Funk-N-Fiction

We’re starting day two of this year’s Flash Fiction event with another installment of Melody Johnson‘s Witchy Business series!! Check out what’s happening this holiday season at Petra’s Pots & Potions!!

Brewing Tricks Before Treats
By: Melody Johnson

Petra Maine is accustomed to life doling more tricks than treats, but when a dangerous warlock enters her brewery on All Hallows’ Eve with a tempting request—nearly as tempting as the man himself—it might be an opportunity too sweet to refuse.

As the Harbinger for the East Thornton Coven Counsel, Gerard Zeith is tasked with investigating Petra’s Pots & Potions. If Petra willingly sells him a poison brewed with death magic, he’ll finally have evidence to clinch his case against the Maine family and bring Petra to justice.

But Gerard isn’t Petra’s only patron with underhanded motives. When Petra is attacked by a dissatisfied customer, Gerard’s loyalties are tested. If they can put aside their differences and work together, Petra and Gerard might discover the most intoxicating magic brewing in Petra’s Pots & Potions this Halloween.

Chapter 1

Anyone asking her to be an accessory to murder at eight in the morning should have the courtesy to wait until after she’d swallowed her mouthful of iced cinnamon toffee latte.

Petra cleared her throat and managed to reply without choking. “I believe you meant to order a Belami Rose. Perfect for strengthening foresight and, consequently, fingernails. Not great for people with sensitive stomachs, but …” She gave the man a slashing once-over. “You look like someone who appreciates a kick.”

The customer in question leaned forward to rest his elbows on her bar, his biceps testing the limited stretch of his black leather jacket. “I didn’t mean to order anything other than exactly what I ordered. A Belantine Rose, please.”

Considering his towering height, intimidating physique, and penetrating gaze, the man didn’t strike her as someone who required subtlety to vanquish his enemies. One well-aimed punch with those tattooed, ham-fisted knuckles would knock even the Hulk unconscious. Granted, she had the round-faced, cherubic appearance of someone who took joy in helping neighbors and aiding the unfortunate. Looks were deceiving.

Petra scanned her shop, confirming the brewery was otherwise still empty. “You understand Belantine Rose is a poisonous elixir that induces cardiac arrest and kills whoever consumes it.”

He smirked, revealing twin fangs. “Yes.”

The fangs were prosthetics, surely, it being Halloween. She couldn’t imagine any self-respecting witch or warlock filing their natural canines into fangs, no matter the irony of a witch attempting to blend into society by posing as a vampire. The world wasn’t so ridiculous as to contain creatures who fed on blood.

Although, as a witch who specialized in potions, Petra could probably curse someone into craving such a diet. She shook off the thought before the possibility took root. “It requires death magic to brew.”

“I’m aware.” The glint in his dark eyes was as tempting as his request.

“Death magic was abolished centuries ago,” she said with a straight face, staring deep into that luring gaze. She deserved an Academy Award for this performance.

The man unzipped his leather jacket, revealing a too-tight black t-shirt snug against the ripples of his broad chest and flat stomach.

Lucky t-shirt.

He pulled out a wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket and slid two hundred dollars across the bar.

Petra crossed her arms to prevent her hand from snatching up the cash. She’d been itching to replace the brewery’s outdoor sign with something more weather and baseball-bat-resistant. Less drab. More modern. Less cracked. More … her. “Make that five hundred, and you’ve got an hour of my time. Consultation only.”

“About the Belantine Rose?”

She smiled. “Happy to discuss magic I can’t perform.”

The man slid an additional three hundred across the bar. Petra swiped up the cash and stashed it in her cleavage before he grew a conscience and changed his mind.

Mmm. Time to talk murder.

Petra tried not to let her heart leap with too much excitement. They were only talking, after all.

***

Gerard Zeith followed Petra Janine Maine into a private office behind the bar at Petra’s Pots & Potions, feeling as if he were being transported into an alternate universe by the angel of death. He’d attribute her décor and outfit to celebrating All Hallows’ Eve in style, except that he knew her shop wasn’t decorated and her clothes weren’t a costume. Both remained exactly as they appeared today all year long: gothic, extravagant, and stunning.

