A Grave Spell (The Spellwork Files Book 1)

by Jenna Collett

  Zoe covered a yawn with her hand. “All right, I just wanted to check on you after last night. I’m going back to the dorms to try to make up for some of my lost sleep. The country club is closed until the police finish with their investigation, so I don’t have a shift tonight. Call me later?”

  “Of course. Let’s watch a movie or something.”

  “Fine, but I get to pick. No horror movies. A cheesy romantic comedy. I need something fluffy after what happened.”

  “Deal.”

  Zoe headed for the exit while I returned my stack of books to the shelves. I checked out the one with the old photograph of Clarke Manor—it could be worth examining it again later. There might be something I missed.

  Halfway to my car, my phone buzzed. I eagerly retrieved it from my pocket, thinking it might be a text from Ivy. I tapped the screen. It was a text, but not from my cousin. The blocked number was followed by a familiar address—one I’d just seen in the book currently stowed against my hip.

  A blast of chilly air speared through my sweater, tossing a scattering of dried leaves around my ankles. All around me, students walked by, their heads down, braced against the wind. They scrolled through their phones, completely oblivious to the supernatural undercurrent that had marked their university.

  “We’re waiting for you . . .”

  The faint words ghosted past my ears. A tingle of curiosity prickled my spine.

  I sucked down the rest of my coffee and straightened my shoulders. A little exploration couldn’t hurt. That was all I’d do. Check out the house and then head back to my dorm room to study for my midterms. Maybe take a nap before meeting up with Zoe.

  It was that or look for another job.

  Ghosts and a creepy text won.

  ***

  The dirt drive leading to Clarke Manor didn’t look any more inviting during the day than it did at night. I double-checked the address on my phone and turned slowly down the lane. My car bumped over each rut, almost bottoming out at one point. Weeds scraped alongside the doors as I tried to stay inside the worn tracks.

  About a hundred yards in, a rusted metal gate appeared, separating the end of the drive from the entrance to a looming three-storied manor. I peered through the windshield and between the metal slats, my features scrunched in horror. The place looked nothing like the photo from the history book. What had once been an architectural jewel sitting beneath stunning oak trees and swaths of hanging wisteria was now a crumbling residence with broken windows and a cracked stone staircase. The trees and vines were overgrown, almost suffocating as they blocked rays of sunlight from reaching the ground. If I didn’t get tetanus from the gate, the house would likely fall on my head, burying me beneath the rubble, and there was no one around to hear me scream.

  I put the car in park and stepped out, planting my boots in weeds so thick I couldn’t see my ankles. The crisp scent of fall invaded my senses as I waded through the brush toward the gate. Out of habit, I pressed the lock button on my key fob, and over my shoulder the car beeped. It was almost comical. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The alarm was basically a squirrel deterrent at this point.

  Iron spikes ornamented the bars of the gate, which were enclosed by a thick chain. The padlock was open, so I unwound the chain, metal clinking against metal, then pushed against the left side of the gate. The hinges screeched, sending up a flock of crows into the trees.

  “Hello?” I walked toward the house looking for any sign of habitation. Glancing up at the second story, I searched the windows for movement, noting the way the creeping vines covered a wide swath like a leafy eye patch. Someone could watch me approach from behind those twisting stalks. An icy chill penetrated my cable-knit sweater. I rubbed my arms to banish the goose bumps.

  A low hum of energy surrounded the estate, growing in intensity the closer I got to the house. It wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone else, but to a witch it felt like static shocks against my skin. The kind you feel when touching a doorknob after walking across the carpet in your socks.

  Climbing to the top of the stone steps, I cupped my hands around my face and peered through the grimy windowpanes. Inside, dust cloths draped the furniture of a small sitting room. A hearth sat cold and dark against one wall, soot blackening the brick.

  The house didn’t appear lived-in, but I took a deep breath and pounded my fist on the door just in case.

  “Hello? Is anyone home?” I pressed my ear to the door.

