Last Witch Attempt (Wicked Witches of the Midwest #26)

Prologue

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

“ W hat are we doing again?”

I frowned as Aunt Tillie rooted beneath a tree, a pillowcase clutched in her hand.

“We’re hunting for morels,” Aunt Tillie replied without looking at me.

I frowned. I, Bay Winchester, wasn’t buying it. Morels are considered a delicacy in Walkerville, the northern Lower Michigan town in which we live. People go nuts this time of year when hunting them in the woods.

No one ever hunted them at night, though. They were hard enough to find during the day.

“Um…” I glanced at my cousin Thistle. She’d plopped down in the middle of the small clearing and looked ready to take a nap.

“Don’t look at me,” Thistle replied. “I’m not hunting for mushrooms in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s what she’s doing,” I argued. “I mean, how can she see them?”

“I have the eyes of a hawk and the nose of a bloodhound,” Aunt Tillie replied. “I can find anything whenever I set my mind to it. If you’re marking things down, I also have the butt of a stripper.”

She sounded sure enough, but still. “What are we doing again?” I pressed.

When Aunt Tillie swiveled, I could just make out the look of disgust on her face thanks to the full moon overhead. It was a super moon, offering greater light than a normal moon. Since we were in the middle of nowhere, however, it still wasn’t much light to work with.

“We should go home,” my cousin Clove announced.

She was hanging close to a tree—so close she was practically hugging it—and seemed ready to make a break for it at any moment.

She wasn’t an outdoor girl on the best of days.

Sure, she was happy to head to the lake to do a bit of swimming if the weather was nice enough.

Traipsing around in the woods in the middle of the night was another thing entirely.

“We’re not going home,” Aunt Tillie fired back. “We’ve barely begun.”

“Begun what?” I demanded. “You still haven’t told us what we’re doing.”

“I most certainly did.” Aunt Tillie snapped.

Her mood probably had something to do with the fact that we’d done nothing but whine since making our way into the woods an hour before.

She hated when we whined. The solution would’ve been to leave us at home.

The fact that she hadn’t meant she was up to something, and it was probably the sort of something that having three innocent-looking teenage alibis would help with.

“Let me see that pillowcase.” Thistle jerked the pillowcase from Aunt Tillie’s hand before our great-aunt realized what was happening. Since it was too dark to see inside, Thistle reached inside. When she pulled out a bunch of weeds, she was instantly suspicious. “What is this?”

“None of your business.” Aunt Tillie made a grab for the weeds, but didn’t have the coordination necessary to overpower Thistle physically. She seemed to realize that right away, because she added some magic to the mix and knocked Thistle flat on her back.

“Hey!” Thistle let loose a guttural growl. “You can’t use magic on me that way. It’s illegal.”

Aunt Tillie snorted as she reclaimed her pillowcase, making sure to grab all the weeds Thistle had removed and shoving them back inside. “I’m an outlaw. What can I say?”

“Just tell us what you’re doing,” I ordered. “We can’t help if you don’t tell us what you came out here for.”

“I don’t want to help anyway,” Clove complained. “It’s far more likely Bigfoot attacks under the cover of darkness than during the day. He’s nocturnal. I’ve read books. We shouldn’t be out here.”

Thistle, who was still pinned to the ground because Aunt Tillie hadn’t allowed her up yet, shifted her gaze to Clove. “How many times do I have to tell you Bigfoot isn’t real?”

“Just because you say it doesn’t mean I believe it,” Clove sniffed. “I read more than you. I know things … and Bigfoot is totally real.” She lowered her voice. “So is the chupacabra.”

Thistle shot Aunt Tillie an incredulous look. “Will you do something about her?”

Aunt Tillie lifted one shoulder. “She’s not wrong. The chupacabra is real. It doesn’t hang around here, Clove. It likes warmer climates.”

“Bigfoot likes colder climates,” Clove argued. “It’s probably hiding in the trees right over there watching us.” She waved toward a clump of trees fifty feet away.

I didn’t believe Bigfoot was hanging out in the woods watching us—why would he care about Aunt Tillie’s obsessive weeding?—but once I looked in that direction all I could imagine was a big furry beast staring at us. In my imagination, it was hungry. “Maybe we should go,” I hedged.

Aunt Tillie pinned me with a derisive look. “Don’t you start.” Her gaze moved back to Thistle. “If I let you up, will you behave?”

“No,” Thistle replied without hesitation. She might’ve been annoyed, but she wasn’t going to play that game. She didn’t bend to anyone’s whims. “I’m going to make you pay just as soon as I can move my arms again.”

