Leaving Maude frozen in the kitchen, Mag led Clara to Babette’s too-still form. “She’s been poisoned. I’ve done what I could to slow the effects. Bought her a few hours, but it’s spread too far, and I can’t reverse it. We need to get her to a hospital, and even then, it’s not looking good.”
“There must be something we can do. We dragged her into this, it's up to us to get her out.” Looking down at Babette’s face, Clara felt her heart breaking. “We have to try.”
“We were too late. I’m sorry, Clarie. I don’t think there’s anything—” Something flipped in Mag’s memory banks. “Wait. Let me think a minute.”
A recent conversation, the word poison. Mag tried to bring the elusive memory into focus.
Hagatha and the honey pixies.
“You’re not going to like this, but I think we need honey.”
Brightening with hope, Clara said, “Maude’s a baker, I bet there’s plenty in her kitchen.”
“Pixie honey.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I hate to leave her alone like this,” but Clara knew Mag was right. A visit to the honey pixies was the only way to save Babette’s life, and waiting was no longer an option.
Had it only been a week or two since they’d found Hagatha’s haven? She’d been busy in the meantime settling her charm of pixies into their own little Faelands oasis.
“That’s—” Mag searched for the word she wanted as she examined the progress.
“Scandalous? A breach of the inter-species compact?”
“—impressive.”
“That, too. Is that the hive?”
About the size of a basketball, the hive swung on the end of a multi-strand rope that looked like it had been woven from spiderweb. A delicate confection of a thing, woven from flower petals and studded with insect wings, it fairly glittered in the sunlight.
A pile of polished granite rose through the center of the secluded grove, moss and soil tucked into each cranny and crevice to create planting beds for a kaleidoscope of colorful flowers. Water fountained like a shower of crystals from the peak of the homemade mountain and cascaded down to form a lagoon at the base.
Halfway up, a trickle of water diverted to create a shallow pool—the birthplace of a rainbow. Every so often, a drop of nectar built up on the end of the colorful arch and dripped into a hole at the top of the hive.
Pixies, many more than had attended the mating ritual, lounged and flitted everywhere the sister witches looked. Their chances of sneaking in and stealing a drop or two of honey fell somewhere between zero and none at all.
“Now what?” Clara wondered.
“How should I know?”
“You’re the one who spent half the day discussing their mating habits with Hagatha, so you tell me. Maybe they’re friendly and we can just—” Clara took a long step toward the hive and a hastier two steps back when an angry buzz smeared the air. “Nope.”
“Let me try something.” Keeping her feet planted, Mag called out, “Maypole!” And then she waited. Again. “Maypole! Are you here?”
The familiar chirp sounded behind her and Mag whirled to see the pixie hovering at eye level. “Oh, there you are. We need your help. Can you understand me?”
Tilting her head, the tiny pixie seemed to be considering the question. Finally, she nodded.
“We need your help.” Mag repeated. “Someone has been hurt badly, and Hagatha told me you produce a serum that makes your honey good for healing.”
At the mention of honey, Maypole’s little face went hard. She shook her head and clenched her fists for good measure.
“Please, it’s important. Someone’s life hangs in the balance.” Not above begging, Clara pleaded.
“It’s no use.”
Both witches jumped when Hagatha’s voice cracked like a whip. She must have skimmed in from somewhere nearby.
“Maybe you can get them to see reason.” As concisely as possible, Clara explained the situation.
“What do you think I’ve been doing all this for? I figured if I gave them a safe space—you know they’ve been hunted to near extinction in the Faelands—they’d offer me a drop or two in trade. So far, that’s been a bust.”
Landing on Hagatha’s shoulder, Maypole grasped the rim of her ear, leaned in, and talked a blue streak.
“She says this place is nice, but even safety isn’t a good enough trade for their wares. I’d need something they prize more than their own skins.”
“And what might that be?” Clara asked, but Mag already had an answer.
