“And I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” David said.
“Saved your bacon, didn’t I?” Gloom countered. David shrugged.
“When we got back to the Apothecary, Millie told us what was going on and that you’d come here. I figured we’d better hightail it up here in case you needed our help. I brought the plant with me. I think Remy wanted me to. And, turns out you did. Need our help, that is.”
“I’m glad you came. Thank you, Gloom.”
“Just consider me ‘hex support’.” She looked up with expectant eyes until I gave her a good scratch under the chin.
I turned to David. “I really thought for sure you were getting ready to hit me with that spell.”
David reached for my hand and squeezed. “Hattie, even if I had been under Amber’s spell, do you really think I would do anything to hurt you? You’re my best friend. I’ve always got your back.”
Grammy’s Chimera’s wand suddenly went very warm in my hand. David took a surprised step back. I held the wand between us. The carved symbol of the crossed swans glowed. Suddenly, the burnished wood of the symbol turned to gold. The magical light faded slowly away.
“What does that mean?” David asked.
“It means our Hattie has found her center. Now, she just has to protect it,” Onyx said.
“Well, you can always count on me, Hattie,” David said.
“I’m really glad to hear that. I have a feeling it’s going to be put to the test…plenty. Something’s coming. Something terrible. And Spithilda’s murder was just the start. Which reminds me. You had better get Amber’s necklace. It’s a powerful magical amulet and better off in the custody of the GIPPD until we can get it to Talisman.”
David started to move to Amber, pulling an evidence bag out of his pocket.
I took off my iron pentacle. “Wait! You had better put this in the bag with it. Iron will neutralize it. Who knows what kind of control it could exert over anyone who handles it. Look what it did to poor Amber.”
“Poor Amber? She did murder her own aunt, you know,” David snapped the necklace and deposited it into the evidence bag with the iron charm.
“Why did she murder Spithilda?” Midnight asked. “It’s not like she could inherit the money, what with Spithilda’s Mortis Haereditatem curse.”
“Spells are a lot like the law. Unfortunately, there always seems to be a loophole. After our meeting with ‘Alban Dewdrop’, something hadn’t felt quite right to me. I did some research and found that Hyraceum Crystal, Amber’s mother, had taken over the real Alban Dewdrop’s position as Chair for The Mutley Crew years ago, anticipating her sister’s generous legacy to the organizations. She might not have been able to inherit Spithilda’s money, but as legal Chair of The Mutley Crew, she would have been able to control, and more importantly, spend it. And, Spithilda knew no different. Hyraceum just kept emailing her as Alban Dewdrop, so correspondence between the two never faltered. Acting as Alban, Hyraceum made big promises for Spithilda’s donations to the charity. Goes without saying that this kept Roach’s contributions flowing and her generosity inflated. I’m sure once the police do an audit on how much money the organization took in from her death, it will be quite breathtaking. ”
“It’s true,” Amber blubbered. “My mother orchestrated the whole thing. She forced me to kill Auntie Spithilda and to join the GIPDD to get close to the investigation…and to Chief Trew. I was cast off to Nanker Isle two years ago, as a ruse. To blur any connection I had to Mag Mell and to her; my mom. I was miserable on Nanker and mother knew it. But, I wasn’t allowed home. I lost all my friends, and spent my working time, instead, with a bunch of old crones who lived in the past. They knew nothing of the new magic, or the modern ways. Nothing but clueless fanatics of the Dark Ages. They spoke only of days long gone; before the Burning Times. Oh, and their Wyrmrig altars and homages? They think he’s returning to the physical world, you know? They truly believe that he’ll be walking this earth in the not too distant future! Ha! What a bunch of luddites!”
Wyrmrig?
Amber must have seen the brief flash of confusion on my face, because she waved away her last remarks, evidently dismissing the legends that the residents of Nanker had so eagerly talked about . “Day after day I walked home in the rain; the never-ending rain, among those menacing Nanker rock fields. God, it was a miserable place. Every day was bleak and lonely. But, I was just a cog in the wheel, and it was all part of their master plan.”
