Witch Is The New Black (Paris, Texas Romance #3)

As Baba Yaga rambled on about the circumstances of her parole, Bernie pondered the word wild.

Wild? God, that was so much bull and shit. She didn’t even know she’d been out of control. In order to claim control, you had to know what you were controlling. Stuff just happened to her. Like things falling from the ceiling without warning whenever she was in a room full of people she felt uncomfortable with.

Just a thought, and ugly rashes were known to break out on someone who’d angered her. Sometimes the rash turned into hives or big boils the size of quarters. Items moved without her saying a word, catapulting at the speed of light, aimed directly for her mental victims.

Those were just a few of the smaller incidents she’d experienced since she’d hit the age of thirteen. Unexplained occurrences that left her in a pile of shit at home, at school, at every job she’d ever had.

But this last time? Phew. It had been the mother of all occurrences, and was exactly what had landed her here.

As many times as she’d tried to explain she didn’t even understand what was going on or how she made these things happen was the same number of times Baba Yaga and Bernie’s fellow cellmates had cackled hysterically and mocked her thespian skills.

The witches in cellblock D had actually crafted a makeshift Academy Award out of a toilet paper roll, Q-Tips, and glitter-glue, handing it to her with much flourish in the cafeteria to gales of laughter on SpaghettiOs night.

After that, she’d learned to shut up—quit protesting her witchiness out loud, quit denying she didn’t know thing one about being a witch, and slowed her roll entirely.

She’d gone along with all of it as if she were a secret agent, infiltrating the coven. Like some supernatural Sydney Bristow, pretending, listening, learning.

And still, she was baffled. How could she be a witch if neither of her parents were magically inclined? She certainly wasn’t adopted—a theory she’d toyed with, but only momentarily. Both her parents were gone now, but there was no denying she was the spitting image of her mother, right down to her wide green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair.

Baba Yaga’s voice droned back into earshot, making Bernie stand up straighter when she heard the word “Paris”.

She was going to Paris to do her parole? She didn’t know anyone in Paris. She didn’t know anyone anywhere except in Boston.

And she sure as hell didn’t know French. As if it wasn’t bad enough she was a witch who didn’t know how to be a witch, now Baba and the Council of spooky goons were sending her to a foreign country?

She’d better find her Sydney Bristow pants if she hoped to pull this one off.

“…Texas,” Baba finished with a smirk, her eyes gleaming.

What did Paris have to do with Texas? If ever two words warred with each other…

Bernie squeezed her temples, and asked, “Texas? Like y’all and George Strait?” The connection between the two places just wasn’t becoming clear.

“Yee and haw, motherfluffer!” Baba Yaga shouted before she let her head fall back on her creamy shoulders and cackled.

Wait! her mind said without aide of her mouth. She needed to clear up some things before she was sent off to Paris. Like, how long did parole last? Where would she live?

Most importantly, who was going to keep her from robbing another bank?

But Baba was clearly done talking.

Lifting her arm high, as a wind out of nowhere whipped her hair and the lights flickered, Baba snapped her fingers…





Chapter 2



Testicles.

Big and sprinkled with sparse hair, testicles were swaying near her left eyeball.

They were the first things Bernie saw when she opened her eyes.

She’d landed flat on her ass and fallen backward, hitting the hard ground with a bone-rattling dump of limbs and pieces of cat hair she had to spit off her tongue.

She flattened her palms against the surface she’d landed on to find it felt like grass. “Sweet Susan! What the hell?”

A rush of oppressive heat wrapped around her face like a blanket as she lie there, too stunned to move. It coated her, swarming her skin, leaving beads of perspiration forming on her upper lip and forehead.

“Incoooomiiing!”

Fee fell smack on top of her with a yowl, right out of the sky and onto her face.

Bernie spit out a wad of pink tulle and clenched her eyes shut then popped them open again with a grunt. She moved her head to the side to dislodge Fee and looked up at the shadow hovering over her.

The shadow with testicles. How did a set of testicles the size of oranges get in the middle of Paris? Paris had testicles just all out in the open like that?

Of course Paris has testicles, nitwit. They have testicles galore. Testicles belong on men and there are gobs of men in Paris.

Yeah, but those don’t look like testicles from a man. Furthermore, why are they hanging in my face in Paris? I know it’s a pretty progressive place, but I didn’t know everyone went rogue.