Witch on Second: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 5 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels)

by Juliette Harper

  “So,” Tori said brightly, “hate to break this to you, Jinksy, but I’m not seeing the Miss Congeniality crown in your future.”

  4

  Chase walked slowly through the stacks in the basement archive. He could have used one of the bikes parked in the lair to cut his travel time to the Shevington portal, but he wanted to walk and think.

  Jinx’s behavior toward him hurt. Even though Festus swore no woman could stay mad at a man forever, Chase had his doubts. He wasn’t proud of delivering the news about the break up as a brutal fait accompli. He should have talked things over with Jinx. But if he had tried that approach, Chase knew he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.

  When he and Festus arrived home the night before, Chase changed into human form while his father simply shrank down to his usual ginger cat self. As Festus warmed himself in front of the fire, Chase poured a glass of Laphroaig single malt for himself and distributed a dram in a bowl for Festus.

  “Slàinte,” Chase toasted, raising his glass.

  “Do dheagh shlàinte,” Festus answered, inclining his head before sipping the whisky and closing his eyes in satisfied appreciation. “Like mother’s milk,” he purred.

  “Only if Grandma nursed you on hundred proof,” Chase said.

  “My mother may have looked like a sweet little slip of a werecat,” Festus said proudly, “but that woman could hold her whisky.”

  In spite of his mood, Chase laughed. “Okay, Dad, you’ve got your fire and your single malt,” he said. “Now we need to talk Strigoi.”

  “That we do,” Festus said, licking his lips. “Look in your DropBox account.”

  “What for?”

  “I had Merle, Earl, and Furl use the Registry computers to do a little digging for us,” Festus replied. “Furl emailed me the report, and I saved it to Dropbox.”

  Laughing, Chase asked, “Do you suppose Steve Jobs realized the iPad would become the feline computer of choice?”

  “Doubtful,” Festus said. “The humans are already worried that cats are a higher life form. They’re more comfortable believing the only thing we care about is that ridiculous koi pond app.”

  “What’s the name of the file?” Chase asked, tapping at the screen of his tablet.

  “StrigScum dot PDF,” Festus replied.

  Arching an eyebrow, Chase said, “Nice with the tolerance there, Dad. Would you mind telling me what the International Registry for Shapeshifters has to do with the Strigoi?”

  “Nothing,” Festus answered. “Furl just used their computers to hack the IBIS database.”

  Chase’s head snapped up. “Tell me you did not just use the word ‘hack’ in connection with the International Bureau of Indefinite Species.”

  “Oh, please,” Festus scoffed with a dismissive wave of his paw. “Those IBIS boys are too busy chasing down chupacabra rumors to pay attention to who might be looking at their computers. They only use the fool things to control the flow of fake information the humans get on the Internet.”

  “Fine,” Chase said. “But if we get caught, I’m throwing you and Furl under the bus.”

  “Furl who?” Festus asked innocently.

  Shaking his head, Chase opened the PDF. He scanned the page and frowned. “What am I looking at here?” he asked. “And why go to IBIS in the first place?”

  “That’s every bit of information IBIS has gathered about the Strigoi since the bureau’s founder began researching them,” Festus replied. “They’re classed as an indefinite species because Strigoi come in two flavors; living and dead.”

  “Which one is Anton Ionescu?” Chase asked.

  “Living.”

  As he swiped to the next screen, Chase started to ask, “Is that good or . . .,” but froze mid-gesture and croaked, “Benjamin Franklin founded IBIS?”

  “Not per se,” Festus answered, complacently returning to his whisky, “but his secret research papers form the core of the Bureau’s original database. Damned Brits made off with the files after the American Revolution. Barely left poor ole Ben with his kite string.”

  “So that’s why IBIS is based in London,” Chase said thoughtfully. “I always wondered about that. How long is this report anyway?”

  “Couple of hundred pages,” Festus yawned. “I’m just gonna take a little nap here on the hearth while you do your homework. Wake me up if you need anything . . . and try not to need anything.”

