Free as a bird, p.1
Free as a Bird, page 1
FREE AS A BIRD
HAILEY EDWARDS
Copyright © 2024 Black Dog Books, LLC
All rights reservedNo 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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Sasha Knight
Copy Edited by Kimberly Cannon
Proofread by Lillie's Literary Services
Cover by Deranged Doctor Designs
CONTENTS
Free as a Bird
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
Join the Team
About the Author
Also by Hailey Edwards
FREE AS A BIRD
Yard Birds, Book 3
When an old friend reaches out to Ellie, asking for help locating her missing coven members, she’s ready for her big comeback. Witchlight is financing the op, and it feels damn good to be official again.
But when her friend’s lies begin to unravel, Ellie realizes she’s let her ego lead her into a trap. And she’s brought her coven down with her. With the girls’ lives on the line, Ellie has to decide what’s more important—reliving her glory days or saving her best friends from a permanent retirement.
CHAPTER ONE
This blasted kitten would be the death of me.
Reckless, vocal with his demands, eager to charge into danger.
Orange and white with a pink and black nose, Scrappy might have been cute had he not also lost the end of his tail and half his left ear in brawls with his siblings. Despite his aspirations to weigh five pounds one day, he wasn’t quite there yet. Bony and scarred, he advertised what he was: trouble.
Wally, of course, was smitten with the little monster. He’d had a soft spot for thrill-seeking rebels with no sense of self-preservation for as long as I had known him. Probably how he ended up married to me.
Even before the girls and I performed the essence transference ritual, withdrawing Wally’s soul from the singing rubber bass mounted on a faux woodgrain plaque, Wally had adored Scrappy. Now that his spirit swirled within a sterling silver charm fastened to Scrappy’s collar, they were—literally—inseparable.
The charm was heart-shaped, nothing special to avoid drawing attention, but it tinkled nicely on account of its original purpose as a bell. It was the only way I had found to prevent Scrappy from sneaking up on me, using my legs for his personal scratching post, then bolting away in a bloodthirsty game of tag I had no hope of winning at my age.
“Now, now, Scrappy,” Wally chided as the kitten swiped a furry murder mitten across my calf in a drive-by mauling that left me grinding my teeth at the stinging pain. Had I worn dentures, like Ida, they would have cracked under the strain. As it was, I feared my next trip to the dentist. “Don’t hurt your momma.”
“I am not that hellspawn’s mother,” I growled for the hundredth time since adopting Scrappy.
“That attitude is why he attacks you.”
Laughter shone through Wally’s voice, as clear as the bell he now inhabited, illuminating his newfound happiness. My heart warmed to hear it, but I still wasn’t letting the demon fluff off the hook. I would schedule an exorcism to kick him out of my house in a heartbeat if only he wouldn’t take my husband with him when he was purged.
“Maybe Scrappy views calling me his momma as an insult to his actual mother, who the devil himself has probably been out stapling lost pet posters on power poles to find since she’s on Earth birthing litters of claw-handed minions, and that’s why he singles me out to torment.”
“He’s not putting that much effort into it,” Zander mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. “There’s not a single thought in his cutey-patootie brain other than chaos now running on a loop. As he runs in a loop.”
“Why couldn’t you bring home a puppy? Better yet—a dog?” I bet Zander thought I couldn’t smell the tuna in his sandwich, like I didn’t know it was a cover for feeding a whole can to the blasted kitten to fatten him up some. “They listen.”
“You can teach a cat tricks or how to walk on a leash.” Zander took another bite. “All kinds of fun stuff.”
Lifting the edge of my housecoat, I flashed him my leg, which was crisscrossed with what resembled grill marks but were raised scabs from sneak attacks and not so sneaky attacks. “Does this look like fun to you?”
Wisely, he stuffed his mouth full of sandwich to give himself time to formulate an appropriate response.
“Guess we’re going on patrol,” Wally called out as Scrappy shot out the new cat door in the kitchen.
Patrol was upselling how Scrappy enjoyed hiding in the high field grass, hunting bugs, or bristling his patchy fur at random objects he would then battle to the death. Like my roses. Or my gardenias. Or my peonies. Any plant that smelled good was a target for his homicidal impulses.
Secretly, I theorized the extra care I gave my favorite flowers drew a bullseye on them. The ones I left more of my scent on were more likely to meet an untimely demise via kitten. But that was paranoid thinking.
Wasn’t it?
The shrill brrring, brrring, brrring of the landline phone spared me from my conspiracy theories. “Yeah?”
“Is that how Southern ladies greet callers these days?” a tart voice chided with a sweet-as-honey drawl. “Just know my momma is rolling in her grave.”
“Leslie Brower.” I laughed with reluctant surprise. “How are you?”
A decade had lapsed since I last heard from her, but time had a way of slipping through wrinkled fingers.
“Still kicking.” Her throaty chuckle made me smile. “The metal plate in my knee really helps with that.”