She dug into her arsenal and pulled out the bottle containing the Andruvian trumpet flower. “This.”
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Hagatha accused and reached for the bottle.
“Not so fast.” Mag snatched it away. “I’m prepared to allow each pixie one sip of nectar if they’ll let us harvest the honey we need, and I promise not to take advantage. I might have a few things that would help you keep your little rescue operation secret if you’ll help us figure out the antidote. Babette’s running out of time.”
Maypole let out a pixie-sized shriek of excitement. Her little voice fluting, she returned to her charm to deliver the news of their impending good fortune. Titillation flared through the little community, though not every pixie seemed to be on board with the trade.
A dozen or so of the tiny bodies rose into the air, wings buzzing, and arrowed toward Mag. As they flew past, Clara ducked and experienced a flashback to an old horror movie moment, but Mag never even flinched. Guts of steel, that one.
Instead, she popped the top on the potion bottle, and cupped the trumpet flower, wafting it gently to send the scent of nectar toward the attack team.
“Do we have a deal?”
The angry buzz gentled to something closer to a purr.
“Clara, if you and Hagatha could get Maypole to hurry with the honey, I’ll just handle this end of things.” As soon as the other two witches complied, she added, “Come on, then, you lot. Gather round, one sip only. I’ll be watching you.”
In a hot second, Mag found herself covered with feathered creatures with no time to marvel over the experience. When a blush-pink pixie landed on her nose, she heard the distinct sound of Clara’s phone capturing a photo, and was, for once, thankful for the infernal device. This was the moment of a lifetime.
Twenty minutes passed—long minutes that marked the march toward the end of Babette’s life, but were necessary all the same—before it was Maypole’s turn to take the last sip. Leaving a delicate belch behind her, she wobbled into the air and joined her brethren near the lagoon.
“Got it.” Clara held up a vial of honey. “Now what, Hagatha?”
“Timeline makes it complicated,” the old witch said. “We’re past the point where a simple antidote is enough. Needs a strong healing component and then it’s still going to be a near thing. I’ll do my best, but it might not be good enough.”
“What do we need?” Capping the top on the now bedraggled trumpet flower, Mag was all business.
“Gertrude Granger,” Hagatha replied. “Christmas spirit isn’t easy to find this time of year, but I think it’s the only way this is going to work. Two parts honey, one part Christmas spirit, and a drop of the blood of the poisoner added to your basic healing tonic.”
“Maude’s going to love that one,” Clara said. “Good thing she’s immobile and can’t put up a fight.”
“We’ll need ritual candles, sage for cleansing. Crystals.” All of which Mag had packed in her pockets.
Winking into Gertrude’s living room unannounced breached the witch’s code of decency, if there were such a thing, but there was no time for being polite.
“Sorry, Gertrude. We hate to barge in like this.” Taking the reins, Clara apologized loudly and got right to the point. “But we need your help.”
As always, the scent of Christmas cookies perfumed the air. Gertrude should probably buy stock in the cinnamon industry—she probably wouldn’t make anythi
ng, but it would offset some of her expenses. Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone when she rushed out of the kitchen.
“Well, hello Penelope. Didn’t expect to run into you here.” Mag couldn’t bring herself to act as though it was a welcome surprise.
“I should say not.” Penelope looked like she wanted to say more, but a glare from Hagatha shut her up. Momentarily, at least.
A glance passed between Mag and Clara, and then a shrug. They’d have to explain the situation and hope Penelope had a wider charitable streak than expected. Besides, there wasn’t anything she could do to stop them.
Running the Moonstones gave the uppity witch a lot less control than she’d come to believe, and it might be time for her to learn that lesson. If it was, Mag was happy to act as teacher, so she ignored Penelope and focused on Gertrude.
“We’ve run into a bit of trouble, and someone needs your help. It’s a matter of life and death.” Laying out the situation in as few words as possible, Clara kept a firm grip on Hagatha’s arm. The old witch’s big mouth and her penchant for mischief would add nothing useful to the situation.
