Witches Get Stitches

  Witches Get Stitches

  Juliette Cross

  Copyright © 2021 by Juliette Cross

  All rights reserved.

  No 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.

  Edited by Corinne DeMaagd

  Cover Design by Jennifer Zemanek, Seedlings Designs

  For my beloved husband and best friend:

  * * *

  Thank you for being persistent and patient like Nico and for waiting me out. And for giving me the nudge I needed to wake up, just like Violet did.

  Love living my HEA with you.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Juliette Cross

  Prologue

  “Okay, Violet’s turn!” Clara squealed, bouncing excitedly beside me. Aunt Beryl had just done her reading using the divining bowl.

  This was our 16th birthday present. My twin sister scooted over in the grass so that I could take the spot directly across from Aunt Beryl for my reading. I leaned forward to get a better look in the bowl, hemmed in with wild-growing flowers and herbs that had been manicured to look like an English garden in Aunt Beryl’s backyard.

  “I’m a Seer, too, you know.” I swatted a piece of grass off my bare knee. “I could’ve done this myself.”

  Aunt Beryl, our mother’s best friend who practically raised us alongside her, was one of my favorite people in the world. Not simply because she was cool as hell, but because she was outspoken enough to put people in their place and made no apologies for it.

  “You’re only sixteen.” She arched a superior eyebrow. “Like a newborn babe in diapers when it comes to your magic.”

  See what I mean? I smiled. “I’ve read Jules’s fortune with my new Tarot cards Mom gave me. Said she would be head of New Orleans one day. Mom said that was definitely true, so I’d say not too bad.”

  She rolled her eyes and tilted her head, her long dreads sliding over one shoulder. “Or you have common sense and a lick of intelligence in that head of yours.” She reached over the divining bowl and tapped me on the forehead. “Anyone could tell you that Jules will lead the coven one day.” She put both palms on the outside of the wooden bowl filled with water from the first rain this spring. “Now, hush up and focus on your future. Never smart for a Seer to divine for herself anyway.”

  Placing my palms on my bare kneecaps, I settled into a relaxed pose and closed my eyes. “Why not?”

  “Too close to it. Some Seers, no matter how tight their psychic line is with others, can’t see properly when it comes to themselves.”

  “But I—”

  “Shh!” she snapped.

  So I shushed. I felt Clara wriggling next to me, but she was better about obeying orders than I was, already quiet so Aunt Beryl could concentrate. The sharp snap of her magic swirled between us, tugging at my chest with a wash of sizzling energy. I loved Aunt Beryl’s magic. It felt like a cool, comforting breeze on a summer’s day.

  “Hmm.” Aunt Beryl’s quiet contemplation sparked a little anxiety.

  “What?” My eyes snapped open as I peered forward, unable to make out the blurry images of witch sign floating in the divining bowl.

  Aunt Beryl’s hands glowed white where she hovered them over the water before she placed them in her lap and stared down, her brow pinched.

  “What do you see?” I asked, more eager than I thought I’d be.

  “Stark independence.”

  “Shocking,” whispered Clara with a soft snort. I elbowed her sitting next to me.

  Our styles were already diverging. Where I wore torn jeans and rock-n-roll T-shirts, she wore willowy dresses that accentuated our elfin features, looking like a fairy stepping into the world of humans.

  “Your dream career will take some time, but it will come. I see success. Struggle there, but also success.”

  “Awesome. Would love to know what that dream career is, by the way.”

  She gave me a withering look. “That’s not how divination works.”

  “And what about her one true love?” asked Clara excitedly, the only thing she was really interested in.

  Aunt Beryl whispered something under her breath and waved a palm over the divining bowl, the water swirling faster at her verbal command. I tried to pretend I wasn’t that interested in knowing about my one true love as Clara liked to put it, but the truth was that I was a sappy romantic beneath my gruff exterior. I leaned forward anxiously.

  “Oh.” Aunt Beryl sat back, frowning down at the bowl.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound good. Can you elaborate please?”

  She hit me with a sharp look. “Your true love is broken inside. Like all of his kin.” She glanced back down at the bowl.

  Of all the men in the world, that’s the true love I would get. Still, my heart leaped at the realization Aunt Beryl saw anyone at all.

  “But Violet can heal him?” Clara frowned down at the bowl.

  “Maybe,” said Aunt Beryl. “Wait, yes. You can. If you think with your heart, not your head.”

  Something more aligned to Clara, not me.

  “How will I know him?” I asked, anxious about this new revelation in my future.

  “By his eyes.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything, Aunt Beryl. What color will those eyes be? What is so special about them? Is he short? Tall? Blond or brown hair?” I scoffed in teenage frustration at her cryptic response.

