The Lazy Witch’s Guide to Vampires & Villainy

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Roxy

The glass spell jars clanked together ominously as the box jostled on the trip down the stairs.

This wasn’t the first—or twentieth—time, I entertained the idea of doing a little hex against my sleazy slumlord who still hadn’t fixed the elevator.

But that would mean I’d have to not only take his name out of the freezer—where I’d tossed it so he would no longer darken my doorstep with some insane comments about how witches must be better in bed because we could cast spells to intensify pleasure—but I’d actually have to collect some of his hair, blood, or spit. Not to mention procure more mustard seeds, peppercorns, vinegar, and graveyard dirt.

It sounded like a lot of work for a hex just because I had to use the stairs instead of the elevator a time or two a week. Since the only time I really left my apartment anymore was to fill the spell box that was situated directly out front of my building.

Sure, most witches did one-on-one spell work. But, to be honest, that just sounded exhausting.

It was much easier just to make a few generic spells—for love, career, beauty, etc.—bottle them up and set them inside a cabinet full of little boxes whose doors would unlock once you made your selection and paid.

No, it was no get-rich-quick scheme. But it kept my fridge and cabinets full and paid for my many video streaming subscriptions as well as my borderline problematic online shopping addiction.

The jars knocked together as I set the box on the ground. I winced, remembering the one time I’d been a little too careless, making the glass jars break, and combining a love spell and a hex spell with hilariously disastrous consequences.

A trio of dogs had stepped in the puddles with their bare paws, leading to them barking and snarling at one another whilst simultaneously trying to start a K9 orgy as their harried dog walker tried to separate them while still keeping control of their increasingly tangled leashes.

Then there was the time when I’d decided to try plastic spell jars. And I didn’t realize the ingredients in the jars were volatile enough to actually melt the plastic, which made all of the spells leak, combine, and seep all over the box.

The local mailman had gotten a triple dose of a confidence spell. It led to all the mail on his route being hopelessly late as he fell in love with his reflection in every shop window, making kissy faces, turning around to check out his own rear end, and asking people passing by to take his picture as he put himself in increasingly amusing poses. Including one where he’d hauled himself up on a stone wall on his belly, legs up, ankles crossed, finger touching his pouted lips in a full-on coquette pose.

The worst part of both incidents, of course, being that I had to clean up said messes as well as make more batches of the spells.

This was definitely one of those ‘an ounce of prevention’ sort of situations.

“Hey, Roxy,” a voice called as I stuck a communication spell in its box.

Turning, I saw another witch, this one much more ambitious than I was, opening up her small spell shop right next to my building.

Sora was well known in the area for her scarily accurate tarot readings and her incredibly potent, but overall harmless, heartbreak hexes.

Some of my favorites were a hex on a cheater whose ex hexed him with perpetual bedhead, another that cursed him with never being able to wear a sweater that wasn’t itchy, and one that made it so that the guy could never find a set of matching socks, no matter how many new sets he bought.

Sora was tall and lithe with gleaming black hair that I felt must have been magicked because it seemed unnaturally perfect. Though, judging by her unfairly beautiful face, maybe she was just one of those women who won the looks lottery.

“Hey Sora. Curse anyone with squeaky shoes lately?” I asked.

“Hey, I like that one,” she said, smiling as she set out her chalkboard that listed her services and prices. “Sold out already?”

“It seems like it was a smart business move on my part to bank on people being lazy and cheap,” I said, waving toward my prices.

Sure, you got what you paid for. And if you really wanted strong or lasting results, you spent the time and money to go to someone like Sora.

But my spells worked in a pinch.

“And you get to sit on your couch and order takeout,” she said, turning to smile at a trio of young women who stepped into her shop.

They would likely walk out an hour from now sporting new gemstones in rope necklace holders and excitedly chatting about trying out their new tarot cards. You didn’t have to be a witch to get signs from the universe through the cards. And store owners like Sora stocked cases upon cases of all the different decks to appeal to different tastes. Then made sure to slip a flyer into their bags, informing them of tarot reading classes available at the store.