  When no one answered, I tried the handle, and the knob twisted easily beneath my fingers. Wrinkling my nose at the moldy air, I took my first step across the threshold.

  “I’m looking for the owner,” I shouted, my voice echoing down the empty hall.

  This was pointless. There was no one here. I’d made a big deal out of the Spellwork symbol and finding the demon mark, thinking the two were connected. As if I would waltz inside the manor and find a team of investigators huddled around a billiard table, sharing theories and sharpening pool cues.

  I wandered deeper into the house. My boots left prints in the dust coating the floor. Peeling wallpaper clung to the walls, and water stains darkened the floorboards. I gazed up at the plaster ceiling, noting the water stains there too.

  Considering the damage, the house should be condemned—and maybe it was and I’d just missed the sign. If this had ever been a gathering place for witches, it wasn’t now. Any lingering magic must be remnants from another time.

  Another century, if you ask me.

  The house wasn’t exactly a state-of-the-art headquarters with the latest magical technology, which is what one would expect. A skilled team wouldn’t be caught dead in here.

  “This is a complete waste of time,” I muttered, backtracking the way I came. But my feet slowed when I heard something rustling on the second floor. Maybe I wasn’t alone after all.

  My gaze dropped to the dust prints in the hall. Most of them were mine, a size seven-and-a-half boot with a low heel I’d picked up off the clearance rack. But not that one . . . It was a twelve men’s at least.

  Someone had been here recently. My blood chilled. Maybe he hadn’t left. If he wasn’t answering my calls, it meant he didn’t want to be found.

  I crept cautiously into an adjoining room, wincing with each creak of the floorboards. The ceiling had caved in, leaving a gaping hole above my head. Something skittered near the opening like claws against tile. I hurried to the center of the room, peering up through the hole to see if I could spot what it was. It had better not be a blasted squirrel.

  Beneath my feet, the floorboards bowed, groaning in a way that made my stomach lurch. Dark water stains had turned the wood nearly black with rot.

  It all happened so fast. The boards snapped, giving way. Terror tightened my throat as the floor buckled, sucking me down with it.

  Chapter 5

  My scream seized in my throat along with my next breath. Upon impact, the air whooshed out of me, and my shell-shocked limbs barely had a chance to cover my face from the debris raining from above.

  I’d landed on something padded enough to break my fall and keep me from shattering all the bones in my body. Still, everything hurt, and darkness filled the edges of my vision. I wavered in and out of consciousness until the throbbing in my leg finally forced the blackness away.

  A chunk of the ceiling had fallen and trapped my leg from the knee down. With the way my ankle was twisted, trying to dislodge it meant a screaming, fiery pain, and I went still, gasping, on the basement floor.

  Way to go, Elle! You’re stuck in an abandoned basement and didn’t tell anyone where you were going. Have you learned nothing from true crime podcasts?

  Evidently not.

  I sucked in a sharp breath and tried moving my leg again. I made about an inch of progress before swallowing a whimper in defeat. The same scratching sound I’d heard before drew closer, and I tensed, summoning a ball of light in my palm.

  There it was again. Light clicks on the floor like nails . . . or maybe cl
aws.

  The light in my palm caught the edge of something scurrying across the floor. It was small and covered in fur, running—no, wobbling—on short legs straight toward me. Less than a foot away it sat, stubby tail wagging, looking at me with its huge, pointy ears and pleading eyes.

  “Good boy,” I murmured, lowering my hand until the light in my palm faded. The dog stayed illuminated, giving off a translucent glow, exactly like the man I’d encountered on the road. It seemed the two of them didn’t just haunt the woods around the estate, but the house as well.

  The dog barked, and I grimaced, shifting my weight slightly.

  “I appreciate the effort, but no one can hear you. I hate to break it to you, but you're a ghost.”

  The dog cocked his head as if trying to understand my words. Apparently, he wasn’t convinced. He gave up and continued barking, certain he could play the hero.

