A Match Made in Spell (Fate Weaver Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A Match Made in Spell

  ReGina Welling

  Erin Lynn

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  © 2016 ReGina Welling, Erin Lynn

  All Rights Reserved, worldwide.

  No part of this book or any of its contents may be reproduced, copied, modified or adapted, without the prior written consent of the author, unless otherwise indicated for stand-alone materials.

  Chapter One

  Being wicked is a choice. At least I hope it is.

  Most families try to hide their sins away from prying eyes; mine erected a statue to commemorate theirs. Okay, that's not entirely true.

  Homicidal witches turn to stone, immediately and irrevocably. The murder of one of our own is the one crime for which, in our world, there is no redemption. I don't know who makes the rules, I only know that it happened to my grandmother.

  Nobody is sure exactly what went down that day, but when it was all over, my mother, Sylvana, was gone, leaving nothing behind but the charred mark of dark magic on the earth. Only the trees bore witness to the vile act that orphaned me.

  However it happened, my walk to work every day takes me right past a life-sized reminder of everything I never want to be. This afternoon I was running late to work and my Nikes hit the pavement in speed-walker mode, so I only managed a handful of steps before something odd caught my eye. A flash of color blazed against the granite.

  A blood red rose with thorns the size of a baby's thumb sent a flicker of ice up my spine and set the hairs on the back of my neck vibrating. As much as I'd rather ignore this particular piece of my history, my eyes can't help being drawn to it every time I pass by. That rosebush hadn't been there yesterday. Trust me, I'd have noticed.

  Immortalized in stone, my grandmother stared balefully back at me. No artist would ever be that skilled with a hammer and chisel; tendrils of hair whipped by wind or fire were picked out in exquisite detail around the face that haunted my dreams. Feral eyes, piercing through the granite, were fixed on something in the distance. The fierce grimace of concentration that curled back her lips couldn't hide that she had been a beautiful woman. No hooked nose or warts marred the perfection of her face. Even if Clara was evil to the bone, they'd been lovely bones. For that, at least, I was thankful, since those same bones had been handed down to me. It was uncanny how much I looked like her. Another fact I choose to try and ignore.

  We both had wide-set green eyes with amber flecks to match the highlights of our flowing, mocha-colored hair and dramatic, arching eyebrows. Perpetually-stained crimson lips left little need for lipstick; the perfect contrast to our pale ivory skin. Not even the tiny dark freckle I refused to dub a mole differentiated us, and the resemblance left me with mixed feelings, considering her sordid past and the fact that anyone who ever knew her remarks on the resemblance. Funny how no one ever mentions my mother. Speak the name Sylvana Balefire and those witches quickly find a stain on their shirt to fuss with, or a reason to bolt for the nearest exit.

  They're probably afraid my defect will rub off on them.

  Witchiness runs in my family. With a last name like Balefire, how could it not?

  My mom called me Alexis, which means protector. Alexis Balefire. Protector of the ritual flame. It's a lot of name to carry, so I shortened it to Lexi. Alexis is a fighting goddess who wears armor, carries a shield, and wields a sword. Lexi is the cute girl next door who wears designer clothes, carries a purse, and wields a lipstick. That's who I wanted to be; or, rather, that's who I was destined to be. Call me shallow if you must, but I've decided to embrace my fate. One experience with saving the world was enough. I'll settle for saving people from the perils of loneliness, and at least I'll be able to sleep at night knowing I'm not in danger from any falling houses. Wicked witches never meet their ends in a calm and peaceful manner, of that I'm sure.

  But Balefire isn't just our name; it's our responsibility. Don't laugh, but an ancient Balefire lights up the fireplace in my living room, and since I have no other family to speak of, it's my job to feed it enough magic to keep it burning. Crazy, right?

  Only one problem, though. The powerful magic that ran in my family passed right over me, leaving behind nothing more than a heightened sense of intuition--one that applies almost exclusively to interpersonal relationships. Which is just a fancy way of saying I could recognize a perfect match when I saw one.

  With no other skills to my credit, I used my limited powers to open up FootSwept Matchmaking, where word of mouth gets me as much business as I can handle, and I get to help people fall in love almost every day. Who wouldn't love a job like that?

  My office is located on a tree-lined block of storefronts backed by a larger section of converted factory spaces. Fumbling in my purse for the keys, I glanced up at the broom and stars logo painted on the front window just above the slogan, Get Swept Away. A pun of convenience only those in my closest circle understand.

  Once the door slammed behind me, I fired up the coffee pot, then opened my battered day planner to check my schedule.

  I know, I know, I'm a busy business woman in the 21st century; you'd think I'd have my entire life uploaded onto the cloud, but I'm still attached to paper and lists. Somehow, the act of tracing the words, pressing pen to paper and leaving a physical mark on the page helps turn my intentions into actions. I don't think anyone else would understand my system, but it works for me.