Rather than grow angry, Aunt Tillie grinned. “You remind me so much of myself at your age.”

“That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Thistle barked.

“I can’t let you up until you promise to behave.”

“Then I’ll die out here.” Thistle meant it. She was willing to hurt herself ten times over if it meant winning. Sure, remaining trapped in a spell in the middle of nowhere for the rest of her life wasn’t winning in most people’s books, but it was to Thistle.

“You’re unbelievable.” Aunt Tillie waved her hand, freeing Thistle. “You’re going to make some man extremely depressed someday. You’re going to be a little tyrant and he’s going to live under your thumb.”

“Boys don’t like tyrants, Thistle,” Clove sang out.

Aunt Tillie looked lost in thought. “It’s going to be glorious,” she said finally.

“What?” I pinned her with a dubious look. “Are you encouraging Thistle to be awful?”

“Of course I am.” Aunt Tillie made an exaggerated face. “As long as she’s not awful to me, that is.”

“Oh, I’m going to be awful to you,” Thistle warned. “It’s coming, and it’s going to be the stuff nightmares are made of.”

Aunt Tillie booped the end of Thistle’s nose. “You’re hilarious.” Then she turned her back on my cousin and looked back in the direction from which we came. “I think we’re done here.”

That brought me back to my original complaint. “What are we doing out here?”

“I needed something for a spell.” Aunt Tillie started walking along the path only she could see. “Let’s go.”

“But…” I was flustered as I followed her.

Clove, only too eager to get out of the woods, scurried to keep up with our great-aunt. She might’ve been whiny—so, so whiny—but she was a survivor. She already knew that if trouble came calling, Aunt Tillie would be the one to survive. She wasn’t taking any chances.

“Are we casting a spell when we get home?” she asked.

“ I’m casting a spell,” Aunt Tillie replied. “You three kvetches are going to bed. The older you get, the less fun you are.”

“Oh, please,” Thistle scoffed from the back of the line.

Aunt Tillie’s truck was parked on the road.

I’d lost track of where we were in relation to the truck.

Thankfully, Aunt Tillie really was like a bloodhound.

She never lost her way. “It’s not that we’re less fun, it’s that we think for ourselves more.

You can’t tell us a story and have us automatically fall for it. ”

“That’s less fun to me,” Aunt Tillie replied as we started up a hill. “In fact…” Whatever Aunt Tillie was going to say next died on her lips when flashing lights became apparent. “Well, crap,” she said.

Thistle and I hurried forward to get a look. We were at the road, which was surprising because I thought we would have to hike at least five more minutes until we got back to where we’d parked. The lights were coming from a Michigan State Police cruiser parked next to Aunt Tillie’s truck.

“What do we do?” Clove asked, her voice thin and wispy. “Do we run?”

“It’s the cops,” I replied. “You don’t run from the cops.”

Aunt Tillie shot me a withering look, clearly disappointed. “Have I taught you nothing?”

“We can’t run,” Thistle argued. “It’s the middle of the night and we’re in the middle of the woods. Even if we wanted to walk home, it’s miles.”

“I’m good with that.” Aunt Tillie turned on her heel, fully prepared to return to the woods. I stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“What is going on?” I hissed. “What don’t you want them to know?”

“Whatever she’s got in that bag is against the law,” Thistle surmised.

“I don’t adhere to the laws of men,” Aunt Tillie replied. “Now zip it!” She mimed closing a zipper over her lips, then turned to me. “You should be the one to handle this.” She pulled her keys out of her pocket and jangled them in my face. “Go get my truck.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re blessed with your grandmother Ginger’s looks.

Goddess bless her soul.” Aunt Tillie looked momentarily serene when pressing her hand to her heart.

Then she snapped out of it. “You look like an angel. All that blond hair is like a halo. Men fall for it … showing they really are the simpler sex.” She jangled the keys again.

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Get the truck and meet us around the bend. Then we’ll head home.”

“But why? Why can’t you just talk to them? They’re probably only here because they can’t figure out what the truck is doing on the side of the road in the middle of the night.”

“You know how I feel about ‘The Man,’” she fired back. “Get the truck.”

“But I don’t even have a driver’s license.”

“What do you mean?” Aunt Tillie looked taken aback. “How old are you?”

“I turn sixteen in two weeks,” I replied. “I don’t have a license. I just have a learner’s permit.”

“Good enough.” Aunt Tillie beamed at me.

“I need another licensed driver with me. Even then I’m only allowed to drive between certain hours.”