Midlife Curses: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Mystery (Witching Hour Book 1)

by Christine Zane Thomas

  “Mr. Whiskers,” I said, remembering the cat’s name. “There’s no way she killed him. She loved that cat. She loved her familiar. I remember.”

  “Mr. Whiskers,” Stevie repeated. “He hated that name.”

  “And Serena always wanted him to be an owl.”

  “Mom would never have—”

  “Nine out of ten times, isn’t it the husband who kills the wife?” Stevie, still on edge, glared at me.

  I didn’t care. I knew there was no way my mother had betrayed Mr. Whiskers. There had to be another explanation why she’d join an order like this.

  “So, that’s it?” I asked. “That’s the story? She joined this order—”

  “Faction,” Gran corrected.

  I shook my head. “Okay. She joined the Faction and was never heard from again.”

  “That about sums it up,” Gran said.

  I preferred the plane crash. At least it had given me closure.

  Gran got up and made eggs. While she hadn’t given me much more, it was enough to solidify my decision about Creel Creek. Not only was I going to stay and come into my magic, I was going to find out everything I could about the Faction.

  12

  In Witch I Meet My Familiar

  The rest of the day crawled by. I spent it with Gran. First up, The Price Is Right, then reruns of Jessica Fletcher, and by late afternoon when Judge Judy slammed down her gavel, it was a relief. Gran watched her nighttime dramas while I cooked dinner.

  There was no way I could take this for two days in a row. So, when I woke the next morning, I resolved to accomplish something.

  With no word from Trish or anyone about the grocery, I assumed my usual morning shift was canceled. Nothing about the murder on the news or the paper’s Facebook page. Disappointed the killer was still on the loose, I pondered what I should do with my morning. I wasn’t going to wake up Gran two days in a row, so I opted to get out of the house—and also get out of my head.

  I know most runners use their morning jogs for introspection. Not me—the act of running taxes my mental facilities as much as it does my knees and hip joints. I have to concentrate on breathing while my heart screams at the exertion.

  Quickly, I changed into a pair of shorts, an old tank top, and an even older pair of sneakers. I stretched, then limbered up with a few drills. I looped through the subdivision on my way to the clay road running between the neighborhood and the cemetery.

  The road circled the cemetery and met the highway. I continued down the shoulder, picking up the pace as the road straightened coming into town. I was constantly using mental tricks on myself, lying, telling my body I would stop at the next intersection or that I’d turn around when I’d gone a mile.

  I made it all the way to the Creel Creek Welcomes You sign before I had to stop and come up for air.

  I laced my fingers together and put them behind my head like track stars do after a hard run. It didn’t help. I fought the urge to hunch like Quasimodo and suck wind.

  Lactic acid had already built up in my quads.

  There was no way I had enough energy in the tank to trudge home. This was why running and I didn’t get along. It’s not therapeutic, not in the way Runner’s World makes it out to be. It’s more like a deep tissue massage from one of those chairs at the mall.

  And it got worse. The famous fog rolled in with the rising sun and was knee deep already. While I was internally complaining about the fog, I noticed something strange.

  A little side road leading to a park, and on the other side of the park, a library.

  I’d driven past that spot dozens of times, and all I’d ever seen was a hill and some trees. Well, it was still a hill and some trees, but now they were enclosed by a wrought iron fence with a gate that teetered on the border between ornate and sinister. The frightening if over-embellished gate opened to a path much too gravelly for running. Under the trees, I spied a rusty swing set, though the chains and the seats dangling from it looked new.

  I took the path at moderate pace, hoping to prevent my legs from getting stiff.

  Something rustled under a nearby tree, startling me. I laughed at myself when I realized it was just a squirrel.

  Why does that squirrel look so judgy? Then the penny dropped. A familiar… my familiar. It has to be.

  After all, I was finally clear about this whole witch thing. I’d come not only to accept it, but to appreciate the possibilities. I was going to find out about my mother—what really happened to her.

  “Hello, little guy.”

  He straightened, the way squirrels do before deciding whether to bolt all the way across a road when a car is coming or if they should stop in front of it. He bolted, zigzagging across the path and up a tree.

  “Talking to strange animals?” The voice came from all around me, low and resonant, like Stevie’s. “You must have bigger problems than I thought. And those were bad—a dead vampire, your only friend is a witch you don’t trust who reveres your grandmother—who also happens to be a witch you don’t trust.”

  I whipped around, searching for the voice’s owner. There were no squirrels, no cats. I scanned the trees for that owl I kept hearing. But the branches were empty.

  Then a set of ears emerged from behind a stump ringed with oyster mushrooms. I craned my neck to get a better look at what surely was my familiar.

  Another woodland creature—not a squirrel—regarded me.

  A raccoon. It climbed onto the stump, pulling itself with paws that looked very much like hands. It sat down, crossing one foot over the other like a human woman sitting down in a chair.

  “You’ve been watching me this whole time,” I accused.

  “Define whole time.”

  “For several days.”

  “Oh. Then, yes.”

  “And I wasn’t talking to the squirrel,” I said. “I saw it there and thought it must be… I thought it must be you.”

