Wisteria Wyverns (Wisteria Witches Mysteries Book 5)

by Angela Pepper

  She breathed heavily into the phone. “Do you think I’m a daughter of Dinara? Do you think I’m doomed to spend my whole life thinking about things and getting worry lines while everyone else is having fun?”

  “It’s just a story,” I said. “Just a very old story, told by a kooky old lady who spends her days cutting hair.”

  We talked for a while longer, and I tried to cheer Zoey up, but she was uncheerable.

  When it was time for me to meet my mother for lunch, I took the stairwell down, and then, instead of walking through the crowded public areas and triggering my residual introversion tendencies, I continued down to the basement level. I knew of a shortcut to the dining rooms. Given that I’d never taken the shortcut before, I had to assume the knowledge was courtesy of Jo Pressman. Did she just want to get to the dining room quickly, or did she want to show me something? Spirits work in circuitous ways, the darn enigmatic things.

  I reached a locked door marked Staff Only. Jo’s shortcut knowledge didn’t come with a set of keys, but I did have my magic. While I used telekinetic energy to twist the handle open from the opposite side, I thought of the locked door that had recently appeared in my wacky change-o-matic house. What surprises could be waiting for me on the other side? Or what horrors?

  I was daydreaming about a dedicated crafting room in which to start crafting when I pushed open the door and was startled to find Chet Moore—or maybe it was his lookalike—standing in a small chamber that, by the labels on the stacks of cardboard boxes along the wall, was used for the storage of Christmas decorations.

  “Hello,” I said cautiously. Which one was he?

  He smiled as though truly happy to see me and not just annoyed.

  It was Archer.

  Chapter 22

  Archer Caine gave me a friendly, flirty look. He tilted his head and checked out my bare legs.

  “Nice legs,” he said. “Even nicer without all the indentations from the carpet.”

  I pointed my toes together and giggled. “My friend loaned me these clothes.” I tugged at the shorts—not that it made them any longer. “I didn’t plan to spend several days at a luxury resort dressed like a summer camp counselor.”

  “Regardless, you bring some much-needed fresh blood to this place.”

  “Fresh blood?”

  His face froze for a second. “I meant to say fresh air.” He turned toward the stacks of cardboard boxes, breaking eye contact. “How’s your buddy doing?”

  “My buddy?” I replayed bits of our early-morning conversation. I’d referred to my mother as my roommate. “Do you mean my roomie?”

  “No. Your buddy the ice machine,” he said with a chuckle. “You two were cuddled up pretty tight last night.”

  I leaned back against the door I’d come through and pressed my palms against the door behind my butt. I pushed my butt back on my hands with body language that was unfamiliar to me, Zara Riddle, but very familiar to Jo Pressman. This was her flirty stance, with the toes pointed together shyly combined with weird hip rocking that suggested something between dancing to a favorite song and needing to find a restroom. How was this attractive? It didn’t seem very cute to me, but it was working a magic of some kind. Archer was watching my movements out of the corner of his eye.

  “Oh, that ice machine,” I said. “We’re not exclusive, just FYI.” The not-exclusive line had come from Jo, who was never asleep when there was an opportunity for flirting. She made my shoulder bob, so that my whole body was an undulating twist of girlish awkwardness. “Not exclusive at all.”

  “You’re seeing other ice machines?”

  “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “Are things getting serious with any of these ice machines?”

  “I wouldn’t say we’re hot and heavy or anything. Well, heavy, but not hot. Because of the ice.”

  Archer continued grinning as he scratched the back of his head in his own gesture of awkwardness.

  “Good to know,” he said, and then he repeated the words one at a time. “Good. To. Know.”

  My palms were so sweaty now, they were slipping down the door behind me. I adjusted them up, and they squeaked. Had Archer heard that?

  “These doors are metal,” I said. “That’s for fire code safety.” The words came from my resident spirit.