“I bet.” Nice as it was to chat, I had my suspicions about this sudden outreach. “So, what do you need?”
“This is definitely not how Southern ladies conducted themselves in my day.”
“You say that, but can you honestly remember so far back?”
“You wicked woman.” She burst into outright guffaws. “I’ve missed you, you old bat.”
“But that’s not why you’re calling.” I knew her well enough to know that. “What’s up, Brow Beater?”
“My coven was set to have a reunion on the third of next month, but only three out of the five RSVP’d.”
“That’s not a bad average at our age.” Grim statistics but true, nonetheless. “I’m sure you mailed them handwritten calligraphic invitations on animal-friendly vellum, but have you tried picking up a phone?”
Leslie was the type of person who expected her RSVP cards to be mailed back in their supplied envelope with their prepaid postage. Or else.
“Do you think I would be pestering you if I hadn’t tried to reach them on my own?”
“You were management, as I recall, so…” I pretended to consider it. “Yes. You would. In a heartbeat.”
“Okay, fine. I would. But these are my girls, Ellie. The two who didn’t RSVP, despite knowing how it pains me when proper etiquette isn’t observed, have vanished without a trace. Neither is married. Neither has kids. No one even noticed they were missing until I began searching for them.”
Of all the reasons for her to call, I wouldn’t have guessed this one. “What would you like me to do?”
“Your coven remains active in a reserve capacity.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re the only coven still practicing from our glory days.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I intend to file a request with Witchlight HQ to have you assigned to this case.”
Assignments were as rare as hen’s teeth at our age, for a major case no less, and I couldn’t deny a flutter in my stomach. “Do I get a say?”
“You live for this.” She snorted in a most unladylike manner. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
She was right. I did live for this. I was already mentally packing for the trip.
“I’ll have to check with the girls.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “Reserve assignments are optional.”
Mostly we got left to our own devices, especially since we lived in an area rich with minor para activity ideal for witches of our caliber. But a case. A bona fide mission. I had forgotten how a sense of purpose infused me when a job was made official.
“You’re their hub, Ellie.” She hit below the belt. “If you greenlight this, they’ll follow your lead.”
“Still.” I curbed my enthusiasm. “I’ll call a meeting, see where we stand, and get back to you.”
“You’ve got twenty-four hours.” She failed to dull her snappish tone, the bite in her voice a habit learned from a lifetime of issuing orders that could determine if someone lived or died. “Then I’ll have to go with HQ’s choice. Probably some whippersnapper who doesn’t know their head from a hole in the ground.”
“We used to be the whippersnappers, if you recall.”
“I prefer to believe I arrived in this world fully formed in a corner o
“That’s the kind of thinking that made you a prime choice for management.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She drew in a slow breath then let it out. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
Her exhale carried with it a strain to press me into a promise for action, but she knew when to quit.
“Yeah.” I gave her what comfort I could before talking to the girls. “You will.”
As soon as the call ended, Zander swooped in, lifted me off my feet, and swung me around in circles.
Shifter hearing meant he had listened in on every word. He knew without asking what was in my heart of hearts.
“You’ve got an actual case.” He planted a loud kiss on my cheek. “This is the perfect trial for Scrappy.”
“What?” I wriggled until he set me down. “No.” I sliced a hand through the air. “Absolutely not.”
“I’ll help you watch him.” Zander stuck out his bottom lip. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Not when you’ve got that look in your eye, no.” I smoothed a hand down the front of my nightgown, an old familiar tingle in my fingers. “We’ll be in a city, with traffic. Lots of traffic. You know how that demon loves to chase cars. If he gets himself pancaked, I might never see my husband again.”
“There’s a GPS chip in his collar, and the bell that contains Uncle Wally has a tracker spell on it.”
Both reasonable precautions to protect Wally from his maniacal choice of host. “What’s your point?”
“He’s as safe as you can make him.” Zander gentled his voice. “Uncle Wally… He needs this.”
As much as it terrified me to admit he was right, I couldn’t afford to deny Wally his vote either. That was what landed us in this predicament in the first place. No. I had to let him make his own choices. Then we both had to live with the consequences.
CHAPTER TWO
With the five of us, plus Zander, sitting around the kitchen table, I brought our coven meeting to order.
“These mimosas are delightful, Ellie. You’ve truly outdone yourself.” Ida, dressed in a swishy sky-blue and white-striped dress, sipped from her clear plastic champagne flute. “Fresh-squeezed orange juice?”
“Ha.” Betty tossed back her glass, topped off her ice, then reached for the pitcher. “Ellie only buys concentrate.”
“Unless she’s celebrating.” Flo eyed her drink with newfound suspicion, swirling the contents in search of pulp, if I had to guess. “Hard to tell, what with the plastic and all.”
“If you’re too good to drink yours—” Betty grabbed for it, “—I’ll take it.”
