Hopper puts the truck into gear. “After that, do you want to get an early dinner?”
Shyness swamps me again. I shoot him a glance. “I would love to.”
5
The Fontaine house is a mansion.
It even has a wrought iron fence around the outside of the property, and as Hopper drives onto the grounds, a prickling sensation covers my skin. It feels like a thousand cold needles poking me.
A magickal ward. Immediately, I wonder who put it up and what they’re trying to keep out.
On the way over, I looked up Mariel’s obituary on my phone. Hopper is correct—she was sixty-three when she passed. In the picture with the obit, she looks to be in her thirties.
I’m the first to use rose water, rose quartz, and mookaite jasper to keep my looks as wrinkle-free as possible, but Mariel must’ve tapped into the fountain of youth.
As we cruise down the long drive, I’m slightly surprised to see the gate open. I admire the beautiful plantings on both sides of the lane and think how much Spring would love this. The roses are in full bloom, and there are lush, green plants interspersed between the bushes.
The drive curves in an arch in front of the grand two-story brick home, complete with four large white pillars. The porch is several feet off the ground with a wide sweeping staircase. There are more flowers and plants around the foundation, and concrete planters filled with overflowing ferns and white geraniums lining the steps.
I recognize a few of the plants along the foundation—foxglove, wolfsbane, belladonna, and some nightshade. Those are strong magick in and of themselves.
Maybe that’s what I was picking up on in the vision—Mariel was a witch.
Two cars are parked at the foot of the grand staircase, one with a magnetic sign on the side stating it belongs to Holly Dunn, real estate agent. The second, a gold colored Mercedes Benz, is parked several feet behind it.
In the middle of the big oval drive is a water fountain with a naked cherub in the center, pouring water from an urn over his shoulder.
The landscaping alone probably costs more than our entire shop. Hopper pulls behind the Mercedes and parks. “Looks like the house is open for a tour. Wanna have a look?”
“The potential buyers might not like us crashing their party,” I say, then grin. “Let’s do it.”
This could be my one chance to figure out if something doesn’t add up in Mariel’s death. Hopefully, I can sense whatever I felt when I held the necklace. There is still the hint of something from it telling me there’s more to it than what people believe.
Between the wards and the assortment of magickal herbs and flowers, I’m guessing she was definitely into magick.
If I can get inside and touch something that belonged to her, I might get another hit. The problem is, it could also knock me out like her necklace did. I’ll have to be extra careful.
“We need a cover,” Hopper says, “and we better hope the realtor doesn’t recognize us.”
“I’ve never heard of her, so I doubt she’s one of our clients.”
“I don’t know her either,” he says. “We’ll pretend we’re from out of town, just a couple interested in the house.”
A couple? “Works for me.”
We exchange a conspiratorial smile and bail from the truck. As we climb the steps the prickling sensation grows, and I lower my voice. “All I really need is to pick up the energy in the house, maybe get close to her bedroom. I may not even need to touch anything, and I don’t want to pass out on you like I did earlier.”
“How about you don’t touch anything at all? This is simply a scouting expedition to see what we can find out, okay?”
He’s right to be conservative. “Good call. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets.”
“I’d appreciate that. You scared the devil out of me earlier. I don’t need a repeat.”
I don’t either. But I can feel a tug at my own magick, like Mariel urging me on.
We stop at the door and look at each other. “Should we ring the doorbell or just walk in?” Hopper asks.
“Beats me. If we’re crashing, we might as well do it up right. Let’s walk in and see what happens. As big as this place is, we may get in and out before anyone even notices.”
He grins. “I like the way you operate.”
The house is quiet, cavernous. Every light is on. The air is cooler than outside, but still oppressively humid.
The entry itself seems to go on for a mile, two large winding staircases that meet overhead, multiple chandeliers and two large rooms are on each side. Most of the furniture is gone and the walls look bare without any photos or paintings. I hear muffled voices in a distant wing, but they’re too far away to understand.
The warding is stronger, but I see very few items suggesting a witch lived here. There are no obviously magickal items on display. Perhaps they were sold.
We glance in the various rooms—formal living room, dining room, guest bathroom—then Hopper points a finger at the stairs. Understanding his nonverbal cue, I follow him. Mariel’s bedroom is probably on the second floor.
The stairs are thickly carpeted, the wood handrailing stained a rich walnut. Hopper takes the lead, climbing carefully, as though expecting them to creak and give us away.
I sort of feel like a kid sneaking around as we come to the top of the stairs and the second-floor landing. There are multiple bedrooms, a study, and a huge library. I could spend hours in the last, even though it looks like someone has helped themselves to certain sections and removed several collections. Maybe some were sold like the titles Hopper bought.
I’m eyeing a beautiful globe by the desk and a telescope by the window when he makes a psst noise.
At the end of the hall, he leads me into a large bedroom suite. There’s still plenty of furniture here, including a four-poster bed, dressing table, and two Queen Anne chairs in front of a fireplace.
There’s an elegant standing mirror in one corner, a reading nook in the other. A comfortable chair in the reading area has an ornate side table with three books on it, the top edition open with a bookmark lying inside. A blanket is draped over the arm of the chair, as if the owner is about to return any moment, kick her feet up onto the stool and resume her place.
