Earth spells are easy, p.1
Earth Spells Are Easy, page 1
Earth Spells Are Easy
Grimoires of a Middle-aged Witch Book One
Renee George
Barkside of the Moon Press
Other Titles
By Renee George
Grimoires of a Middle-aged Witch
https://www.renee-george.com/GMW
Earth Spells Are Easy (Book 1)
Spell On Fire (Book 2)
When the Spells Blows
Spell Over Troubled Water
Ghost in the Spell
* * *
Nora Black Midlife Psychic Mysteries
www.norablackmysteries.com
Sense & Scent Ability (Book 1)
For Whom the Smell Tolls (Book 2)
War of the Noses (Book 3)
Aroma With A View (Book 4)
Spice and Prejudice (Book 5)
* * *
Peculiar Mysteries
www.peculiarmysteries.com
You’ve Got Tail (Book 1) FREE Download
My Furry Valentine (Book 2)
Thank You For Not Shifting (Book 3)
My Hairy Halloween (Book 4)
In the Midnight Howl (Book 5)
My Peculiar Road Trip (Magic & Mayhem) (Book 6)
Furred Lines (Book7)
My Wolfy Wedding (Book 8)
Who Let The Wolves Out? (Book 9)
My Thanksgiving Faux Paw (Book 10)
* * *
Witchin’ Impossible Cozy Mysteries
www.witchinimpossible.com
Witchin’ Impossible (Book 1) FREE Download
Rogue Coven (Book 2)
Familiar Protocol (Booke 3)
Mr & Mrs. Shift (Book 4)
* * *
Barkside of the Moon Mysteries
www.barksideofthemoonmysteries.com
Pit Perfect Murder (Book 1) FREE Download
Murder & The Money Pit (Book 2)
The Pit List Murders (Book 3)
Pit & Miss Murder (Book 4)
The Prune Pit Murder (Book 5)
Two Pits and A Little Murder (Book 6)
Pits and Pieces of Murder (Book 7)
* * *
Madder Than Hell
www.madder-than-hell.com
Gone With The Minion (Book 1)
Devil On A Hot Tin Roof (Book 2)
A Street Car Named Demonic (Book 3)
* * *
Hex Drive
https://www.renee-george.com/hex-drive-series
Hex Me, Baby, One More Time (Book 1)
Oops, I Hexed It Again (Book 2)
I Want Your Hex (Book 3)
Hex Me With Your Best Shot (Book 4)
* * *
Midnight Shifters
www.midnightshifters.com
Midnight Shift (Book 1)
The Bear Witch Project (Book 2)
A Door to Midnight (Book 3)
A Shade of Midnight (Book 4)
Midnight Before Christmas (Book 5)
Earth Spells Are Easy
Grimoires of a Middle-aged Witch Book 1
Copyright © 2021 by Renee George
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement by the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and storylines in this book are inspired only by the author’s imagination. The characters are based solely in fiction and are in no relation inspired by anyone bearing the same name or names. Any similarities to real persons, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
Print: May 2021
ISBN: 978-1-947177-39-0
Publisher: Barkside of the Moon Press
Contents
Blurb
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
Spell on Fire - Grimoires of a Middle-aged Witch Book 2
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Renee George
“Sense and Scent Ability by Renee George is a delightfully funny, smart, full of excitement, up-all-night fantastic read! I couldn’t put it down. The latest installment in the Paranormal Women’s Fiction movement, knocks it out of the park. Do yourself a favor and grab a copy today!”
—Robyn Peterman NYT Bestselling Author
* * *
"I'm loving the Paranormal Women's Fiction genre! Renee George's humor shines when a woman of a certain age sniffs out the bad guy and saves her bestie. Funny, strong female friendships rule!"
-- Michelle M. Pillow, NYT & USAT Bestselling Author
"I smell a winner with Renee George's new book, Sense & Scent Ability! The heroine proves that being over fifty doesn't have to stink, even if her psychic visions do."
-- Mandy M. Roth, NY Times Bestselling Author
“Sense & Scent Ability is everything! Nora Black is sassy, smart, and her smell-o-vision is scent-sational. I can’t wait for the next Nora book!
—Michele Freeman, author of Hometown Homicide, a Sheriff Blue Hayes mystery
As a forty-three-year-old, newly divorced, single mom, I know two things for certain, starting over sucks, and magic isn’t real. At least that’s what I thought. I mean, starting over really does stink, but when it comes to magic, I have to rethink everything.
I’ve spent the last year since my ex left me going through the motions. Get up. Work. Care for a grumpy teenager. Cook dinner. Go to bed. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Nothing changes... Until it does.
