by Bailey Cates
“She’s terribly worried, of course. You’re her little girl.”
I gave him a wry look.
“Don’t be like that. She was going to call you, but I told her to wait until after tonight.” His eyes glinted.
“Why tonight?” I asked.
“Katie, would you be willing to go on a journey to find your magic again?”
I remembered what he’d said the night before. “I might be able to help.”
The sprout of hope began to grow. Trying to tamp down a flare of excitement, I asked, “What kind of journey?”
“A shamanic journey, with me as your guide.”
“Oh, Daddy,” I said, and threw my arms around his neck.
He patted my back. Then I saw several customers watching us from the bistro tables and sat back on the sofa.
“I don’t know if it will work,” he said. “But it’s worth a try. I’ve helped people in situations that echo yours, people who have become ill because they’ve lost their spirit. You’re not ill, but—”
My chin bobbed up and down in a fierce nod. “But that’s what it feels like. Like my spirit is gone.”
His eyes held worry and love. “Let’s meet tonight, then. After dark, at the carriage house.”
“The carriage house?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes. All the workers will be gone, and we’ll have privacy in the backyard. You already have the gazebo set up for spell casting, and that energy will feed into our journey, as will the energy of your gardens, magical and otherwise.”
Anticipation arrowed through me. Dad was going to fix everything, and as a bonus, it would be in my favorite place in the world to practice the Craft.
“I’ll be there,” I said. “Do you want me to bring anything?”
He shook his head. “We don’t need much, not with the power of nature at our fingertips. What we do need, I’ll bring.”
* * *
* * *
“So? How did it go with Florinda Daniels yesterday? I thought I’d hear from you before now,” Detective Quinn asked when I answered my phone a little after two.
When I’d seen who was calling, I almost hadn’t picked up at all. However, it wasn’t Quinn’s fault I’d tried a clairvoyance spell that had backfired beyond my wildest dreams. Or if not that, had at least made me vulnerable to a hex. It was, however, his fault that I’d become involved in Kensington Bosworth’s murder investigation in the first place.
“You were right,” I said. “Florinda doesn’t like cops. Mostly because of her son, Dante. He was in a lot of trouble with the law when he was younger.”
“He’s got a record from his college days. Nothing that serious, though. What else did you find out?”
“Well, she and her brother weren’t exactly close, but she wasn’t happy that he didn’t leave her any money. Said a nest egg would have been nice for her hardworking husband, but who knows? It sounds like she might have been expecting something from her brother—or her husband was. However, she already knew Dante got a chunk of change plus the paranormal collection from his uncle, so either the lawyer told her, or her son did. I’m betting on Dante. Did you check on what kind of car he drives?”
“It’s a BMW, all right. The one you saw was definitely his. He confirmed it.”
“Aha! Now you have a real suspect. One with a serious motive who’s a lot more likely to have killed Bosworth than Randy Post.” A whoosh of relief passed through me. I wasn’t abandoning Randy after all. “Dante scored a huge inheritance and has a record with the police, plus he was jealous of—”
“Dante has an alibi.”
The relief ebbed, and I just managed not to swear out loud. “His car was right there.”
“It still is. He said he went to visit his uncle earlier in the day, around two thirty, but there was no answer when he rang the doorbell. When he went back to his car, it wouldn’t start. He had to take an Uber to get back to work. We still have to confirm that, but he was at work during the time the medical examiner says the victim was killed.”
“Work, huh. His grandmother implied Dante was kind of allergic to work.”
“He works for Associated Lenders. It’s a private mortgage lender. One of his colleagues claims he saw Dante around the office that afternoon.”
Great.
“Now, did you find out anything about the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon?” Quinn asked.
Skipping over my conversation with Steve, I said, “It was a magical organization in Savannah that supposedly died out in the 1950s. Maybe the foundation borrowed the name.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Listen, Quinn, I need to tell you something. I’m not sure I want to work on this case anymore. Randy Post didn’t kill anyone, and I can only hope you’ll do the right thing and find the real murderer.”
There was a long silence, then, “Nice try, Katie. You really had me for a minute there.”
“I’m serious.”
This time the silence was shorter. “You are, aren’t you? Why? What happened?”
What to tell him? That I lost my magic while casting a spell that would give me clairvoyance, so I could tell him the name of the killer? Quinn might know I was a witch, but he’d still have a hard time swallowing a story like that.
“I broke the rule,” I said.
“Which rule? Wait, Katie, you don’t mean—”
“The one where I don’t get hurt.”
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“At the bakery.”
He exhaled. “Okay, you’re at work, not the hospital, so you aren’t hurt too badly. You had me worried.”
I hesitated. “It’s not physical. It’s . . .” I sighed. “Well, actually it’s magical.”
“What are you talking about?” He sounded frustrated. “How can you get hurt magically?”
Thinking back to all the times I’d come very close to being hurt by magic, I simply said, “I’m sorry, Quinn. You wouldn’t understand. I’d think you’d be happy to have me out of your life. Your professional life, that is. I do hope you’ll continue to come into the bakery.”