  Chase passed the deep hours of the night listening to the complacent counterpoint his father’s snoring struck against the crackling rhythm of the fire. The contents of the report transported him far away from his comfortable chair in Briar Hollow to the highest reaches of the Carpathian Mountains in Transylvania.

  The tale was not one filled with vampires, however, at least not as those creatures are typically portrayed. Instead, Chase learned that Anton Ionescu and his clan descended from a common ancestor, a human cursed by a witch to become a Strigoi viu.

  Curious as to the exact meaning, Chase searched for a Romanian-to-English translation engine and came up with “undead alive.” Next, he typed in “Strigoi mort” and was rewarded with “undead dead.” The second was easy enough to understand. They were the legendary resurrected dead upon whom Bram Stoker based his Dracula.

  The Strigoi mort reputedly rose from their graves and returned to their homes and families, slowly draining their loved ones of their life force until they, too, expired. The creatures seemed to exist in an ambiguous space between the human and the demonic.

  The Strigoi viu, the “undead alive,” were harder to comprehend, and clearly the reason for the species’ indefinite status. Strigoi viu were said to both possess the power of invisibility and the hunger to drain the life essence of those around them. They could, however, choose their victims, unlike the Strigoi mort who seemed to affect everyone in their vicinity equally.

  As to the matter of invisibility, Furl inserted a comment in the PDF. “All accounts suggest that rather than becoming actually invisible, the Strigoi viu simply cloud the minds of those around them so that they are not observed.”

  In the old homeland, under the auspices of the Romanian Orthodox Church, the distinction between living and dead Strigoi didn’t seem to matter much. Both were condemned as unnatural creatures in league with the devil and hunted with equal religious avidity.

  One priest, however, was troubled by the free will enjoyed by the Strigoi viu. Father Samuel Damian reasoned that if the “undead alive” could choose to drain energy from their victims, they could also choose not to if presented with an alternative food source.

  In 1748, Damian came to America ostensibly to meet with Benjamin Franklin to confer on an electrical experimentation. Furl helpfully included a scan of an advertisement from the South Carolina Gazette announcing a planned electrical demonstration by Damian for the general public.

  IBIS was in possession of correspondence between Damian and Franklin over the period 1753 to 1755. The men always conversed in Latin. Together, they developed a method to feed the Strigoi vui with electricity, allowing them to settle peacefully in what was then the remote region of North Carolina surrounding Briar Hollow.

  Franklin’s work with Damian fueled his growing interest in the paranormal and cryptozoology, touching off a wealth of clandestine research. Following his death, other scientists, human and Fae alike, including a number of notable alchemists, continued Franklin’s efforts to catalog and understand esoteric species. In time, they formed the International Bureau of Indefinite Species both to protect the creatures they studied and the humans who crossed paths with them.

  The last page of the report was a personal note from Furl to Festus. “Hey, you old drunk,” Furl wrote, “here’s what I found out from some werecat operatives we have in Romania. If this Ionescu guy did curse Kelly, you’ve got more on your paws than you bargained for. He’s the head of their clan, so everyone in the family is bound to honor the curse. If you’ve got one Ionescu coming after you, you’ve got them all. Plus
, staying juiced up on electricity all the time makes them super sensitive to magic. Normal surveillance is a no go. They’ll sense you a mile out. Let us know what else we can do to help. Remember, Red Dot at the Dirty Claw this Wednesday.”

  But is was the post-script that made the hair on the back of Chase’s neck stand up. “Oh, yeah,” Furl wrote, “I almost forgot. I looked at Anton Ionescu’s client list in Raleigh. He’s Irenaeus Chesterfield’s lawyer.”

  Chase switched the tablet off and glanced at the clock — 5 a.m.. He was supposed to be next door for a festival committee meeting in two hours. Trying to sleep now would just make him feel worse, so instead he showered and shaved before starting breakfast.

  When the smell of frying bacon filled the apartment, Festus woke up and came padding into the kitchen. “Morning, boy,” he said companionably, jumping up on the counter beside the coffee machine. “Stick one of those plastic thingies in the machine for me, will you?”

