How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three

  How To Be A Badass Witch

  How to be a Badass Witch™ Book Three

  Michael Anderle

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2020 Michael Anderle

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact support@lmbpn.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, December 2020

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-64971-382-7

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64971-383-4

  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

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Editor Notes

  Books By Michael Anderle

  Connect with Michael

  The How To Be A Badass Witch Book Three Team

  Thanks to our Beta Team

  Rachel Beckford, Kelly O’Donnell

  Thanks to our JIT Readers

  Dave Hicks

  Wendy L Bonell

  Jackey Hankard-Brodie

  Diane L. Smith

  Daryl McDaniel

  Angel LaVey

  Dorothy Lloyd

  Veronica Stephan-Miller

  Deb Mader

  Jeff Goode

  Paul Westman

  If We’ve missed anyone, please let us know!

  Editor

  The Skyhunter Editing Team

  To Family, Friends and

  Those Who Love

  To Read.

  May We All Enjoy Grace

  To Live The Life We Are

  Called.

  Chapter One

  James flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles. “Showtime.”

  He stood with Mother LeBlanc amid the red rocks in the blinding sunshine, watching two black SUVs come to a halt in front of them. Beyond, the city of Las Vegas glimmered, an oasis in the middle of the desert.

  The vehicle in the rear stayed closed. Presumably, it was full of auxiliary agents whose function was to guard against any attempt by the two thaumaturgists to escape. The doors of the one in front opened, though, and out stepped a pair of agents, a man and a woman.

  In his head, James had built up a mental image of what the feds would look like: tall, perhaps, but certainly imposing. Built like athletes. Grim and exuding an air of competence. His vision had been influenced by popular media.

  Whatever the case, it was wrong. Both agents were average, unremarkable-looking individuals, thirty-ish, with conservative haircuts. The woman’s hair was auburn; the man’s, sandy brown. Each was of middling height for their respective sex. Moreover, they didn’t look grim. They were smiling wryly.

  They stopped several yards from James and Mother LeBlanc, and James felt his companion’s amusement radiating through the air. She gave no outward sign of it, however.

  “Hello.” The male agent nodded at both of them. “Agent Thom Richardson, FBI.”

  The woman beside him nodded as well. “Agent Heidi MacDonald.”

  “James Lovecraft,” James said. “Nice to meet you, Richardson and MacDonald.” He was trying not to laugh. Being a slight, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties, he probably didn’t look the way they expected, either.

  LeBlanc raised her hand in greeting. “You may call me Mother LeBlanc,” she said gravely. “Good day.”

  James noticed that the agents seemed to take Mother LeBlanc more seriously than they took him. He was not surprised. She was a black woman who looked only twenty-five or so, though she was far older, in truth, and she always wore a voluminous, multicolored dress whose folds and swirls were both attention-grabbing and concealing. Though her appearance was disarming in some ways, she likely was closer to how most people might picture a miracle-worker, and her New Orleans accent didn’t hurt.

  Agent Richardson cleared his throat. “That was an impressive display back there at the Wells Fargo Tower. I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my line of work, but I never expected to see actual magic.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Or at least, what appeared to be magic.”

  MacDonald shot a sharp glance at her partner, then looked at James and LeBlanc again. “We’d like to know more about how you pulled that off. The nature of your abilities, and how the incident might be related to a recent string of incidents that have popped up on our radar, so to speak.”

  James considered how to respond.

  LeBlanc did not waste that time. “Thaumaturgy,” she said simply. “The working of miracles. We draw upon the divine ruling powers of the universe to effect things that would not otherwise be possible. It is a reduced tradition, but it still lives.”

  The agents blinked.

  James nodded. “Now that she has explained, we have our own question. Why are you interested?”

  It was rhetorical and not. Any person would be fascinated by the revelation that magic was real, but James was genuinely interested to know what the FBI hoped to do with this knowledge.

  The agents looked at one another, then back at the two thaumaturgists.

  “Well,” Richardson pointed out, “it allowed you to stop a major bank robbery with relative ease. That seems useful.”

  “And we have reason to believe you’re not the only ones who can do this,” MacDonald added. “Such as, for instance, the person who was robbing that bank. But many other unexplained phenomena have come to our attention very recently, and there might be some loose cannons out there. We’re interested in securing your cooperation to contain the situation so as to ensure that no one gets hurt.”

  The thaumaturgists briefly locked eyes again.

  James took point. “Pardon me, Agent, but was that a veiled threat?”

