Cream teas and crystal b.., p.1
Cream Teas and Crystal Balls, page 1
part #2 of Omensford Series
Cream Teas & Crystal Balls
Omensford Series – Book 2
ISBN: 978-1-915516-13-8
© Gemma Clatworthy 2022
Find more at www.gemmaclatworthy.com
The moral right of Gemma Clatworthy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Getcovers
Contents
Cream Teas & Crystal Balls
Omensford Series – Book 2
Foreword
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
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Thank you
About the Author
Foreword
A special thank you to my amazing typo hunters, grammar gurus, and plot pickers who got this story to where it is today. You are awesome!
If you want to support Gemma, you can find her on patreon for exclusive first reads of new stories. You can also join her newsletter for a free short story based on one of the witches in the Omensford series and follow Gemma on www.instagram.com/gemmaclatworthy, www.facebook.com/gemmaclatworthy or join the reader’s group Gemma’s book wyrms.
Prologue
It was a bitter day. The sort you get in late autumn, as the weather shows glimpses of winter amidst bursts of leftover sunshine. No sun today though. No rain either. Just the cold, biting wind whipping at coats as eager shoppers hurried to their next purchases.
The young woman huddled in the doorway to get out of the wind and looked on vacantly. She used to play a game, wondering what was in each of the bulging bags held tight in pudgy hands. That had faded after two days on the streets. Sometimes her breath would catch as her eyes caught a flash of a haircut or coat that looked familiar. Her muscles bunched. She prepared to run before a more detailed look revealed that it was just an innocent passer-by. Not the monster she had fled.
If she still counted the days, she’d realise that today marked her thirty-first day on the streets. Over a month of sleeping rough, eating rougher. She scrounged food from bins at night and begged during the day. Sitting still and waiting for well-meaning pedestrians to drop coppers into the empty cup in front of her. She had no mangy dog on a string lead to elicit sympathy and a day’s takings was often less than a pound. So much for minimum wage. Still, she was lucky. She had escaped. And, sometimes, well-meaning people offered her food and a warm bed in a shelter, though it never lasted more than a couple of nights.
She spotted one of them now. A lady in her late forties with a kind face. Her life had been kind, mused the woman, her face was free from wrinkles or worry lines. She stood on six-inch stilettos as if she was above life’s trials. She hadn’t seen this woman before, but they were always the same. Always had the same look on their faces. They probably thought it was kindly concern, but she could spot the condescension behind their eyes and the hungering need to do good. It wouldn’t matter what the ‘good’ was, just that they could be sure in their tidy little minds that good had been done. And what more obvious good than to offer a hungry vagabond a meal? In her mind, she nicknamed this one ‘Stilettos’.
“Hello dear, you must be freezing.”
The homeless woman made a noise in the back of her throat and kept her eyes forward, watching the do-gooder from the corner of her eyes. Stilettos wore a fitted coat that hid her body from neck to knees, but her hands were bare, open to the driving wind. She had probably never needed to consider wrapping up warm against frostbite in her entire easy life. The homeless woman curled her own hands, digging them deeper into her armpits for warmth.
“Such a pretty girl. You must have a sad story.”
The woman gnawed her bottom lip and kept quiet.
“A man?” Stilettos guessed. The homeless woman looked up sharply before remembering her first rule: never make eye contact. She moved her gaze to a shop window across the shopping precinct. It showed a mannequin family dressed in matching argyle jumpers. The lady sighed dramatically. “It’s always a man. Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll find you something to eat?”
The homeless woman decided she didn’t like this well-meaning lady, but she wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the offer of free food. She would take everything she could get, then disappear, just as she had done countless times in the past month, instinctively knowing that she would get less help the grimier and more wasted she became as she spent longer on the streets. She grunted and got to her feet, wincing a little. Her legs had gone to sleep from hours sat cross-legged on a cold, concrete floor.
“Good girl.” Stilettos took her by the elbow and steered her through the crowded streets to an alley. The vagabond looked about nervously, her gaze darting around the street. This wasn’t the usual shelter. Stiletto’s held her fast, making sure her charge couldn’t escape. She prepared to run, then they were through the alley and back onto a main thoroughfare. Her shoulders relaxed a little.
The older woman walked along confidently until they came to a hotel entrance. The do-gooder strode confidently across the marble floor and into a lift. As the lift rose, the homeless woman shifted from foot to foot. She was either in luck or in deep trouble. She risked a glance at her benefactor. The woman noticed and gave her a wide smile, her lips shining red.
“You really are a pretty thing, aren’t you?”
