Savory & Supernatural E-Book

Karen Healey

• Herausgeber: 8th Note Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Movie Magic
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 195

Beschreibung

A down-on-her-luck witch and an ambitious actor who definitely doesn't believe in the supernatural collide in a magical novella romance, for fans of A Witch's Guide to Fake Dating a Demon.    Kingston went to an exclusive drama school in London and has leading-man looks and charm. But while the work's been steady, he's still desperate for the perfect breakout, award-bait role to sink his teeth into. In the meantime, he's determined to make the most of his time on location in New Zealand for a major film franchise. But ever since he picked up a shiny washed-up trinket on the beach shoot, things have been getting . . . spooky.   Amalia was already the black sheep of her family, having developed cooking witchery instead of plant magic. Then she started seeing dead people. After her career as a chef hits a snag, she's finally back on her feet running a food truck at a small location shoot that might just turn into bigger catering jobs. But, of course, nothing in her life ever goes that smoothly. Actor Kingston Williams is the hottest man she's ever seen. He's also, unfortunately, haunted by an angry ghost, something he'd never believe if she told him. But she can't seem to avoid this incorrigible flirt . . .   From the author of Bespoke & Bespelled, another witchy movie-set romance sure to charm.

Leseprobe

SAVORY & SUPERNATURAL

A MOVIE MAGIC NOVELLA

KAREN HEALEY

CONTENTS

Also by Karen Healey

1. Kingston

2. Amalia

3. Kingston

4. Amalia

5. Kingston

6. Amalia

7. Kingston

8. Amalia

9. Kingston

10. Amalia

11. Kingston

12. Amalia

13. Kingston

14. Amalia

15. Kingston

16. Amalia

17. Kingston

18. Amalia

19. Kingston

20. Amalia

21. Kingston

22. Amalia

23. Kingston

24. Amalia

25. Kingston

26. Amalia

27. Kingston

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Bespoke & Bespelled

ALSO BY KAREN HEALEY

Movie Magic Series

Bespoke & Bespelled

Olympus Inc. Series (as Kate Healey)

Persephone in Bloom

Aphrodite Unbound

Hera Takes Charge

Penelope Pops the Question

Ask Cassandra

Books for Young Adults

Guardian of the Dead

The Shattering

When We Wake

While We Run

The Empress of Timbra (with Robyn Fleming)

Short Stories

“Careful Magic” in Kaleidoscope

“Mrs. Beeton's Book of Magickal Management” in Willful Impropriety

“Taylor Made” in Jingle Spells (a Movie Magic story)

“Where We Walk, We Walk on Bones” in Monsters in the Garden

* * *

For my cousins.

* * *

1

KINGSTON

Kingston Williams wasn’t happy.

He had been happy, bare minutes earlier. He’d shared a pleasant evening reuniting with his friend and co-star Serena Chu. She’d told him stories about the Sydney shoot, and they’d ordered room service salads that he hadn’t had to pick too many things out of. Then, foolishly, he’d checked his damn email.

Serena paused in her attempts to pummel the pillow into submission. “What is it?”

“I didn’t get the BBC job,” he said, and handed her his phone so she could read his agent’s brief note. “They’re going with a more available actor.”

“Ah,” Serena said, scrolling down. “Well, there are some encouraging things in here—loved your work, want to see you audition again.”

“They always say that stuff.”

“Not to me. I mostly get thanks, but no thanks. This was that crime show, right?”

“A prestige crime show,” Kingston said. “I really wanted to play a grim detective in a small coastal town, damn it.”

“You’re going to a small coastal town tomorrow.”

“To play another dashing rogue. Like my last gig, and the one before that.” Kingston slumped back into the pillows. “I’m getting typecast for period productions. I can feel it.”

“Look on the bright side,” Serena said, dropping his phone on his stomach with what he felt was a certain lack of sympathy. “You still get to look broody on a beach.”

Kingston rolled onto his side and gave her his sternest look. It didn’t appear to have any effect.

“We’re getting paid a lot of money to play make believe,” she told him. “And you must admit, this script is much better than the one for the first movie.”

