Each of us has a small cabin on the land that we own. Winter’s is the largest to the north, surrounded by pine trees. Mine is the smallest on the lower west side, closest to the shop.
I love my space, the tiny flowers that greet me along the walk as I make my way to the porch. By June, they’ll overflow the path, filling it with beauty and lovely scents. Sipping, I sit for a moment in my rocking chair, trying to sort through all the facts in my brain, my emotions, and my physical tiredness.
Mentally, I make a to-do list for tomorrow to prepare for the ceremony and to investigate Annie’s death. I may have to pay a visit to her home. I decide to ask Winter to go with me. We need to be slightly covert, as I am sure the police are still investigating and might be suspicious of us showing up, so I’ll ask her to use her gift with invisibility spells to hide our snooping.
I need to feel the energy there, see if I get any intuitive hits about what happened, or perhaps Winter can talk to Annie’s ghost. I’m still questioning exactly why Chief MacGregor believes a simple blend of essential oils could be the cause of anyone’s death.
Was it some combination of them with the wine or edible underwear, or…who knows? It was a stretch to believe my product had anything to do with their untimely deaths, but now I’m curious and need to know what happened.
I’m about to go inside and take a long, hot bath when I hear a loud truck rumbling down the road in front of our store. We don’t get much traffic out here in the evenings, so when the growling engine pulls into the parking lot, I wonder if Summer has a late client. The shop lights are still on and I think about walking over, just to make sure everything’s okay. I don’t usually worry about my sisters, but tonight I feel agitated and unsure.
Pushing myself out of the rocking chair, I accidentally drop my cup. The dainty china crashes to the porch, spilling the un-drunk tea and breaking into a dozen pieces.
“Swift, Spring,” I chide myself, bending down to pick up the largest chunks and set them on the table. The tinier slivers will have to wait. Tea soaks my right shoe and I’m debating whether I should kick it off before I head to the store, when I hear the squeaky screen door of Conjure open and close.
I see a tall man walking across the garden area and my pulse jumps. I would know the outline of those shoulders, the swagger in that walk, anywhere.
Absentmindedly, I note that Summer also appears, locking the back door of Conjure. She waves and gives me a thumbs-up as the man draws closer, the moon hiding behind clouds so I can’t see his face until he’s nearly at my porch. I feel paralyzed, wondering why he’s here, wondering if I’m imagining this, or, like one of Winter’s disembodied ghosts, he’s appeared in front of me but isn’t corporeal.
I step forward as he stops at the bottom. Just as he meets my eyes, the clouds part and the moon shines on his handsome face, a light five o’clock shadow dancing over his jawline.
My pulse triple times it now and my voice comes out slightly husky. “Chief McGregor. What are you doing here?”
4
I’m looking at a dead man. Chief McGregor’s eyes are black in the moonlight, one booted foot resting lazily on the lowest step. Discomfort blooms in my diaphragm, hitting like fire. The last portent I saw was my own mother’s death, and I sure screwed up that one.
“Call me Tristan,” he says. “I need to know more about…”
You, I think he’s going to say, but instead, he adds, “your business.”
Hoax makes an appearance, flapping behind me and jumping up onto the porch railing. “Curse of the seven snotty orphans on you,” he screeches.
Tristan glances at him and then looks at me with a bewildered half-smile. He walks up one of the steps, close enough now for me to touch. “Did you teach him to talk like that?”
“Not exactly.”
Before I can explain, Summer stops on the path. “Can I get some dried basil, Spring?” she asks. “I’m all out and I want to make spaghetti tonight.”
This is a lie. She wants to get me inside, make sure I’m all right. “Sorry,” she says to him, pushing past and hustling me in.
In the kitchen she lowers her voice. “What do you think? Are you okay here with him? It’s been months since you last dated, and I thought you’d be happy to have some attention from a gorgeous guy, but I’ll stay if you want. Or chase him off.”