“Why should we concern ourselves with the lives of mortals? They’re not our responsibility.” Penelope’s comment came as no great surprise.
“Hypocrite.” Shaking off Clara’s grip, Hagatha stated her opinion and the tension in the room went up a notch. “Look down your nose at mortals, and try to force your coven to act just like them. I won’t have it.”
Penelope offered no denial, “I still don’t see how this is our problem.”
Gertrude’s heart was touched.
“Because all life is precious,” she reprimanded and then turned to Clara. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”
It occurred to Clara that Penelope’s immediate dismissal had worked so thoroughly in their favor, it was a blessing she’d been there to shove Gertrude out of terminal wishy-washiness. When Penelope caught her eye and gave the barest hint of a raised eyebrow, Clara wondered what was going on inside the younger witch’s head.
Everyone has a story to tell, and Penelope’s might be worth a listen.
But not today.
Today was for justice and for saving Babette. And for truth and the American way. Okay, Clara thought, maybe that last bit was over the top, but the rest was spot-on.
Mag handed Gertrude a bottle. “Fill ’er up.”
Gertrude nodded. “From my strongest batch.” She carried the bottle off to make due on her promise while Penelope eyed Mag defiantly.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“Knock yourself out, but if you try to stop us helping Babette Dean, I’ll let Hagatha have her way with you,” Mag warned.
“Oh, you’d like that. She’d kill me and end up stoned, so you could take over the coven.”
As conspiracy theories went, it wasn’t the oddest Mag had ever heard, but certainly, the furthest from the truth and, surprisingly, Penelope’s vehemence tickled her funny bone.
“Is that what you think we’re after?” Mag hooted. “You all came to us, remember. Begging the Balefire witches to come here and clean up after—”
Oops, she’d almost mentioned the Hagatha situation right in front of the old witch herself.
“Please,” Haggie snorted. “I’m not senile, and we don’t have time for stroking egos. Here comes Gertrude with the goods.”
The glimmer and shine of the essence she carried cast red and gold light over her face. “Santa will be so pleased. I’m sure to move to the top of his list.”
“Her tree isn’t lighted all the way to the top, is it?” Hagatha whispered in Mag’s ear.
There was no holding back the snort, and Mag figured it would give her indigestion if she tried. “No, probably not.”
Armed with the spirit of hope and a jar of magical honey, and with Mag leading the way, the five witches skimmed through space to land in Maude’s kitchen.
Chapter Twenty
Breezing past an immobile Maude, the witches tumbled into the back bedroom where Babette rested on a brass-framed bed covered in a frilly, pale pink duvet. Without a word, the women who represented roughly a third of the Harmony coven worked together seamlessly, much to their surprise.
“We’ll be exposed, but I suppose it can’t be helped.” Gertrude flicked the bed into the center of the room with a wave of her wand, and Penelope pulled a jar of salt from the depths of her purse and sprinkled a ring around it.
Clara and Hagatha called to the elemental spirits—the Goddesses of earth, air, fire, and water—to create a protective cocoon of healing energy.
“Good thinking.” Mag gave the thumbs up. “Every little bit helps.”
With the pieces in place, it was time to administer the remedy, and Mag was the one who poured the contents of the vial unceremoniously down Babette’s throat. Then it was Hagatha’s turn to supply the final bit of magic that would pull the whole ritual together.
Arms stretched out to her sides, Hagatha channeled power from the four corners, from the elements, from the other witches, and from Babette, herself. So strong was the force, it lit her from the inside out.
A barely perceptible nod of her head sent the covers flying into a corner. Lightning sizzled and sparked across the distance between the old witch’s hands and Babette’s body. Inch by inch, from head to toe, Hagatha cleansed blood, and bone, and sinew, but still her fingers searched for more.