“Much better is a stretch,” Kingston said, though she had a point. The first film in the Queen’s Horde trilogy had gone through multiple writers, plus a gaggle of script doctors, plus copious studio notes. The studio hadn’t so much learned its lesson, but at least they’d stuck with one writer for the sequel. “I’d still like a shot at something meatier. And you should be getting those rom-coms you want.”

“I’m thirty-five years old and no one thinks I have the ‘audience appeal’ for rom-coms,” Serena said. “They did hire me for this series. Which is paying off my mortgage, thank you very much.” She flicked his nose. “Stop worrying about this. You’re an excellent actor, and you don’t have the expiration date I do. The grim detective roles will still be there in two years.”

“And the rom-coms?” Kingston asked, grimacing at the mention of expiration dates.

“Let me worry about those.” Serena stretched and sat up. “Would you be willing to hear some more advice?”

Kingston looked at her. It was something he’d always enjoyed doing, even before their friendship had added the benefits component. Serena was beautiful, with fine bones under smooth skin the color of parchment, her black hair falling around her face like the folded wings of a bird at rest. This close, he could see the fine lines starting around her eyes, which was a dire sin in Hollywood terms, but she was magnetic on screen. Kingston was primarily theater-trained, and had to consciously mute every gesture and grimace that would play better to the stalls than to the camera. Serena could convey the same nuance with a slight shift in the set of her lips.

Studios should be begging her to star in their films, playing any part she desired. Her biggest role so far should not be as a supporting actor on a barely passable zombie fantasy series. But it was. And she probably wouldn’t have gotten even that far if she’d wasted her time having tantrums about being passed over for BBC crime dramas.

“I’m willing to hear the advice,” he said, letting the sheets fall to his waist. “I can’t promise I’ll act on it.”

“Okay. We all know that directors shouldn’t cast you based on your actual personality, but they absolutely do. You keep getting dashing rogues because you’re good at it, and you look the part, sure, but you’re also a little . . . quirky.”

“Quirky,” Kingston repeated suspiciously.

“You’re picky about your food, which is pretty standard actor stuff, but you’re picky in unusual directions. Like, you don’t care about macronutrients or carb content, but if olives have even been in the same room as your sandwich—”

“Is that really a problem?” Kingston frowned. “Some things taste good to me, and some don’t.”

“I know, hon, but you’re vocal about it.” Serena waved at the dressing table. “And then there’s the collecting.”

The dressing table was covered in interesting items Kingston had found over the course of the day. There was a little plastic soldier, a candy-colored beaded bracelet, a twig that had grown in the shape of a hand, a few pebbles, a feather, a dried flower seed head . . .

“Lots of people collect things.”

“Sure. And then they do stuff with it. Collages or found art pieces, or, hell, putting it all in boxes and storing it in the attic. You pick things up and bring them to wherever home is, and then it gets so cluttered you don’t even like having people stop by. You won’t let anyone clean up after you, which I honestly don’t get. You have an assistant whose job it is to help with these things! And if it’s all going to get dumped when the shoot ends anyway, why does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Kingston said. His skin felt prickly, uncomfortable. He ran the palm of his hand over his head. “I’ve just always collected things. It makes places feel safe, homey. Like they’re mine, at least for a little while. I know it’s peculiar—”

“I’m not criticizing you,” Serena said hastily. “I like you, including your quirks, okay? I’m saying that other people notice them, and while it’s totally unfair, it might be impacting the roles they consider you for. Unusual quirks say dashingrogue with a hint of mystery.”

Kingston sighed. “So I should stop being a picky magpie?” He was trying not to sound either defensive or sulky.

“God, no.” He remembered why he liked Serena so much, and had from the beginning. “But maybe be less visible about it. Tone down the drama a notch or two.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Kingston conceded. “In the meantime, I have another idea.”

Serena looked at him with some alarm.

“Oliver St. James may think he’s just spiriting me off to the West Coast to film a few pick-ups, but he’s actually trapping himself with me and a tiny crew,” Kingston said triumphantly. “I’m going to wear him down on the no-improvisation policy.”

“Oh hell,” Serena said, and flopped onto her back. “Not this again.”

Kingston pointed at her defiantly. “Yes! And you and Rider won’t be there to argue me out of it.”

“Well, God forbid you listen to the voices of reason.”

“Look, I held my tongue during the first movie, because it was such an appalling mess anyway, but the writing in this one is at least passable. It could even be decent, if Oliver would stop insisting on shooting the script exactly as written.”