  “I figured as much,” he said, giving me a wary look.

  “You’ll notice it’s painted blue,” I said. “Red is for doors that lead to publicly accessible areas of the castle, whereas blue is for staff-only spaces. Some doors are blue on both sides, and some doors are two-colored, but no doors are entirely red.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  No, but Jo was. “Absolutely. I checked all the doors on my first week here, and none of them are red on both sides. Guests aren’t supposed to see red doors.”

  Archer furrowed his brow and scratched the back of his head again. “This conversation is feeling very familiar.”

  “Did you know that girl who died? She’s the one who told me about the doors. Maybe she told you, too.”

  The storage room got very quiet. For a moment, it seemed like neither of us was breathing. Archer turned toward me slowly, holding eye contact and not blinking. His eyes were just as green and transfixing as Chet’s. Who was he, really? And since when had I gotten so confident in my witch powers that I questioned mysterious strangers about murder cases inside basement storage rooms?

  “I knew her,” he said coolly. “And before you ask, I’ll just tell you. I knew her in exactly the way you’re thinking.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking? Do you read minds?”

  He maintained steady eye contact. “I know how it sounds. A pretty girl working at a hotel. A lonely male guest looking for a place to belong, even if it’s only for a short while.”

  “And did she give you a sense of belonging?”

  He blinked once. A very deliberate blink. “She was a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  I listened inside myself for a reaction from Jo. She’d gone very quiet. If the double standing in front of her had harmed her in some way, I would have expected some sort of reaction. But then again, ghosts are often steeping in denial. They don’t know they’re dead, so they have to block out the details about how they died, or somehow carry on with the cognitive dissonance.

  He broke eye contact and turned toward the stack of cardboard boxes again. He rested his hand on top of the most dented of the boxes. It was labeled “tree lights, multicolored,” and the box looked like it had been through some sort of battle.

  I asked, “Why are you down here in this storage room?”

  Without turning his head toward me, he volleyed back, “Why are you?”

  “I’m taking a shortcut. You seem to be hanging out. Are you in need of multicolored tree lights or something?”

  “Just remembering something,” he said. “The last time I was happy.”

  I walked up behind him and looked at the top of the box. In a rush, Jo Pressman’s memory came flooding back. It must have been seeing the box and being inside the room, combined with the scent of Archer’s skin. Her memory became mine, and it was me that day, sitting atop the stack of boxes. Archer’s strong hands impatiently ripping the buttons off my staff-issued Castle Wyvern blouse. His lips on my neck, his teeth on my earlobe, biting gently. Then his bare chest in the cool basement air, and the tendons in his neck straining with his effort to restrain himself.

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. There was only my skin, aching for his touch. I was on fire for him, and he was fire itself. He was burning and bright and shone through me until I was glowing and multicolored, brighter than any tree lights.

  He was moving again, turning toward me.

  I was no longer sitting on the boxes with my bare arms and legs wrapped around him. I was no longer Jo Pressman. I was me again, standing behind Archer Caine, practically vibrating with pent-up feelings. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck
, and it was all me. Just me.

  “Breathe,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” I took a step back, pulling away from his heat. I felt myself glowing red hot, like a coal pulled from the fire. “You don’t know me.”

  He quirked one dark eyebrow. “I don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me in, Zara. Let me get to know you.”

  I jerked my head to look at the dented boxes. “Like you got to know Josephine Pressman? With your grabby hands all over her on that stack of boxes?”

  “How do you know about that? Did she tell you?”

  I turned back to look directly in his eyes. I wanted to tell him I knew everything. That I was onto him. That he’d done something, and he was going to get caught.

  But no words came from my mouth. I lifted up on my tiptoes, leaned forward, and kissed him right on the lips.

  He hadn’t been expecting it, but it didn’t take him long to kiss me back. His lips tasted better than I could have imagined. His hands landed in all the right places. He pulled me toward him even as he tried to hold himself back.

