and I'm not sure I can help him on my own. With or without my power.

  **This is a REVERSE HAREM romance filled with laughs, lust, and a whole lot of foul language. You’ve been warned.**

  One

  “Never Cross a Craft Witch”

  Just a little harder. No. What if I twist this way? Fuck. That won't work either.

  "Son of a Succubus! Did you get bigger? Why won't you just fit?" I shouted. I'd been at this for fifteen minutes straight, and I'd barely moved it an inch. This shouldn't be so complicated! You put it in the hole and push. It fucking fit yesterday!

  A knock sounded at the door. I ignored it. But then the knocks became harder and more incessant.

  "Go away! I'm busy!" I finally growled out, not wanting to be seen in this wild state I'd been put in.

  The door opened and my pixie best friend, Turk, stuck his head in the room. His bright, verdant eyes were wide with shock at first, then immediately filled with amusement. He leaned against the doorway, a hand fisted against his hip and one ankle crossed over the other.

  "Whatcha doin?" He asked; an impish smile plastered on his face. He knew exactly what I was doing, as it was so damn obvious. But, he's a pixie. And like all pixies did, he was going to stick his nose in something that was none of his business. Especially, when it was my business.

  "Did I not say I was busy?" I snapped at him, grunting as I looked down at the bane of my existence and crossed my arms with aggravation. How was it possible a shoe was getting the better of me? This was just sad.

  "You did. But, I couldn't tell if you were having sex or evading an attacker by the sounds you were making. I'm just making sure it wasn't the latter."

  I raised my brow at him. "But if I'd been having sex, you’d be totally cool just walking your sassy ass in here, right?"

  He shrugged. "Not like I haven't seen it before. Besides, you're fighting with a shoe, so neither of those two options were happening anyway."

  My jaw dropped. “Whatya mean you’ve seen it before?”

  Like all pixies, his tanned skin had a pearlescent shimmer that pulsated every now and then beneath and actually shed bits of pixie dust when he willed it. Pixies were also a huge help in the witching world. Most witches had a resident pixie that found them at some point in their life and was responsible for their well-being should they get hurt. The pixie dust that he released from his skin could heal most wounds on us witches. Turk was my pixie familiar and was used often with my chaotic nature. I was accident prone.

  His ears were tipped to a slight point and his golden hair had a hint of magic dust layered along the curled locks. Lucky for him, humans saw none of that, because of his magics barrier. It was completely natural for all pixies to not even have to lift a finger to hide their magic. It did it for him. Lucky bitch. To them, he looked like your average hottie with tightly corded muscles, hard angular jaw, and high cheek bones that would make any man jealous. His human size form put him around six feet tall. He called it his Butch Queen form. His tiny form was about the size of a chipmunk. He called that his Twink Form.

  If the names for his sizes didn’t give it away, Turk was gay. Even though pixies tend to not gravitate towards just one gender when it comes to love and lust, he’s strictly dickly. I didn’t know how this obnoxious, cheerful, outgoing pixie became my best friend, but he was the first person to push through the icy exterior of my heart, worming his way in, and sealing himself there until I cried uncle and let him stay. It’d been six years and he had yet to leave my side. I didn’t know if that was unfailing loyalty, or pure stupidity. I was a fucking handful.

  I quickly picked up my shoe and tossed it at him. Of course, since my aim was utter shit, it just hit the door and landed pitifully next to him. He didn’t even flinch. It was like the jerk knew I’d miss!

  Turk played it cool and just snorted as he glanced down at the boot, then looked back at me. “That was just sad. What’d that shoe ever do to you?”

  A dark figure darted from beneath a table near where my shoe had landed, scurrying quickly from my room as it let out a mewling screech. That, however, did make Turk jump in fright with a yelp. I chuckled at him.

  Toast, my black cat, was scared of pretty much everything. My mother gave him to me when I was three and told me he was special. He’d live as long as I did and would protect me from evil spirits. Which made me laugh now, because the only thing he actually did, was run into walls and pop out of places unexpectedly. Part of the reason I named him Toast. The other was obvious. His fur was black li
ke burnt toast. He wasn’t much of a people person and only came out from hiding when it was just me and Turk around.

