Witching for the Best
Moonlight Cove Mystery #2
Samanatha Silver
Evelynne Page
Blueberry Books Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Also by Samanatha Silver
About the Author
Chapter 1
I woke up to the sensation of something soft and somewhat cold gently swatting my cheeks and nose. My eyes fluttered open as I nearly gasped at the proximity of two bright green eyes staring right at me, barely a half inch away.
“Luna!” I groaned, closing my eyes and turning over on my side. Even though I had moved away, my black cat familiar jumped after me, her whiskers tickling my chin. She was purring, but it was less of a sweet purr and more of a smug purr. She took great joy in waking me up in the morning; I was pretty sure she just really relished the opportunity to annoy me.
“Wake up,” she hissed, batting the tip of my nose with her tiny black paw. I grumbled incoherently and tugged the sheets further up over my head. Luna sighed in frustration. “Artemis. It’s seven-oh-five.”
From underneath my blankets I replied. “So what? My alarm goes off at seven-ten.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t you like the extra five minutes to get ready?” she reasoned. I opened one eye. I could just barely see her dark silhouette through the thin sheets.
“No, what I really wanted were those five minutes of sleep, thank you very much,” I shot back, curling my legs up into the fetal position. I shivered. It was surprisingly cold for mid-autumn. Then I realized that one of us – I wasn’t sure if it was me during the night, or Luna in an attempt to wake me up - had knocked the heavy, fleece blanket off the bed. Well, that would explain it.
“You and I both know your hair needs a good wash,” Luna accused. I pushed the sheets back down off my head to glare at her.
“Rude, much?” I mumbled.
She shrugged. “True, much.”
I groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. I looked toward the window. My curtains served as my alarm, as I had enchanted them to wake me up by gently opening to reveal the bright morning sunshine about a month ago. Right now, of course, they were still pulled shut over the glass pane, just barely rippling in the light breeze coming through the window screen. Still, faint beams of early dawn light were starting to break through, casting a warm glow over the hardwood floors and the new - well, new to me - vintage red Aubusson rug in front of my bed. I collected old things, antique fixtures, vintage decorations. Odds and ends from the non-magical world that fascinated me with how simple they were. It was a wonder that anyone out there got anything done without even the easiest, most take-for-granted household spells that I relied on daily to keep my bed and breakfast running.
“Get up, get up,” Luna urged me, poking my ribs with her paw.
“What is your deal today?” I asked, annoyed. I slid out of bed and padded across the cold wood floors to my en suite bathroom. I grumbled, “lumeroa,” and the lights flickered on. Sleepily peeling off my pajamas, I turned on the shower, standing still under the water while I slowly woke up. I was a morning person, most of the time, once I actually got up and moving. But last night, Luna had spent the hours of midnight to 2 a.m. batting a ball of yarn around on the bed, keeping me awake. I didn’t even know where she’d gotten the yarn from. I liked to think I was capable of doing arts and crafts, DIY home improvements and stuff, if I needed to, but I wasn’t an especially crafty person by nature. Then it dawned on me: my mother, who had recently shifted from her surfing obsession to a knitting obsession, had been over here at the bed and breakfast the other day. Lately she was never seen without at least two or three balls of yarn and a whole host of other knitting accoutrements.
“At least it was yarn that fell out of her bag and not knitting needles,” I thought aloud as I washed my hair in the shower. Luna came prancing into the bathroom and hopped up on the counter, curling up in the dry porcelain sink.
“Your mother should come over more often,” Luna said suddenly. I grinned.
“Why’s that? Because she keeps yarn in her bag for you to steal and play with in the dead of night when you should be sleeping?” I asked, rinsing my hair.
Luna was silent for a moment, knowing she’d been caught. “No, that’s not why,” she lied. “I just happen to think she’s a very interesting person.”
“Uh huh, sure you do. And there’s no reason at all as to why you’ve come to this conclusion about her just now?”
My familiar narrowed her eyes at me and didn’t answer. “Siccescoroa,” I mumbled over my hair after my shower, drying it instantly. However, I didn’t enunciate very well, so some locks of hair were still somewhat damp. I was tempted to try casting the spell again, but then I ran the risk of over-drying the already-dry hair and making it all straw-like and frizzy. There were all kinds of household spells I used all the time to make my life just a little easier. It was strange to think that there were non-magical folks out there in the world going through the motions of having to buy a hair dryer, plugging it in, and manually drying their hair. That must have been the most inconvenient thing ever.
“Looks a little bedraggled,” Luna commented. “Why don’t you try something new with it? A beehive style, maybe?” I shot her a warning glance.
“Don’t you start,” I told her, waggling a finger at her. “It’s too early for all this criticism about my appearance, Lu. What’s up with you today? Why are you being so salty?”
She shrugged. “I found one of those old magazines yesterday. You know, from the stack your sister found at that yard sale two weeks ago.”
