Magic and Mayhem Books

Released from the magic pokey and paroled with limited power is enough to make any witch grumpy. However, if you throw in a recently resurrected cat, a lime-green Kia and a sexy egotistical werewolf, it's enough to make a gal fly off the edge. Not to mention a mission...with no freaking directions. So here I sit in Asscrack, West Virginia trying to figure out how to complete my mysterious mission before All Hallows Eve when I’ll get turned into a mortal. The animals in the area are convinced I'm the Shifter Whisperer (whatever the hell that is) and the hotter-than- asphalt-in-August werewolf thinks I'm his mate. Now apparently I'm slated to save a bunch of hairy freaks of nature? If they think I'm the right witch for the job, they've swallowed some bad brew.

Witches and glitches and testicle obsessed cats… Oh my.One dilemma down and approximately 74,876,283 to go. I think being the Shifter Whisperer is hard—or Shifter Wanker as I enjoy referring to my new job—but healing wounded Shifters is easy compared to finding and eliminating the lurking freaking evil. Throw in a ghost, a potentially explosive ex-cellmate, a long lost dad and a smokin’ hot werewolf who’s convinced he’s my mate, and suddenly it’s party time—from hell. And this is my mission? Life is getting messy and I don’t do messy. With feelings I didn’t know I was capable of having, and the word love being thrown around like a football on Super Bowl Sunday, poofing away with a magical twitch of my nose is becoming more appealing by the moment.But to show I’m not a weenie, I’m gonna pull up my big girl panties and hurl some fireballs at Baba Yaga's older than dirt warlock posse if they don’t pony up the info I need. If I don’t burn the town of Assjacket down while trying to save it, I’m donning my red cape and playing who’s the big bad wolf with a for real wolf who’s hotter than any fireball. I just pray to the Goddess my heart doesn’t get burned in the process…

One of these things is not like the others—life threatening community theatre, wire hangers, chipmunks, tree-house sex-capades with a hot werewolf and head-shrinking with a porno-loving rabbit Shifter. Actually none of these things are even remotely like the others, but it’s my life and I’m going to make the pieces fit into a perfect puzzle—even if I have to shove it together and glue it with magic. New leaf, new leaf, new freakin’ leaf. Caring for people wasn’t in my repertoire until I landed in Assjacket, West Virginia. Falling in love wasn’t anywhere on my agenda. It’s messy. However, I’ve been told messy is what showers and therapy are for. I’m hoping that info is correct because Goddess knows I’m trying. Never until now have I been a witch that wanted it all—the guy, the job, the friends and the place called home. Now I just have to fix my slightly irresponsible and somewhat unstable witchy ways so I deserve it. I’m going for perfect…or at least a loose definition of the word. Messy…here I come.

What does a hungry, pregnant witch do when her whole freaking town goes on a no carb diet? I’ll tell you what. She goes on the sly and conjures up some anchovy-chocolate chunk cookies dipped in hot sauce—that’s what. Of course my cheating gets complicated when all of the magic in the world goes on the fritz. To solve that particular wrinkle, I’ll have to finally find the source of the lurking evil. Easier said than done. Maybe if I wasn’t pregnant and starving, I could deal with the nasty old witch who resides in a gingerbread house. Add in carb eating fairies who speak French and three rotund familiars who enjoy defacing property with profane graffiti, and what you get is almost more trouble than I can handle in my baby baking condition. I’m still not convinced I won’t be giving birth to puppies since the smokin’ hot father of my babies is a werewolf, and NO ONE has given me ANY concrete proof to the contrary. Getting knocked up by the werewolf of my dreams was all kinds of awesome in practice, but the reality of becoming a mother scares me more than Baba Yaga’s horrendous 1980’s wardrobe. Monstrous decisions with enormous ramifications are best handled with meticulous planning—or in my case—after eating a giant mustard slathered jelly doughnut. Neither of those options is possible at the moment, but since there is no way I’m bringing my children into a magicless world, winging it will just have to work. Wait… Was that a contraction I just felt? Goddess help us all…

Three waxed cats, one Cookie Witch, a brazilian gone bad and the last name, Bermangoggleshitz… not the best ingredients for a successful spell. Or is it?Avoiding the truth has been working out just fine for most of my life. I’m finally happy. I have friends and a kangaroo shifter who adores me. Never in my twenty-nine witchy years did I think I would have a place to call home with people who truly cared. Now my BFF, Zelda, wants to have a chat. Can’t crappy news wait? As soon as my varnished Virginia is mobile, I want to go home to my adorable little house I share with with the love of my life and my four semi-violent, adopted, gum-smacking chipmunk shifter sons.But, noooooooo…Instead of enjoying a bouncy romp of nookie with my marsupial man whose last name I should really find out, I have to deal with an odiferous, butt-ugly, dead-beat, evil warlock of a dad named Bermangoggleshitz—the very same douchecanoe that tried to kill my rodent children.Not to mention, said sperm donor has called up a Legion of demons from the Underworld. Fanfreakintastic.So armed with my questionable intellect, a shaky handle on the French language and a penchant for blowing up buildings, I’m gonna grab this problem by the nuts and squeeze—like a brazilian times…whoops, bazillion. That French gets me every time.I will have my happily ever after no matter what or my name’s not Sassy Louise…umm… Bermangoggleshitz.