  Not more than two seconds after I had settled into my desk with a mug of steaming coffee, the phone began to ring and didn't stop for the next two hours. Business tends to run fairly steadily, with spikes of increased activity around the holidays. Other than the week directly after Valentine's day, my schedule is rarely overwhelmed; but lately, it was as though the entire city had become lovelorn--and nobody seemed able to sort it out for themselves. Not that I was complaining--but I don't like to rush through my work, and an increase in demand meant I'd have to turn clients away if I couldn't fit them into my schedule.

  I slugged the last half of the cup in one swallow, made a face at the now-tepid brew, and when a client I didn't recognize stepped through the entryway, hit the button to send all calls straight to voicemail.

  "Are you the..the one? The matchmaker." A harried-sounding woman asked in a tentative voice. Her eyes avoided meeting my gaze, and her cheeks blushed a delicate shade of crimson. She scanned the office for the trappings she expected to find. A computer and a camera set up to record a dating video. Finding neither, her eyes fixed back onto the edge of my desk.

  "I am. My name is Lexi Balefire. Can I help you?" I used my most welcoming voice and moved from behind my desk to lean down for a bit of eye contact. Thinking she needed a less forma
l setting, I led her to a cluster of armchairs occupying one corner of the room.

  She sighed and sat down. "Probably not, I'm completely hopeless!" A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and she looked down at her trembling hands. Blond hair hung limply halfway down her back, and she wasn't wearing a stitch of makeup. On one wrist rested a beautiful, engraved silver bracelet, and the sandals on her feet looked like quality leather to me--but the rest of her outfit was clearly composed of bargain bin pieces. Frugal and smart, my instincts screamed, but self-effacing to a fault.

  "What's your name?" I asked gently.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, how rude of me. I'm Mona. Mona Katz. It's nice to meet you, Lexi." Despite her obvious discomfiture, the grip of her handshake was firm and when she smiled, her face transformed into something lovely.

  I smiled and returned the sentiment. "Now, tell me your story," I invited. This was the most important part of my job. Listening to the client is what activates my...magic might be the wrong word, but I can't think of a better one unless it's intuition. Magical intuition.

  "Well, I seem to just have the worst luck with men. Every one I've gone out with has some problem I think I can fix. They always start out nice but end up being jerks. I know I'm not the whole package or anything; I'm just a plain-Jane pastry chef with a decent salary and an average body. I can take care of myself, but...I'm lonely." Mona blurted, finally looking me in the eye.

  That one glance confirmed that my instincts were spot on, as usual; there was strength there, and grace as well. It was too bad she couldn't see it for herself; Mona Katz had a self-image problem, but her priorities were in the right place. Most of the time, people hold themselves back from love--and they usually don't realize they're doing it.

  Squeezing her into my packed schedule would require a shoehorn if I was going to take her on. I already knew I would. The force was strong with this one. Forgive the movie reference, but that's the best way to describe how I work. It's actually quite simple.

  They talk, I listen, and eventually I get the buzz, the tingle. A tugging feeling that originates right behind my belly button, and if I follow the pull, it will lead me right to the perfect match. I'm almost never wrong. My friend and erstwhile partner, Flix, says I have an internal GPS and it's always set to romance. I tell him he's being cheesy, but it's as good a description of my methods as any.

  The average amount of time it takes me to locate a match is two hours--longer if I have to go outside the city. Mona's match was close. I could tell by the caliber of the sensation I was feeling. Really close, actually.

  "...utter disaster when I found out he was still married." On a roll, Mona continued to tell me about the last time she had dated anyone. In the early days, with a match this close, I would have dragged her out into the street to engineer a meet-cute right there and then. I've learned a lot in the last few years. No one wants to believe true love is that easy to find. They expect more pomp. More circumstance. I've learned to give it to them.

  "And he was cheating on both of us. It was devastating." I saw the ghosts of her sorrow reflected in Mona's eyes. She hadn't just been beaten up by love, she had been burned, stomped into the ground, and then buried.

  A boost of confidence is exactly what this woman needed, and I was more than prepared to give it to her.

  I leaned back in my chair and looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, deciding that directness was the best option in this situation. "Mona, please don't take this the wrong way, but I think maybe you aren't giving yourself enough credit. You're a smart, attractive woman--don't roll your eyes, it's true--but you have to believe that for yourself if you want someone else to see you that way. Will you trust me to help you?"

  She nodded hesitantly, and I went back over to my desk, pressed a button mounted beneath it, and marched over to a door in the corner most people assume opens into a closet. And while technically they're correct, this isn't where I keep my magic broom.

  Indicating for Mona to follow me, I led her down a short hallway and into a large room, then spun around quickly to observe her reaction--this was my favorite part. Incredulity and delight vied for first place as her gaze bounced from the racks of clothing and accessories to the Wall of Shoes, as I liked to call it, and finally lit on a stunning man leaning against a barber's chair and wielding a pair of gleaming gold scissors in his manicured fingertips.