“Katie!”
“Bye, Quinn. I’ll see you around.” And I hung up.
The empty feeling in my stomach grew even bigger.
When I went back out front, Mimsey and Bianca were standing by the register talking to Lucy. I waved, and as soon as they saw me, they headed into the kitchen.
“Let’s talk in the office.” Mimsey’s expression was grave.
“Um, okay.” Yet I had a feeling whatever they wanted to talk about was anything but okay.
We crowded into the small space, and I closed the door. I indicated the older witch should take the desk chair, while I perched on the edge of the club chair with Mungo. Bianca remained standing by the file cabinet.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Mimsey asked in a sympathetic voice.
I opened my mouth to say fine or okay, then closed it. Finally, I said, “Not so great.”
“Oh, honey.” She reached over and put her hand on my knee. “I’m so sorry.”
Bianca’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded but didn’t speak.
Mimsey said, “We’ve all been looking for a way to reverse what happened.”
“I know. Thank you. I’ve been doing the same thing.”
“Did you have any luck?” Bianca swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.
I shook my head. “You?”
Mimsey pressed her lips together. “Not really. I looked through my spell library late into the night, and the only thing I found that might apply to your situation was a reference to an anti-magic spell in one of my volumes on dark sorcery.”
Bianca’s eyes widened.
The other woman smiled. “Not to worry, my dear. I keep several such books, but only to expand m
y knowledge, not because I intend to practice any black magic.”
“Anti-magic,” I said. “Yes, that makes sense. That’s what it feels like.”
“I was afraid of that,” Mimsey said.
That didn’t sound good. I waited for her to continue.
Finally, she said, “You see, if that’s the spell that was used, there isn’t a counter spell for it.”
Closing my eyes, I let that sink in. Then I had a thought. My eyes popped back open.
“Does the spell you’re talking about have to be cast while the receiver is actually practicing magic?”
“It doesn’t have to be.” She sighed. “However, it’s optimal. See, the larger the magic at the time of the spell, the stronger the effect of the anti-magic.”
My shoulders slumped. “That’s why Nonna said our magic was feeding the wrong spell. Dang it. How could anyone have known we were practicing magic right then and there?”
Mimsey gave a slow shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not exactly the kind of thing we broadcast.”
“And why was I the only one affected? How does the spell you found actually work?”
A thoughtful expression settled across her features. “It’s a rather complicated spell, and the end result is a kind of vacuum that sucks away the magic of whatever or whoever it is directed toward. It can be quite specific, I’m afraid. Whoever cast it must have been aiming right for you. It’s a strong spell, one that can cut through layers of magical protection, indeed using the protection magic itself as fuel.”
I frowned. “Mimsey, how hard would it be to cast that dark magic spell? Could one person do it, or would it need a group? I’ve been assuming I was targeted because of my involvement in Mr. Bosworth’s murder case, but could there be some other reason?”
“No, I have reason to think it was because you were asking questions about the murder. A witch working solitary could cast the anti-magic spell, and it calls for some rather unusual items.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, some of the things you might expect. An upside-down pentagram, as opposed to the right-side-up version we use for our white magic spells. A feather plucked from a black rooster at midnight. Four iron nails left to rust for forty-four days. The dried heart of a rat. A sprinkle of dried bat wing. A piece of burial shroud and a handful of graveyard dust. That sort of thing. I was surprised a hand of glory wasn’t part of the equation. It’s an ancient spell, and that would be a good old-school addition.”
I shuddered. A hand of glory was the hand of a hanged man that had been dried and pickled with a special blend of minerals. Bianca looked a little green just at the mention of it.
Mimsey continued. “But the reason I think there is a connection to Kensington’s murder is that the spell also requires the blood of a fearful man.”
A fearful man. Like one who painted his whole house haint blue, then cast, or had someone else cast, a protection spell over it, and then installed a security system for good measure.
Bianca had grown even more pale than usual. “Are you saying that Kensington Bosworth was murdered so some nutjob could use his blood in an anti-magic spell?”
Mimsey pressed her lips together in answer.
I felt a little light-headed at the thought. “That’s awfully dark.”
The older witch nodded and stood up. “It most certainly is.”
“No wonder Connell said there was something dangerous about the magic in this case,” I said, then swallowed hard. “Do you think Mr. Bosworth was murdered because of me, then? Just to take my magic away?” It was bad enough to lose a large piece of myself like that, but to think that someone had died in order for that to happen was horrible.
However, Mimsey firmly shook her head. “No, I do not, Katie. I think you were, shall we say, collateral damage after the fact. Whoever wanted the blood of a fearful man to complete that spell wasn’t gunning for you, at least not to start. It would take a long time to gather all those esoteric ingredients together—over a year to age the iron nails alone. But then you got in the way and . . .” She shrugged.
