Wisteria Wyverns (Wisteria Witches Mysteries Book 5)

by Angela Pepper

  The whole dining room became very quiet at that very moment.

  Archer didn’t seem to notice. “I’m here in Westwyrd because I’m looking for my birth mother,” he said plainly.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting him to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.

  “That’s wonderful,” my mother said. “The bond between mother and child is precious.”

  “Why now?” I asked.

  He gave me a surprised look. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Did someone from the family contact you? Did something happen?”

  He rubbed his chin and looked down for a minute before answering. “My mother—the one who raised me—passed away recently. It was following a serious illness.”

  In unison, my mother and I said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He nodded like someone who’d been hearing that phrase a lot recently, and then continued. “Before she died, she told me something. I guess you could call it a deathbed confession.”

  My mother and I both leaned in.

  “She stole me from another woman,” he said.

  We both gasped softly.

  “It happened the night I was born,” he said. “There was a terrible storm in Wisteria—that’s the town just down the coast from here.”

  “Zara lives there,” my mother said. “In fact she lives—” I shot her a look to silence her. Now was not the time to tell this man he might have been born on the wooden floors of my magical shifting house. It was only lunch time. Why not hold something back for dinner?

  “Go on,” I said.

  He did. “Some people flagged down my mother to ask for a ride to the hospital. There was a woman there, who had just given birth to a baby boy. My mother was driving a sports car with only two seats, so she could only take the woman and her baby. The others waited to look for another car, and promised they wouldn’t be far behind.”

  “No,” my mother said in horror. “No!”

  I gave her another dirty look. There was a fine line between being a good listener and being a drama llama.

  Archer, however, seemed to be enjoying his reactive audience. He smiled and held up a hand. “But wait. There’s more,” he said. “The woman didn’t know she’d been carrying twins, until she delivered the second one right there in my mother’s car.” He paused. “And here’s where it gets strange.”

  If my mother and I had leaned in any closer, we would have bumped foreheads. We both waved for Archer to continue.

  “The woman begged my mother to take the second of the twins, and not tell anyone. Her companions were in a separate vehicle now, following right behind her. The woman pleaded with her not to tell a soul about the second baby. She was hysterical. My mother worried the baby might be harmed. She knew it was wrong, but she took the baby.” His eyes were shining. “She took the second twin, bundled him in her jacket, and she raised him as her own.”

  I looked over at my mother to see if she was buying his story. She reached over and patted his forearm. “You poor thing,” she cooed. She was buying it, all right.

  He looked at me with his dreamy Chet-Archer green eyes. “When we met, you thought I was someone else.”

  “Yes,” I said hesitantly, knowing exactly where this was going.

  “You thought I was someone else, because I look exactly like someone you know. Which means you must know my twin brother.”

  “I do.”

  His eyebrows tented in a wounded expression. “Why didn’t you tell me? I came here looking for family, and you know them.” He swallowed audibly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Because I thought you might be an evil doppelganger. Or a stranger twin from a website. Or even a skinwalker—a shifter who wears the face of another person in disguise. My brain’s been working overtime on reasons to avoid you, whereas my body has other ideas.

  “Reasons,” I said.

  His expression relaxed. “I can’t be mad at someone as cute as you.”

  My cheeks grew warm. “Let me make it up to you,” I said. “Let me introduce you to your brother.”

  “Are we identical?” He fidgeted in his seat. “It’s hard to tell with newborns, plus it was dark and stormy that night.”

  “Definitely identical,” I said. “You’ll see. It’s funny that you haven’t bumped into him yet. He’s supposed to be here.” I sat up straight in my chair and craned my neck, looking around the dining room.

  “He’s here?” Archer pushed his chair back. “My twin brother?”

  “His name is Chet. Chet Moore.”

  Archer jumped to his feet, nearly bowling over our approaching waiter. “I’m not ready.”

  “Wait,” I said, but it was too late.