She let them both into a large, plush bedroom with a credit card sized room key. The young woman paused. She had been in rooms like this before, when her boyfriend had been romantic instead of cruel and controlling. No one brought someone to a hotel room without wanting something in return. Her grey eyes sought a weapon.
“Now, why don’t you get showered, and I’ll order room service? What do you like?”
The homeless woman twisted under the guileless gaze. Maybe she was wrong. She eyed the exit and the bathroom door, gaping between them like a simpleton. Gnawing hunger, the sort that grinds in your gut, made her stay. Maybe she could get some food and run. The door was unlocked.
“Burger,” she mumbled.
“Lovely. I’ve left some clothes for you in the bathroom. You can leave yours on the floor and I’ll have them washed.” The do-gooder sensed her hesitation. “Go on, scoot. I’ll order food.”
The homeless woman watched as the other picked up the phone and spoke to someone on the other end. Stilettos made a shooing motion with her hand. Reluctantly, the vagabond entered the bathroom.
Once inside, she locked the door. She took in the room. White and clean, with fluffy towels stacked on a glass shelf. No windows. No chance of escape here. She stripped quickly. Get this over with. Eat. Run. She ran the shower and got in, intending to get out quickly but the luxury of hot, running water stopped her from leaving. She used two entire bottles of each of the hotel’s branded shampoo, conditioner, and bath gel to get clean, washing away thirty-one nights sleeping rough. The temptation of a hot bath pulled at her, a comfort unknown on the streets, but the smell of food wafted over the fragrant floral scent of the bath set. She dressed quickly, struggling with the zip on the fitted dress that hung on the back of the door. She paused to look in the mirror before she left the sanctuary of the bathroom.
Grey eyes stared back at her, surrounded by unblemished skin. She remembered what it was to be human and not ignored. Something near the sink caught her eye. A razor. She grabbed it and held it behind her back. A weapon. Just in case. No such thing as a free meal. Or a free hotel room. She opened the door and stepped back into the room.
Stilettos sat next to the room service trolley. She smiled. The homeless woman stalked over, sat down and with her free hand, began shovelling food into her mouth. The older lady left and went to the bathroom. She retrieved the grimy clothes and delicately bagged them up in silence. Through glimpses from under her long hair, the young woman thought she looked predatory, watching over a prisoner enjoying a last meal. She stuffed the last French fry into her mouth and stood.
“Going so soon?”
The young woman nodded, edging towards the door.
“But you haven’t had dessert.” Stilettos lifted a silver tray holding a thick slice of chocolate cake.
The vagabond shook her head, certain now that this was a trap.
She waved the razor in front of her, backing towards the door. Stilettos laughed. She raised her hands. Light pulsed, coming from her palms. The vagabond backed away, tripping over her own feet as she tried to get to the door. The older woman chanted and the younger one stopped moving. She lay on the floor, her face frozen in an ‘o’ of surprise, or maybe it was horror.
“There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
More chanting. The young woman’s eyes darted around helplessly in her frozen body.
The older woman bent down and gripped the youthful face with her slender fingers. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me your name before you die?”
She tried to speak. To scream. But nothing came out. She wanted to say her name: Polly. Nothing. A tear spilled out of one grey eye and rolled down her frozen cheek. With a look of interest tinged with enjoyment, the do-gooder completed her chant. Polly floated above the hotel room. From her vantage point near the ceiling, she watched with horror as her body stood, smoothed down the neat dress and stepped over the prone form of the older lady.
Her body lifted one arm and sniffed under her armpit. Her face crinkled into a grimace. “Still stinks,” she heard herself proclaim. Humming, Polly’s body stepped back into the bathroom. Polly shouted out, but no one heard. She tried to get back to her body but instead a force pulled her backwards, gently but insistently, like a small tug on her soul. Gradually, as if a camera moved out of focus, the room faded and then was gone.
Chapter 1
“Have you seen Neville’s cock?”
Fi stopped dead, one foot across the threshold of her mother’s house and her arms full of shopping bags. Why on earth was her mum talking about her brother-in-law’s…nope she didn’t even want to think the word.
“What?”
“Pardon. Not ‘what’. I raised you better than that. Now, Neville’s cock. It escaped by the village green; I thought you might have seen it while you were shopping.”
“What do you mean it escaped?” Had her sister’s husband finally gone mad and started flashing the local corner shop clients? He’d always seemed a bit odd to Fi. He enjoyed filling out tax returns, for goodness’ sake.
“I mean it got out of the garden along with two of the hens. Last I heard, they were pecking at some breadcrumbs on the high street.”
Fi’s brain finally caught up with the conversation. “You mean Cluck Norris? Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I don’t know how I could have been any clearer. Anyway, I told Agatha that you’d help catch them. She’s at work, and Neville’s away on that accounting course.”
