Bump (A Witchlight Novel)
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
BUMP
COPYRIGHT ©2017 JAIME MUNN
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To learn more about Jaime Munn’s novels, novellas and short stories visit his website at www.jaimemunn.com.
FIRST EDITION 2017
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
For My Mother who
taught me to love books.
Thanks, Mom!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Misty, my dear friend. Without your stern (and quite possibly frustrated) command to ‘just write’ no books would have been finished.
The Joybells, who read and loved this book, and pushed for more.
Lord Byron, who supports in everything he does.
Thank you one and thank you all.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
ENJOYED THIS BOOK?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From goulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night
Good Lord, deliver us!
CHAPTER ONE
Ever had that feeling—when you’re completely alone—that you’re being watched? I envy you. I see the watcher in an empty room, and I firmly believe ignorance would be bliss. My watcher had been standing in the corner of my store for fifteen minutes, making no concession to the table with its small collection of bedside lights. They both occupied the same space. She stood like she’d been born with a table that ran straight through the middle of her hips and I pitied her mother. The lamps around her flickered occasionally. If she’d been at all polite, she’d have come through the door like any other customer or client. I was determined to ignore her, but her continued presence and silence were more than a little unnerving. When the door chime jangled, I jumped knocking the brass name plaque off the countertop.
Livia Darrow, one of the blessedly ignorant though she claimed to be something of a psychic, paused in the open doorway, two takeaway cups of hot java in her hands, eyeing me speculatively. “Jumpy today, Nilla?” She crossed the space between us, hips swaying, to deposit the cups on the counter before bending down to retrieve the plaque. “There are more dings in this than a not-blue, blue beetle. Why don’t you throw it out?”
“It was a gift,” I replied though she knew that already. The watcher gave no sign that anything had changed. She simply stared at me like I was the only person in the room.
Livia ran a finger over the plaque. “I think the ex in girlfriend allows you to throw out gifts.” She returned it to its place on the counter where it boldly stated ‘Nilla Hayes’ to all who entered the store and deigned to notice it. Her delicate features turned thoughtful. “If I were one to hold onto the gifts of old flames, I’d need a bigger house.”
“Of course you would, Liv,” I said. “Me, I just have this old plaque.”
“Don’t make fun of the person in charge of your morning caffeine fix.” Livia rounded the counter and took her place on the spare seat next to mine.
We’d been friends for over two years now. She’d not cottoned onto the fact that Which Light, the store you’ll find on Main Street in Whisper Falls, was a cover for Witch Light. Few people see the real sign in the window; most of them just drop by to buy lamps. It keeps food on my table, so I keep on selling them. These are my customers. My clients are those that come to the store with no interest in lighting fixtures.
“Coffee-on-Main had a special on crème caramel mochas,” Livia told me as she pushed a takeaway cup my way. “So I got us marshmallow mochas.” There was nothing predictable about Livia Darrow.
I took a sip, aware of my watcher from the corner of my eye. Was she planning on standing there wearing my table all day? “Perfect call, it’ll save me a few cents on the afternoon mocha run,” I told Livia and she mock-scowled.
“Don’t get cheap on me, Nilla. I don’t stand for it from my dates and certainly not from my friends.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied, managing a nervous smile.
Livia shook her head and drank her mocha in silence for a handful of minutes before she set the cup down and brushed her hands over her bare arms. “Did you turn up the air-
con? This place is freezing.” Her white chiffon dress with black straps did nothing to protect the rest of her body, but that wasn’t why Livia was wearing it. It was also summer, and Erica Hanley—Livia’s boss—kept Tangles, the small art boutique, air-con free because of her sinuses…or something. My jeans, t-shirt, and sweater weren’t nearly as glamorous, but far more effective against the heat sucking spectre haunting my store, haunting me, today.
“It’s out of my control,” I said, then took a long draught of my mocha. The beverage was sweet; would have been sweet even without my standard four spoonfuls of sugar. The energy rush was just what I needed to top up my witchy reserves. Sugar, it’s the quick fix energy reservoir every witch learns to tap. I savoured the flavour as well as the boost and eyed my watcher speculatively. “I’ll get the thermostat checked.”
