A Werebear Scare Read online

  A Werebear Scare (True & Bloom 1)

  An Eastwind Witches Cozy Mystery

  Nova Nelson

  FFS Media

  Copyright © 2019 by Nova Nelson

  All rights reserved. FFS Media and Nova Nelson reserve all rights to A Werebear Scare. This work may not be shared or reproduced in any fashion without permission of the publisher and/or author. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design © FFS Media LLC

  Illustration elements by Kerry McQuaide

  A Werebear Scare / Nova Nelson -- 1st ed.

  www.eastwindwitches.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Elves’ Bells

  While you wait…

  More books from Eastwind

  About the Author

  A Werebear Scare (True & Bloom 1)

  An Eastwind Witches Cozy Mystery

  Nova Nelson

  FFS Media

  Chapter One

  Ruby True had never been a fan of leaving the house, even before she’d died the first time. But her Wednesday errands wouldn’t run themselves.

  So she finished putting away the now-clean griddle and dishes she’d used to cook a robust breakfast of eggs and sausages, and went to grab the proper outerwear from the hooks by her front door.

  A chill ran down the psychic’s spine. She’d long grown used to such a sensation, though, and turned to see two mostly transparent female spirits appear, hand in hand, through the wall that divided her parlor from the bathroom.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Huh?” said the taller of the two, looking around. “Oh dear!” she proclaimed once she took in the surroundings—the round oak table and chairs in the center of the open space, the small kitchen on the far side from her, the dozens of dusty totems hanging from the ceiling, and the middle-aged psychic medium with a shock of short red hair standing by the front door, preparing to run her mid-week errands.

  “Pardon us,” said the smaller spirit. “We weren’t paying attention to our surroundings.”

  “And why would you?” asked Ruby pleasantly. “Well, if you’re not in need of assistance, I humbly request you find somewhere else to hover. I’m just on my way out the door.”

  “Of course, of course. Sorry to bother you.” And the ghosts floated back from where they’d appeared.

  Ruby returned to her outerwear, slipping on a black loose-fitting knitted sweater over her black loose-fitting robes with ample pockets for all the necessary trinkets. There were a lot of things in her life she had no choice over, but comfortable clothing wasn’t among them. So the choice in that matter was obvious.

  Although Ruby had died once, unlike the two apparitions who had just stumbled into her home, she wasn’t a ghost. No, that would be all too easy, and she’d never had that sort of luck.

  Instead, when Ruby True’s death came upon her at the tragic age of twenty-nine, she didn’t linger on in the spirit realm or even die and go to Heaven (or the other place, though she was unsure it existed). Instead, she’d died and gone to Eastwind.

  And it was in this strange little town where she was doomed or blessed—her attitude on it varied quite drastically from day to day—to spend the rest of her new life.

  How long that would be, she wasn’t sure. She’d been there for just over a decade and a half, and at forty-six, a woman of her age might expect a solid forty-six more years, barring any sort of grievous accident. But then again, there were people around town who were well into their hundreds… and some who were immortal.

  So maybe age was just a number after all.

  “Come, Clifford,” she said, grabbing her black linen bag from its hook on the wall and pulling it over her shoulder.

  From his place beside the fire rose a giant beast that, only moments before, the uninformed observer might have guessed to be a shaggy, red throw rug tossed over a stack of twin mattresses.

  Clifford shook away the sleep and smacked his large jaws. Ruby noted, not for the first time, that the albino hellhound had taken quite naturally to domesticated life. (Of course, she’d never point that out to him.)

  “What’s on the docket today?” he asked through their silent connection.

  After seventeen years, she was well used to speaking like this with her familiar. The communication had been effortless from the moment they’d first met, and her skill with it had only advanced with practice. For one, she’d become much more consistent with keeping him from hearing the thoughts that were meant for her mind and her mind alone.

  “I need to return a few books to the library, pick up some tea and necromancy supplies from the Pixie Mixie, and then we’re meeting a potential client.”

  Clifford trotted up to wait patiently by the door. “Have we worked with this client before?”

  “Nope.” Ruby opened the door for the hellhound, and he moved through just far enough for her to follow and shut it behind her. She didn’t bother locking it; anyone foolish enough to break into the home of a Fifth Wind usually got what he or she deserved before long.

  And for those dark things that specifically sought out her kind, well, she’d already warded against them with a collection of magical talisman and charms dangling from her parlor ceiling. And while such things weren’t directly effective against the living, the decor was usually successful at sending any other intruders packing. One time, eight years before, Goodman Fringer, a goblin who claimed he beat the largest ogre in Eastwind at a drinking contest, stumbled through Ruby’s front door while she was sitting by the fire with a book in hand and Clifford at her feet. One hard look at a dangling mobile of bird skulls, and Goodman had run screaming from her home, slamming the door behind him.