  Oddly enough, it worked. Somewhere in the dark, a door creaked open, and footsteps pounded down a set of stairs. A flash of light appeared, similar to the one I’d held in my palm. The dog barked louder, waddling in a circle with barely contained excitement for the newcomer.

  Me? Not so much. I wanted to be rescued, but I wasn’t convinced anyone coming to my aid in a haunted house would be of the knight-in-shining-armor variety. Try axe murderer coming to add more ghosts to his collection.

  “Is she dead? That would really make a muck of things, wouldn’t it?” The mustached ghost from the night before popped his head over the opening in the ceiling and surveyed the damage. He spotted me on the floor beneath him and gave me a thumbs-up. “Oh, good for you! Not dead. We can work with that.” Clapping his hands together, he turned his attention to the dog. “Loki, settle down. You’re probably frightening the poor girl. No. No . . . don’t sniff her!”

  Loki ignored his owner and poked his snout into my shoulder. Everywhere he sniffed, a cold spot appeared on my skin. It would have been funny to be tickled by a ghost dog if I weren’t still trapped beneath a beam.

  Footsteps approached, and I turned my head, squinting from the bright light in the man’s palm. He kneeled beside me and closed his fist to dim the glow. It was enough for me to make out his features.

  I groaned in irritation. “Seriously? You again?”

  The side of his mouth tipped into a grin. “Well, that’s not exactly the hero worship I was aiming for, but I’ll take it.”

  “What are you doing here, Caden?”

  “I stopped by for brunch,” he deadpanned. “What do you think I’m doing here?” His brows pinched together as he moved toward the debris covering my leg. “I’m going to lift this piece, and I want you to try to move your leg. Can you do that?”

  I nodded, bracing for the imminent pain. Loki must have sensed my tension because the pup whined and tried nudging his nose into my side again.

  “On three.” Caden gave the count then put his weight into the beams. His shoulders strained as he lifted the debris. I used both arms to help me scoot out of the way.

  Once I was clear, Caden released the remains of the ceiling, sending up a cloud of dust.

  “Good show!” the ghost peering down from the opening shouted. “Now, so long as nothing’s broken, get the girl back up here. We’ve got work to do. Let’s go, Loki.” He gave a curt nod then vanished from sight. Loki whined, eventually turning on his hind legs and trotting off into the shadows. His eternal glow faded with him.

  “What is he talking about?” I asked, brushing plaster from my sweater. “Nope, better question. Who is he?”

  Caden ignored my rapid-fire questions. “You heard the man. Is anything broken? Let me check your leg.”

  “It’s fine. Mostly bumps and bruises. I’ll probably feel worse tomorrow,” I muttered, wincing when his fingers ran down my calf then made quick work of my boot’s laces. Gently, he pulled the boot from my foot and probed my ankle.

  “Does this hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.” He used a beam of magic for a closer inspection, the hint of a smile returning when he noticed my pointy hat and cauldron-embroidered socks.

  “These are a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

  “What? A witch can’t wear witchy socks?”

  He chuckled low in his throat, the sound doing a little something to my pulse. I jerked my foot from his grasp and made a big deal about reclaiming my boot, which I hugged to my chest, feeling a little ridiculous. Maybe I should fake a head injury. Later, while cringing over our conversation, I could blame some of my embarrassment on that.

  “Let me help you stand.” He held out his hand and wriggled his fingers when I didn’t jump at the chance for further contact. I was sure women usually vaulted at the opportunity. They wouldn’t let a silly little thing like a potential foot fracture stop them.

  When I still hesitated, he sighed. “You’re being difficult.”

  I scoffed. “Difficult? You didn’t fall through the ceiling, get rescued by a ghost dog, and then get mocked for your choice in socks. And that was just today. Don’t get me started on last night.”

  “I deserved that. Would it help if I showed you mine?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve already seen the socks that come in packs of ten. Your bulk purchase is of no interest to me.” With an expression that said, “Checkmate,” I fit my palm against his and let him tug me to my feet.