What’s a witch to do when her magic is on the fritz and there’s a huge pile of laundry to be done? Easy. Flood the entire house. Everyone wants a bubbly indoor freakin’ swimming pool… right? Just when everything is right in my life, something has to go wrong—times three. Number one: an unknown evil force wants to steal my power. Now, instead of protecting and healing the whacked out inhabitants of Assjacket, my power has wonked out on me and I’ve blasted ginormous holes all over town. Not to mention Roger the Rabbit is now sporting a pentagon of penii thanks to me and is keen on contacting the Guinness Book of World Records.Unacceptable.Armed with questionable voodoo skills and seriously frayed nerves, I’m Two: gonna do what any partially-sane, potty-mouthed, witch would do… I’m calling in the semi-evil, butt-ugly Bermangoggleshitz to train me. The warlock’s penchant for push-ups makes me hate him with the fire of a thousand suns, but if I can’t control my dark magic, it will control me.Way unacceptable.With Sassy and Cookie Witch by my side, I’ll Three: get a handle on my dark voodoo—or doodoo as I’ve renamed it—so Assjacket won’t end up as one massive crater. And I need all the help I can get. An evil like we’ve never seen is gunning for us—specifically me.Wildly unacceptable.We’ll be the Three Amigos. The Three Musketeers. The Three Stooges. Whatever. As the saying goes…three’s a crowd, three’s company, three’s a party. Nope. Three’s a charm. And I’m gonna turn it on for all I’m worth.

Forecast for today? Partly good witch, with a thirty-two percent chance of broom rage. How in the Goddess’s name did I get stuck at the Witchypoo Convention at Rump Arena in Hexington, Kentucky? Whoops… my bad. Rupp Arena in Lexington, Kentucky. Whatever. It’s like one cavernous indoor garage sale of “magic” crap. It’s nothing more than a convention of human wanna-be witches in pointy ankle boots and half-price black hats. And where in the Goddess’s gauchos did these humans get their info on witch-wear? Real witches wear Prada… and Stella McCartney and Alice and Olivia and … well, you get my point. Baba Yopaininmybutt sent me to root out the very evil shenanigans going down in the sea of faux witches, mummies and vamps. On the plus side, I’m looking forward to hotel sex with my hotter that heck werewolf mate. However, nookie time is nada. Believe it or not, a gay fainting goat shifter, a magical mystery woman and a dude who looks alarmingly like me have shown up to complicate matters. A mystery witch is dealing in blood. I might have a twin. Where do gay fainting goat shifters come from anyway? And I will be seriously put out if I can’t have hotel sex. But I’m motivated … by multiple big O’s.Let the motherhumpin’ witch-hunt begin.

What’s a Tree Sprite to do when she’s stumped?Get to the root of the problem, of course. Only I wood get stuck in a tree with the Warlock I love camped out next to it mea-culpa-ing for being a turdwaffle for the last decade. What should I do about it?Umm… stay in the tree and enjoy the show. Location: Assjacket, West Virginia (Who in their right mind named this town?) Mission: Get out of the tree and dropkick the Warlock who forgot to mention he was in love with me until I was stuck in a tree. Obstacles: Just about everything… crazy foul mouthed witches, accident-prone shifters and a musical production of Jaws. The Problem: A vicious Slug shifter who will do anything to ruin my future. The Solution: With a little luck, a whole bunch of salt, a pinch of magic and the help of my certifiable new buddies, I might just survive long enough to put down some new roots.And if the journey in the woods gets too crazy? Not a problem. I’ll just branch out and take the psycho-path.

A dare is a dare. No self-respecting, slightly chubby, good-lookin’, crime lovin’ cat would ever pass up a dare. So I didn’t. Now, me and my boys are in hot water trying to figure out how to live on the right side of the law for a whole freakin’ week! This is complicated by a couple of hairy issues… — The half-headed bear in town had his privates pilfered. We have vowed to return his giggleberries. Legal means are not working. — Sassy’s Canadian tutors show up—the very same furry, cat-burgling dames who we’ve been in love with our entire nine lives. In order to woo the gorgeous broads, we need to be at our criminal best. — We need the help of a foul-mouthed troll who throws tantrums like a three-year-old serial killer and wants to bump off everyone. Throw in a cryptic message from the Goddess, humans invading our town and evil, sticky-fingered groundhogs, and we have a hot mess on our paws. I hope we have a few of our kitty lives left because the Bad Boys of Assjacket are going to save the day or get eighty-sixed trying.

It’s all fun and games until someone throws a dirty jumper rollup and you lose out in the Cornhole tournament of life. According to Baba Yoscarybutt, it’s time for me to witch up or step back down into the Cornholio minor leagues. While Cornhole is definitely not my beanbag, I can’t stand to lose. I don’t want to be the next Baba Yaga. I’m doing just peachy as the Shifter Wanker who heals the clumsy idiots of Assjacket, West Virginia. I love my life. My werewolf mate is hotter than asphalt in August, my twins are adorable, my dad and brother rock, and I have real friends for the first time in my life. However, when my evil nemesis, Medusa Jones, steps up to throw a floppy bag and steal the title of Future Baba Yaga from me, all bets are off. I will challenge the nasty piece of work to win back the job I didn’t want in the first place. With Sassy and Fuc*ing Derrick by my side, I will finally own my destiny. Of course, Fuc*ing Derrick is prone to meltdowns and Sassy is trying to learn Canadian, but one deals with the floppy bags they’ve been dealt and tosses them anyway. It will be dangerous. It will be cornfusing. It will be fashionably disastrous. It will be televised on the magical Charm Channel. Whatever. A few four baggers, a couple of woodies, a Bigfoot and spell or two should do the trick. The future of the magical Universe is on the line and I’m the only one who can save us. May the Goddess help us all.