“If you ever want to take a break, you’re welcome to build a box next to mine,” I said, settling the final ‘locator’ spell for beloved lost items in the box.

“Believe me, sometimes I’m tempted,” she said, but turned to look at her shop that had been passed down from witch to witch for three generations. “But I have a legacy to uphold,” she said, giving me a little wave, her many gemstone rings catching the light, then disappearing inside to try to make some sales.

I was still moving inside of my building when I saw someone walk up to my box, glancing through the selections.

While witches weren’t exactly rare in our society, finding ones who actually sold their magic wasn’t that common. So witches like Sora and myself were always as busy as we wanted to be.

For me, that was very, very not busy.

In fact, I felt kind of exhausted just from re-loading the box.

I was going to treat myself to a long, leisurely afternoon watching of The Scandalous Lives of Witchy Wives , my favorite trashy show, whilst doing some online shopping. Despite having a small mountain of unopened boxes sitting just behind my door, full of items I pretty much forgot all about the second I checked out of the online storefronts.

To be fair, I imagined quite a few of those boxes were simply full of new spell jars and the many ingredients needed to create the spells. Cinnamon, sugar, and roses for beauty spells. Almond oil and orange essential oil for lust spells. Basil, mint, thyme, and cloves for money spells.

More fiscally responsible and motivated witches would save themselves a bunch of money by using their apartment balcony to grow all their own herbs and spices.

Alas, the only thing to be found on my balcony was a giant plastic tub full of water, so the full moon tomorrow night could charge it to use for spellwork.

Ten hours into watching very wealthy witches go on spa days and shopping sprees and planning lavish parties while their exasperated normie husbands shook their heads and sighed over their antics, I decided that the box of single-serving potato chips I’d been munching on all day wasn’t quite cutting it.

I ran my tongue along the roof of my mouth that felt raw from the vinegar speckling some of the chips as I reached for my phone, swiping over to one of my trusty delivery apps, and checking my local cuisine options.

Friday nights meant that the wait time was over an hour, so I placed my order, unlocked my door, grabbed some drinks and one of the new blankets I’d bought—this one with a black cat and crescent moon print—and climbed back on my couch, but switching from reality TV to a new romantic dramedy series.

When the intercom buzzed, I distractedly used my mind to press the button to let the delivery guy in. So far, it was my favorite spell I’d ever created, even if it was more draining than most.

But, hey, it meant I didn’t have to get up off of the couch to let the guy in.

That was a win in my book.

I heard the knock at my door a few moments later, but the show was getting to a really fascinating plot point, so there was no way I was going to drag my butt off of the couch.

“Come in and put it on the counter,” I called.

I heard the door open with the little jingle of a bell that I’d attached to it to keep the ghost of the former landlady from coming into my place, leaving her wandering the halls instead, grumbling about noise and grimacing when unmarried couples went into their apartments together.

She used to like to let herself into my apartment and rant and rave about the mess and about how a young, single lady shouldn’t be living alone. And they definitely shouldn’t have little battery-powered boyfriends in their nightstands.

Dating real-life men is exhausting, Gladys.

I heard footsteps, but when they didn’t retreat, I called out, “I left your tip on the app. Thanks.”

But the bell didn’t jangle.

The delivery guy stayed in place.

Great.

Was this one of those situations where some random dude came across a random woman and decided to take advantage.

Unlucky for him, I kept a little hex close by at all times.

I hope he enjoyed his lifetime of having an infuriatingly itchy crotch.

It was when I folded up to reach for the spell jar just under the couch when I felt it.

The shift in the energy of my apartment.

A chill that shouldn’t have been there.

I’d only ever felt it one other time in my life.

That sensation?

It meant a vampire was in my apartment.

Because I’d just invited him in.