  “Me?” the raccoon scoffed. “That repugnant little thing? Heavens, no.”

  The squirrel chittered at us from a branch overhead.

  The raccoon trilled and shook his fist. The squirrel decided retreat was in order and disappeared.

  “You know,” he said, “you never so much as looked in my direction when I was watching you, so I thought I’d better introduce myself.”

  “Okay, introduce yourself. I’m Constance, but you already knew that.”

  “And my name is unpronounceable by a human voice. So, you got one for me, or do we need to choose?”

  “I, uh, I didn’t know I’d have to name you.”

  “Honestly, it’s not rocket science,” my familiar boomed. “That is an expression that you humans still use, right?”

  “It is,” I said. But I knew his name now.

  I have an affinity for Rocket Raccoon from Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy. But Rocket was too on the nose.

  “Brad,” I said, envisioning the gorgeous actor who voices him. “You’re Brad.”

  “Brad.” My familiar smiled the way all pets do when they’re happy or dehydrated. “I like it. I like it a lot. This body though, it’s a bit different. I can’t believe you thought I’d be a—”

  “You’re really going to criticize squirrels? You?” I said.

  “Why? He looked down. “Wait—what is it? What am I?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I’m not that up on Earthly species. And honestly, I thought this was what you wanted me to be.”

  “What I wanted?” I was flabbergasted.

  Why on Earth would my familiar think I wanted a trash panda?

  “How would you know what I wanted?”

  “The other—the cat you talked to last night—it told you we can read minds, correct?”

  “He did. But—but I never pictured you as a raccoon. I only—”

  “You pictured things you didn’t want me to be. I had to do some digging. Deep in the recesses of your mind, I found this, and I thought—”

  “You went digg
ing?” I was appalled. “But Stevie said you could only see what I was thinking.”

  “No, Stevie—I’m guessing that’s your grandmother’s familiar—said vampires could only see what you were thinking. You assumed the same was true of familiars, but they never said any such thing. This Stevie, I think I knew him by a different name upstairs.”

  “You knew him?”

  “It was a long time ago in a realm far, far away. I thought they were fools for coming to Earth. Now look at me, I’m on Earth and I’m a… trash panda? Is that what you called it?”

  “Raccoon,” I corrected.

  “No, I’m pretty sure you thought trash panda.”

  He was right, I had thought it.

  But Brad was adorable, though all raccoons are cute when they’re not knocking over trash cans. A little plump around the middle, his eyes were beady and black and inside the mask. His whiskers were long and catlike.

  “Wait,” I said. “Do you mean this is your first time on Earth? And your first time as a familiar?” I shouldn’t’ve sounded so horrified, but that’s how it came out.

  I’d probably offended him. To think, this was the being I was meant to spend the rest of my life with.

  “Correct.” The raccoon scratched its chin thoughtfully, more human than animal.

  In the few days I’d known about Stevie, the only humanlike trait he’d shown was talking. Otherwise, he seemed like an ordinary cat. He used a litter box, for heaven’s sake.

  “Wait, Stevie said that familiars were fallen angels—neutrals in heaven’s war.”

  “Did he not explain that the war between heaven and hell rages even today?”

  I shook my head.

  “If things were all hunky-dory up there, do you think things down here would be what they are? God left this place to its own devices eons ago. I thought that much was obvious.”

  “Well, when you say it like that,” I said. “But why now? I mean, why’d you leave?”

  “I was tired of being a soldier. Tired of being used.”

  “And this is better?” I wasn’t so sure. “You’re trapped in the body of a raccoon.”

  “Well, I didn’t know I’d be a raccoon, now did I?” Brad snarled. “I’m sure the next girl will have better taste in movies.”

  “It’s not entirely my fault,” I protested. “I didn’t ask for you to be a raccoon. I was kind of hoping for a dog. But you went digging without an invitation and wandered into my memories of Guardians of the Galaxy.”

  “Guardians of what?”

  “The galaxy.” I sighed. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a movie. Have you heard of movies?”

  “We’re familiar with your culture, yes.” He leaped down from the stump. “Now, let’s get home. I’m starving. Names, shelter, food—all your department, my dear witch,” he announced. “Remember, to the outside world I have to look like a pet.”

  “To the outside world you’re a nuisance,” I said. “I can’t exactly take you to Home Depot. Are you sure you can’t change into a dog?”

  “As much as I’d like to, no. This is my form.”

  “Shame.”

  I got on my feet and discovered my legs were stiff and sore. There was no way I was going to be running home. It was going to be a long walk. The raccoon followed.

  “Don’t do that,” I said.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Walk on your hind legs,” I scolded. “It’s creepy. Raccoons don’t walk like that for very long.”

  “Understood.” He trotted awkwardly, front paws, then back. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Yes,” I said, stopping abruptly. “Humans don’t usually associate with raccoons. So being seen with you right now is probably not such a good thing.”

  And there were definitely humans headed our way.

  A pearl-white minivan eased into the gravel parking lot, tires crunching, and rolled to a stop.

  Brad was gone. When I saw who was getting out of the van, part of me wished I could disappear, too.