Serena looked thoughtful. “The curse on the movie does seem to have lifted.”

“The Queen’s Horde wasn’t cursed, because there are no such things as curses. It was just a lot of very bad luck.”

Serena rolled her eyes, which was a bit rich when she was the one who’d suggested all the disasters on the first film had been caused by magic. “Well, you’ll need extraordinary luck to get Oliver to change anything in that script.”

Kingston struck a pose that was fairly heroic, he thought, even though he was naked in a hotel bed. “Nevertheless, I shall persevere.”

Serena leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Got it. In other news, I think we should break up.”

Kingston blinked. “Unless I’ve misunderstood, we’re not actually together.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t caught feelings.”

“Thank God. I mean, not that you’re not lovely company, and the sex is fantastic—”

“—but if we were romantically involved I’d strangle you within a week,” Serena agreed.

“I do bring out that side in people,” Kingston said modestly.

“I just think this has run its course. The chemistry works on screen, and I think it’ll continue to do so even if we’re not actually . . .” She waved her hand in the air.

“Shagging?”

“I was going to say fucking, but if you want to be incredibly British about it, sure.”

Kingston arched an eyebrow. “Pish-posh. A tipping run, though, eh, what, old girl?”

“Jesus.” Serena rolled out of bed. Knowing it was the last time, Kingston enjoyed the view of her neat bottom as she bent down to put on underwear and pull her shirt dress over her head. She fumbled with the buttons, and added a touch of Valley Girl nasal to her voice. “It’s like, wow, you sleep with a guy for a few months and he totally loses touch with his roots.”

“Nay, lass, tha wrongs me,” Kingston replied, in his broadest Yorkshire. “It’s nobbut a bit o’ fun. Hang on, you’ve got that belt tangled.” He joined her beside the bed, slipping the belt out of the buckle and retying it. “There. Shipshape.” He let his hands linger on her waist, looking down into her dark eyes. She looked up at him, smiling slightly, and he pressed one last kiss into the corner of her mouth.

Serena let him do it, then kissed his cheek in return. “Have fun in Hokitika,” she said, and walked out of his hotel room.

“Oh, probably not,” Kingston said to the closed door, and burrowed back into bed. Serena had left a pleasant warmth in the sheets, and he intended to enjoy it.

2

AMALIA

Even in summer, 5:30 a.m. on the West Coast of New Zealand was chilly. Amalia de Boer clutched her clipboard with numb fingers and climbed into her food truck.

First, as always, she washed her hands. Then she checked off the food. Vegetarian savory muffins. Vegan savory muffins. Meat-lovers savory muffins. A fix-your-own-sandwich bar with sliced meat, cheese, and vegetables, with her famous seeded sourdough, white, whole-wheat, and gluten-free breads. Rice salad, potato salad, and green salad, in individual biodegradable cardboard containers (with a bamboo fork taped to the top of each) and in giant bowls for the lunch catering. Fruit. Pickles. Several different kinds of home-baked crackers, cheese, and sliced raw and cooked veggies. And for sweets, ANZAC biscuits, Belgian biscuits, chocolate bliss balls, and Amalia’s celebrated caramel slice.

All present and accounted for.

Amalia closed her eyes and took a deep breath through parted lips, letting the air roll over her tongue and awaken her other senses. Her family usually felt their magic through their hands, but this was yet another way she was different.

The food proudly assured her that it was all absolutely delicious, and that there were no nasty bacteria or fungi busy colonizing the dishes.

(The problem was that the food couldn’t inspect itself for viruses, because viruses didn’t replicate themselves within it. They just sat on the surface, tiny and inert, waiting for a more congenial host. But that was what her food safety plan was for, and why she followed it meticulously.)

Folding table. Paper tablecloth. Cardboard labels for each dish, with ingredients and common allergens. Napkins, cutlery, biodegradable cups and paper plates, check, check, check, check.

She took the temperature of both fridges. She scrubbed the hand-washing sink, refilled the soap dispenser, and pulled a paper towel from the holder to make sure the motion was smooth. She practiced the lift-and-lean gesture that she’d discovered, with some trial and error, would allow her to hand things through the service window without mashing her boobs into the counter.

Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be just right.

The coffee machine, which gleamed silver and magnificent even under the harsh fluorescent bulbs, had cost her more than anything else in the truck. It scared the crap out of her. She’d technically learned how to make coffee during her high school Hospitality course, but that was seven years and a whole failed career behind her, with no professional barista experience at all. A sympathetic friend in Wellington had helped her practice, and she’d watched a lot of YouTube videos. Plus, the coffee beans, snug in their container, were anxious to help. She would just have to hope it was enough.

Because this was her last chance. She couldn’t afford a single mistake.

It was 6:00 a.m. and she was due at the film shoot at 7:00. Her cousin had claimed it was only a twenty-minute drive up the highway to the camping ground, but Amalia wasn’t sure about these unfamiliar West Coast roads. Maybe she should leave now, to make sure she was on time. She took off her apron, hung it on the designated hook, and climbed down, ready to go around to the front cab.

“Amalia!”

It was a whisper-shout. Natalie de Boer was walking out of her kitchen door in her pajamas, blonde hair curling over the collar of her fuzzy blue dressing gown, mug of coffee clutched in her hands.

“I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

Amalia’s shoulders felt like they were made out of knotted steel, but she nodded jerkily. “Thanks, Natalie. Thanks for everything.”

Natalie was in her mid-forties, and the oldest of her generation of de Boer cousins. It was she who had heard about the craft services job through her web of local contacts, she who’d called Amalia in Wellington and made her put a bid in for the contract, she who’d offered her space when Amalia couldn’t afford a place to stay or a kitchen to prep in.

This film gig paid really well. And if Amalia did a good job, there might be more work available, on this film or others. At the very least, she’d have a reference to show potential employers after the last, terrible gap in her resume.

“No worries, hon.” Natalie looked at her hard. “Don’t be scared, okay? You’ll be fine. People love your food.”

They did. Amalia had never doubted that.

What people didn’t love was when you went to work in Wellington’s best fine-dining restaurant with what you thought was a bad cold, or maybe the flu, and ended up giving forty people a disgusting gastro virus that made them vomit for days. They really, really did not enjoy that.

Her thoughts must have been clear on her face. Natalie stepped forward as if she might hug her, and then just as quickly stepped back when Amalia stiffened. “I had a chat with the cherry tomatoes by the back wall,” Natalie said instead. “They’ll be ripe for you tomorrow.”

“That’s nice of them. And you. Thanks for that.”

Natalie, like most of the people in Amalia’s family, had a magical affinity for plants. Natalie was considered a bit odd for tossing away a botanical research career to run a Hokitika bed-and-breakfast, although she did use her talent to maintain the gorgeous gardens and grow herbs and vegetables for the table.

Some of the more open-minded (and younger) de Boers were willing to concede that if Amalia couldn’t be a plant witch, cooking magic was a reasonable second prize; at least she made use of plants, if only as ingredients. Nobody talked much about her second, much rarer, talent.

“You’ve got this,” Natalie told her.

“I hope so,” Amalia said.

“No,” Natalie said, her eyes glinting. “This is where you say, ‘Yes, I do got this.’ Because you’re amazing.”

“Yes, I do got this,” Amalia repeated. She could remember when she was just as determined, just as self-assured as Natalie. God, she hoped that certainty would come back.

“Because I’m amazing,” Natalie prompted.

“Let’s not jinx anything.” Amalia climbed into the truck cab. “I’ll settle for a first day where no one is sick or yells at me.”

“That’s the spirit!” If Natalie said anything else, it was lost in the coughing roar of the engine’s ignition.

Amalia released the hand brake, and rumbling, the truck rolled down Natalie’s long driveway, heading for the camping ground where the film crew—and her future—awaited.

* * *

Despite the early hour, the camping ground was alive with activity. Amalia tried not to be intimidated by all the identical RVs. It was one thing to know that film studios had a lot of money, and another to see that money in action. The two larger RVs set off to the side were probably nicer than the Wellington apartment she shared with her roommates.

Crew members were loading equipment into vans and trucks. A tall woman with curly dark hair waved at her.

“Craft Services?”

“That’s me!” Amalia said, trying to sound confident and friendly. “Amalia de Boer.”