  MacDonald frowned. “No. It was a legitimate request for aid.”

  “What we want is to contain a potentially explosive situation,” Richardson added, “and figure out what the hell is going on. If you can appreciate our position, there’s no need for threats.”

  “Ah,” Mother LeBlanc clarified warmly, “so you are not threatening us…yet.” Her smile remained, but James doubted that anyone would pick a fight with her after seeing her expression.

  There was a pause.

  “Our role is to protect our citizens,” Agent Richardson said finally, “and we take that very seriously. We don’t want that to be accomplished under duress, but if you’re asking if we’ll use any means at our disposal to find out what’s going on and protect innocent lives, the answer is yes.”

  “I see.” Mother LeBlanc looked at each of them in
turn. “And what, exactly, do you think you can do if we decide to decline your offer?”

  The agents bristled slightly. Their self-control was good but not perfect.

  James smiled at them. “Oh, sure, if you decide to throw half the heavily-armed, scary government guys in the country against us, it will make our lives more difficult…but that’s not to say your victory would be guaranteed. You saw what happened back there.”

  The agents were not happy; that much was clear.

  “We would be willing to agree to an equal partnership to accomplish our shared goals,” James said simply. “But we are not interested in being deputized by you or under your control in any way.”

  “What would you say are our ‘shared goals?’” MacDonald looked at James and LeBlanc as if hoping to find a breach in their unity. The breeze whipping across the desert ruffled her hair.

  “We ourselves were in the process of tracking down several individuals who displayed magical potential,” LeBlanc explained. “We want to ensure that none of them are unstable. This is, in part, to divert excessive attention from thaumaturgists, but also out of compassion for persons in the grip of powers they don’t understand—or others whom they might unintentionally harm.”

  “So, we do share goals,” Richardson said. “We both wish to make sure that those powers will not harm innocent civilians.” He looked over their heads at the Phantom. “Has it just been the two of you driving a Rolls Royce all over the country?”

  Mother LeBlanc nodded before James could say anything. He was busy bristling at the application of the word “just” to his beloved Phantom.

  “Then perhaps our resources could help you to move around more efficiently?” Richardson suggested. “Of course, we’d like a certain amount of information-sharing in return.”

  Negotiations began in earnest, and the four gradually reached an accord. The thaumaturgists would offer a baseline explanation of how their powers worked. They would also permit limited observation in exchange for the FBI’s assistance in containing and covering up problems or awkward incidents. Largely, they were in agreement.

  With one notable exception. As they prepared to go back to their respective vehicles, MacDonald said smoothly, “And of course, it would be beneficial to have an organized program in place to develop those latent talents.”

  “The last thing we want is to be involved in some kind of super-soldier program.” James had to give her credit for upselling, but he wasn’t going to agree to something so harebrained. She was suggesting precisely what thaumaturgists had feared for the past century or more.

  “Indeed,” Mother LeBlanc agreed. “If that were your true goal, we’d have no choice but to wipe your memories clean.” Her eyes flicked over the group. “You all would be left standing on this hill without the slightest idea of why you’re here or of anything that has happened in the last two days.”

  James could only think of the agents’ resulting expressions as “deer in the headlights.”

  “No, no,” Richardson said hastily. “Of course, that’s not what we meant. MacDonald was simply saying that we think magicians—thaumaturgists?—should be trained how to do things right if they’re going to practice magic. Surely it doesn’t help anyone if more of them turn out to be bank robbers.”

  James allowed his face to break into a shit-eating grin. “Indeed.”

  The two groups took their leave of one another for the night, the FBI agents promising to play down what had occurred in Las Vegas, and all of them agreeing to set out the next morning for Los Angeles.

  “They do have a point,” LeBlanc said to James as they drove away. “If everyone in the country—or the world—who has the aptitude was exposed to real magic, the planet might change forever. If we have touched off a sea change, we’ll need to find some way to handle it.”

  James grimaced. “If so, we can only hope that change is for the better. Anyway, first thing, I want to get a mechanic to look at the car. A close second is, before we worry about everyone else, we need to finish tracking down all the people who read that goddamn book of ours.”

  “James, that’s the first priority, not the second.”

  “We’re not setting out until tomorrow morning,” James pointed out. “I have time.”

  “Very well, but if it’s out of commission, we go without it.”

  James grinned. “It’ll be back in fine form by then. This is one of those times when having boatloads of money really pays off.”