  And Ruby had gone straight back to her book.

  She paused on her porch and breathed in the fresh air. It was a glorious spring day. She followed her familiar off the wooden porch of her little blue attached cottage and onto the cobblestone street, heading for the library at the center of town.

  The town was alive with bustling folk of all types, as most every person in the small village seemed to have found an excuse to be outside. She could hardly blame them.

  But it also meant she had to face more false smiles than usual. Because while the town’s inhabitants were more than happy to benefit from her unique talents, that didn’t mean they weren’t deeply mistrustful of Fifth Wind witches. Whether that was because she was the only one of her kind in the entire realm and they lacked exposure or that her mere presence was a reminder of how close death was at any given moment, she wasn’t sure. And it all came out to the same anyway, so what was the use of worrying about i
t?

  “Ruby!” A voice like chalk skipping over sandpaper cut through the din of passersby.

  She paused and turned toward the source. It wasn’t hard to pick out who had called for her. The throngs parted for him as he approached, and she suspected it was done more out of fear than courtesy. Of course, there was really nothing to fear. This man was totally harmless.

  Dressed in a long black cloak with a hood that covered his face, and gloves that obscured what she assumed were hands with no flesh or blood, the grim reaper waved and stopped just short of her.

  “Good morning, Ted.”

  “Morning, Ruby. You look nice today.”

  Rather than asking if he was only saying that because her black attire was strikingly similar to his own, she smiled and said, “Thank you.”

  It wasn’t that she loved wearing black every day, it was that—

  Well, no, she did love wearing black every day. It made things simpler in her complicated life, and it also gave her an air of mystery that was quite effective in getting her clients to pay on time.

  “Where you off to this morning?” Ted asked.

  “Just some errands. And yourself? I assume you’re not headed anywhere on official business.”

  Ted’s official business was, well, grim.

  “Nope. Not today. If everyone keeps living so well, I’m going to have to retire early! Heh.”

  She hated to think of what retirement for a reaper meant. Did they play bocce ball with skulls? Perhaps knit funeral shrouds?

  “Now you’re just being judgmental,” scolded Clifford.

  “Stay out of my thoughts.”

  “Stop being so loud when you think.”

  She cleared her throat and refocused on the outward conversation at hand. “Thankfully you work in an industry with great job security. Especially in a melting pot of werewolves, witches, and dozens of other hostile populations.” She paused. “Say, when was the last death in town?”

  Ted had to think about it. “About a week ago, why?”

  “Oh, I’m just meeting with a potential client. I don’t know much about it, but her letter said something about it being a relatively new situation. If no one’s died lately, then it’s possible that it’s not a haunting at all.”

  “Do people make false claims a lot?”

  “Not intentionally.”

  He nodded, his dark hood billowing slightly but not enough to reveal the shadowed features of his face. “That makes sense. People are generally good.”

  “I’m impressed you’re able to manage that level of optimism, seeing as how you’re responsible for cleaning up every murdered person in the realm.”

  He shrugged, and the gesture created a sound like twigs snapping. “I’ve been around for millennia, and there are far more days where people aren’t murdered than days when they are. At least around here. If you think about how often people could murder one another, well, it’s quite amazing that I ever get down time. Heh.”

  Ruby arched her eyebrows. “That’s an interesting perspective, Ted. I’ll have to think more on it. Thank you for sharing.”

  As soon as they parted ways, Clifford said, “He couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Agreed. But I do still admire his optimism, however misguided. I imagine it must take a great effort to keep those rose-colored glasses on his nose while everyone is trying to knock them off.”

  “I imagine it’s a struggle to keep them on his face when he doesn’t have a nose.”

  “Now, now, Cliff. That’s just conjecture. For all we know, he could have a very pronounced nose underneath that hood.”

  “My coins are on straight skull.”

  Ruby sighed and patted her familiar’s head. “Yeah, I suppose mine are, too.”

  The Eastwind Library didn’t seem like a place Ruby would enjoy going, not because she didn’t love books—she did, more than she loved most things—but because the mammoth structure was home to hundreds if not thousands of ghosts. Some people, it turned out, were too thirsty for knowledge to pass beyond the veil when their time came. And by some ancient and merciful enchantment, the library ghosts were able to lift the books from their shelves and turn the pages, a feat of physicality not usually within the wheelhouse of spirits.