Gerard tugged at his jacket—he was roasting!—sent a fervent prayer to the Goddess that his fake tats didn’t smear from the sweat, and tried and failed not to appreciate Petra’s generous curves, which were emphasized by her purple-trimmed black corset. As the Harbinger for the East Thornton Coven Council, Gerard investigated leads on high profile, delicate, and potentially dangerous cases involving magical misuse. His current investigation, if successful, would clinch their case against the Maine family, an intimidating objective without the distraction of curves in corsets.

The Maines boasted seven generations of powerful, buried magic in their family cemetery, and no one had the courage to question the source of that power. Until recently. Members of the Clifton Heights Coven had finally come forward, accusing the Maine sisters, Petra and Venni, of practicing death magic. As Petra so accurately stated, death magic, which derived its power from life sacrifices, had been abolished in the witching community centuries ago.

But according to his sources, Petra was still practicing. Here, in this very shop—in this very office, perhaps—she was murdering people.

This case had united the East Thornton and Clifton Heights Covens, a shocking collaboration after so many decades of animosity, and resulted in this undercover op. If Petra sold him the Belantine Rose, he’d have undeniable proof that the Maine family was committing murder to feed their family’s power.

Petra pivoted in a graceful twist, her sandy blonde curls bouncing as she gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “Please, sit, Mr. …” She arched a single brow.

“Zeith. Gerard Zeith,” he murmured, driving some menace into his tone. Someone planning to poison a person would be menacing. Then again, Petra would be brewing said poison, and the only thing she was menacing was his concentration.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Zeith.” She perched on the seat next to him, instead of across the desk as he’d expected, trapping him in the room without having to shut the door.

She offered him a hand.

They shook. Her palm was cool and smooth in his grasp, and Gerard didn’t breathe until his hand was safely returned to the chair arm. His heart raced. Unfortunately, not with fear.

“Who’s the intended recipient of this brew?” she asked.

Gerard blinked. “The intended recipient?”

Petra stroked one purple, pointy, acrylic-tipped finger across his knee. “Surely, you don’t intend to drink it yourself.”

“Of course not.” Gerard refused to react, even as her touch tingled through his jeans, across his skin, and provoked his … pride. “The intended recipient isn’t your concern.”

“I disagree. A person connected to a powerful family may demand retribution, and if you’re discovered—”

“Your involvement will remain anonymous.”

“If you’re careless enough to be discovered, then who knows what else you’ll be careless enough to reveal.” She walked her fingers up his leg and poked his ribs to ease the sting from her words. “The person might be a prominent member of the witching community in need of potions. I might lose a loyal customer.”

“My intended recipient is neither connected to a powerful family nor a prominent member of the witching community.”

She pulled back. “Targeting someone outside the witching community would gain the unwanted attention of the council.”

Too late for that. He forced a blasé snort.“The council won’t investigate this person’s absence.”

“So this person isn’t a magical rival. This isn’t a political assassination or a witching protest.” Petra leaned forward, those razor eyes peering at him through the curtain of her blonde bangs. “It’s personal.”

He swallowed, beguiled by her soft, sweet creamsicle scent. What was his cover story, damn it? “I—”

The door chime shrieked from the front of the brewery. A customer.

“Ms. Maine?” Something smashed followed by the click of boots crunching over glass. “I’m here to collect.” Another crash.

An unhappy customer.

Petra cursed under her breath. Something about needing a new sign?

Gerard tensed to stand. “I should—”

She squeezed his knee as another something shattered. “Stay. My apologies for the interruption. I’ll take care of this—” She sneered. “—business and return in a moment.”

Left behind in a swirl of skirt and stomping boots, Gerard sat, torn between helping her and spying on her. She was only a suspected murderess, after all.

But if she was a murderess, she could probably handle herself.

***

“Gentlemen.” Never had the word been used with such loose definition. “You’re racking up quite the tab.”

The R&R twins, Reginald and Raymond, had returned. Considering their bloodshot eyes and raw knuckles, the two looked as if they could benefit from some rest and relaxation, but sadly, Petra knew all too well there was no rest for the wicked.

The twins had threatened her last week on behalf of their grumpy employer, Bernard DeMonte, demanding a refund for a potion that only ever worked forty percent of the time, assuming the incantation was pronounced correctly. Mr. DeMonte had been aware of the potion’s low success rate, but as with most people who demanded often and rarely listened, he needed someone to blame for his own inadequacies.