  And then, before Jo Pressman could take full control and finish crushing the cardboard boxes, I pulled away and ran from the storage room as fast as my legs could carry me.

  Chapter 23

  When I left the basement storage room, I ran like someone who was scared, because I was.

  I know, I know. I’m Zara Riddle, the witch. I’m a tough redhead who can shoot blue lightning balls from her hands, but I still have human responses to immediate danger.

  They say that when a cute guy looks at you, your knees get weak and your insides turn to goo.

  Goo.

  Less than twenty-four hours earlier, Josephine Pressman’s entire body had literally turned to goo.

  When she made me kiss Archer Caine in the supply room, I felt my knees go soft. Gooey, even. The connection between the mysterious stranger and the lovesick girl was a powerful one. Had it been powerful enough to kill her? I didn’t want to suffer the same fate. Even though it had felt awfully nice to kiss someone. Awfully nice, indeed.

  But if Archer was a golem, or some kind of supernatural entity, he could have other powers besides his good looks. During their passionate storage room encounter, had he taken something from Jo Pressman? Some part of her life force? Or could he have given her something? Like a sexually transmitted magical infection—an STMI for short?

  The idea was utterly horrifying. Laughable. Yet plausible. Were STMIs even a thing? How would I know? I didn’t have a copy of Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex with Supernatural Creatures But Were Afraid to Ask.

  “Sex is a wonderful stress releaser,” my mother said with a mischievous twist of a smile. “And you’re old enough now to handle casual encounters. You should have enjoyed yourself.”

  “Wow.” I reached for my iced tea and took a long drink. “Just wow.” I’d told her about my encounter with Archer in the storage room because I needed advice and information. Not because I wanted my mother’s encouragement to throw caution to the wind. And my legs over some stranger’s broad and manly shoulders.

  “You know what they say.” Her smile got even more twisted. “Use it or lose it.”

  I fixed her with a serious stare. “Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?”

  “Zarabella!” She tittered politely as she stroked her amber pendant with her delicate fingers.

  “Mom, it’s just that last night, you didn’t want me to leave the suite to talk to the man. You were worried about…” I checked to make sure our sound bubble was still in effect before continuing. “You were worried about him being a golem, and about his powers being stronger after dark.”

  “It’s daytime now.”

  “True.”

  “Plus he can talk, so he’s not a golem.”

  “He was talking the first time we met. How did we even start talking about him being a golem, anyway?”

  She fluttered her eyelashes. “That was all your idea.”

  “No.” I gave her a suspicious, sidelong look. “It was you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You told me you’d never met a doppelganger before, and you seemed excited. Then you said we needed to find out what kind of magic he was using. Then you asked me if he was a golem or a fetch or a spirit double or a vardøger.”

  “Yes, yes.” She waved her hand as though bored of her words being repeated back to her. “Then you went into your crazy theory about stranger twins from the internet.”

  “Whatever or whoever he is, though, I probably shouldn’t be kissing him in storage rooms.”

  She gave me a sly grin. “But he did put roses in your cheeks. Maybe he’s The One?”

  “Technically, that’s impossible, because he’s not one. He’s two.”

  “But he’s the one that’s available, since the other one is not.” She picked up a butter knife and checked her lipstick in the reflection. “Maybe he’s a new type of golem that you wished into existence. A sex golem.”

  “Gosh, Mom. This new you is so cool and hip and laid back. It almost makes me wish you’d died a lot sooner.”

  “There are drawbacks,” she said, still focusing on her reflection on the butter knife.

  “Like what?”

  She set down the butter knife and shook a finger at me. “Oh, no you don’t. I will not give you any more ammunition with which to take potshots at me.”

  Our sound bubble hummed. Archer Caine was approaching our small table. I knew it was Archer because he was smiling, and also because he was wearing the same clothes—a black button-down dress shirt and dark-gray trousers.