She was assuming no one would hate me enough to put that much time and effort into a spell just to use against me. And maybe she was right. On the other hand, I’d angered a few people in the course of my witchy investigations over the last two years. However, they were all firmly in prison, not running around breaking into houses and hitting people over the head with statuary.
Sighing, I rose to my feet.
Bianca stepped forward and gave me a hug. “I’m so sorry, Katie. I wish there was something we could do.”
I ventured a smile. “My dad might be able to help.” I told them about his plan to regain my spirit, which could be the same as my magic, that very evening. “He seems to think it could work.”
My heart soared when Mimsey’s head bobbed, and her eyes twinkled. “Oh, he’s right, honey! A shamanic journey like that isn’t at all like trying to undo a hex or reverse a spell. It’s another kind of magic altogether—one that might just do the trick.”
Chapter 17
Mimsey and Bianca left, and I got back to work. Iris had come in and was already mixing up the sourdough to slow-rise for the next morning’s loaves. I tossed pine nuts, several handfuls of fresh basil, Parmesan cheese, garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice into the food processor and gave it all a whirl. The pesto would go into the scones that were slated to be the next day’s special.
My phone vibrated, and I drew it out of my apron pocket. Steve Dawes had sent me a text.
And suddenly what Mimsey had said about the killer wanting the anti-magic spell for someone other than yours truly came to mind.
Of course. The Dragohs. The killer wanted the spell to use against them. It’s a member of the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon.
Thumbing the text open, I read:
King’s Castle, 5pm. Be there.
I texted him back. Why?
Just come.
I sighed and began to text back that I had no interest in joining him at the King’s Castle bar for a drink. Then I paused. I’d met Steve when I was still coming to grips with the fact that I was a witch. He’d been my friend—sometimes more and sometimes less, but mostly my friend—during that time and since. Also, the Dragoh clan he belonged to was less fussy about the type of magic they practiced. I felt hopeful that my dad would be able to help me, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with Steve and tell him what had happened. He might know something about the anti-magic spell. Whether he did or not, he needed to know someone might be planning to use it against the Dragohs.
I texted back that I’d meet him after the bakery had closed. He sent a smiley face in return. I put my phone back in my apron pocket and went to inventory the contents of the pantry.
Lucy agreed to take Mungo home with her, then I’d pick him up before going to meet Dad at the carriage house. My aunt and uncle took off, and Iris and I closed things down in the Honeybee. It didn’t take us long, and I figured I’d get to the bar about 5:20.
Out on the sidewalk, I twisted the key in the lock and turned to Iris. She surprised me by throwing her arms around me in a big, squeezy hug.
“Whoa,” I said. “What was that for?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Something’s up. I can tell. Are you okay?”
I took a deep breath. “I will be.” I hope.
“Good.” She looked down at her toes, then back up at me. “Katie, I know I’m not in your spellbook group, so if it has something to do with, you know, magic, you might not think I can help.” I opened my mouth to speak, but she held up her hand. “And I might not. I mean, I’m still pretty new to all this spell stuff. But if you ever want to just vent, I’m a pretty good listener.”
Tears pricked at the back of my eyelids. I took a step forward and returned her hug, just as big and squeezy. “Thanks. I might take you up on that somet
ime.” Then I realized I’d been so caught up in my own drama that I hadn’t really talked to her much that day.
Stepping back, I asked, “How was your date last night?”
A soft smile lit up her face. “Oh, Katie. It was wonderful. He’s just wonderful.”
I couldn’t help grinning. “I take it you’re going out with him again.”
Her chin bobbed in the affirmative. “In about an hour.” She gave me another quick hug and turned away. “See you tomorrow, Katie!”
Her good mood was infectious, and I walked to my car with a tad more bounce in my step.
* * *
* * *
Inside the King’s Castle bar was dark and cool. The space was narrow, with a central aisle that reached from the front door to the rear wall. The only daylight came in through the windows on either side of the entrance. An impressive mahogany bar with red Naugahyde stools ran all along the right side. Behind it, under-shelf lighting illuminated the bottles of liquor, which were visually doubled by the mirrored wall behind them. On the left, booths with high-backed, scarred wooden benches offered patrons more private seating. Industrial-looking lights made from upcycled washtubs cast focused spots of light onto each table.
Sophie King was mixing drinks behind the bar. She waved when she saw me come in, and I raised my hand in response as I scanned the customers. Several of the booths were occupied. As I stood there the door opened behind me, and two businessmen walked past me and slid onto a pair of the red stools.
I spied the back of Steve’s head. He was sitting in a booth toward the back of the room. I started toward him, then noticed there was a man sitting across from him.
Dang it. I wanted to talk to Steve alone.
As I debated whether to slip out and text my apologies, Steve turned and saw me. His eyes lit up, and he gestured for me to join them.
Reluctantly, I made my way toward them.
“Katie! Fancy seeing you here. Can you sit for a moment?”
Suppressing my irritation, I half smiled. “Yeah, what a surprise! It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you.”