  She simply smiled in that knowing sort of way then used her maternal, hear-my-words-you-silly-child voice. “You’ll know by his eyes.”

  Chapter 1

  ~VIOLET~

  * * *

  “A little lower.”

  I pulled both sleeves of my loose-fitting tank-top down to my elbows so he had better access.

  “Lean forward more.” Zaire eased closer behind me, his long legs straddling the short stool I sat on.

  “I feel like we’re about to have sex.”

  He chuckled. “Are you too cold out here?”

  I glanced down at my black bikini top. I’d worn it since it tied around my neck and would keep all straps out of Zaire’s way while he worked.

  “I’m currently sporting nip-cicles, but no pain, no gain, as they say. Besides, I promised a favor for a favor, so keep going.”

  “Don’t make me laugh unless you want this tattoo all fucked up.” The rhythmic vibration of the tattoo needle settled into my skin, a welcome pain. “The favor was just to let me put this tattoo on you, not to put on a show for every male in the bar.”

  “You did want new business, right? What better way to attract business than to tattoo a witch in a bikini top in thirty-degree weat
her on New Year’s Eve?”

  I was a little numb from the cold by now, even with the outdoor space heater radiating warmth sitting next to us. Besides the needle was giving me a heady buzz of pleasure-pain. He’d already outlined the orchid on my shoulder on my last visit and was now adding the blue shading tonight, which would advertise his artistic skill best. It was that exact skill I’d been practicing as his apprentice with the intent of opening my own shop in the future. Hopefully, the near future.

  I’d met Zaire at last year’s Witch Coven Summit here in Austin, Texas. He didn’t normally attend those things, but since his grandmother was a high-ranking witch in the local coven, she forced him to go to find himself a good witchy wife. Unfortunately, he just found me, a fellow Divine Seer, also wishing she was anywhere else besides the witch marriage market.

  A friendship sparked immediately. It was his scowling face and broody manners that had me zero in on him from the second I’d walked in the door. A kindred spirit. But it was the full sleeve tattoos on his dark skin that had me bee-lining toward him at the bar. I was an ink whore and could never help myself from checking out other people’s tattoos. I should’ve known then that my love of the artform would eventually lead me to become a tattoo artist myself.

  Supernaturals strolled through the rooftop door. The beefy bouncer nodded them through as they flashed their wrists, signaling they’d been approved and stamped downstairs.

  I winced as Zaire’s needle stung the edge of my shoulder blade, the skin thin there. “Does giving a tattoo give your magic a buzz?”

  He shifted closer, his long fingers curling over the outer curve of my shoulder as he worked the needle lower. A few party-goers filtered around our quiet corner of the roof-top bar, Mickey’s. It was closed to the public for New Year’s Eve so the witch who owned it could open it to supernaturals, invite-only.

  Since Zaire was trying to build up his own clientele, he was using me as a walking advertisement at the party. I readily agreed as part of the exchange for tattoo lessons.

  “What kind of buzz?”

  “You know. Like a tapping on your line.”

  I’d always felt like there was a direct link, like an electrical circuit, that lit up inside supernaturals when their magic woke up for whatever reason. Whether we called it forward or it turned on all by itself. Whenever I tattooed someone while apprenticing for Zaire, my body hummed with magical energy.

  “No,” he finally answered. “I’ve never had that happen.” He lifted the tattoo needle away from my skin. “Have you?”

  “All the time,” I answered honestly, now frowning since Zaire didn’t experience this same sensation.

  “Doesn’t surprise me. You’ve got more magic in your little pinky than any Seer I’ve ever met.”

  “Stop it.” I batted my eyelashes then turned serious. “Even your grandmother?”

  “Don’t you dare tell her I said so.”

  “Wow,” I whispered all sultry. “Is this some witchy ploy to seduce me?”

  He gave me that rock-star smile before settling back to work. “Tempting, but no.”

  “Do tell.” I loved flirting with Zaire. I’ll admit I’d thought more than once about crossing that friends-only line, but he was smarter than me and never let it happen.

  “Not on your life.”

  See? Party pooper.

  “I want to keep you as a friend,” he added. “I’ve seen the broken hearts you leave in your wake.”

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  “That last kid. What was his name?”

  “Ben?”

  “No.”

  “Darius?”

  “No.”

  “Hopper?”

  “No.” He lifted the needle from my skin again. “How many guys have you dated this year?”

  “Define dating.”

  “Exactly. So, no. As tempting as it is, we will not be leaving the friendzone, Ms. Savoie.”

  “You’re smarter than me, so I’ll agree with you.”

  I glanced around at the young people of Austin, drinking and carrying on. An indie band—two vampires and a grim reaper—had started up about an hour ago, their cool vibe setting the scene for a good time.