  However, the ghosts at the library didn’t request Ruby’s help like so many others did because they had no desire to move on, and none of the living cared much if they lingered. But that didn’t mean that the spirits’ existence within the confines of the place didn’t unnerve most Eastwinders at least a little bit. With the exceptions of Ruby, Clifford, and only a handful of other beings in town, the ghosts were invisible. All anyone else saw was books levitating off the shelf and onto the nearby tables, and pages flipping of their own accord. And frequently one could glimpse the heavy floating tomes gut punching an unsuspecting living visitor as the deceased neglected to watch where they were going.

  “Good morning, Helena,” Ruby said, greeting the elf librarian. The woman would have been tall if she’d gotten up from her chair behind the desk, but she didn’t bother. She held a book in her lap and only barely glanced up, not even moving her head in the act. “Morning, Ruby.” She looked back down at the page.

  “Okay then,” Ruby said. “I’ll just leave these right here for you.” She pulled the books from the cloth bag on her shoulder and set them gently on the counter. Sleep a Spell had been a brilliantly informative book. But only once she was a few dozen pages into Star Patterns for the Modern Age had she discovered that it was a woefully outdated reference guide and might have stopped being relevant, oh, one hundred and fifty years ago. Out of curiosity, she’d looked for any signs or predictions in it of the last great war, way back at the founding of Eastwind, but discovered none. So it wasn’t even accurate for its time.

  The Were and the Maiden, however, was quite a good read, if a bit of a guilty pleasure. Although Ruby hadn’t felt one ounce of guilt while reading it.

  She cleared her throat. “You’ll be sure to mark down that I’ve returned them?”

  Without glancing up, Helena nodded.

  Ruby pressed her lips together and managed to keep her eye roll subtle. “Thank you,” she said. It was always a smart idea to stay on the librarian’s good side, and while Helena wasn’t exactly friendly, Ruby knew this to be the elf’s “good side.”

  Clifford trotted behind her down the stairs leading away from the library. “You reckon they’ve restocked on those jerky treats at the Pixie Mixie?”

  She scratched him behind his ear, which was level with her shoulders. “I’ll ask.”

  But as soon as they entered the Eastwind Emporium, the town’s bustling farmer’s market, Ruby’s eyes fell on a complication.

  There was always a complication, wasn’t there?

  But this one took on the form of a witch around Ruby’s age grimacing and tugging at the collar of her dress as if it were choking her.

  Except it wasn’t the clothing that was cutting off her air, it was the hands of the ghost gripping the witch’s windpipe.

  “Time to earn a little goodwill in town, Cliff.” She approached the witch. “Marjory! How are you doing today?”

  The briefest flash of fear crossed the witch’s face as her eyes landed on Ruby and Clifford cutting through the crowd toward her. “What do you want? I mean… How are you, Ruby?”

  It was about what Ruby had expected from a Coven member, let alone a North Wind witch like Marjory. North Winds weren’t especially social, something that Ruby was usually quick to forgive, viewing a disdain for chitchat as more of a virtue than a sin.

  “I’m doing fine. How long as your neck been bothering you?”

  Marjory’s eyes grew wide. “Huh?”

  Ruby repeated her question slowly.

  “Oh, I don’t know, three weeks?”

  “If you’d like, I can help you out.”

  “How? Fifth Winds don’t have healing powers.”

  Ruby chuckled. “There you’re wrong. Close your eyes.�
��

  The North Wind seemed reluctant, but after scanning the crowd and presumably deciding that nothing too terrible would happen to her while surrounded by all these people, she did.

  Ruby laid a gentle hand on Marjory’s neck and then shot the ghost the sternest look she could. The spirit stuck out her tongue.

  Okay, so she wouldn’t relinquish her grasp of Marjory’s neck willingly. That was fine. Ruby hadn’t spent seventeen years refining her talents for nothing. She closed her eyes, breathed in deep, and recited silent words while conjuring the necessary images to complete the binding spell.

  When she let her hand fall from Marjory, the North Wind opened her eyes, paused, blinked twice, then smiled with relief. “You… you did it!”

  “Yes, I did.” Ruby made an effort to keep from looking at the ghost, who was now spiritually shackled to her and cursing a blue streak.

  Marjory thanked her profusely, but didn’t attempt to offer any payment, which was about what Ruby had expected.

  “Have a wonderful rest of your day.”

  Marjory nodded. “And if the pain comes back?”

  “I should hope it doesn’t. But if it does, come see me right away.”

  “If it does,” Clifford said, “it means this woman can’t stop herself from angering spirits to the point of them trying to strangle her.”

  “Indeed. And knowing what I do about Marjory’s character, there’s a strong chance she’ll be a repeat customer. And next time won’t be complimentary.” She continued on her way to the apothecary.

  “Here I was thinking you were just buying good will,” added Clifford.