Read Online Would-Be Witch by Kimberly Frost - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kimberly Frost
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Mrs. Barnaby got raised from the dead. I was poisoned into unconsciousness. I should march right back to my air-conditioned car,” I muttered.
I reached the edge of the field and stared at the wire fence closing off Glenfiddle Whiskey’s property. Glenfiddle’s one of the three main businesses in Duvall. It’s owned by the Gaffney family, who came from Scotland six generations ago. At first, they only had little stills and made moonshine, but then, three generations back, they started putting fancy labels on recycled whiskey bottles and selling their homemade stuff all over the Southwest.
Maybe it says something about my hometown that the second largest business also makes booze. Armadillo A le’s owned by the workers who make it. It’s only sold in Texas, and that’s the way the Armadillo boys plan to keep it, although the people who smuggle it to Oklahoma and Louisiana have other ideas. I don’t suppose Armadillo’s going to have a choice about expanding soon.
The last big business in Duvall is one that no native Duvallan ever thought would work out. It’s energy. We’ve got a queer amount of wind in Duvall. I’m guessing it has something to do with the tor and the magicks in the area, but nobody else knows about my theory, of course. Anyway, a retired college professor from Austin, with Bryn Lyons as a silent partner, bought a plot of land and put up a bunch of super-tall metal windmills. We power the whole town off the wind, and now we’re shipping our wind power out. Professor Rubenstein’s just about the smartest man anybody’s ever met, although his silent partner’s not shabby either. To hear rumor tell it, Bryn’s investment had paid a 300 percent return so far.
I wished that Mrs. Barnaby had wandered into the windmill field. The grass there is very short, and you can see all the way across it with a glance.
I looked at the Glenfiddle distillery that was about a half mile away. It’s made of pale gray stone, and, to hear Big Gaff—Joe Gaffney—tell it, it’s a lot like a Highland clan’s fortress. Don’t ask me how he’d know that though. I’m pretty sure Big Gaff has never set a toe out of Texas.
I twisted my hair off my back and shoulders and blew out a chokingly warm breath. Where the heck was our famous wind now? I’d kiss a snake for a breeze, I thought furiously.
I stomped forward, feeling more and more nervous as the sun receded from the sky. I wanted out of the field, and I was getting an increasingly uneasy feeling.
I stepped on something squishy and shrieked. I looked down and shuddered. There was a pair of dead snakes with their heads bashed to a pulp. I whimpered. She’s meaner than a snake? I looked over my shoulder. How far back to the car?
I shook my head, muttering nervously and wishing I’d made a protection spell for myself while I was making the passionflower soup.
There was a torn-up plot of land ahead. I cocked my head. It looked like she’d maybe lain down for a while and dragged her hands through the dirt over and over.
I heard shouting. “Darn it,” I spat and rushed toward Glenfiddle. The enemy has breached the fortress .
I smelled the mesquite woodsmoke and whiskey. My heart hammered in my chest, my lungs tight as I ran.
I got to the pair of big doors, which were open, and stood stunned at the sight inside. As a Texan, Zach’s not unique. The boys from Texas don’t stand around and talk when there’s trouble, and they especially never hide from a fight. So five of them, with various bloody wounds, wrestled with the slimy, charcoal gray corpse of Mrs. Barnaby, who was tossing them around like she was a mad bull just out of a pen.
Women screamed and rushed forward to help their men as Mrs. Barnaby flung Red Czarszak into a wall. He went still, his neck at a crazy angle. I gasped and ran toward them. I had to stop her.
The Glenfiddle workers tackled her, piling on like a high school football team. I yanked the lid off my Tupperware and waited to
I reached the edge of the field and stared at the wire fence closing off Glenfiddle Whiskey’s property. Glenfiddle’s one of the three main businesses in Duvall. It’s owned by the Gaffney family, who came from Scotland six generations ago. At first, they only had little stills and made moonshine, but then, three generations back, they started putting fancy labels on recycled whiskey bottles and selling their homemade stuff all over the Southwest.
Maybe it says something about my hometown that the second largest business also makes booze. Armadillo A le’s owned by the workers who make it. It’s only sold in Texas, and that’s the way the Armadillo boys plan to keep it, although the people who smuggle it to Oklahoma and Louisiana have other ideas. I don’t suppose Armadillo’s going to have a choice about expanding soon.
The last big business in Duvall is one that no native Duvallan ever thought would work out. It’s energy. We’ve got a queer amount of wind in Duvall. I’m guessing it has something to do with the tor and the magicks in the area, but nobody else knows about my theory, of course. Anyway, a retired college professor from Austin, with Bryn Lyons as a silent partner, bought a plot of land and put up a bunch of super-tall metal windmills. We power the whole town off the wind, and now we’re shipping our wind power out. Professor Rubenstein’s just about the smartest man anybody’s ever met, although his silent partner’s not shabby either. To hear rumor tell it, Bryn’s investment had paid a 300 percent return so far.
I wished that Mrs. Barnaby had wandered into the windmill field. The grass there is very short, and you can see all the way across it with a glance.
I looked at the Glenfiddle distillery that was about a half mile away. It’s made of pale gray stone, and, to hear Big Gaff—Joe Gaffney—tell it, it’s a lot like a Highland clan’s fortress. Don’t ask me how he’d know that though. I’m pretty sure Big Gaff has never set a toe out of Texas.
I twisted my hair off my back and shoulders and blew out a chokingly warm breath. Where the heck was our famous wind now? I’d kiss a snake for a breeze, I thought furiously.
I stomped forward, feeling more and more nervous as the sun receded from the sky. I wanted out of the field, and I was getting an increasingly uneasy feeling.
I stepped on something squishy and shrieked. I looked down and shuddered. There was a pair of dead snakes with their heads bashed to a pulp. I whimpered. She’s meaner than a snake? I looked over my shoulder. How far back to the car?
I shook my head, muttering nervously and wishing I’d made a protection spell for myself while I was making the passionflower soup.
There was a torn-up plot of land ahead. I cocked my head. It looked like she’d maybe lain down for a while and dragged her hands through the dirt over and over.
I heard shouting. “Darn it,” I spat and rushed toward Glenfiddle. The enemy has breached the fortress .
I smelled the mesquite woodsmoke and whiskey. My heart hammered in my chest, my lungs tight as I ran.
I got to the pair of big doors, which were open, and stood stunned at the sight inside. As a Texan, Zach’s not unique. The boys from Texas don’t stand around and talk when there’s trouble, and they especially never hide from a fight. So five of them, with various bloody wounds, wrestled with the slimy, charcoal gray corpse of Mrs. Barnaby, who was tossing them around like she was a mad bull just out of a pen.
Women screamed and rushed forward to help their men as Mrs. Barnaby flung Red Czarszak into a wall. He went still, his neck at a crazy angle. I gasped and ran toward them. I had to stop her.
The Glenfiddle workers tackled her, piling on like a high school football team. I yanked the lid off my Tupperware and waited to
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