Livia stayed a little longer before her coffee break was up; the morning tradition helped steady my nerves. By the time she left, I was feeling ready to take on the phantom wearing my lamp table.
“See you later with mochas in tow,” Livia said as she left the store. She’d said nothing about Erica barring me from Tangles, but that didn’t mean it would be safe for me to enter the gallery. I was quite sure that Erica had overheard me telling Livia how I could never date her, even if it turned out that she and I were the last lesbians in Whisper Falls. Maybe I just felt guilty about saying the words aloud. I couldn’t tell Livia the real reason I couldn’t see myself dating Erica. Psychic wannabe or not she just wouldn’t understand. I didn’t want to lose my best friend in town because she thought I was a Bedlam escapee. I sighed and turned my attention to my uninvited haunting.
“I don’t think lamp tables are anything like Carmen Miranda hats, even if you swapped out the fruit,” I told the watcher. Finishing off the last swallow of my mocha, I crossed to the door and turned the sign in the window from open to closed. I added the ‘back in ten minutes’ notice faking a hopeful feeling that didn’t sit well in the pit of my stomach. I glanced at the creepy Victorian angel lamp in the window display. The bulb never flickered, but did that mean I was safe? I’d half convinced myself that it was a harbinger of omens or a hideous guardian angel. I’d foolishly ignored its warnings before. Now, when I was ready to listen, it stubbornly remained silent. Potential guardian or not, it was still creepy. I turned back to my watcher. “I see my clients downstairs.”
It felt like I’d given in. I didn’t like that feeling one bit. My watcher seemed ready to ignore my words, much as she had the table, but then she nodded and was gone. I headed downstairs, wishing it was that easy.
CHAPTER TWO
Downstairs was where I did the witchy stuff. Supernatural energy infused the room. Places like this are on the cusp, between the everyday world and the veiled world. The light down here was amber coloured, despite the white neon tubes that flickered and whispered overhead. My client looked almost alive. In itself that was enough to clue even the novice in on the certainty that this was no ordinary place. Even if there were no cauldrons, no newt eyes or herbs, and thick burning incense; even if it was set up like a lighting store storage space.
I studied my prospective client. She looked recently dead, like last week Thursday dead. She’d missed her ride into her ever after. I could see that her spark—the energy that provided the bright-light and rocket-ride that shuffled the soul off the mortal coil and elsewhere—was spent. Eventually, the spark would replenish. In fact, it was already trickle charging, but my client wasn’t ready to go and perhaps would never be. Unless, I sighed again, I helped.
I resisted the impulse to snap at her—reaper got your tongue—and instead settled myself at the small, unadorned table that sat in the middle of the room for precisely such occasions. Well not exactly like this occasion, my clients varied as did their needs. In my line of work there’s always weird coming at you, and while it’s not on a regular cycle, I can count on it at least once a month. Mostly it’s small stuff, nickel and dime magic, but at least once a year you get something big, something life changing or life threatening as the case may be.
“If you need my help, you should know, I don’t play charades,” I told her weaving my fingers together and resting my hands on the table. “You’re going to have to tell me what you want.” One doesn’t turn down a client lightly. There are things on the cusp, between the world everyone sees and the veiled world where imagined and unimagined beings dwelled, that you want to avoid pissing off. I’d known that all along, but still I’d recently added an addendum to take to heart: saying yes isn’t all that safe either.
The watcher hovered slightly above the floor. She’d dressed in jeans and a mauve blouse that did nothing for her appearance in death. Her shoes were practical rather than elegant. Her hair was honey-hued. It had been dark in the store above. She wore it tied back. A housewife I concluded. She drifted closer, startling me though I tried not to show it.
“You can’t blame me, the kinds of stories I learned about witches as a child,” she said, eyes still narrowed and fixed on me. “I didn’t really think you could help.”