“What ‘master plan’?” David asked.
“I don’t know. They don’t trust me with details since I’m not Fae.”
“But, your father?” I started.
“Is a Merchant Sailor mom hooked up with when Dad wasn’t looking. I’m just a witch. And not a very good one at that.”
“Where’s Hyraceum now?” I asked.
“Very likely back on Mag Mell. We went to the Mutley Crew offices, but the toadstool portal had been destroyed. And, as you know, we have no extradition treaty with Mag Mell.”
“So, she gets away scot free?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘scot free’. We know what she’s up to now, or at least part of it. We have her crystal. The Talisman Elders may be able to use it to scrye and determine more details of this ‘plan’. Whatever it may be. Clearly they needed a lot of money to get this plan in motion though. ”
Remulus yawned mightily.
I let out a nervous chuckle. “Goodness. I guess I’d better be getting these guys home.”
“And I have intake paperwork for GIPPD’s newest tenant,” David said as he gestured to Amber.
“See you around?”
“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Hattie.”
I really hoped my smile wasn’t as big and dopey as it felt.
It was two weeks after the Spithilda Roach case. Despite the rumors of a Fae uprising, all remained quiet on the shores of Glessie Isle. Hyraceum’s charm had been shipped off safely to Talisman for further study on its magical capabilities. Amber was incarcerated, for even though it was suspected her mother had had her under magical control, Talisman laws on murder were pretty cut-and-dried. Her case is under appeal, however.
A new chair was appointed for The Mutley Crew. Violet Mulberry graciously stood up and volunteered for the position. Her first official act was to print a calendar featuring all the dogs available for adoption as a fundraiser. In every picture, each dog had fabulously rainbow colored hair.
We had found a new home for Remy, but only after it met with Gloom’s approval. She absolutely demanded that she have visiting rights. So, now Carbon hangs out from time to time at Maude’s and Gloom spends her Saturday mornings…her bright, sunshiny, gorgeous Saturday mornings, at Verdantia Eyebright’s hanging out with her new pal.
Gloom wasn’t the only one in our little household who had done some growing. I ran my finger over the golden outline of the swans on Grammy Chimera’s wand. I had put my toe back in the magic pool. I wasn’t ready to swim the Channel yet. Heck, I wasn’t sure I was even ready to dog, er, cat paddle. I had finally started to accept that magic was a part of who I was and to deny it was to deny myself. It seemed like David, I mean, Chief Trew might be coming to similar conclusions about his own magic. I wondered what other conclusions he might be coming to.
More than anything, I’m just really happy that my most morose of kitties, Gloom, had come to the rescue with The Violet Countercharm. My little heart goes pittapat when I think of what could have happened. I shudder to think. I will never look at African Violet’s the same way again, though.
So, anyway, life goes on. I would take it day-by-day. Meanwhile, I’ll open up The Angel every day. Mix my herbal remedies for my customers. Try to keep Jet from breaking everything I have in stock. Keep Carbon from setting everything ablaze. And try to remember Grammy Chimer’s wise words.
There’s a little magic in everything, if you’ve half a mind to look.
The End
The Witch of Bohemia
From the outside, you’d swear the place was an out-of-the-way seaside hotel that had gotten lost on its way to the sea proper. It was a grand pseudo-Edwardian mansion house painted all in a creamy, ivory white. The only exception was the gray gabled roof, but even that seemed to have a pearlescent shimmer to it. If you were an Unawakened, maybe the simple cream shade would be all you would see. A flat, lifeless color, nothing more than regular house paint. But when you’re a witch like yours truly, you can see — as well as feel — that the exterior was charmed.