  Archer had already abandoned our table and was heading for the exit, his head ducked down for anonymity.

  Chapter 24

  Our waiter stared after Archer Caine for a minute, shifting from foot to foot like a five-year-old in need of a washroom. It was Oberon again, the cute boy with the wavy surfer hair who’d brought us room service and been our waiter for dinner the previous evening. Did the castle have other waiters, or was it always going to be Oberon, chronically short of breath and run off his feet?

  “I can come back,” Oberon said, looking down at the chair that Archer had abandoned.

  “Don’t you dare,” my mother said, the threat of violence woven into her command. “If we don’t order soon, we’ll never get our lunch.” She pointed at me. “Zarabella, order. Now.”

  My head was still reeling from Archer’s revelations. He was Chet’s biological twin brother, who’d been secreted away with another family for some unknown reason. That explanation made far more sense than any of my crazy theories, so it had to be true. What would happen when the two twins laid eyes on each other? Was Archer also a wolf shifter, or was he something else? Did Chet already know about him? He’d mentioned a brother to me before, but never by name, so perhaps he’d known about his twin.

  My mother kicked my shin under the table. “Tell the waiter what you want for lunch.”

  I looked up at the young man, who was practically trembling with discomfort. What was his problem? Other than being short-staffed and locked up in a castle with whoever murdered his coworker. Besides that.

  “Grilled cheese,” I said without looking at the menu.

  He gave me a pained look. “We don’t have that.”

  “Then give me whatever you have that’s the nearest thing to a grilled cheese.”

  “Herbed focaccia with four kinds of melted cheese?”

  “Perfect. My mouth is watering already.”

  Oberon gave me a jerky nod before turning to my mother. She peppered him with questions about dressings and the color of the beets in the grated beet salad.

  As soon as she finished ordering, my cell phone buzzed in my purse.

  “Your phone,” she said, shaking her head. “So rude.”

  “Don’t blame me,” I said. “Blame whoever’s calling, which is…” I checked the screen and lowered my voice to a whisper, since I hadn’t reactivated the sound barrier. “Chet Moore.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Go ahead.”

  I answered the call.

  Chet said, “I need to speak with you.”

  “And hello to you, too, neighbor.”

  “Hello,” he said with perfunctory courtesy. “Zara, I need to speak with you.”

  “Go for it. I can talk right now. Is this about your twin brother?”

  “We can speak in person,” he said. “Meet me in the wine cellar in exactly one hour.”

  He ended the call.

  I didn’t need to ask anyone for directions for the castle’s wine cellar. As soon as Chet had named the location, the speediest route had popped into my head, courtesy of my resident spirit.

  As I walked down the rough-hewn ancient steps, I kept one hand on the cool stone wall for balance, since there was no handrail. The touch of the rock under my fingertips brought up one of
Jo’s memories. I paused on the stairs, pressed my forehead on the cool stone, and invited the full memory to unfurl.

  The memory took me inside the wine cellar. Jo and two older women who worked at the castle had cornered young Oberon there. The four of them were drinking wine straight from one of the dusty bottles, passing it around. Oberon seemed reluctant to drink from the bottle after Jo.

  “You’re not afraid of a little harmless girl spit,” Jo said, teasing Oberon.

  He’d been wiping the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve and stopped self-consciously.

  “Whatever,” he’d said, and took a swig. After swallowing, he held the wine at arm’s length and gave it an accusing look. “Why do people drink this stuff, anyway?”

  One of the older women clapped the young man on the back. “You’ll get a taste for it, Obie. A little exposure, and you’ll get a taste for all sorts of things you were never interested in before.” She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively. He looked horrified. The woman had to be twice his age. The orange dye on her hair wasn’t fooling anyone.

  The other older woman, who had an asymmetrical blond bob, elbowed her coworker. Her name was Patty, and Jo liked her the best out of all the staff.

  Jo moved over to sit closer to Patty and said, “Thanks again for fixing my broken leg.”