“Zander, control your mother.” Flo glared through her luxurious falsies. “Drinking and driving is just as illegal on a scooter.”
“How about we get to the big news?” Zander clapped to draw everyone’s attention. “Auntie El?”
“Big news?” Flo sipped, her lipstick not budging, and hummed her appreciation. “How big?”
“Bigger than Flo’s vagina?” Betty chortled when poor, sweet Ida choked on her next sip. “What?” She widened her eyes like that had a hope of making her appear innocent. “She’s had like fifty husbands.”
“That’s her role,” I warned Betty off with my tone, “not her preference, and you know it.”
Had management not noticed how very good Flo was at getting what she wanted from the opposite sex, she might never have married. Her disinterest in men, the result of being forced to fake interest in them, was one of the few beliefs she shared with Betty. Not that they would ever own up to having anything in common.
“Role, schmole,” Betty grumbled, adding more ice to her empty glass.
“To improve blood circulation to your vagina and pelvic floor,” Joan offered, “Kegel exercises—”
“Leslie Brower called today.” I raised my voice to be heard over the bickering. “She’s got a case for us.”
The room, too loud to hear myself think in two seconds ago, went as quiet as a mouse in church.
“Two of her coven members are missing,” I continued while I held their undivided attention. It never lasted for long. “She would like us to find them.” I let that sink in. “We can say no.”
“As much as I admire your restraint in giving us a say, regardless of how you must be salivating for a case after all this time,” Flo stated, her jaw tight, “I remember Leslie well. She won’t let us opt out.”
“Leslie is asking us for a favor.” I hardened my gaze to prove I meant what I said next. “We can say no, and she’ll go elsewhere.”
“Two of her girls are missing?” Ida clicked her nails on her champagne flute. “She must be a wreck.”
“If they’ve been missing longer than forty-eight hours,” Joan began, then—miracle of miracles—read the room and swallowed her dark thought. “We should hurry.”
“You’re voting yes?” I hadn’t reached that part yet, but it was uncommon for Joan to get invested in the outcome of, well, much of anything. Unless it involved mushrooms. “What about the rest of you?”
“I’m game.” Betty patted her scooter’s handlebars. “I just got a tune-up yesterday.”
“I would want someone to help if it happened to one of us.” Ida cleared her throat. “I vote yes.”
“Fine.” Flo flicked her wrist. “I’m in too. Might as well be. We all know how Ellie will vote.”
“You don’t know—” I lost my train of thought as a yowl pierced my ears. “What in tarnation?”
Scrappy bolted through the cat door, fur standing on end. He hopped sideways at the gathering while spitting and hissing. Hard to tell if he was upset there were guests in our home, or if he was, well, just being his feral little self. Half the time he looked like an electroshock therapy patient. Acted like one too.
“Hier,” Zander snapped out, and the feisty critter zeroed in on him. “Sitz.”
For the first time in memory, except for the blessed few hours when he slept, the kitten went still.
And then he sat.
“Are you ordering that cat around in German?” Betty gawked at him. “I didn’t know you spoke German.”
“Bleib.” He watched to ensure the kitten didn’t budge. “A girl whose parents train police dogs is in three of my classes. I asked her for tips on teaching a cat. She had no idea, but she did explain how to start a puppy off on the right paw over dinner.”
Ah.
That would explain the pitch he made earlier about the trainability of cats. He must have wanted to ease me into the idea of letting him work with Scrappy, which he had obviously been doing behind my back if the blasted creature knew what the words Zander was saying meant.
On second thought, he believed more in beg forgiveness than ask permission. A bad habit he might have picked up from his favorite auntie. Likely he had been waiting for a moment exactly like this one to show an audience what an excellent host he had found for his uncle. Lord help us all.
“You’re training the beast responsible for my husband’s safety with tips you gleaned from a date night?”
“Singular or plural?” Flo took an elegant sip. “Tips can be quite—”
“You know more about just the tip than any woman alive,” Betty snarked, “but this is serious.”
Even Flo forgot to scowl for a second, almost awarding her favorite verbal sparring partner the win.
The new estrogen regimen Betty was on, thanks to witches suffering menopausal flareups far later in life than humans, had honed her already sharp tongue to a razor’s edge. Poor Flo got cut most, but we were all the walking wounded. Her doctor swore she would level off in a few weeks, but phew boy. Until then, we tried our best to avoid direct eye contact when she was on a tear.
“With positive reinforcement—” Wally addressed us, “—I believe he can master basic commands.”
I translated his vote of confidence to mean he had been helping Zander along as best he could in the hopes a display of Scrappy’s prowess would impress me enough to stop coddling him.
“By definition,” Joan chimed in, “a command is a direct order.”
“Yes, dear.” Ida patted her arm. “You’re right.”
“This is risky.” I stared at the heart charm containing my spouse. “The case. The cat. The travel.”