My family members were all well aware of my antiques and knickknacks collecting, and they were all more than happy to encourage it. Whenever there was an estate sale, a garage sale, a yard sale, or a new shipment at one of the vintage or antique shops downtown, they tended to head down there to pick me up something new and, well, old.
A couple of weeks ago, my younger sister Diana, who was once the youngest ever mayor of our town-turned-principal of the local magical school, had gone to a sale across town early one Saturday. I had been spending the whole day cleaning, not looking at my phone, only to check it later and find about thirty text messages from her, listing all the cool stuff she’d come across. Later that day, she turned up at the front door with a huge smile and an equally large cardboard box of old stuff she wanted to give me. In the box were some old clocks that probably hadn’t ticked since before the turn of the century, an Edwardian-era hand mirror that was in desperate need of a good polishing, and a massive stack of old fashion and recipe magazines.
Despite the fact that Di was a very fashion-conscious sharp dresser, I never really had been that way. I wore what was comfortable, and whatever caught my eye. Usually my ensembles consisted of a few old pieces I’d had stored away in my closet for a decade. I only rarely got rid of clothing, preferring to repurpose and reuse everything until it was ragged and unwearable. Of course, it helped immensely that my mother had become somewhat of an expert seamstress during one of her passing obsessions with sewing. She routinely went through phases, starting a new hobby and quickly becoming enraptured with it until she mastered it and p
romptly moved on to the next thing. Nowadays, it was knitting. Next month, it could be papier-mâché. There was just no telling with her.
But anyway, the fashion magazines weren’t of much interest to me beyond their vintage value, but the cooking magazines were a wonderful addition to my collection of old recipe books and cookbooks passed down through generations.
“So you looked at some old fashion rags from the forties and now you think you’re some kind of expert?” I asked Luna, raising one eyebrow. She preened and gave me a prissy look.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
I laughed. “Luna, you do know that fashion changes over time, right?” I said, combing through my mostly-dry hair with an old Victorian hair brush. “Like, we don’t wear the same things now that we wore back then. Hairstyles have changed, too.”
“You humans are so fickle,” she accused. “Look at me: I’m a cat, and I wear my fur the way we cats have worn our fur for centuries. And it looks just as good now as it did then.”
“Well, how else would you wear it?” I giggled, earning myself a glare from my cat.
“There is no better way than this. Look at me, Arti. I’m a paragon of timeless beauty. An icon of feline fashion. Why mess with perfection?” she declared, licking her paws.
“You’re right. You’re perfect as you are. And so is my hair,” I said, sticking out my tongue at her. “Just let me live, Luna.”
“Fine, fine. Don’t expect any more style advice from me!” she said smugly.
Thank the moon for that, I thought to myself. I simply shrugged and tied my hair into a French braid down the back of my head. I got dressed in a pair of black jeans and a flowy slate-gray shirt. I pulled on my favorite black boots, a black kimono-style floral cardigan that fell almost to my knees, and fastened a bottle-green vintage dragonfly bauble to my hair. Then I quickly added a few swipes of black mascara and some burgundy lipstick.
Once I was satisfied that I didn’t look as sleepy as I felt, I swished out of the room and down the hallway. As I was about to head downstairs to start cooking breakfast for my guests, I heard a strange whining sound. I turned toward the noise, brow furrowed and ears listening closely. What the hell was that?
“That doesn’t sound good,” Luna commented, following close behind me as I walked toward the source of the high-pitched noise. As I got closer to one of the vacant guest rooms, I realized the sound was coming from the en-suite bathroom. Walking in carefully, the source of the noise quickly became evident. It was the bathtub tap, dripping, the old, tired-out plumbing whistling somewhere in the walls.
“Nope. Does not sound good at all,” I agreed sadly. “How did this happen?”
Luna hopped up on the edge of the bathtub, careful not to slip into the tub and get her paws wet from the residual drip of the tap. “Wasn’t me,” she said defensively.
“You don’t have opposable thumbs, I think I can count you out as a suspect,” I replied.
“Well, this is a problem for later. Right now, you’ve got to get your butt down to the kitchen.”
As much as I hated to leave the tap in its current state, I knew she was right. I had guests to feed. “Okay. Yep. That’s on my project list for the day. Along with the flickering bulbs in the chandelier downstairs. And the peeling wallpaper in the foyer. And that creaky board on the staircase,” I went on, feeling progressively bogged down by the never-ending list of chores.
The Moonlight Cove Manor was an old building, and I knew a lot of the fixtures and furniture had been here long before even my parents had taken over the place, many, many moons ago. Nowadays, it was all my responsibility, since my parents had retired and left the Manor to me to run. Still, I knew my mom would balk at the thought of my replacing or updating any of the vintage workings here. She wasn’t a fan of the newfangled modern appliances and finishes the Manor sorely needed. But then again, she wasn’t running the place anymore. I was. So whether she liked it or not, I was going to have to update the place. As much as I liked antiques and cool human things, I also liked it when everything worked, and taps didn’t drip. There was definitely a place for modern things, and the Manor was definitely such a place right now. Maybe I could just keep this new plan on the down low, and not tell my mom until after I did a little bit of renovating.
