Selective Spells

Just because the coven excommunicated me, doesn't mean I'm a bad witch.

Those ladies should learn to take a joke. In the meantime, though, it's left me in a bind. I need to get a real job, in a normal human occupation. Yuck.

But when I see a sign at the community centre asking for an assistant—only witches need apply—I feel like my fortunes might be trending up. Sure, there's a murder to solve, a killer on my tail, and a pittance in my bank account, but at least it's not working checkout in a supermarket.

And did I mention my new co-worker? Or "boss" as he likes to call it. He's a detective sergeant with years of specialised training under his belt.

Somewhere along the way he also hacked off some powerful people. At least, I think that's why they turned him into a dog.

Hm. Maybe the supermarket would be a better bet after all.

© 2021 Willow Mason (Hljóðbók): 9781664910263

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Hljóðbók: 21 april 2021