Ripples flowed beneath pale skin as the potion traveled, gathering poison and sickness until Hagatha let out a sharp sound. Her head tipped skyward as she pulled out a ball of seething darkness and held it aloft.
“I need to …” Hagatha’s glance darted around the room until she found what she needed. She lurched across the room to plunge the ball into the earth sheltering the roots of a potted Schefflera that withered and died in a sort of slow-motion reverse.
“Shame,” she said, “to ruin a perfectly good umbrella tree like that, but what are you going to do? I wasn’t expecting anything quite that big when you said a single dose of poison.”
“As far as we knew, it was a small dose, but Babette had a delicate constitution,” Clara explained.
“Not anymore.” Hagatha grinned as Babette stirred and put a hand to her head.
“What happened? Where am I? What are you doing here?” Voice scratchy but gaining strength, Babette tried to orient herself to time and place.
“You’re at—” Clara laid a hand on Babette’s arm, gave it a squeeze.
“Maude Prescott tried to kill me.” Remembering, Babette bolted upright. “When I came to ask her about that club cozy, she invited me in and offered me tea. It’s a little hazy, but I remember her telling me she was sorry, but it was time for me to join my Taylor. I think she killed him and then tried to kill me.”
Her story confirmed what Mag and Clara had already figured out.
“I have to do something, stop her before she gets away.” Shrugging off Clara’s hand, she made to rise.
“Stop.” Mag’s voice carried such authority Babette froze. “Let us handle Maude while you get your strength back. I promise we won’t let her get away. Penelope, if you’d be so kind, please sit with Mrs. Dean a minute more.”
Left with little choice, Penelope complied.
Hagatha marched right up to Maude, and Clara wondered for a second if she intended to inflict bodily harm. But the old witch just walked around with narrowed eyes, peering into Maude’s face for a long moment before fixing her gaze on Clara. “Impressive bit of spell work, if I may say. Wasn’t sure you had it in you. Immobilizing a target like that takes a lot of practice.”
Clara blushed and quickly risked a look at her sister’s face. Admiration mixed with a tinge of sadness peered back at her. “It was my first time. I’m not even sure how I did it. Adrenaline, I think.”
Accepting praise didn’t come easily to Clara, so she quickly changed the subject. “Now, what are we going to do about her?”
“Turn her over to the police, and let them
deal with her?” Gertrude suggested.
“We can’t just unfreeze her, and I, for one, want to hear what she has to say for herself,” Mag interjected. “After all, the woman tried to frame me for murder, and when we restore her, she’s going to have an interesting story to tell. At the very least, we’ve got to wipe her memory. Clarie, can you undo the spell?”
Clara exchanged a look with Hagatha, who nodded once toward Maude. “You can do it, and she’s not going anywhere. I’ll see to that.”
For a moment, Clara stood as still as stone—not an entirely new look for her—and concentrated while Mag, Hagatha, and Gertrude blocked the exits in case Maude tried to bolt. She angled her wand toward the murderous woman and spoke an incantation infused with the most important tool a witch has at her disposal: intention.
Maude returned to the land of the living as if no time had passed, still reaching toward the knife she’d intended for Clara.
“Don’t even think about it.” Hagatha spoke without inflection or heat, which made the order all the more chilling. Maude’s hand dropped, and so did her lower jaw.
“The jig is up, Maude Prescott,” Mag thundered. “We know what you did, so you might as well confess.”
“If you think I’m going to go gently into that good night, you’re wrong. I only did what I had to do, and the evidence against me is circumstantial at best.” Maude crossed her arms and zipped her lips.
Babette picked the perfect moment to make her grand entrance, which she did with Penelope on her heels. “Not if you include my statement that you poisoned me. I don’t know what these women did, but I feel right as rain now, and I’m ready to hear you talk. Why did you take my husband away from me? What did I ever do to you?”
Murder on the Backswing Page 14