I peruse it and note the subject is the Salem witch trials. Interesting. I drop to my knees and check under the bed and am rewarded for my efforts. A large circle with various protection sigils is drawn on the floorboards.
Mariel knew she was in danger. She was trying to protect herself, but from whom or what?
Hopper watches me carefully. I rise and he gives me a questioning look. “Are you getting anything?” he whispers.
I want to touch that circle, but it’s infused with very strong magick, and I’d probably pass out. I survey the room for something less strong. “A little,” I tell him.
I step closer to the dressing table and admire a silver brush and a hand mirror. There’s a collection of perfume bottles and a framed photograph of a young Mariel in sepia tones. Funny, because the format suggests it was taken in the nineteen twenties or thirties. Maybe its her grandmother. If so, she’s nearly her clone.
The only other explanation is Mariel’s protection spells were keeping old age away as well.
A writing desk near the window has more photos. Babies, none over the age of a year. Her obituary mentioned she and her husband, Kaan, lost three infant children.
I feel a sharp pain in my chest, seeing their faces, and tears well in my eyes and my hand goes to my heart. I want a child so badly, it’s as if I can feel her pain echoing within these walls. Grief for her, as well as the babies who didn’t get to grow up, drills its way into my soul.
A warm hand on my shoulder brings me out of my emotional hole. I find Hopper standing next to me, concern edging his features. “Are you okay?”
Swallowing down the sorrow and blinking the tears from my eyes, I give him a curt nod. I turn from the desk and the sad pictures and draw a ragged breath.
/>
As promised, I keep my hands in my pockets and simply try to pick up the energy in the room. Several of the walls are covered with beautiful floral wallpaper, and the bedspread and curtains are of the highest quality. Mariel liked beauty and comfort, and the room is definitely feminine, even though her obituary said her husband was still alive. Did he sleep here or in a separate bedroom?
My attention is drawn to the garden outside the window as a bird flies by. I see Greek statues, hedgerows, and more plants and herbs.
Everything radiates out from a center section that contains a wide stone table. Someone has placed planters with ferns and trailing vines on each end. As I study the layout, it’s obvious there are five apple trees planted at hexagonal angles surrounding the table. An altar?
I close my eyes and ask her spirit to direct me to anything I need to know or investigate. When I open them, I look to the left and feel my feet propelled toward the double closet doors.
Opening them, I have to flip on the light to see inside the room that’s nearly as big as my entire cabin. There are two overhead chandeliers, beautiful shelves filled with designer shoes and handbags everywhere. Racks of expensive clothes. Another full-length mirror, and several upholstered stools. Again, extremely feminine, not a hint of a male presence.
Everything appears to be in its place, nothing moved or missing, and once again I wonder why this stuff wasn’t included in the estate sale. She has no children to benefit from the items and there was no mention of extended family, such as a sister who might make use of it. Perhaps her husband simply can’t part with the items yet. Her passing was only a week ago.
Across from the mirror, I notice a large picture draped with a silk cloth covering whatever’s underneath. Lifting one corner, I see an oil painting, but it’s difficult to see the details. As if he can read my mind, Hopper joins me and reaches to the top to draw the silk aside.
For a moment, we’re both speechless, then he says, “Yikes. That’s not too creepy.”
Wow is right. The oil painting is of a naked woman lying on a raised altar, a man in a robe standing over her. A shudder of knowing goes over me.
“Is that…?” Hopper tilts his head to look closer at the woman’s face.
“Yes,” I say, “and that altar is in the garden.”
“Altar?” He clears his throat. “The guy is holding a knife.”
It’s a ceremonial athame and a shiver runs over my skin. I have a feeling the man in the picture is Kaan Fontaine, and even with the hood, I’m sure he’s the man in my vision.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Before Hopper can replace the cloth, a deep and sinister voice asks, “What are you doing in here?”
6
The voice belongs to a man blocking our escape. He’s a distinguished looking older gentleman with silver streaks in his dark hair and goatee. His eyes are obsidian flakes, hard and glinting. Although he’s just under six foot, he carries the confident stature of someone bigger.
Kaan Fontaine.
Startled, Hopper, who froze in the act of fixing the silk cloth, jerks back. This causes the entire cover to fall to the floor at our feet. “Oopsy,” he says softly.
A woman appears behind Mr. Fontaine and gives a disconcerted gasp when she sees the portrait.
“I’m so sorry.” I step forward to shield Hopper as best as I can. Fontaine is definitely a man of magick—black magick. It oozes off him and creeps its way toward me.
He’s not even trying to hide it, quite honestly. He reminds me of a stereotypical magician—the kind that performs stage tricks with that goatee and haughty look.
“My husband and I came from Eugene to visit friends,” I tell them. “They said this place was for sale, and since we have a love for old Victorian mansions, I begged Big Daddy here to bring me by so I could see it. Someone mentioned there was going to be an open house later today, but when we saw the gates open and your cars parked outside, we thought we’d just stop in. Unfortunately, we have to leave town today, and can’t make the open house. I hope you understand.”