  13

  In Witch I Meet the Family

  Three young girls emerged from the van and raced for the swing set.

  “I want the good swing,” the smallest of the three yelled.

  “No, I get it,” the middle girl proclaimed. “Dad said I could, in the car!”

  “I said no such thing.”

  Sheriff Dave Marsters still had his mustache and his smile. But he wasn’t wearing his ball cap or uniform. He nodded in my direction.

  The girls swooshed by me, sprinting down the path without giving me so much as a look. The tallest, and probably oldest, of the girls was first to the swings. She hopped on what I assumed to be the “good swing.”

  “No fair!” the youngest pouted. “You always get it.”

  “Not always.” The middle girl took another swing. This one was higher off the ground than the other, probably too tall for the smallest girl anyway.

  “You only get it when I let you win,” the older girl said.

  They both shuffled back and let go at almost the same time, beginning to pump. The littlest waited on Dad.

  But Dave stopped at the gate holding two frisbees and a soccer ball and gave me a once over. I more than probably looked a mess, sweaty and in my ratty running attire.

  “You went for a run this morning?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I joked. “I just found this place.”

  “I’m impressed. This is quite a ways from your grandma’s place, isn’t it?”

  “That it is,” I said. “I was actually about to head back now.”

  “Oh, don’t run off on our account,” he said cheerfully. “They’re friendly when they aren’t so preoccupied. One-track minds—it’s all about the good swing. And I see Allie got it.”

  “Allie,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “Elsie’s in the middle, and the little one is Kacie. And yes, there’s a bit of a theme with the naming. You can meet them, if you like. Kacie’s going to be mad if I don’t get there soon.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “No, no. I do all the stopping around these parts.” He winked.

  I should’ve been offended, but it was a good joke.

  I did a quick scan for Brad, didn’t see him, and gave the girls on the swings one last look. They were cuties. But he was right, the little one, Kacie, had her arms crossed. She was ready for a push from Dad.

  “I’ve got to get going,” I said. “I’ve already let my legs stiffen up enough. As it is, the next couple of miles are going to be a challenge. And I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Next couple of miles?” He scrunched his face. His mustache twisted into the shape of an M. “Your grandma’s place has to be five miles from here.”

  Five miles? It had felt like a long way, but not that long. If I ran back I’d be doing close to a half marathon today, something I’d only done once, when I turned thirty. And that was after months and months of training.

  “Come on. It won’t be an intrusion,” he reassured me. “And I’d be happy to drop you off. Actually, I need to pay a visit to your grandmother anyway—in a more professional capacity.”

  “About the…”

  “About the murder, yeah.”

  Dave had been inching down the path, and without really noticing it, I’d kept up. We were almost two-thirds of the way to the swings.

  “Come on,” he said again. “Meet the girls. Just don’t talk about the M-U-R-D-E-R.”

  “I know how to spell, Dad,” the oldest girl, Allie, said.

  “I do too!” Elsie whispered to her sister. “What did he spell?”

  “Murder,” Allie whispered back.

  “What’s murder?”

  “Push me.” Kacie flailed her arms in her father’s direction. “Daddy, you took too long.”

  “I’m sorry,” the sheriff soothed. “Girls, I want y’all to meet my friend, Constance. She works at the grocery.”

  “Where there was a murder,” Allie blurted.


  “What’s a murder?” Elsie asked.

  “It’s—it’s nothing y’all need to worry about. Police business. What do we say about police business?”

  “It’s for you to know, and us not to,” Kacie recited promptly.

  Dave joined his daughter at the swings, and soon, she was flying as high as her sisters.

  “That’s right. It’s for me to know.”

  “But you tell us about Mr. Palicki all the time,” Elsie countered.

  Her dad just shook his head. “That’s because Mr. Palicki doesn’t hurt anyone but himself.” To me, he said, “Town drunk. We took his driver’s license away years ago, but I can’t get it through his head that bicycling while intoxicated is also a crime.”

  “You said he needs training wheels like me,” Elsie giggled. “Except I don’t need them anymore. You’re just being over… overprotective.”

  “No,” Dave sighed. “I just haven’t had the time to take them off. I will. I promise.”

  “Miss,” Elsie said, “will you push me?”

  “Her name is Constance. And she doesn’t have to push you. You’re six years old and you can do it yourself.”

  “But I can’t go as high as Allie,” she protested. “Not without a boost.”

  “Do you mind?” Dave asked, unsure.

  I remembered Trish saying he hadn’t dated since his wife passed. These three were the reasons why. They were good reasons.

  I smiled. “I’ll push you—as long as you don’t mind going over the bar!”

  “No way!” Elsie exclaimed. “Allie says she saw someone go over the bar, and it made his skin come off.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “What’s not true?” Dave asked. “That you said it or that his skin came off?”

  “It was just a fib, Daddy. Elsie shouldn’t be so gullible.”

  “What does gullible mean?” Elsie asked.

  “You’re not supposed to fib!” Kacie proclaimed, smugly content since her dad started pushing her.

  “That’s true,” the sheriff agreed. “But we all do from time to time. I’m pretty sure I heard a few tall tales the other day.”