  His left hand wrapped around my waist, fingers applying pressure near my hip. The winning smile slipped from my lips as he dipped his head and murmured close to my ear, “That’s too bad. They might surprise you. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  He nudged me forward, allowing me to take the weight off my foot as we hobbled toward the staircase.

  “You never answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  Grip tightening, he helped me up the first set of steps. When we reached the landing, he answered, “Same as you. I was called here.”

  “What? No. I wasn’t called here . . .” They sent me a text.

  “So you didn’t show up expecting to find a gathering of witches?”

  “Actually, I thought I might run into my cousin. My family is a big deal in supernatural circles.” I paused our progress to give him a condescending pat on the arm. “It makes sense you wouldn’t know. We’re kind of royalty.”

  His tone was as condescending as my touch. “Oh, I didn’t realize your last name was Jennings.”

  My mood soured. Well played, sir. “It’s not.”

  We kept moving through the hall and toward another staircase leading to the second floor. My ankle throbbed, and I tried not to let it show. What I couldn’t hide, however, was my curiosity. Nothing had gone as expected. Something strange was happening, and somehow, Caden, along with a ghost and his dog, knew more than I did.

  “That must mean you know my cousin, Ivy.” I pursed my lips together before blurting out my next question. How well do you know her? Intimately? Damn, my mood is sinking faster than a Swiss cheese sailboat.

  “Why would they make a sailboat out of Swiss cheese?”

  His absurd question yanked me from my thoughts. Heat invaded my cheeks. Had I said that out loud? Jeez, Elle. Keep your nonsense on the inside. I pressed my fingers to my temple and feigned a moan.

  “Head injury. I must be confused.”

  He stopped abruptly. His fingers delved through my hair, searching for the wound. Except there was no wound, and it felt more like a scalp massage from a highly trained masseuse. I bit my lip to keep from sighing in pleasure.

  “Where did you hit your head?” he asked. His voice was a soothing rumble.

  “A little to the left . . . Yup, right there.” My eyes closed, and after a few glorious seconds, I murmured, “Don’t forget the other side too.”

  His hand dropped away. “You hit your head twice? On opposite sides?” There was a hint of amusement in his tone, and I realized he’d caught on to my ruse. I considered standing my ground to see if I could get another minute of massage then
decided it was best to let it go. Hopefully, he’d gloss over my fake head injury. If not, I’d have to add it to the list of things to cringe over later.

  We’d reached the second floor, and he steered me into a large room. The space was in much better shape than the rest of the house and lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Definitely a library. Loads of dark paneling, the faint scent of aging paper, and a cozy window nook confirmed my suspicion.

  The ghost was seated behind a huge polished desk while his dog unsuccessfully chewed a bone on the carpet. The poor thing couldn’t get a hold of it—his teeth kept sinking straight through the chew toy. It didn’t stop his enthusiasm though.

  I asked my question again, annoyed I still didn’t have an answer.

  “How do you know Ivy?”

  Caden had gone silent beside me. His stillness made me uneasy.

  The ghost looked up from a pile of scattered papers. He ran a hand over his mustache and frowned. “Well, my dear, Ivy Jennings is dead.”

  Chapter 6

  “You were supposed to ease into that news, Oscar!” Caden snapped. The force of his outburst made Loki look up from his chew toy.

  A ringing started in my ears, becoming a buzzing saw that drowned out the ensuing bickering. Ivy was dead? That wasn’t possible. Ivy had years of elite training under her belt. She was the best in her class. By age ten, they were already recording her feats in the supernatural history books. She was untouchable, destined for greatness! The literal princess of the Spellwork Organization.

  Dipping my hand into my jeans pocket, I pulled out my phone. There was a spiderwebbed crack on the screen from my fall. I ignored it and swiped to open my messages. Ivy’s name stared back at me. I scrolled through the texts I’d sent her, all marked with a read receipt. All except for the ones I’d sent two weeks ago. Those were marked unread. I hadn’t even noticed when I sent her the texts earlier this morning.