“Try picking up a few more recent bestsellers,” I replied, “I can’t recall gingerbread houses in any of them, and my oven’s not that big.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t imagine telling you to go to your ever after because there’s nothing here for you anymore is going to persuade you that lingering isn’t something a soul should do?” I wished I could dredge up a little hope for a quick resolution, but life’s a lot of sharp edges and soft, vulnerable curves. That and I’ve recently been leaning towards joining the pessimistic side; maybe you couldn’t tell.
“I’ve watched you,” my watcher said, ignoring my advice. “You don’t have an oven, you don’t even have square toes from what I can see, and you sell lamps.” She made it sound like a negative and I bristled. Before I could respond, she continued. “I’m not leaving your side until you help me. I know you can.”
If I found out who was giving the dead my references, I was going to kill them.
“I don’t like blackmail,” I told the dead woman, wishing that I’d left her standing in the middle of the lamp table for weeks or months to watch the dust gather. Then at least she might have believed me if I’d told her a little haunting never bothered me.
“I’ll pay.” She told me, her face briefly showing some other emotion than the fixated stare; a rose-quartzing of her cheeks, a phantom blush. She gestured to the table. A small, jewelled broach suddenly sat there, lying close to my clasped hands. I didn’t own any broaches. Fashioned in the shape of a silver bird, it had small diamonds liberally sprinkled through it, with a tiny emerald for an eye.
“I see.” I wasn’t much for fencing goods, especially not grave jewellery, but I said nothing. The last ghost that had apported me jewellery from her grave had made me the target of a deadly supernatural fiend. My fingers itched to pick up the broach and hurl it far away from me. I resisted the impulse.
“I need your help and not for me,” the watcher said. “It’s for my little girl.”
That took my mind off the broach and put my attention back on the client.
“It’s all for Emma,” she was suddenly sitting at the table, looking weak and pale and sad.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. I closed my eyes briefly, opened them again and asked resignedly, “What is it you want me to do?”
Leah, as my watcher called herself, wanted me to do something simple, something she didn’t quite know what to call.
“It’s a blessing,” I told her after she’d rambled through a broken litany of descriptions and false starts. “It’s old, older than many people realise. It’s been around for a long time. As inheritance has changed into something about money and material things this has been forgotten or put aside.”
“A blessing,” Leah smiled, there was surprise in her blue eyes and, for a moment, they seemed violet. “Can you do it?”
It was something that Leah herself could have done, but for the lack of life or spar
k. She had little energy to give to make her blessing anything more than whispers in the air. I couldn’t see how anyone could twist a blessing. That I still hesitated for a moment to consider the possibility made me realise how deep my suspicion ran. I told myself quietly that I wasn’t becoming jaded. Not at all. Well… Maybe a little bit.
“Yes,” I answered Leah, “I can do that for you, but I’ll need something of Emma’s. Then you can pass your blessing onto her and then…” I let my words trail off.
“And then I’ll leave,” Leah said softly.
“And then you’ll leave,” I echoed, trying not to make it sound like a prayer.
Leah placed a hand on the table. A moment later she seemed less alive, less there than she had earlier even with the amber light shining through from the veiled world. A curl of fine hair lay on the table, visible even before Leah lifted her hand. The effort of her conjuring cost her precious energy. At this rate, I wondered if she’d ever get to her ever after.
“Emma’s first curl,” she said, “will that do?”
“It’s perfect,” I told her, half tempted to reach out a finger and stroke the winter blonde hair. How long had Leah held onto that, I wondered. I leaned forward and drew on the energy reserve that I’d gained from the marshmallow mocha; it needed almost no shaping, already sweet and soft like spun sugar. It wove from my fingertips like dust motes in the amber light and shimmered over Emma’s hair. “And your blessing?” I asked Leah, tensing, ready to pull the energy back.
“I bless you, Emma, and gift you with time to grow and laugh and play, before life demands hard choices from you. I wish for you spring with no winters until you are ready to face all that lies before you. I give you respite from the sorrows and keep you in the light and away from the shadows. When you make them, your choices will be your own.”