If the potion had worked, he’d certainly be less grumpy.

Reginald was once again wielding a baseball bat, apparently his favorite non-magical weapon. Not that he even needed a weapon. At six feet and three hundred pounds of pure muscle, the man was the weapon. Dozens of shattered glass vials littered the floor from the shelf he’d recently smashed, and by the shifty glint in his gray eyes, he was relishing the thought of smashing another something. Preferably her, if not the next shelf.

Raymond stood to her left, a mirror image of his brother from his mop of thick, golden hair to his size thirteen scuffed loafers. Being a henchman was rough on Italian leather. He crossed his arms with calm confidence. “Your potion was a dud.”

“Not possible,” Petra said, keeping her tone chipper. “Your employer understood the risks of his purchase. It’s not the potion’s fault if the incantation wasn’t delivered with precision.”

“Are you implying that Mr. DeMonte doesn’t know his incantations?” Regi swung his baseball bat into the Venus display, tipping over the cauldron along with her entire shelf of distilled morning glory.

“DeMonte” was a pseudonym for Bernard’s darker business dealings, thank Goddess, or she could’ve kissed discretion goodbye.

Petra tsked her tongue. “That was an artifact, Regi. With the Venus cauldron, the shelf of distilled morning glory, and the dreaming elixirs, you’re up to $945. Would you prefer cash or credit?”

Raymond didn’t even crack a smile. “I’d prefer you process the refund, with interest, so we can conclude this business.”

“Or what? You’ll report me to the council?” Petra laughed. The DeMonte family nearly had as many buried secrets as the Maine family. Nearly.

“Or your junk won’t be the only thing broken on this floor.” Regi kicked her Venus cauldron, which didn’t emphasize his threat as he’d probably intended. The cauldron was too heavy to budge.

Petra spread out her hands and stepped back, so she was within arm’s reach of the very tasty, extremely acidic thundi elixir on her Jupitar display. When ingested, the potion supplied the recipient with endless energy for hours, but in a pinch, and with a murmured death incantation, the elixir could melt a person’s face to the bone. “If you don’t compensate me for damages and leave my establishment immediately, Mr. DeMonte will have a lot more to worry about than his inability to perform …” She smirked. “Incantations.”

Raymond shook his head in disappointment, met his twin’s gaze, and nodded.

Regi raised his baseball bat and grinned at Petra as he swung.

Petra snatched the thundi elixir from the display, and—

Gerard stepped out from her back office. “Drop the baseball bat. Now.”

Petra groaned. Of all the times for an inconvenient rescue! She dropped the elixir—can’t melt faces with witnesses—and dodged the baseball bat instead. It grazed her jaw, and she threw herself to the floor with a scream.

Seriously, someone give her a Golden Globe at least!

Gerard lunged forward between her and the twins. “Banasiti!”

The spell rang true, hitting Raymond and Reginald square between the eyes.

“You have one more week!” Raymond growled over his shoulder as the two of them about-faced and left her shop. The shriek of her door chime echoed in the wake of their hasty exit.

The banishment spell was only temporary, of course. Nothing cast with light was ever permanent. Only death was permanent; this time next week, Raymond would undoubtedly make good on his promise.

“Are you all right, Ms. Maine?”

Petra peeked over her shoulder. Gerard was offering her a hand, the tattoos on his knuckles smudged and one fanged canine askew. The concern in his expression, however, was genuine.

People who risk their own safety to protect others weren’t the same people who bought black market potions to poison their personal problems away. This was a man who confronted his adversaries directly, physically if necessary.

And he certainly had the body to ensure a job done right.

“Yes, Mr. Zeith, I’m fine.” She felt her jaw and winced. “Thanks to you,” she added with a little eye flutter.

He blushed.

He was over six feet tall, could probably have taken the R&R twins without magic, and had enough juice to banish both of them from her property simultaneously. And he blushed.

Who are you, Mr. Zeith, and what is it you really want?

Petra took his hand, and let him help her to her feet, determined to find out.

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Copyright © 2024 Melody Johnson

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental. 

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