“What are you thinking about?” Luna asked warily as she trotted down the stairs behind me and followed me into the kitchen. “You have that little spark in your eye that means trouble.”
“Oh, just thinking about all the stuff that needs to get done around here,” I said with a sly smile.
“You’re welcome to do whatever you want, so long as it doesn’t interrupt my sleeping time,” Luna replied.
“Oh, well, thanks for giving me permission,” I replied as I grabbed a gigantic, ancient family recipe book off the shelf and pored through the pages in search of the perfect breakfast for my guests. Eventually settling on a recipe for banana pancakes and whipped coconut cream, I turned to the counter and with a flourish, said “convocoroa!”
The pantry, a couple cabinets, and the refrigerator all opened up and began an elaborate procession that involved various ingredients floating through the air to congregate in a neat line on the kitchen island for me. As long as I thought about what ingredients I needed while I cast the spell, it worked perfectly. I took out a couple mixing bowls, a whisk, a wooden spoon, measuring spoons, measuring cups, a chopping knife, a food processor, and a cutting board. Then I tied my apron around my neck and waist and got ready to start cooking. This was my happy place, here in my quaint, vintage chef’s kitchen with my familiar cat by my side, cooking for my guests. I loved to cook. In fact, from time to time I almost wondered if my true witch affinity was for cooking. My friends, Elisa and Bella Andhrimir, who ran a cafe down the street, came from a coven of witches and wizards who were well-known for their culinary powers. My coven, however, was tied closely to the moon. My personal witch’s power, a unique ability only I had, was the ability to control the tides. However, no matter how much I absolutely loved cooking, I felt most in my element, most alive with magic and power, when I was sitting by the seashore breathing in the salty air and listening to the rush of the waves.
But being here in my kitchen, was a close second place.
As I zipped through the cooking of breakfast and was putting the finishing touches on the plates I had arranged for my guests for when they came downstairs, my phone started buzzing on the counter. “Who would be calling me this early?” I wondered out loud.
“The fashion police,” Luna said slyly, batting at the buzzing phone with her paw.
“That’s quite enough of that,” I replied, walking over to my phone, and grabbing it off the counter. When I saw the number on the screen, I squinted in confusion. It didn’t pop up under any name I recognized; just a random local number. Still, my witch instincts warned me that this was important, so I answered. One thing I’d learned in my life: when the witch instinct tells you to do something, you do it.
“Artemis Mani?” asked a deep a male voice in my ear. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.
“Yes. That’s me,” I replied questioningly.
“This is Officer Xander Forsetti.”
“Oh,” I said shortly, my heart skipping a beat. His face swam at the forefront of my mind. Handsome. Serious. Radiant blue eyes. But why would he be calling me at this hour? It certainly couldn’t be to deliver any good news.
“Are you busy?” he asked.
“Uhhh,” I began, looking around at the plates of freshly-fried pancakes and dollops of whipped coconut cream. “I’m not not busy.”
“If at all possible, could you come down to the shore near the dead-end of Old Driftwood Road?” he asked, his voice businesslike.
“Um. I suppose I could. But, Officer-- Xander, why me?” I asked, quickly casting a spell of preservation over the dishes so that when the guests came downstairs their food would still be pristine and hot. “Asservoa,” I whispered towar
d the dishes. A light glow of pink light passed over the plates for a moment.
The officer sighed heavily. “Your particular power could be of use to me.”
“On a case?”
“Yes. On a case.”
“Ok. Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I told him, and hung up. Luna was staring at me expectantly, her eyes wide and round.
“You promised that I could come along with you this time,” she reminded me. I smiled and beckoned for her to follow. She happily bounded up my arm to perch on my shoulder. I left a quick note for the guests to help themselves to the food and that I’d be back soon.
At least, I hoped I would. I already had a long laundry list of things I needed to do that day, including doing the laundry. I pulled on a coat and headed out to get my broomstick. Getting involved in another mystery was not on the list, but what else could it have been when the Chief of Police in town wanted my help?
Chapter 2
The Washington coast might not have been the kind of warm, sandy beach Pacific dream you could find further south in California, but I always thought it had more than enough of its own charms to make up for it.
Moonlight Cove was almost always blanketed in a fine-to-thick carpet of mist that rolled over the waves to hug the shoreline. It gave the gray-beige sand something to meld into while the green waters lapped at the millions of smooth pebbles that dotted the coarse sand. On either side, spruce trees grew tall and loomed over the edges of the view, reaching as far out into the water as they could through the floor-level miniature forests of dune plants that grew in the sandy soil.
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