  “Any time,” Patty said with a wink. “It’s good to have my skills come in handy.”

  Orange Hair didn’t join the broken-leg conversation. She was too busy making suggestive gestures at Oberon with her mouth and hands.

  Patty said to Orange Hair, “Leave the poor, innocent boy alone. If he tattles on us, Grandma Fairy Dust will put a hex on us. You know she’s protective of her baby-faced offspring.”

  Orange Hair laughed. “Grandma Fairy Dust! Good one.”

  “Don’t laugh too hard,” Patty said, her asymmetrical blond bob swishing as she pretended to look around with paranoia. “That woman freaks me out. She’s got eyes and ears everywhere. You don’t want to get on the bad side of her voodoo.”

  Orange Hair asked, “Do you think she’s actually a witch?”

  “There’s no such thing as witches,” Patty said. She took the bottle from Oberon, had a drink, then handed it back to him. “Obie, what’s the deal with your grandma, anyway? Are the rumors true?”

  Oberon took another swig from the bottle, grimacing less this time. “Morganna’s not my grandma,” he said. “She’s a distant relative, so distant I don’t even know how we’re supposed to be related.”

  Jo Pressman piped up. “She’s your…” Jo trailed off as soon as she’d started. The Pressman family had been friends with Morganna Faire since before Jo was born. She should have been an expert on the unusual woman, but when it came to her family tree and connection to Oberon, Jo drew a blank.

  “Wisteria’s a small town,” Jo finally said with a laugh. “We’re all probably related in some way or another.”

  Oberon stared at her with big eyes. He had a crush on her, and she knew it. She found him a bit young and wet behind the ears, but she enjoyed his attention. Plus, you never know. Perhaps after another bottle of wine.

  Oberon asked her, “Jo, do you think we’re related?”

  “I sure hope not,” she said with a sexy growl. “Because I’m going to make a man of you some day. Do you think you’re ready for that, Obie?”

  The boy’s cheeks turned red.

  All three women laughed at him and exchanged knowing looks. If it was wrong for the three of them to gang up together and tease an impressionable young man in the privacy of the wine cellar, then why did it feel so right?

  Jo pried the wine bottle from his hand and took a long drink while maintaining eye contact. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and licked her lips more than was necessary. Oberon looked at the door but didn’t move. It had been his idea to meet there on their break and drink the wine. According to his calculations, there’d been an accounting error, and the cellar had a few bottles too many. The kitchen didn’t mind when the staff ate their mistakes, so was this much different?

  She passed the bottle to the left, and then pulled out her compact to check her makeup. Flirting with Oberon was a good warm-up for the one she really wanted. The castle’s most interesting guest was a man named Archer Caine. He looked so much like this other guy, a handsome single father who worked at the Wisteria Department of Water. But they didn’t know each other, and whenever she’d bumped into him around town, that guy wouldn’t give her the time of day. One time, about a month ago, she’d approached him in a grocery store, and he’d practically ran away screaming.

  After that nonmeeting, something had changed in Jo. Her dreams had become more vivid, more nightmarish. And he was there whenever she closed her eyes. Chet Moore. He was an engineer who worked for the city—she’d asked around and gotten his name.

  The dreams always started the same way. She was at her father’s house, and he was sick. He wanted to tell her something, but he couldn’t explain himself coherently. And then the men arrived, dressed in combat gear and led by Chet Moore. How crazy was that? A water department engineer dressed for battle, wearing weapons she couldn’t even identify. Then things would get blurry, and Jo would shift in and out of control over her body. She was as helpless as a marionette, while someone else used her. The dream came to a climax when she found herself raising her hand and shooting her own father. But it was out of mercy. She was putting him out of his misery. Or at least that was how it seemed in the nightmares that felt so real.