The ivory-colored facade was just one part of a binding enchantment, similar to the Seal of Solomon in concept. The charm itself had a deeply soothing effect on the patient’s mental faculties. After a week of being inside the asylum’s walls, nearly all patients grew calmer as the spell filled their minds with the soft, weightless aura of clouds. Most (but, not all) of the inmates succumbed to it, and even a few were given the space to heal because of it. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
I know the spell was designed to make all the wounded souls inside want to stay there, (in a relatively warm and wooly peace) but I wondered if the charm made them feel too safe or too comfortable for their own good. I mean, what if it actually hampered the recovery so many of them still lacked? I know the residents of Gless Inlet wouldn’t agree with me; they only wanted to feel safe themselves. So anyone with a mental imbalance was best off secured safely inside one of their lovely, local heritage buildings. Light on the outside, dark on the inside.
David was able to keep the paperwork of checking-in minimized. Being the chief of police for the entire six island area does have its perks. In less than five minutes, I had a visitor’s badge clipped onto the lapel of my coat and was following David through the halls. Of course, I would be having flashbacks to Silence of the Lambs as I walked through the line of transparent-doored cells on either side of us. A large, bald man with bulging eyes and hedgerows for eyebrows let out a loud moan as we walked by. He muttered something in an urgent and fevered voice as he shuffled with alarming speed toward the glass that separated us.
Wait, did he just say he’d enjoy my liver with a nice chianti? No, no, no. Calm down, Hattie; you’re acting just like Fraidy!
Still, the shivers that traveled down my spine had no trouble making their way up again to the nape of my neck, forcing the hair on my head to stand on end. We continued walking past the clear-doored cells, David’s pace brisk and efficient, mine brisk and freaked out.
Some of the inmates just stared at us as we passed. Some were so wrapped up with their psyches they didn’t see us at all. Some were noisy, some were quiet, some…look, you get the idea. All I’ll add is that anybody who says that mental illness all looks the same has never been inside Midnight Hill Asylum.
I happened to spot Cressida Dreddock in the next to last cell on the right. Maybe it was because I knew her saner, less-than-lovely twin sister better, but I never got over the sight of her looking twice as aged as Nebula. Wraithsgourd does wonders for your looks if you can avoid the toxic side effects.
Cressida spotted me through the door and smiled dreamily. She even gave me a clumsy, slow motion wave. I waved back a little uncertainly. It wasn’t hard to detect the sadness in her eyes, even though her drug hazed smile hid the pain quite well. David continued his stride, and I rushed to keep up.
“Who we’re here to see is upstairs,” he explained, pointing to the cage mesh in front of the stairwell just ahead of us.
A flash of his badge later and the guard on the other side waved us through without comment. Up the narrow stairs we went. I could see where a grand stairway was still in place on the right. But an ugly, out of place cinderblock wall (painted white, to go with the rest of the décor) blocked it off halfway with an even more hideous steel door barring the way. Was that for the staff? Or the inmates? I shrugged inwardly.
By contrast, the stairwell we climbed now was downright claustrophobic in the way the walls pressed in on us. Another mesh cage met us at the top and, with another display of David’s badge, we were granted wordless access. No individual rooms on this floor; this was just one big wide-open space full of hospital beds, with patients bound to them by restraints and straitjackets. The din inside the room was psychotic; an overlapping, relentless babbling of disturbed minds. I could barely make out the bizarre utterances but they hinted at evil entities that only come out on dark nights; things no person should ever face alone. God, I hoped whatever it was we were doing here was over with quickly.
“Believe it or not, this part of the asylum was nearly empty a few weeks ago,” David said as we walked among the occupied beds. “Typically, this is where new patients are held for evaluation over the course of a week or two to determine which ward they belong in. Before now, they were lucky to fill up one row of beds on any given week.”
“So, what changed?” I asked, feeling a sticky tendril of dread creep into my heart and stomach from the display of madness that surrounded me.
“Why don’t we let Orville explain that one?” David answered, waving me over to a bed on the left.