After bidding on a box of old books at an estate auction, I’m experiencing changes.
And I’m not talking about menopause.
My garden gnome Linda has come to life. No, really. Her name is Linda, and she never shuts up. A chonky cat with a few secrets of his own has adopted me. And a gorgeous professor of the occult tells me I’m a witch.
Right now, I’m not sure who’s crazier—me, Linda or the hottie professor.
If this is my new reality, it’s nature’s cruel midlife trick. I’m learning fast that earth spells might be easy, but they aren’t cheap. All magic exacts a toll, and if I don’t master the elements, the elements will be the death of me.
Literally.
For my son, Taylor, who takes great pleasure in scaring the crap out of me whenever possible. Watching you grow up is a great pleasure, and I’m so proud of the man you’ve become!
Chapter 1
The garlicky scent of take-out created a nauseating stench I found hard to ignore. Now, I would forever associate Mongolian Beef with divorce, and it made me want to yark.
I passed the legal documents across the kitchen table to my lawyer Donald Overton III then glanced around my kitchen. “Sorry about the mess, Don.” There were two plates, silverware, and cups in the sink, and it had been the third time I’d said I was sorry since his arrival.
“The place is cleaner than my house,” he said.
Don, who was a six-foot-four man with rounded shoulders and a big, balding head to match, wasn’t just my lawyer. He was also my brother-in-law. Which meant I knew he was stretching the truth to spare my feelings. My sister Rose was a meticulous housekeeper. “Is that it?” I asked.
He gave me a sympathetic look, emphasis on the pathetic, and nodded. “That’s it, Iris. Done is done.”
I rubbed my face. “Done is done,” I repeated. “I’m officially Iris Everlee.” I’d legally changed it a few weeks earlier. Still, it hadn’t felt definitive that I was no longer a Callahan until I’d signed the divorce papers.
I’d wasted eighteen years married to a man who left me for someone else. Someone younger. Someone male. My ex, it turned out, was bisexual. I have always been open-minded. I genuinely believe, love is love and that people should live their truths. But when it’s your husband, it’s a lot harder to be congratulatory about someone discovering their “authentic self.”
“Thanks for bringing those to me.” I stood up from the table. “I have to get Michael up for practice.”
Michael was my seventeen-year-old son. I worried he’d suffered the most during the divorce. But my son had always been a quiet child, not distant or anti-social, just even keel and low drama. It made it extremely difficult to gauge his real feelings most of the time.
“Is he still playing football?” Don asked.
“Yep. Today’s the first day of spring training.”
Don added, “You look like you need a friend. You should call Rose.”
Unable to shake the feeling of trepidation, I said, “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”
Don gave me a grim smile, then gathered up the paperwork and slipped it into a folder. “I’ll get these filed at the courthouse today. You and Michael should come to dinner tomorrow night.”
I stood up and walked him out of the kitchen and thr
“Please do. You know how Rose gets.” My brother-in-law gave me a gentle shoulder squeeze, then left.
I had three sisters and one brother. Rose, the youngest of us all, had taken on the responsibility as the family worrywart since our mother died of pancreatic cancer five years earlier. The doctors had given her three or four months to live, but she’d died three weeks later in her sleep because the cancer had strangled her aorta and caused an aneurysm.
I closed the door and made my way down the dark hallway past the kitchen. Even with the door closed, the foul scents of boy stink threatened to knock me off my feet. Garlic leftovers had nothing on Ewwww de Son. I tapped on the door. No response. I pounded my fist against the wood. Still no response.
I opened the door a crack. “Hello?” I leaned on the door to open it wider as the sickly sweet and sour odors hit me full force, burning the back of my nostrils.
My eyesight adjusted to the dark. I saw a small mountain of dirty clothes wedged behind the door, barring further entry. I could see long toes peeking over the edge of a queen-sized mattress. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known a human being occupied the bed.
“Michael, damn it.” Lately, “damn it” had been his middle name. “Let me in.”
“What do you want?” came his muffled voice full of sleepy annoyance.
“I want you to open this stupid door right now.”
“Go away.”
“I’ll go away. I’ll go away to the garage and get a screwdriver and a hammer and take this freaking door off its hinges.” Screw this. I pushed the door as hard as I could. Mount Dirt & Grime slid across the carpet and allowed me entry.
His foot drifted out of sight. He was moving—another good sign.
“What the hell died in your room? It smells like a serial killer’s drop zone.”
The boy sat up, his short hair looking too perfect to be slept in, just like his father. He scratched his patchy goatee. “Dramatic much?” His voice, low and pleasant in tone, held an edge of sarcasm.