  “I think that’s most times.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “I don’t know what it is, but something about animal fat makes it much more satisfying than other forms of nutrition.” Ted looked down at his empty plate and sighed happily. “Especially in the morning.”

  “Uh-huh.” Christian stared down at his own plate and tried to muster an appetite.

  A month ago, the two of them had found a greasy spoon that could best be described as a place designed to cure hangovers. The coffee was unusually strong, the pancakes were the size of hubcaps, and the thick breakfast sandwiches featured homemade bread. The two men had vowed to return only when circumstances demanded a strong pick-me-up.

  That day had arrived.

  As Christian pushed his food around with his fork, Ted raised an eyebrow.

  “You suck, by the way.”

  Christian groaned and sank his face into one hand. “Don’t.”

  Ted ignored that. “You’ve been getting on my case about having a drinking problem because I had a bit too much to drink one time at the Mermaid—”

  “Mmmf.”

  “—and now you can’t remember any of your dates with one of the hottest women in California.” Ted jabbed a fork at his friend. “Oh, come on, give me your pancakes if you’re not going to eat them.”

  Christian shoved his plate across the table and dropped his head onto his crossed arms.

  “Drink your coffee,” Ted advised.

  “If I do, will you have mercy until it kicks in?”

  “Fine.”

  Christian raised his head and pulled his cup over. He added liberal amounts of sugar and cream, then drank the thing down in one long, scalding pull.

  TV sets had been installed in the upper corners of the walls near the ceilings, and the one facing Christian’s and Ted’s booth was currently playing a repeat of the morning news. They’d ignored it for the most part, but during the brief silence, something grabbed their attention.

  “And next,” declared the newscaster, “we have an update on the ongoing story of LA’s new ‘superhero,’ as everyone seems to be calling him.”

  Chris looked up, bleary-eyed, and focused on the image. “Oh, God,” he mumbled.

  Ted craned his neck to examine the screen, too. “Ah, that crap again. Didn’t they find out that he’s actually a gangster or some shit?”

  His friend shrugged.

  The woman with the microphone, her face pleasantly neutral, continued, “The individual known as ‘Motorcycle Man’ has continued to confound both authorities and the local community. Some call him a hero. Others say he’s a vigilante who has done more harm than good by interfering in situations better handled by the police.”

  The segment cut to a brief interview with a dark silhouette in a shadow room, which the caption identified as an LAPD officer speaking on condition of anonymity.

  “Frankly,” he began in an electronically distorted voice, “we’re flummoxed by the whole situation. The signs are pointing to this individual being involved in the recent uptick in gang wars, and he is probably affiliated with the so-called LA Witches. The strange thing is, no one ever heard of them before two weeks ago. We have contacts in law enforcement all over the United States and even internationally in Canada, Mexico, and Europe, and none of them have any idea who those people are. No leads, no answers.”

  Ted shook his head as he stared at the screen. “People used to say LA was the city where all the crazy people gravitated, but I’m pretty sure we’ve cros
sed the craziness event horizon by this point. Superhero gang members. Are we still living in real life, or is this an evil virtual-reality simulation or something?”

  Christian felt a faint rumbling in his brain, and he raised his fingers and massaged his temples, trying to think. The coffee was helping, but there was still a dense fog over his mental processes.

  He knew that he knew something, but he didn’t know what. Or did he? It was as though he was supposed to have knowledge to contribute to the subject of Motorcycle Man, but he’d inadvertently blotted it out by drinking too much.

  Except that he hadn’t drunk much lately. Or had he?

  Ted refilled Christian’s cup of coffee from the insulated pitcher on the table, then he pushed the plate of pancakes back, having not eaten any of it yet.

  “Thanks,” Christian said. He cut a bite of pancake, stared at it for a moment to gather his strength, and then shoved it in his mouth. He swallowed, suppressing his stomach’s inclination to roll over with an effort, and then sighed. “I’m confused all the time lately. The whole city is going crazy, work is as ridiculous as ever, and I have only the vaguest idea of what’s going on with Kera. Like, I remember my plan for when I’d meet up with her, but…”

  Ted looked at him askance. “You could call her.”

  Christian grimaced. “I could, but for whatever reason, I feel like I shouldn’t. Call it a hunch.” He shook his head. “And that’s the problem. Everything feels like hunches now. I can’t remember why I think anything.” He resisted the urge to pound the table with his fist out of pure frustration. “I’ve never gotten blackout-drunk in my life, and all of a sudden, there’s a night that’s just missing. I don’t have a hangover, I swear! I just…”