  Chase obligingly loaded a brewing cup and positioned a broad, shallow mug under the spigot, leaving Festus to punch the button and watch the dark liquid trickle downward.

  When the machine finished, Chase moved the full mug onto the counter and lightened the coffee with a splash of cream. After Festus had lapped up a few swallows, he said, “You’re talkative this morning, boy.”

  “How do you want your eggs?” Chase asked.

  “Scrambled,” Festus replied. “I assume you read the report.”

  “Yes,” Chase said, breaking three eggs into a bowl and whisking them.

  “That last line is a killer, huh?” Festus said.

  “Nice choice of words,” Chase smirked, pouring the eggs into a skillet. “Is there the slightest chance that it’s just a coincidence that Ionescu and Chesterfield know each other?”

  “I guess so,” Festus said, “if you believe in Santa Claus.”

  “The real Santa Claus was a goat-headed Bavarian demon named Krampus who chained up misbehaving children,” Chase replied, shoving a plate toward Festus.

  “My point exactly,” Festus said, snagging a piece of bacon. “I’d say when you team up a revenge-seeking Strigoi with a power-hungry Creavit wizard, the combination is just about as precious and darling as Krampus.”

  Refilling his coffee cup, Chase leaned back against the counter. “What do you know about the curse Ionescu placed on Jinx’s mother?”

  “Carry this plate over to the table for me, will you?” Festus said, jumping down. “We can at least pretend to be civilized.”

  When they were both seated at the table — or in Festus’ case, on the table — the old cat went on. “So you know about Kelly and Tori’s mom, Gemma, wanting to be cheerleaders in high school?”

  Chase nodded.

  “They cast a spell on two girls to make them late to school,” Festus said, “but something happened, and the car went off the road. It was raining that day, and the roads were slick, but Kelly blamed herself. That’s why she gave up magic for so many years. But she gave up a whole lot more.”

  “Her first born,” Chase said.

  “Yes,” Festus said, pausing to chew a mouthful of eggs. “A boy. She named him Connor. Ionescu was the father of one of the dead girls and the uncle of the other one. When he found out Kelly had a baby, his need for revenge was just too strong. He cursed Kelly to be forever parted from her son, which meant Ionescu planned to drain the boy’s life force.”

  “Until Barnaby and Myrtle intervened.”

  “Right,” Festus said. “The deal was that Connor would be taken to Shevington and Kelly would never see him again.”

  “And she hasn’t,” Chase said.

  “Not yet,” Festus countered. “Either Ionescu has found out Kelly’s taken up her magic again and is going back and forth to the Valley, or he’s still consumed with revenge, but I think he hired Malcolm Ferguson to come after her and Jinx through us.”

  Chase scrubbed at his face with his hand and stared out over the mostly deserted courthouse square. “And Furl says we can’t get close to the Ionescu’s compound up in the mountains. Now, what?”

  “Now,” Festus said, “you go to the Valley and talk to Ironweed.”

  “Ironweed?” Chase said. “What in the world does the fairy guard have to do with all of this?”

  “Well,” Festus said, “sometimes Ironweed drinks with us at the Dirty Claw.”

  Chase shook his head. “Ironweed is an adrenaline junkie,” he said. “What fairy in his right mind would drink with a bunch of werecats? He gets mistaken for a moth, and he’s a goner.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Festus snorted. “You ever notice that long thin scar on Merle’s nose?”

  “Yeah,” Chase said. “What about it?”

  “He decided to chase Ironweed one night, and the little bugger cut him with a combat knife,” Festus said. “Never judge a fairy by his size.”

  Chase chuckled. “I would have paid good money to see that,” he said. “So tell me again why I’m going to see Ironweed?”

  “Gnats,” Festus said. “You’re going to talk to him about gnats.”

  5

  All in all, that Friday presented us with . . . challenges. After Chase left for the Valley, I grappled with equal parts depression and annoyance.

  The fact that I couldn't — or wouldn't — ask him why he was going to Shevington depressed me. Chase’s movements were no longer any of my business.

