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    On a Witch's Mind: Witches in the City, #3
    On a Witch's Mind: Witches in the City, #3
    On a Witch's Mind: Witches in the City, #3
    Ebook93 pages1 hour

    On a Witch's Mind: Witches in the City, #3

    By Diana Morland

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    About this ebook

    Lee Morelli does not believe in magic. So when she sees a little man in her apartment knocking over her trash can and moving her stuff around, she just thinks she's crazy. She's going to forget all about it, meet a cute girl, and go back to her normal life.

    But when she meets Miranda, "normal" gets thrown out the door.

    Miranda Booth is a witch—and she knows how to not only get rid of messy little men, but steal the hearts of women. She and Lee are drawn to each other, despite the worlds they thought they knew collapsing around them. But can they find space in their hearts to let another person in?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLoveLight Press
    Release dateDec 25, 2015
    ISBN9781519915269
    On a Witch's Mind: Witches in the City, #3

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      Book preview

      On a Witch's Mind - Diana Morland

      On a Witch's Mind

      On a Witch’s Mind

      Witches in the City: Book 3

      Diana Morland

      Chapter 1

      Lee

      I walk through the front door of my apartment to find my trash can being overturned. Again.

      This is the third time this week.

      For the first time, though, I actually get here in time to see movement—just as I open the door, the trash can is falling. I rush up to it, trying to catch whatever is doing the tipping. I won’t be fast enough to grab onto a squirrel or raccoon or whatever the hell it is—even if it’s safe to grab it. But if I can see what it is, maybe the animal control folks will take me seriously this time.

      I called two days ago, but they just asked a bunch of skeptical questions. There’s nothing chewing on my cabinets, nothing getting into my food—at least not that I can locate for sure. But my trash can keeps getting turned over, my milk keeps spoiling, and nothing stays where I’ve left it between going home and coming back again.

      The first couple of times I thought I was crazy, so I tested it, leaving my water bottle on the couch and even taking a photo to prove it to myself that I didn’t just forget where I’d left it. When I came home, the water bottle was under the couch. It was just possible that could have happened by chance, so I tried it with a cabinet.

      A water bottle couldn’t get out of the cabinet by itself. I was absolutely sure that something was getting into my apartment and messing with my stuff.

      But now, when I reach the kitchen and the other side of the overturned trash can, I think for a moment that I might have actually been crazy all along.

      Standing on the other side of her trash can is what I can only describe as a very short little man. He’s wearing a long, dark coat, and has a big nose and glittery black eyes.

      Except that he is only six inches tall, and almost perfectly proportional except for his oversized head. There is no human six inches tall. I don’t care what kind of dwarfism it is, it doesn’t keep you that short—and if you are that short, you definitely don’t have the skeletal structure to move around and push trash cans over.

      The little man lets out a strange, high-pitched giggle, turns toward my kitchen cabinet, and vanishes.

      I shake myself out of my strange fugue and lunge, but the little man is gone. All I do is jam my fingers against the wood of the cabinet. It hurts.

      Swearing and shaking my fingers in the air, I stare at the space where the little man has gone. There isn’t room there for him to have walked into the cabinet, and the doors didn’t open. No, he knocked over my trash and ran through the wood to get away from me.

      I am way too sober to deal with this.

      I continue swearing loudly as I pick up the trash and wash my hands, then stomp over to my closet to change my clothes. I smell from working in the kitchen all day, and while I’m just about to swap fry smell for booze smell, I don’t want potential hookups to be turned off by my clothes.

      After all, I might be going to the bar to get drunk, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop my favorite pastime of picking up chicks. And if I go to the other girl’s apartment, that’s several more hours that I don’t have to spend worrying about a strange little man knocking over my stuff.

      I feel better as soon as I arrive at my favorite butch/femme lesbian bar, dressed in my usual black jeans, white top, and black leather jacket, breathing in the mingled smells of beer, perfume, sweat, and just a little bit of sex. It isn’t really a seedy place, but the culture does tend to be focused on one-night stands, butches like me picking up femmes (the former the source of the sweat, the latter of the perfume). There’s always at least a hint of sex.

      I scan the room by habit as I head for a bar stool. There are several women I recognize and quite a few I don’t, including a pretty young femme with long, blonde hair and a lot of jewelry. She’s interesting—doesn’t quite fit in here but definitely appeals to me, and I’ll ask her to dance at some point. But first, I need some booze.

      I slide onto a stool and raise my hand at the bartender, who recognizes me and nods, then a moment later slides a drink in front of me. I nod thanks and down it, my usual rum and coke. Sometimes I’ll stick with beer, but not today. Today I want to get myself drunk enough to believe I haven’t seen what I think I saw.

      Before long I find myself drawn into conversation with a couple I vaguely know, semi-regulars at the bar, who’d had their own apartment broken into. And I think they messed with the fridge settings, because the milk keeps going bad, but everything else seems fine, says the femme, who has dark hair and far too much makeup for my taste, but hey, her girlfriend seems to appreciate it.

      I nod eagerly, my fingers tightening on the slippery glass. It’s the same with me. And they knock over the trash.

      Yeah, that happened once or twice, says the butch. Bathroom trash. Really gross.

      I snort. I only have the one trash can in my little studio. My one saving grace is that I have to take out the trash pretty much every other day, so it never gets too stinky.

      Freaks out our cat, the butch continues. She keeps trying to chase something.

      I lean forward. Now’s the time to find out whether they really have the same problem as I do. Has she ever caught it?

      No, I think it’s just the smell the burglar left behind, says the femme.

      You haven’t seen something moving around in your room? Like a little man?

      A little man? echoes the butch, frowning suspiciously. There’s no men in our apartment, I assure you.

      As the two of them laugh, I lean back and take a gulp of my drink, embarrassed. I shouldn’t have said that, and I wouldn’t, if I hadn’t been on my third rum and coke. Maybe I should switch to beer. Obviously, the booze isn’t helping me forget, just helping me embarrass myself.

      Did you say a little man? comes a high, breathy voice.

      I look around to see the young femme I noticed on my way in, and now I really want to sink into my stool with embarrassment. The blonde is even more stunning close up, with delicate features and wide, pale brown eyes. She knows how to apply her makeup to accentuate the youthful freshness of her face without overtaking it; her lips are wet

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