I look at her aghast. “Dating? He practically accused me of murder earlier today.”
She waves it off. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I have. “He’s got Fae blood, Summer,” I say, unwilling to talk about the portent.
Slight confusion crosses her features. “So? That makes him even more appealing, doesn’t it? You’re not freaked out about the tea leaves, are you?”
Of course, I am!
Summer and I are close. We tell each other everything. We share books, our love of ’70s rock, and borrow each other’s clothes. The only secret I’ve kept from her is about Mom. I read our mother’s tea leaves, saw that Grim, but kept my mouth shut.
How do you tell someone they're going to die? I thought we still had months, maybe years. Two days later she was dead.
I pray to the goddess Tristan has more time.
“Spring?” Summer snaps me out of my dark reverie.
“Sorry, Here’s the basil.”
I know she doesn’t need it and I appreciate her making up the lie to check on me. She wraps me in a strong embrace. “I’ll send him off if you want.”
I do but I don’t. I need to know why he’s about to die, plus, I haven’t had too many good-looking guys, especially with Fae blood, hanging around. Make that zero. Most my age in this area think I’m weird and want nothing to do with me.
I feel a bit of hope that maybe Chief McGregor—Tristan—might be different, regardless of his earlier gruff attitude.
And Summer’s right. My last date—thanks to a stupid dating app my friend, Sonya, signed me up for—was months ago and a total waste of time. He was nice and all, but that was the problem. There wasn’t one spark between us.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Head on home and I’ll see you bright and early.”
Her eyes dance with mischief. “He is gorgeous,” she says with a wink.
“He’s a no-mag, a muggle. Doesn’t even believe in the stuff.”
“A gorgeous muggle,” she corrects. “And, with Fae blood, he has some magick buried inside that hard shell. If you cracked that open, it might be fun.”
What’s that?
That might not be fair, I actually have a very fun life. I love my sisters and our store. My gardens and even Hoax. I just wish I had a boyfriend to share things with.
I send her on her way, flipping on the porch light as we return outside. She makes me promise to call after the chief leaves.
Tristan hasn’t strayed from his spot. Hoax guards the top step, flitting aside so Summer can pass, before blocking our visitor again. After my sister says goodnight to Tristan, she calls over her shoulder, “Winter will be by shortly for the inventory roster.” She looks at Tristan pointedly. “Our oldest sister is restocking tonight.”
Tristan glances at me as she disappears down the path to her cabin. Shadows fall around the porch, but now I can see him clearly in the soft glow of the porch light. “She’s worried to leave you alone with me. Smart woman.”
“Why? You plan to harm me?” I half-joke.
“Because neither of you know me. You should never invite a stranger into your home. I’m sure you know that.”
Hoax cackles jumping around frantically. “Stupid mudblood.”
Silence, I mentally tell him. No more Harry Potter references, and move aside so our visitor can join us on the porch.
Reluctantly, Hoax moves, giving me a sneer. “I have no plans to invite you inside,” I tell the chief, “but you’re welcome to take a seat out here—if this is a casual visit.” I pointedly look him over. The lack of uniform suggests as much.
Slowly, that lazy swagger still in
place, he climbs the last of the steps. I motion to the rocking chair, then realize the broken cup and splattered tea are still in the way.
“Excuse the mess.” I pull the chair slightly aside. “I dropped my cup right before you got here and didn’t get it cleaned up yet.” I rush inside to grab a dish towel and dustpan. Once I return, he takes the latter and bends down to sweep the remaining shards into it. Most of the tea has dissolved into the old wood planks, but I work on sopping up what’s left.
Our fingers brush and I startle, the fire in my chest flaring to life at his touch. I lose my balance and nearly fall backward. A strong hand grabs hold of my arm and steadies me.
Lifetimes pass between us as I stare into his eyes. It’s like I’m locked in; I can’t look away. The dreams that haunt me rush back and that fire in my chest burns so hot I can barely breathe.