  That’s what I kept repeating to myself as I dusted things that didn’t need to be dusted and rearranged displays that didn’t need to be rearranged.

  It’s none of my business.

  It’s none of my business.

  It’s none of my business.

  And there was no way I intended to appear interested.

  No. Way.

  As for the annoyance, that involved harboring a secret plan to sneak off to the Valley myself that night.

  Yeah, I know. It’s possible my stance on Chase was a tad bit hypocritical in light of my own . . . lack of being forthcoming.

  But just bear with me for a second. Let’s put my motivations aside and consider the logistics I faced in successfully executing the covert op.

  Of which no one in my world would approve, hence the whole “secret” thing.

  I live in the same building with my best friend, a hyper-intelligent rat, an overly solicitous brownie (who can make himself literally invisible), a mini witch with a love for late night TV, and my newly corporeal ghost dad.

  Getting through the lair and on my way to Shevington would require a minor miracle under the best of circumstances, but in the wake of Chase’s announcement, I now faced the very real chance of running into my ex who would expect an explanation.

  Which I wouldn’t give.

  Which meant I would lose my temper.

  Thus taking things between us from worse to . . . more worse.

  But wait, I’m not done yet.

  Remember, that was a Friday, meaning the moms would show up around closing time for our mother/daughter, witch/alchemist, potluck/workout.

  (As winter was coming on that year, we were getting pretty good at combining magical concepts with normal activities.)

  This time, however, the moms planned to spend the night. Tori and I both had responsibilities with the festival committee to get ready for the dance. We needed the extra help in the shop. And then there was the matter of the dads.

  When Malcolm Ferguson kidnapped the moms to get to us, I learned that my perfectly ordinary, truck-driving, fishing-obsessed father, Jeff Hamilton, has known about magic all along.

  While a little shocking, the news came as a huge relief. Any family scenario that doesn’t involve a bunch of complicated lies I have to remember is good in my book.

  Tori didn't get that lucky. Her dad, Howard “Scrap” Andrews, so christened for the lumber yard he runs, had no idea that both his wife and daughter possessed supernatural powers.

  Gemma’s confession of Scrap’s blissful state of ignorance stunned Tori
. “You studied alchemy on the sly in our basement all these years and Dad didn’t figure it out?” she asked incredulously. “How on earth did you manage that?”

  “The same way I managed it with you,” Gemma replied placidly. “I told you all I was putting up preserves, which I did, but with some expedited cooking methods.”

  “I’ve been eating alchemically pickled peaches my whole life?” Tori croaked.

  “Eating them and loving them,” Gemma said, “so quit having a conniption. Your father is too practical by nature. He thinks in two by fours. I didn’t see any reason to confuse him.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  “Well,” Gemma said, “things have changed. You two have your abilities. Kelly and I are back in the game. We need to be over here more, and it’s just too much trouble to keep inventing excuses. Jeff is dealing with things fine. Scrap will have to catch up whether he likes it or not.”

  But Scrap didn’t catch up, and he didn’t like it — at all.

  When Gemma told her husband the truth about herself and their daughter, he took the news as a betrayal of their marriage. The line that crushed his normally stalwart wife was, “How can I be sure anything about our relationship was ever true?”

  Exactly one week before the planned sleepover, Gemma sat in the lair and reviewed high — or I guess low — points of her conversation with Scrap. Her pale face and strained features betrayed how much her husband’s suspicions hurt her even though she pointedly displayed her usual unflappable attitude.

  When her mother finished talking, Tori ventured out onto the sea of egg shells littering the whole conversation and said tentatively, “I can understand why Dad thinks you lied to him.”

  My mother gasped. “Victoria Tallulah Andrews!” she barked sternly. “Apologize to your mother this instant.”

  Full names. Very bad. Coming from either mother.

  Tori swallowed hard, but to her credit, she didn’t back down. “I’m not trying to be hurtful, Kelly, but Mom and Dad have been married for 35 years. That’s a long time to find out your wife has been keeping something from you.”