I’m babbling, but I suck at lying and this is what happens. Seeing the expressions on both of their faces, I press my lips together and send a protective bubble over both me and Hopper.
“Are you interested in buying?” The realtor, Holly, glances back and forth between us.
Fontaine studies us, too, but I can see he doesn’t believe my little story.
Before I can answer, Hopper grabs my hand—not by the palm, but the fingers—and brings my knuckles to his lips, giving them a little kiss. “We’re always in the market for these old places. They have such character.” He lies easily, drawing me beside him toward the door. “Not sure I want to live in such a small town. But the little lady likes the quaint atmosphere.”
I almost want to laugh because this little lady is about to get Hopper in a lot of trouble.
Electricity pops and sizzles in the air. I wonder if I’m the only one who feels it. When I glance at Hopper, I realize he and Fontaine are locked in some kind of male domination thing, staring each other down.
I fake a smile. “It really is a stunning house,” I say, “but I think it’s a little big for us.”
I push Hopper toward the exit, hoping our intruders let us pass. “We best be going, Big Daddy.”
Holly graciously steps out of the way, but Fontaine doesn’t. Before I can skirt him, he holds out a hand. “I’m the owner, Kaan Fontaine. I didn’t catch your name.”
Not only do I intend to never give it to him, I also won’t shake hands with him.
I put my hand over my mouth and cough. “Sorry, I have a cold. Very contagious.”
Once more, I try to edge around him but he’s not having it. “If you’d like a tour, I’d be happy to show you the rest of the house myself.”
Hopper reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. “Not necessary. We have to get going.”
I could be mistaken, but I swear Hopper gives Kaan a little physical encouragement. At the same time, he guides me out of the closet. We make haste to the bedroom door, but before we get more than a few feet, Holly holds out a card, following on our heels. “Please reach out if you decide you’d like to make an offer.”
Hopper takes it, so I don’t have to—good man—and we take the hallway toward the stairs. I feel those obsidian eyes on my back, and I give a little push with my magick to let Mr. Fontaine know I have no interest in playing games with him.
As we hustle down the stairs, however, I feel like I have a target on me.
I hear his thoughts in the back of my mind. I know who you are, little witch.
Hopper and I can’t get outside fast enough, and I’m sweating by the time we jump in his truck. The heat inside is even worse, suffocating, and as soon as he turns the key, the air conditioning kicks in, sending a wave of more hot air over my skin.
I feel slightly dizzy until I reinforce my bubble. The sensation of Kaan’s black magick slides off me. It’s unnervingly akin to what I feel when I pick up my mother’s vintage hand mirror.
“Well, that was interesting,” Hopper says as we barrel down the drive.
The prickly sensation of the ward is icy hot on my skin, but it falls away the moment we cross the property line onto the street. It’s only then that I breathe a sigh of relief.
The now cooler air caresses me. In my mind’s eye, I imagine flooding the truck with white light, extending my bubble of protection as far as I can. I can’t wait to get to the shop and run selenite through my aura.
“How are you doing, Little Lady?”
I look over to see Hopper grinning. I feel nearly normal, simply from his smile. “Just fine, Big Daddy.”
We both break out laughing, releasing pent up energy.
“You’re good,” he says. “Quick on your feet. Now I know who to call next time I need a partner in crime.”
“Mr. Fontaine didn’t believe a word I said. You may want to rethink that.”
Hopper shrugs and gives a
nother laugh. “So, what do you think happened to Mariel? Any clue?”
Remembering the feel of Kaan’s eyes, I shudder. “Black magick.”
“Seriously? Is that what killed her?”
“I can’t say for sure, but it’s possible. I have an idea—maybe we can discuss it over dinner?”
He heads downtown. “I’m at your service. What’s your favorite place?”
We end up at the best joint in town. Over gigantic slices of cheese pizza and bucket sodas, I ask him about the estate sale and what else he bought.
“A mid-century telephone table, a couple chairs, and the two boxes of jewelry. Those books for Spring, and some for me. I like to read weird things, like myths and legends.”
“Do you still have all the jewelry?”
He nods and swallows a mouthful of pizza. “I have to inventory it before I can put it in the store.”
Perfect. It’s risky, but I might be able to get some answers to my questions. “Mind if I take a look at it after we’re done here?”
“Not at all.” He eyes me speculatively. “You’re not scared about…you know…the black magick? Curses or hexes or whatever that dude is into?”
“I’d be an idiot not to be, but if he caused Mariel’s death, I need to prove it.”
“What can you do about it? It’s not like you can report him to Chief MacGregor, right?”
Tristan knows there have been other deaths in Raven Falls that are the result of magick. Explaining that to Hopper is for another day. “One step at a time, Big Daddy,” I tease. “One step at a time.”
We eat in companionable silence for the next several minutes. “I’m sorry you had to be away from your shop all day,” I tell him.
“No worries. I was supposed to film a segment for my Hopping Antiques channel, but I can do it later.”
Hopper’s found a niche with people online who enjoy antiquing and finding rare pieces. He’s quite knowledgeable about mid-century items, and he tells me it’s a hot market right now for them. “What’s the segment on?” I ask.
Of Curses and Charms Page 4