  Flix was pure manly perfection, personified, and he knew it. To regular humans, he resembled a Greek god of some kind; an Apollo or Adonis, too beautiful to be real. But to the faeries of his heritage, he was considered an ugly duckling. Being only half of something was our common thread; Flix was half faerie and half human, and I was half human and half witch--which made neither of us one thing or the other. I wasn't content to give up what little power I did have and had wished to be a real witch on every star in the sky, plus twenty-four years of birthday candles, and about a thousand stray eyelashes. But Flix, who had magic in spades but no higher purpose to use it, would have done anything to be a regular human.

  "And what do we have here?" His melodic voice, exaggerated for effect, rang out. "A beautiful goddess, somewhere underneath all this..." he waved a hand theatrically and grimaced, "frump. Sit down, my love, and let me work my magic." Any hope Mona might have had for a match between Flix and herself was dashed as it became clear that his tendencies leaned in the opposite direction.

  Mona quietly accepted her fate and spent a solid hour chewing on the inside of her lip as Flix yanked unapologetically at her hair, painting strands into individual squares of aluminum foil and applying several colors of dye. While that was setting, he turned his attention to her face. With gentle hands, he applied soothing balms and makeup of his own creation before combing, cutting, and teasing Mona's hair into submission.

  While she was being poked and prodded, we learned that Mona was actually quite an accomplished pastry chef, and had recently taken a position at one of the best-kept secrets in town: Crumb, a bakery specializing in unique wedding and specialty cakes. We also learned that part of Mona's problem on dates might be that she didn't stop talking. Like, ever.

  She told us about every dog she had owned since the puppy she got on her fifth birthday. And then went on to provide exquisite detail about the last four wedding cakes she'd made.

  I sensed the incessant chatter was a nervous habit and hoped getting her a little more comfortable in her own skin would give her that bit of confidence she seemed to need.

  When Flix finally, with a flourish and a self-satisfied "Voila!", whirled her around to face the mirror Mona's mouth dropped open in disbelief.

  Flix had worked with her natural hair color to create a dramatic multicolored effect, darker at the roots and fading subtly to golden blond at the ends. Layers framed her face, and long bangs swept across her forehead, enhancing her high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. Though he claimed not to use his magic on our clients, I sometimes wondered if he had a secret cache of faerie dust hidden in his apron pocket; but maybe he was just that good.

  "I...I can't believe it." Mona breathed, looking back and forth between me and Flix as if wondering who to thank first.

  "It has been my pleasure, my dear. All I did was make you look more like you. This is not about change for the sake of change; I have simply enhanced your natural beauty. Feeling good about your appearance is not a sin, as people would like to believe. You shouldn't be ashamed to display who you are on the inside! Now, let's see what our Lexi can do about locating your soul mate."

  Flix deposited a kiss on each of her cheeks, causing them to flush pink once more, and took his leave. With a noticeably lighter heart, Mona turned her head this way and that to get a good view in the mirror of what he had done.

  "Does everyone get a makeover when they come here?" I could tell Mona was hoping she wasn't a special case and that this was just how things worked at FootSwept.

  Putting people together was serious business, and the last thing I wanted was to make any of my clients
think that finding a soul mate hinged on such superficial things as appearance. I firmly believe that love comes from the inside, not the outside. Let's face it, though. By the time most people get to me, they've been through the dating wringer, and a little pampering soothes the battle-weary soul.

  "Everyone gets what they need." I hoped my answer was diplomatic enough. "Would you like to pick out something new to wear?"

  "Is it part of the fee? I don't want charity." The vehemence in her voice suggested that she might have had to rely on the generosity of others in the past. "I have a great job. I can afford to pay."

  I laid a hand on Mona's arm, "I'll let you in on a little secret. I have deals with nearly every clothing store in town. They give me a rock bottom discount price in exchange for sitting in on job interviews to give insights on which applicants will make the best employees. The clothes are part of the service, but it's up to you whether or not you want to choose an outfit."

  When Mona hit my closet full of goodies, it was with a spring in her step. No woman could resist picking through that many pairs of boots.

  "You hang onto those clothes for your date, and I'll work my magic. I'll call you in a few days and we'll take the next step." I promised, sending her on her way and locking the door behind her. It was well past my official closing time, but I had no intention of heading home just yet, so I pressed the button under my desk again and Flix appeared before me as if out of the ether.

  "Glass of wine before you head for home?" He guessed, and pulled a bottle of my favorite red out of his back pocket. "Or do you need a place to crash?" His affected accent was gone in the absence of paying clients, and he was back to being my regular old Flix. If you can call a sexy faerie man "regular" at all.

  "An adamant yes to the former, and a regretful no to the latter. I'm going to have to bite it and see what havoc has been wreaked since I left this morning." Did I forget to mention that Flix isn't the only faerie in my life?