  “Hmph,” Zaire grunted.

  “What was that noise for?”

  “Was just thinking about something my grandmother said when I first told her I was going to use my art degree to become a tattoo artist.”

  “She didn’t like that idea?”

  “The opposite, kind of. Said a lot of witches and warlocks were called to it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because of our ancient ties to enchanted tattoos.”

  A zap of electricity surged through my veins. I sat up straighter. “How do you mean?”

  “Something about the ancient druids and shamans… In the early days, some of the witches and warlocks used their magic to permanently spell supernaturals.”

  “Wow,” I breathed airily, wondering at the sudden hum of magic just beneath my skin at Zaire’s mention of enchanted tattoos. I could actually feel my psychic line tapping me on the shoulder. It was a light premonition, a sign for me to look and listen. I was so attuned to my magic as a Seer that I knew what each surge of power meant. My ability made itself known on a giant sliding scale. Everything from full-on visions of the future to tiny tap, tap, taps on the psychic line telling me to pay attention. Like right now.

  “So when are you going to do it?” Zaire wiped the excess ink from my tattoo before settling in again.

  “What’s that?” I asked, having drifted far away for a minute.

  “Open your own shop.”

  “Oh, I’m not ready yet. I started saving, picking up extra shifts at the Cauldron and stuff. And I’ve been apprenticing with a local artist though he’s not as good as you, of course.”

  “Of course,” he agreed smugly.

  “But I need to find the right place and the right people. Make sure everything is just right.”

  A skinny warlock and two witches strolled up to watch. Zaire was chit-chatting with them when the energy on the rooftop bar suddenly shifted. For most supernaturals, magic pinged along our radar with various degrees of energy. Depending on whether it was a witch of significant power or a vampire with very little, the pulse of magic varied. For me, it was different. I couldn’t just feel magic; I could taste it. And right now, danger was settling evenly on my tongue.

  The ones giving me the vibes were the four men walking onto the rooftop. Werewolves, actually. Hot as fuck werewolves to be super specific.

  The two in front, easy smiles and younger than the two behind them, strode straight for the bar. The other pair eased in with more awareness, more experience. Werewolves weren’t always welcome, you see. Their volatile reputation made them pariahs among most supernaturals. But the bouncer at the door had just fist-bumped the tallest of the four and let them on through.

  The tallest one was a smoking hot, five-alarm fire. His black hair and bronzed skin were a turn-on, but it was more about the way he moved and assessed the place with predatory stealth that sent a delightful shiver along my skin. All the same, there was a sensitivity and gentleness in the lines of his face. I could taste his dominance from here, and yet he was also giving off cinnamon-roll vibes. What a paradox this werewolf was.

  Though quite chilly up here, the long sleeves of his button-down were rolled up, revealing intricate black tattoos extending down to his wrists on both arms. That alone piqued my interest.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Zaire whispered close behind me.

  “Why not? Out-of-town hook-ups are the best. No strings attached.”

  “Not that one.”

  “You know him?”

  “A friend of mine does his ink. That’s Nico Cruz, a member of the Blood Moon pack.”

  “Oooo. He’s in a werewolf gang. Delicious.”

  “Your sister Jules would kick your ass if she were here.”

  He’d lifted the needle
from my skin to wipe my shoulder again. I made a show of looking around the bar. “Hmm, don’t see Jules anywhere, do you?”

  “Sit back, smartass.”

  “Seems harmless enough to me.” I kept my voice low. The gaggle of witches were still watching, sipping their beers and chatting while leaning against his display table where Zaire had set out photographs of his work.

  Zaire huffed a laugh. “There was rumor he lost it one night,” he whispered low. “Clawed the hell out of a sixteen-year-old. One of his own pack.”

  “Ouch.” The tall one, Nico, stood off to the side of the bar, waiting on the others, watching the party scene with a kind of wary calm. “Did the boy recover?”

  “Don’t know. Never got the details. Best to stay away, Vi.”

  “That may be kind of hard, Z.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s coming this way.”

  Zaire heaved out a sigh, continuing to work on the tattoo as he mumbled, “Leave it to you to draw the most dangerous super in the room.”

  “I’m gifted like that.”

  Nico and his friend strode over at a leisurely gait. A casual, indifferent amble. All the same, the flash of electric green in his eyes made me fully aware his wolf was present, front and center. Those watchful, hypnotic eyes checked me out while I noted the cut of his sharp jaw angling toward a beautiful mouth.

  He carried a bottled import in one hand, his other tucked into his pocket. I loved it when werewolves tried to look tame. I might’ve laughed if Zaire hadn’t just warned me about this one.