  I huffed and stood, walking to my closet to retrieve my other pair of boots. “What’s sad is you’ve yet to get used to Toast and his paranoia. As far as the boots, they got in the way of another wayward spell. I was trying to shrink that stupid Buddha statue we got, again, and the spell missed. As usual.” I hated admitting it, but I pretty much sucked at being a witch. Which was pathetic, considering I came from a long line of pretty magnificent witches.

  My mother, Emma Craft, was the absolute best. She was both revered and feared in the witching community for her uncanny ability to know how to cast every spell perfectly. Good or bad. There’s actually a saying amongst the witching community that came to be because of her.

  Never cross a Craft witch.

  I, on the other hand, was just feared. Not for the same reasons as my mother, obviously. Oh, no. The only thing other witches and warlocks feared from me, was that I’d accidentally make toadstools grow out of every orifice on their body. It happened once. Pretty sure that warlock has my name on his shit list for life.

  “Well, at least you didn’t melt them. Remember the time you melted that really expensive vase you found? It was worth like over a hundred grand. What were you trying to do to it again?”

  Like he needed to remind me. Sigh. “I was trying to make it bigger, so we could sell it for more money,” I groused.

  Turk chuckled, but quickly threw a hand over his mouth to muffle it when he saw my death glare.

  “What did you want?” I asked as I slid on another pair of boots, longing to change the subject. I felt my inabilities as more of a curse, but he found my lack of skills entertaining and tended to go on tangents about them if I didn’t stop him.

  He removed his hand and pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Shop’s open, and we’ve got a couple customers already. One’s asking for a bath bomb she doesn’t know the name of and is having a hard time describing. Since I have no clue what she’s talking about, figured it’d be better to ask you.”

  I sighed. “Alright. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  He nodded his head and made his way back downstairs to the shop.

  One of the perks of the building my shop was in, was it had an apartment on the second floor. A rather spacious one too. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a tiny kitchen with a dining table for two. The apartment wasn’t in the best of shape, but we made due. It needed some cracks patched up, some floorboards replaced, and a good paint job. But, it was home. There was also a large attic space that encompassed the entire third floor above. It was mostly used for storage space for all the antiques that wouldn’t fit in the shop below, but its second use was my magic room. My grimoire, alter, crystals, sage and other witch related objects for my bigger spells, resided in the furthest corner by the large window that faced the moon at night. Sad to say, but that room didn’t get used much.

  I walked into the small bathroom connected to my bedroom, hoping today would go by without a hitch. Well, besides what had already gone wrong.

  I brushed my long, white-blond hair out, then weaved the silky, straight strands into a messy braid to the side. I applied my usual black liner, mascara, and dark, mauve lipstick, then stepped out. I rummaged through my drawers, grabbing my favorite black, baggy V-neck shirt. It always looked perfect with my black leggings that had a large, white pentagram on the front of either thigh. If it wasn’t obvious by now, I wore a lot of black. It’s sad to say the styles I wore were what normal people would stereotype as witchy. Black being pretty much the main color. I felt like my personality added a bit more eccentricity to it though.

  I swear if I was good at magic, I’d probably make myself even more black clothes rather than spending what little money I had buying them.

  I couldn’t really do any spell that involved anything not potion related. I used what magic I did have to run my little mystic shop called Allure: Objects, Bath, and Brews in the more popular area of Salem, Massachusetts. I know. It was pretty typical that this was where I decided to lay down my roots. But I’d been told by many of the local witches, and my mother, that it was a great place to center our magic. Considering it’s where we all began. I’d yet to see the benefit, though.

  A lot of the things I collected here to sell were mostly harmless; antiques, old furniture, books, clocks, candles, and even jewelry. But there was a good bit of other goodies that could be found in my little hole in the wall. One of the main things I sold were luxurious bath accessories like bath bombs, bath oils, and soaps. Most were just everyday use kind of cleansers, but some had a bit of magical kick. I was an avid collector of cursed objects. Many were weak and did very little harm; such as cursing whoever touched it with a bit of bad luck or maybe some extra hair all over the body. But then there were some that were so powerful and dark, most witches wouldn’t touch them. I, however, found them fascinating. I was excellent at taking care not to have one of those curses touch me. I didn’t fear their power. I respected it. That was the real key to handling them.