  I twisted my fingers and popped the sound bubble just as my mother said, “Speak of the devil and he appears.”

  Archer jerked his head to look over his shoulder, eyes playfully wild. “The devil? Where?”

  “You’re so funny,” she said, laughing. “Would you like to join us? We have a free chair, and we haven’t ordered lunch yet.”

  He stole a glance over at me. He brought his hands together and rubbed one thumbnail with the other—the body language of someone who didn’t want to impose yet didn’t want to walk away either.

  “Join us,” I said. “I promise not to make any sudden, scary movements like I did in the basement.”

  He glanced at my mother then back at me, smiling. “I’m not sure I know what scary movements you’re referring to.”

  “When she kissed you,” my mother said. “Then ran away.”

  He looked as mortified as I felt. He slowly pulled the chair out and took a seat.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate you letting me interrupt your time with your… sister?”

  My mother giggled girlishly.

  “She wishes,” I said. “Archer Caine, meet Zirconia Riddle, my mother. Mom, this is Archer. He’s here for…” I looked at him. “What are you here for?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said, and then he took the menu my mother offered him and focused on that. I found myself staring at his profile. When I’d had dinner with his lookalike—on a date that turned out to not be a date—Chet had glowered at the menu as though it had wronged him. Archer Caine looked both relaxed and excited at the same time. And so kissable. That mouth! Yum!

  I tore my gaze off him quickly, before my boy-crazy spirit got too riled up. I turned to my mother. She appeared to be under his spell as well, resting her chin on her palms, with both elbows on the table. Normally, she wouldn’t be caught dead with her elbows on the table. Now that she was dead, all the rules were out the window.

  “Archer,” she said slowly, tasting the name. “Do people call you Archie for short?”

  He didn’t look up from his menu. “I don’t know.”

  She leaned forward. “How would you not know your own nickname?”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things.”

  “Like Archie?” She wasn’t going to let this one go.

  He finally
looked up from the menu. “Archie is no shorter than Archer,” he said. “Two syllables is two syllables.”

  Archie is no shorter than Archer. My heart felt sparkly. Usually I was the pedantic person making a fuss when nicknames or shortcuts weren’t shorter. Archer was one intriguing man, whoever he was. I bet he’s great at Scrabble. I pictured playing a word game with him, and my toes curled inside my shoes.

  I reached for my iced tea and chugged back a mouthful of ice cubes. Triple word scores were my sort of turn-on, not Jo’s, but I still had to be careful and stay calm.

  “Then we shall call you Archer,” my mother said. “Tell me, Archer, what brings you to Castle Wyvern? You said it was complicated, and I must admit I’m intrigued.”

  He looked down at the table. “I wouldn’t want to burden you.”

  “No burden at all,” she said. “We’re all trapped here, and heaven knows when the waiter will be back to take our lunch order, so we have all the time in the world. I’m dying to hear a good story.”

  He looked from my mother to me, and back again. “Can you two keep a secret?”

  “She can,” I said. “She can keep a secret for at least five years.”

  “That’s really good,” he said, not picking up on my barb. “How about you, Zara?”

  “I’m a librarian,” I said. I paused for the inevitable reaction. To my surprise, Archer didn’t make any of the standard comments about shushing people or letting my hair down from a bun. Chalk up another point for the guy.

  He asked, “Do librarians have a lot of secrets?” He gave me a dreamy look with his beautiful green eyes.

  “Sort of,” I said. “People do talk to us about a lot of personal things. But there’s a code.”

  “I like codes,” he said, his voice deep and husky.

  I felt my temperature rise. “Yes, well, we librarians take pride in being discreet.” Zara tries to be a good librarian. Zara doesn’t throw her body at a man who could be an evil doppelganger.

  My mother chimed in, “I also take pride in being discreet.”

  He spread his hands wide across the table, as though clearing away debris in order to get down to work. “Then I’ll tell you my secret,” he said.