“Fantastic. I’m Teuila Fuamatu, the assistant producer in charge of this shoot. Have you done film gigs before?”

Amalia dismissed the idea of lying as quickly as she thought of it. Not only was she a terrible liar, but this sharp-eyed woman would know immediately. “This is my first,” she admitted.

“Great, then I’ll give you the full spiel,” Teuila said, and launched into what was clearly a practiced speech. She showed Amalia where to hook up for power and water, talked her through timing and expectations, and noted that while Amalia wasn’t a union member, the film’s contract had all the union perks. The food truck that had supplied breakfast was already packing up. Apparently, film people liked an early start.

“We’re driving out to shoot at a river near Lake Kaniere,” Teuila explained, when Amalia mentioned it. “It involves some hiking, so we’ll have to do without Craft Services there, but we’ve got to get the light before it changes. Could I grab a flat white before we go?”

“Sure!” Amalia said perkily, and turned to the shining bulk of the coffee machine.

For this, she’d use magic, extending her senses to check every step. The ground beans had assured her that they’d been tamped correctly, and the milk helpfully suggested she increase the angle of the jug just before the steamer wand hit the surface. It wasn’t a perfect coffee, but Teuila’s heartfelt sigh after the first sip was a good sign. At this point of the day, hot caffeine was evidently enough.

More crew members clustered around as Amalia laid out the craft services table, her hands working automatically while her brain tried to catalog all the new stimuli. Most of the crowd grabbed takeaway drip coffee, and a few took muffins for later. They were quick with gratitude, but definitely too busy to chat. A slight man about her own age emerged from one of the two larger trailers and turned out to be the director, Oliver St. James. He had a reputation as an ironfisted perfectionist, but it was hard to be scared of a man rubbing sleep out of his eyes and mumbling a request for “Black tea, Earl Grey if you have it.”

Amalia did. She made sure the water was at a true boil before she poured it over the leaves and handed him the little earthenware teapot, with a matching cup and saucer.

“Thank you,” Oliver St. James said, looking mildly startled by the extra care. He glanced over his shoulder at a younger man, who had stuffed two muffins into his pockets and another into his mouth. “Theo, is Kingston ready to go?”

Theo swallowed his mouthful. “Um. Nearly?”

Oliver looked at him.

“I’ll just go check with Costumes,” Theo said.

Oliver poured his tea, nodded at Amalia, and walked over to one of the vans. Amalia was impressed. He reminded her of a pâtissier she’d trained under, a woman who’d never raised her voice or cursed, but could nevertheless make her expectations very clear.

As she wrestled with the coffee machine several more times, she nearly missed Kingston Williams leaving the Costumes RV, catching only a glimpse of a billowing white shirt and very tight pants. She was a little disappointed not to see the star of the show up close. She wasn’t immune to the appeal of meeting glamorous actors, especially glamorous actors she’d secretly watched be a handsome rogue in more than one historical drama.

It seemed a little silly for this many people to be running around to film one man, but she supposed this was what the movie business was all about. A huge number of people, all contributing to the illusion of a single vision. And they were paying her very well.

And so far, they’d liked her food. Natalie had been right about that.

Amalia allowed herself one relieved exhale and turned to the next task on her to-do list: prepping for lunch.

3

KINGSTON

When it came to historical drama, the clothes made the man. Once Kingston was packed into Dapper Jack’s formal trousers, wide cravats, and flamboyant waistcoats, it was much easier for him to inhabit the character as well. It was comfortable to widen his stance, increase his swagger, and hit his mark with aplomb. It was natural to look disgusted every time his fine boots splashed into a muddy puddle.

This was fortunate, because this scene was currently on the eleventh take.

“Cut!” Oliver St. James yelled. “Reset!”

Kingston clambered up the forest-lined riverbank and through the clusters of crew to the spot where the director was staring at his monitors. The national park they were shooting in had nice gravel pathways, but it was still close quarters.

“Is there anything you need me to be doing differently?” Kingston asked. There was no point pushing for script changes on this section, because there were no lines. It was a five-second scene that would probably be cut in postproduction. However, if he was a good boy now, perhaps he could use that credit for getting what he wanted later.

“No, you’re fine. The splash wasn’t right. Props! Can we get more water in the puddle, please!”

“Wrong angle?” Kingston inquired, smiling.