  After the accident, the authorities assured Jo that she’d been nowhere near the house when the gas explosion had happened. They said her father hadn’t been shot. Her nightmares were just that—nightmares. Her brain was trying to make sense of a terrible tragedy, trying to explain the inexplicable.

  The scene in the wine cellar faded away, and Jo’s memory shifted to another place and time.

  Her biweekly therapy appointment with the strange doctor.

  “The dreams are perfectly normal,” Dr. Ankh, the city-appointed therapist, had said. The woman almost never looked up from her notes at her patient, but whenever she did, Jo’s inner turmoil would settle down immediately. It was the woman’s eyes. They were the most captivating shade of blue, practically purple. In some kinds of light, the doctor’s eyes did seem purple, but that couldn’t be, since people don’t have purple eyes.

  Dr. Ankh asked, “Are you still taking the medication?”

  “Yes,” Jo said, but it was a lie. The medication wasn’t what the therapist said it was. She’d checked the shape of the pill against the name online, and it didn’t match.

  “Take the pills,” Dr. Ankh said. “You’ll take them if you know what’s good for you.”

  Jo’s rebelliousness flared up. She kicked at the legs of the big desk separating them. “What if I don’t want to do what’s good for me?”

  Dr. Ankh frowned with those outrageously full lips of hers. The woman’s eyes were so captivating, Jo hadn’t noticed Dr. Ankh’s mouth until the second session, and what a mouth it was. Oh, what man wouldn’t fall for such seductive lips! Chet Moore wouldn’t have run away from Jo in the grocery store if she’d had such a luscious kisser.

  “Josephine, you are a danger to yourself,” Dr. Ankh said.

  “No, I’m not.” Jo shook her head. “I know what that means, and you can’t write that in my file. I’m not suicidal. I’m no danger to anyone.”

  “You must take your medication. You must stop obsessing about these dreams of yours. The sooner you learn to ignore them, the sooner you can live a normal life.”

  Jo said nothing. She crossed her arms.

  Dr. Ankh opened a desk drawer and took out something. A rock. A big, amber rock.

  “What’s that?” Jo asked.

  “A paperweight.”

  “Oh.” Jo wondered why the doctor had suddenly needed to weight down papers. There was no breeze in the office. There weren’t even papers on the doctor’s desk, other th
an the notebook she was writing in, which wouldn’t need weighing down except perhaps in hurricane weather. Jo opened her mouth to ask about the curious rock, about why it seemed to be glowing from within, and then her mind went quiet. Quiet and blank.

  Very blank.

  Amber and warm and blank.

  Inside her mind now, there was nothing.

  Chapter 25

  Jo Pressman’s memory gave me a lot to ponder.

  I’d been hoping to find out the names of the people from New York who’d been after her for money, so I could pass them along to Detective Bentley to investigate. I’d had no luck with that yet, but now I knew she’d been seeing Dr. Ankh for therapy. It was possible the doctor knew about the New York people.

  Then again, it was also possible the strange, purple-eyed doctor had been the one to silence Josephine Pressman forever. She hadn’t seemed too happy about her patient trying to remember the truth about what happened in her father’s house. The department liked to keep their secrets. Jo Pressman had been a pesky loose thread.

  There were so many layers to the complications in Jo’s life, and they continued to compound in her death. She was practically a magnet for supernatural trouble. And to think—when I’d first seen her reading a book at a cafe, I’d wondered if she and I might become friends. I had felt myself drawn to her, despite our age difference. Was I just another example of the supernatural trouble she attracted? What was it about the girl?

  The answers remained just beyond my grasp. Yet I was so close to solving the puzzle. Just a few more memories, a few more clues. I pressed my head against the stone, trying to get back into the ghost’s memories, but it didn’t work.

  It was probably for the best I couldn’t climb back into that dreamlike state, since I had a meeting with Chet to get to. Judging by the stiffness in my knees, I’d been standing in the stairwell with my face pressed against the wall for a while. I rubbed my forehead. Bumpy with rock indentations, just as I’d expected.