I gasped at the sight of Orville Nugget twisting his body in frenzied contortions on the cot. His once bright eyes were now clouded with opaque misery. He looked utterly lost in his own terrors. His sensuous mouth, (my assistant Millie Midge’s words, not mine - she had once declared them perfect for kissing) was constantly moving, spitting out words in varying volumes that the warped acoustics of the room wouldn’t allow me to hear. His hair, originally a bright ginger, was downright technicolor, changing hues with the regularity and bold color schemes of the Northern Lights.
I wondered briefly if Violet Mulberry, from Glessie’s Glamour Emporium, had anything to do with this riot of color. Orville writhed against the straitjacket and restraints that bound him, undulating in a manner that reminded me of a snake. My heart went out to him. Son of the prestigious alchemist, Aurel Nugget, the boy was just twenty-one years old and had been following in the footsteps of his dad. Orville had just recently graduated from the Alchemic Studies Program on Talisman. He had a bright future ahead of him. Not anymore, it seemed. I bent down closer to his mouth to try to determine what he was saying.
“It’s okay, Orville. You’re safe, you’re being looked after,” I cooed gently to the lost soul before me, while tenderly brushing back his damp, technicolored hair from his forehead.
He was muttering the same thing, over and over: “Get out. Get out of me. Get out. Get out of me.”
Orville had always had an ear for music. If he were lucid, I wonder if he would have recognized the sick irony of his rants keeping such a perfect rhythm. That’s when I noticed the state of his nose; scorched and degraded around the septum area. His skin was also exuding a particular odor that was reminiscent of a certain desert flower that bloomed only after the rare rainfall of the Arabian Lands. A quick check of his dilated pupils and I knew what I was looking at.
“He’s been Stranded,” I gasped at Orville’s tortured features.
David sighed and nodded unhappily.
“Are all of them—”
“Not all,” David said. “But most…way too many.”
I looked around the room at all the tortured inmates; all in varying degrees of Stranded distress. The Strands of Araby were no joke when it came to side effects from overuse.
The Strands had been known since at least the times of the Umayyad Caliphate on the Mainland. A highly addictive and even more highly hallucinogenic drug, nobody has ever figured out from which secret desert plant the Strands were derived. All that was known was that they came after the rains on t
he sirocco winds, which blew the fine, golden botanical threads across the dusty Arabian Peninsula.
And the Strands of Araby were fast becoming an epidemic across the Coven Isles. When heated and sniffed (usually off glass plates that resembled microscope slides), the effects of the Strands were extremely hallucinogenic, giving anyone who ingested them intense visions, similar to those you might experience in a sweat lodge ritual. Add in their rareness and the persistent rumor that they could tell magical secrets and the Strands were highly sought after. The trouble was, if abused too often, the drug left its users “Stranded,” their host mentally incapable for an indefinite period of time.
“I thought the whole ‘War on Strands’ campaign Talisman pushed wound up getting a handle on all this,” I said, finding it easier to look at CPI Trew than the agonized man before me.
“It made a minor dent at best, despite all the expense,” David scoffed. “What really got things back under control was the lack of supply. After the Besnick cartel was busted, there haven’t been any serious suppliers of the stuff outside of a few minor operators.”
“So what changed?” I asked, crossing my arms, mainly to control the shuddering in my body.
“Events on the Mainland,” David explained, leaning against the wall. “The civil war in Yemen is permitting the drugs to pour through unsecured borders. So massive amounts of the drug are being imported here right now. An opportunistic market for rogue, independent suppliers.”
Waving a hand at the entire ward, he added, “Not so great for the poor addicts who wind up overdoing it, though.”
I shook my head. “Not everybody who does this stuff gets Stranded, though. I’m sure you’ve got more than a few Strand addicts in prison who aren’t in this … this … mess.” I gestured at Orville’s twisting sweaty frame.
The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5 Page 36