  The last thing I sold was strictly for the magical community. I called them Spills, aka spelled pills. They were temporary spells encompassed within a capsule that a supernatural could swallow and enjoy its effects; which usually only lasted anywhere from one to three days. I had ones that shut off the change for werewolves during the full moon, lessened the blood lust within a vampire if they’re running late getting blood from the donor market, and even gave pixies a little extra kick in their dust for added power. I was actually very good at these. I imagined it was only because they used so little power, that even my magic couldn’t mess it up. I had a little help getting to the point I was at where I could make them though.

  After helping the woman who described my Secret Garden bomb, but actually was looking for the Glitter Demon one, I sat my grumpy ass down with one of my favorite books and a cup of coffee.

  I’d only gotten halfway through the cup when I heard the chime jingle above the front door. I looked up to see a scrawny, teenage boy with bad acne walking warily into my shop. I quickly averted my eyes back to my book and prayed to the goddesses above that he just took a quick peek and left.

  I’m not a fan of teenagers. Or kids. Or people in general actually.

  "Excuse me, miss?" A young voice said to me.

  Damn it.

  I groaned, then slid my feet off the counter and closed my Wiccapedia book. I wasn’t exactly anxious as to what this kid was about to ask me for. But I’d humor him anyway.

  "What?" I said in a bored tone, trying to keep my aggravation at bay.

  "Um, do you sell Ouija boards here?" He asked me tentatively.

  I heard Turk let out a slight snicker across the room, which he tried to cover up with a cough.

  "Does this look like a toy store to you kid?" I smacked my book down and shouted, "Beat it! I don't sell stupid games."

  His eyes widened, and he rushed away, the glass door banging against the bell on his way out.

  Turk crossed over to me and leaned his elbows on the counter. "If I remember correctly, you have a Ouija board that you play with on the daily."

  I squinted my eyes at him. "And it's not a toy!"

  "No, just a way to phone your sex toy is all, which in turn could count as a toy."

  "Stuff it, Turk. One, that’s not how I contact him. And two, you like looking at Orrin naked just as much as I do. Don't act like you don't sneak in sometimes to watch. I heard what you said earlier.”

  He gave a mock gasp. "I do not!" When I sent him a look of disbelief, he laughed. "Okay, whatever, I do. But in all seriousness, does it feel as nice as I imagine?"

  Orrin was an Incubus demon I’d been seeing on and off the better part of a year. He was actually part fae too –-which was quite rare considering not many fae were left— but his fae daddy up and disappeared suddenly, leaving his succubus mom before he was even born. Or was his dad an Incubus and mom a f
ae? Didn’t matter. Either way, it made him one powerful bad ass. Which was kind of why our relationship came about.

  What we had was actually more of a business arrangement than anything. Business of the pleasurable nature, of course. I’d accidentally summoned him into my bedroom one night as I practiced my magic and things kind of just happened. We both liked what we saw physically from the second we saw each other, and he said he could feel magic beneath my skin, reaching for him like a magnet the second my spell brought him there. At first, I thought it was just a line to get into my pants. A pretty damn good one too by the searing, lustful gaze his mercurial eyes gave me. I realized quickly that my magic actually did respond to him more intensely when he touched me. A spark that traveled from where his hand met mine, all the way down to my toes, curling them delightfully. Something I’d never felt. So, I struck him a deal. Anytime he was famished for the pleasure to feed, he could come to me. In exchange, he’d help me work with my magic, pulling it out from the deep depths within my soul where it felt locked away. The only rules I laid down; no cuddling afterwards and no relationship beyond my bedroom. It was a win-win. Because of him, I was able to learn how to make my Spills. And honestly, what better kind of lover to have than one who was viciously amazing in bed, and I could send him packing when we were done without having to worry about all that cuddly, feeling junk.