I could’ve stayed there the rest of the night but Hoax dances behind Tristan, flapping his wings and smacking the chief. “Take your filthy hands off her.”
The spell is broken, and I catch the faint scent of vanilla and roses as Tristan’s pupils dilate.
Oh no. The Sex Magick. He must’ve gotten some on him, probably from the crime scene. No wonder he’s acting so different.
It really shouldn’t be a problem—there’s no magick per se. It’s a simple blend of natural aphrodisiacs that only acts to enhance what’s already there—attraction, desire, passion.
Right now, I see all three in his eyes.
5
My heart sinks anyway. Chief MacGregor is what we call, ‘under the influence.’ Any flirting is legitimate, but I know it’s not something he’d normally do.
I pull out of his grip. “Thank you.”
Clean-up takes another minute, me slightly out of breath and awkward. There’s too much in my head—his potential death, that of Annie and her husband, the almost full moon above us—playing havoc with my emotions.
When we’re done, he takes the rocking chair and I join him on the old straight back I salvaged and repainted. Hoax jumps into my lap and silence descends for a few moments. My chest relaxes, the burn turning to a gentle simmer.
“I want to apologize for earlier,” he says out of the blue. “I didn’t mean to put you on the defensive.”
“That usually happens when I’m accused of contributing to someone’s death.”
A slow smile, apologetic, as he rocks. “When I’m looking for answers to a crime and there aren’t any, I sort of have blinders on and follow every lead, no matter how ridiculous it seems.”
At least he’s admitting something like my blend is a ridiculous thing to kill people with.
“You really have no leads?”
“I can’t divulge or discuss specifics, but so far, there’s little to go on.”
“A friend of Annie’s said they seemingly dropped dead during sex.” I’m embarrassed to bring it up, but my curiosity is getting the best of me, and I need to know if this is just gossip or the truth. “Crazy way to die, isn’t it?”
“Filthy muggles,” Hoax squawks. Tristan eyes the bird, then me. I can see he’s not going to answer my question.
“Hoax watches Harry Potter with us,” I say by way of explanation for my familiar’s outburst. “We have a marathon once a month.”
“You and your sisters?”
I nod and shoo Hoax off my lap. He ruffles his feathers and sits on the top step, his dark bird eyes catching the light as he glares at Tristan.
“How much land do you guys own?” Tristan asks, steering the conversation. He’s only been in Raven Falls six months or so. He arrived a week after my mother’s death at Samhain.
“The Whitethornes have forty-four acres, most of it woods.” I love talking about the land. “A hot spring runs through it from the northwest. It’s been in our family for many generations.”
“Is it haunted like they claim?”
I should’ve seen it coming, this question. The locals love to talk. Unfortunately, the gossip is based on truth. The land is ‘haunted,’ but that’s putting it mildly. This whole area sits on a dark ley line, which causes all kinds of supernatural problems.
Those who don’t believe the pointed legends claim we perpetuate the myth to add ‘ambience’ to our shop and sucker people into buying protection amulets and potions. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. We are caretakers, keeping evil energies from resurfacing.
I look at Tristan and answer truthfully. “Cursed is more like it.”
One beautiful, inquisitive brow rises. “Legend says at least a dozen settlers disappeared from here in the 1600s.”
And before that, a tribe was brutally massacred—by what, no one knows. I keep this information to myself, knowing eventually he’ll hear it from someone. “Bad things have happened here,” I agree. I’m still a little confused by this visit, but he seems at ease rocking on my porch and enjoying the history lesson.
“I saw the gardens. You do all that?”
On his walk from Conjure to my place, he only saw the tip of the witch’s hat. “Yes, I enjoy it.”
“You have a green thumb like my mother.”
For some silly reason, this pleases me. I almost blurt out, “I’d love to meet her”, but that seems overly eager. “There are more around the bend.” I motion at the darkness east. “And a greenhouse.”