“Why me?”
Nell gave Fi a look. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you have something better to do with your time?”
“Well, I…”
Fi’s shoulders slumped. She wasn’t going to win this argument. For some reason, playing on computer games all day wasn’t considered a good use of time or a satisfactory method of processing trauma in her mother’s book. “Alright, let me put the shopping down and I’ll go.”
“Excellent. Oh, and you can pop into Effie’s café while you’re in town. I said you’d show her how to use the till again.”
Fi gritted her teeth. Effie was lovely, but the ninety-year-old had insisted on installing an inventory management system she had no idea how to use and now she called up her friend Nell almost every day asking for Fi’s help with the technology. And her mother cheerfully volunteered her, knowing she still hadn’t found a job and assuming that keeping busy would stop Fi from sinking back into lethargy and self-loathing after her power had destroyed a witch last year.
The witch had been a murderer and trying to kill her at the time, but it was still a traumatic memory for Fi. One that snuck up on her if she didn’t keep herself occupied in the day, causing shivers and sweats…and at night…well, then there was little escape from her own mind and the eternal replays of that day.
Fi sighed, dumped the bags of shopping on the wooden side in her mum’s large kitchen, snagged a can of diet cola and headed straight back out. Behind her, she heard Nell’s gripes about buying the wrong tins of beans.
“They were all out of the branded ones,” Fi shot back as she closed the door. Getting the last word in was a small, petty victory to be sure, and one Fi would likely pay for later in some other small way, but honestly, sometimes her mother was too much of a stickler. She hoped that Nell didn’t call up the local shop to complain because then she’d realise that the preferred beans were actually in stock, and Fi would definitely be in trouble. With a satisfied chuckle, Fi headed back into Omensford centre.
It didn’t take her long to find the cockerel. Cluck Norris strutted down the High Street, blocking cars as people tried to go about their day. Any time a driver beeped their horn at the oversized chicken, the cockerel took it as a challenge and began a crow off. He lifted his beak to the sky and let out an almighty cock-a-doodle-doo. Fi jammed her hands over her ears and headed towards the offending bird.
“Sorry, yeah I know, yep, I’ll just…” She manoeuvred herself through the small crowd that had gathered with their phones out to watch the car versus rooster show down until she was at the edge of the road.
Cluck Norris eyed her checked shirt with the malevolent eyes of a creature that knew it was descended from dinosaurs and tilted his head to one side.
“Here chick, chick,” Fi tried.
Being a crowd of locals in a small town, the people gathered around immediately began to offer advice, despite having no expertise in chicken wrangling.
“What you want to do is to get down low, then it won’t think you’re a threat and you can get close to it.”
“No, the best thing is to circle round it and get it from behind.”
“Pretend you’ve got some corn, then he’ll come right to you, he will.”
Fi ignored the collective advice and edged closer. The cockerel let out another almighty crow and set off down the road.
“Oh, piss it.” Fi set off at a run after the speedy bird as it raced away. The locals cheered her on as she chased the cockerel down.
“What do you suppose they call a group of chickens, then?”
“A fustercluck, I reckon, if they’re anything like that one. Go on then, girl!”
Fi leapt towards the wayward rooster. Her fingers closed on one of his tail feathers. Cluck Norris let out a surprised cluck and put on another burst of speed before darting under a car.
“Ooo, you nearly had him then!” Sita shouted encouragingly from behind her phone, angling her camera better to capture the action.
Fi spotted Liv at the front of the crowd, laughing silently and fiercely. Tears of mirth ran down her perfect cheeks.
“I don’t suppose you could dream walk him out of there?”
“Sorry,” Liv gasped, wiping a tear from her face. “That’s not how it works, they have to be asleep. And I’m not sure my dream powers work on chickens.”
Fi swore. “Can you send him to sleep?”
The sleep therapist wiggled her fingers. “Sorry, it’s a chicken. I’m not even sure it has a subconscious. If it was a person, I might be able to help.” She checked her watch. “And I’d better go, I’ve got a patient in fifteen minutes.”
“And patients won’t wait?”
“A therapist’s work is never done.” Liv walked away, chortling, her short hair bobbing in time with her walk.
Fi brushed her white hair out of her eyes and lowered herself so she could peer under the four by four that Cluck was hiding under. She bit her lip as she thought. If only this was as easy as competing in first person shooters online. Her fingers twitched.
She could use her power. The electricity beneath her skin prickled to the surface in anticipation. She clenched her fist. Nope. That might fry the damn chicken. She clamped her power back down. It was too dangerous. And much as she was currently cursing the cockerel, she didn’t think her sister would appreciate an electrified rooster.