I fought back a smile. My kid was beautiful, no doubt about it. He was one of the few things Evan and I had done right.
He blinked his soft brown eyes in my direction. “I’m not going to practice.”
“Oh, you’re going.” I picked up a pair of sweatpants, a green pair at the top of the pile, and chucked them at him. “Get dressed.”
He groaned and threw himself onto the bed, pulling the covers over his shoulders. “I’m tired.”
“You wouldn’t be so tired if you weren’t up all night playing video games with your buddies.”
He grunted. Translation: Whatever.
“Michael Evan Callahan, you will get yourself out of bed this minute. You promised your father.”
He moaned his dissent. “Coach is going to be there,” he replied.
“If you want a relationship with your dad, you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that Coach Adam is a part of his life now.” I sounded so reasonable, even to my own ears. Inside, I was screaming. It had been a year since Evan and I had separated, and most of the time, I tried to not hate him for what he’d done to our family, but sometimes I struggled with taking the higher road.
“Yeah, well, you didn’t catch them going at it.” He was sitting up now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “And you expect me to come to terms with it.”
Unfortunately, my son had discovered his father’s infidelity before me. He’d gone to talk to Coach Adam after school hours and found him and Evan kissing in the coach’s office. Michael had come home and locked himself in his bedroom that night. I could still see his hurt and rage. Being caught by our kid was what prompted Evan to finally come clean with me.
Sighing, I sat on the bed next to Michael and put my hand on his shoulder. “Kissing is not going at it,” I said.
My oldest sister Dahlia was a family counselor. She’d recommended someone for the family to see, including Evan, in order for us to move forward with our lives.
“Close enough,” he countered.
It took months for Michael to even look at his father, then a few months more for him to have a civil conversation with him. I was angry with Evan, but still, I was glad that Michael was finally seeing him again. They’d been taking it slowly. A few lunches and dinners here and there. One month ago, their relationship had taken another setback when Evan and Adam decided to go public and move in together.
I missed the days when I could scoop Michael into my arms and cuddle him. He was at that age now where he would have pulled away if I tried to comfort him. As it was, I could feel him shrink at my consoling touch. How could I expect him to understand and accept his father’s new life when I could hardly think about him without my own rage clouding my mind? I felt like I’d wasted my best years on him. He’d promised to love me until death do we part. Yes, I lost my husband, but I’d also lost my best friend. Evan and I had more in common than anyone I’d ever met. We had the same tastes in books, music, and movies. We’d shared similar political and philosophical beliefs, and we’d rarely ran out of conversation.
On top of that, our sex life had been good. Don’t get me wrong, we’d had our share of arguments. It’s hard to be with someone for eighteen years and not have any fights, but we’d always made up. In other words, his falling in love with someone else, regardless of gender, had been a complete blindside.
“Michael,” I said, my voice gentle but strained. “I understand that you’re uncomfortable around your dad and Adam but avoiding them is not going to make your life any better or easier. Do you want a relationship with your father?”
The teenager raised a wary brow. “Don’t shrink me, Mom. That’s what you pay Dr. Bradford for.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Well, do you? Do you want a relationship with your father? And keep in mind, he’s the only father you have.” I wasn’t above deploying mommy-guilt. “Your dad changed your diapers, coached your baseball and basketball teams. He attended every sporting event you ever played in high school. And he loves you,” I said with as much gentleness as I could manage. “Now tell me, do you want a relationship with your father? Yes or no?”
“Sure,” he said more than a little grudgingly. “But not with Coach.”
“I’m not trying to make you have a relationship with Adam, but he and your father are a package right now.” The words, even from my own lips, were a punch in the gut. Evan was a package with someone else now, and like Michael, I had to find a way to come to terms with it.
My teenaged son grunted. Unsympathetically, I clapped my hands to get his attention. “Get. Up.”
“I hate you,” he said through gritted teeth as he clambered from the bed.
I tried not to let the hurt show on my face. There were plenty of times I’d thought the same words to my mother when I was a teenager, but I never meant it, and I reminded myself as I let out a slow breath that Michael didn’t mean it either. “You can hate me all you want, son, just as long as you mind me.”
After dressing, and before he left the house, Michael gave me a rare hug and mumbled “love you” in my ear.
“I know,” I said. “Love you more.” And out the door he went. Once I was alone, my breath started coming faster, harder, and my pulse kicked up a notch—a feeling I knew all too well. This was the beginning of a panic attack. I tried to slow my exhales through pursed lips. Blow out the candle, I told myself, as I raced for the back door.