“I’d like to see all of it. Perhaps I can come back this weekend…you know, for a tour.”
We stare at each other a moment and my blood heats. “I’d love that.”
Does he want a tour because he wants to visit me again? Or is he suggesting it so he can investigate my plants and what I do with them?
A pulsing energy hits me right before Winter’s pale face emerges from the shadows. She stops near the porch. “Hello, Chief,” she says, startling my guest.
He pushes to his feet as if her energy is too much, his expression suddenly all business once again. “This Beltane event,” he says, “it’s on Saturday night, correct?”
I return to business mode as well. “We have all the permits from the county,” I reassure him.
“Already checked. What I mean is” —he pauses and smiles at me—“if you need any security, let me know.”
Color me surprised.
Winter snorts. “For a bunch of pagans who want to celebrate spring?” She’s unbelievably rude and I shoot her an admonishing glance.
“Thank you,” I say to Tristan.
She sends me a pinch telepathically. “The worst any of the celebrants will do is run off into the woods and have sex.”
Thank you, sister. Now I want to crawl under the table.
Tristan flashes a bigger grin at me, and I feel heat in my cheeks, no doubt reddening them. I hope he doesn’t notice. “You never know,” he says. “Rowdy people, spring fever, bonfires and alcohol. Could get crazy.”
He’s never seen the laid back, peace-loving crowd we attract.
“You should come.” Winter looks at me and winks. “We might need someone to keep those rowdy revelers in line.”
I find myself nodding. What better way for the chief to understand and accept us than see how non-threatening we are?
“Yes, come,” I insist. “I’d love—we’d love—to have you.”
He nods at me and strolls down the steps. “See you Saturday, Miss Whitethorne.”
Winter is smiling from ear to ear and offers another wink.
Saturday suddenly can’t come soon enough.
6
The next day, Autumn helps me make Bannock, a quick flatbread for the upcoming celebration. I have flower posies with primroses, lily of the valley, and sprigs of hawthorn and myrtle to finish later. Our handyman, Hale Walkingstick, is in the west pasture building the birch bonfires for the sabbat.
“What causes sudden death in someone who appears perfectly young and healthy?” I ask.
My sister opens the oven door and the air fills with the smell of butter, raisins, and currants. “Cardiac arrest, stroke, blood clots, pulmon
ary embolism, poisons…why?”
She closes the door and resets the timer for a few more minutes, her movements flowing like water. Her hair, a dark red, is perfectly combed and plaited into a braid that hangs down to her waist. Her skin is the same color as Winter’s, but she has a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that matches my own.
Although Winter assumed the cloak of being head of the household, Autumn is an older soul, and carries wisdom that exceeds the rest of us combined. She moves like our mother, thinks like her as well. Even her voice reminds me of Mom.
“Is it possible for two people to have a heart attack or stroke at the same time?” I know it’s a silly question, but I can’t find a reasonable solution to what happened, and it’s bugging me, as much as it must Tristan.
“I suppose it is, but probable? No. While real life is often stranger than fiction, as they say, this strikes me as something …supernatural.”
“Me too,” I admit. “I’m worried it could have consequences for us and maybe the chief.”
“Winter filled me in on his visit. She says it upset you.”
On so many levels. “I believe he’s in danger, and it could be soon.”
Leaning on the countertop, she sips from her teacup, her pretty eyes looking at me over the rim. “He is a police officer, comes with the territory.”
“I think he’s lived several lifetimes of violence.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “He has.” She sets down her drink and goes to her bag, slung over the back of one of our kitchen chairs. From it, she pulls out several sheets of paper and brings them to me. At the same time, Summer rushes in from the front.
She spots them and grins. “Did you do it?” she asks Autumn.
“Do what?” Before she can answer, I add, “Who’s minding the store?”
Summer waves a hand toward the door. “Winter’s out there.”
Of Potions and Portents Page 3