Crazy as a Loon (Yard Birds Book 1)(Paranormal Women's Midlife Fiction)

CRAZY AS A LOON HAILEY EDWARDS Copyright © 2023 Black Dog Books, LLC All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Edited by Sasha Knight Copy Edited by Kimberly Cannon Proofread by Lillie's Literary Services Cover by Damonza CONTENTS Crazy as a Loon Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Join the Team About the Author Also by Hailey Edwards CRAZY AS A LOON Yard Birds, Book 1 Ellie Gleason has protected the town of Samford, Alabama for decades. It’s not as glamours as her glory days as the WitchLight Hub, but it keeps her active during her golden years. Life is good. Well, it’s okay. Fine. It could be bloodier with a smidge more gore, but retirement is meant to be low-key. It’s not like her fragile bones could handle the strenuous hunt for monsters, even if her current duties are dull as dishwater. But when her great-nephew shows up on her doorstep in tears—or is he her great-great nephew?—begging for help, Ellie straps on her beloved shotgun, Bam-Bam, and gets the coven back together. Sure, Betty just had a hip replacement, and Flo would rather flirt than fight, and Ida is busy with her anniversary plans, and Joan is…Joan. But Ellie is certain she can whip the girls into shape in time to defeat the creature preying on kids at a nearby summer camp. She might even have them home in time for dinner. CHAPTER ONE If I had a dime for every time a piskie infestation ruined my Sunday afternoon plans with a blender and a margarita mix, I wouldn’t have to clip coupons from the weekly sales flyer. Come spring, the weather got warm enough to thaw their wings, and they descended like locusts on gardens within a three-mile radius of their underground hive. Worse, they were ovoviviparous, and females birthed fully self-reliant piskets every single place they fed during that first week. The only thing harder to kill than piskies were roaches. And that made me a glorified exterminator. Welcome to retirement, old girl. For eighty years, I hunted the most dangerous paranormal creatures to prowl the night as a Witchlight Hub, but there was a reason why other agencies called us WitchLite. Without each other, we were about as useless as tits on a bull. “Ellie.” “Why do we bother?” I kicked a fallen tomato cage. “The little pests always come back twice as hungry.” Piskies were barely the height of a pinkie finger and resembled Tinkerbell, except for the needlelike teeth, red eyes, razor-sharp claws, and…well…I guess they didn’t much resemble Tinkerbell after all. Give me a kraken to wrestle, a griffin to ride, a manticore to defang. Not this penny-ante pest control. “Ellie.” Shelving memories of our glory days, I turned to find Ida on her knees beside a raised bed. “What?” “Look.” Her orange-cream shirtwaist dress pooled around her. “Oh, Ellie, just look.” “I know that tone.” Flo, whose expression had frozen in place decades ago, sashayed over to us. “Babies.” Her disgust mirrored mine whenever I imagined her welcoming botulism injections to banish wrinkles. “Already?” Betty, still recovering from hip replacement surgery after a boggart tripped her on the stairs at the library, picked her way across the uneven terrain with her walker. “Feed them to that stray Pastor Joe adopted.” First swarm of the summer, and they had to go and target the Samford Baptist Church’s small garden. “Is your memory that bad?” I scowled at the six piskets dozing under a lettuce leaf. “The fundraiser?” “Oh.” Betty stepped over a shattered watermelon rind longer than my arm. “Yeah.” “I don’t remember a fundraiser.” Ida sank back on her heels. “Did it happen during my cruise?” Every year, Ida and her husband, Eli, cruised to the Bahamas for their anniversary. Most of us were widows now, so we didn’t begrudge her the romantic getaway. “The stray ate a litter of piskets.” I rubbed my thumb alongside my nose. “They didn’t agree with her.” “The pastor decided she got in a fight with a tom, and we encouraged his notion.” Flo righted her pillbox hat. “I don’t know what possessed that cat. Piskie teeth are sharper than Betty’s tongue. The poor thing.” She adjusted the wisp of netting against her silver curls. “She required emergency surgery, which Colin paid for, but the congregation hosted a bake sale to pay us back.” Colin Rourke preferred golf to Jesus, and more conservative parishioners took offense to his priorities. But mostly, they resented Flo for taking the most eligible bachelor in Samford off the market. Any chance to snub her, they took with glee. Not very Christian behavior, but Flo didn’t care. Flo didn’t believe in getting mad. She believed in getting even. And she looked fabulous doing it. “We need to hurry this along.” I checked the clunky gold watch my husband wore for forty years before I picked up the habit to feel closer to him. “Service begins in thirty minutes.” “I would do the honors…” Flo extended her leg to flash her white pumps, “…but they’re new.” “More Mew Mews?” Betty reached us with a grunt of effort. “How many pairs of shoes do you need?” “The designer is Miu Miu.” Flo’s lips crimped in a hard line. “Though I would hardly expect someone who still hunts Pokémon to appreciate art.” She curled her lip at Betty’s black orthotic sneakers. “Or style.” “I have grandkids.” Betty