Witch at Odds: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 2 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries)

by Juliette Harper

  Let me be real honest here. After 11 years of working at Tom’s Cafe, I can tell you how long a pot of coffee has been sitting on the burner, but I wouldn’t know Kopi Luwak from Folgers, and I had never even heard of the god shot until Tori stopped speaking English and started talking barista.

  Let's work through this foreign language one step at a time, starting with Kopi Luwak.

  Considered the elite of the coffee elite, Kopi Luwak costs upwards of $700 per kilogram. If you flunked the metric system like I did, a kilogram is 2.2 pounds. I guess that makes $350 a pound a bargain in some people’s books, but it’s freaking outrageous as far as I’m concerned and we sure as heck won’t be carrying the stuff.

  You know why?

  The beans are “partially digested” by some jungle civet cat.

  What does “partially digested” mean?

  Think “litter box harvest” and you’ll be on the right page.

  Do I even need to say, “gross?”

  Then there's this matter of the god shot, which has become Tori’s personal goal in life. Apparently, baristas the world over dream and strategize about finding this particular Holy Grail.

  The first step in the universal strategy to achieve the god shot?

  Select the right espresso machine.

  Hence, weeks of discussion during which my frugality ran head-on into Tori’s new obsession. If I caved on this subject, she would buy a machine that cost more than her new apartment behind the shop.

  When showing me endless online catalog pages didn’t further her case, Tori sent off for literally dozens of brochures, which now littered the coffee table (ironic, right?) in the Rat Cave.

  “Jinksy,” she said, “I really don’t want to have this argument with you again.”

  Tori and I almost never argue, and the only really serious fight we ever had was over two losers we were dating named Cody and Jesse.

  “We’re not arguing,” I countered, “we’re discussing. Could we just come down from the $20,000 price point and look at some more . . . economical . . . choices?”

  “You mean like the machine on Craigslist that has been sludging out motor oil shots in some dive called Bennie’s Beans and Bait?” she asked defensively.

  (Bear with me, there is a point to all this coffee talk.)

  Sighing, I said, “Okay. Granted, the Yelp reviews on Bennie’s have moved me off that idea.”

  Bennie’s ad for the used espresso machine read, “Asking $50 or best offer. Would consider a trade for primo fishing tackle.”

  Inwardly gulping, I said, in the spirit of compromise, “Could you live with something in the $1,000 to $3,000 range?”

  We were more than splitting the price of the equipment, but I was still majorly falling on my sword with that offer.

  Tori’s eyes lit up. “You mean it?” she asked excitedly.

  “Yes,” I said, still feeling a little sick at my stomach. “I mean it.”

  “How about I grind some of these Ethiopia Konga single estate beans for the French press and we’ll look at the brochures again?”

  See what I mean? English is no longer spoken here.

  I will, however, concede that until Tori made coffee for me in a French press, I never knew such a thing existed, which means I had led a deprived life. Best way to make coffee ever.

  “Deal,” I said, “but no hogging the donut holes.”

  We spent the rest of the morning narrowing down our choices until I gave Tori the go ahead to place a call to New York and get a La Pavoni machine (in red, no less, and, thankfully, on sale) headed our way.

  Just before she hit the “send” button, Tori looked up at the ceiling and said, “You okay with this, Myrtle?”

  The question was instantly rewarded with a shower of gold stars, which made me breathe a sigh of relief.

  Mutiny on the playground avoided for one more morning.

  4

  That night at the cemetery, Jeff, the high school football player, was waiting for us when we came through the gate. “Hi, Tori! Hi, Jinx!” he said, in an excited voice. “Did you bring it?”

  “It” was the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. Jeff couldn’t turn the pages by himself, but Tori was happy to read the magazine with him and to answer his questions. I’m completely lacking the sports gene, but she inherited a double dose. Her parents, Gemma and Howard, are possibly the two most embarrassing people you'd never want to sit with at a football game.

  Tori shot me a questioning look. “Go ahead,” I said. “I want to talk to Colonel Longworth.”

  I found the old soldier near his white marble obelisk. “Good evening, Miss Jinx,” Beau said, bowing gallantly. “Forgive me for not being at the cemetery entrance to greet you. I was detained on a matter of diplomatic importance.”

  “That’s okay, Beau,” I said. “Everything okay?”

  “Okay” being a relative term to a guy who had been dead since the Civil War.

  Beau sighed. “Yes,” he said wearily. “I was merely mediating a dispute between Mrs. Walters and Miss Lou Ella.”

  Mrs. Walters was a sweet 19th century granny laid to rest in her best blue gingham dress and Miss Lou Ella was a 1960s-era hairdresser complete with bouffant and rhinestone-encrusted cat’s eye glasses.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, “what happened?”

  “I am afraid Miss Lou Ella was telling stories of her exploits with single young gentlemen that extended far beyond the acceptable morals of Mrs. Walter’s time,” he said. “An unfortunate discussion of a religious nature ensued, and Mrs. Walters used some rather harsh words relative to Miss Lou Ella’s morality.”

  That’s a really long way to get around to saying Mrs. Walters probably politely called Miss Lou Ella a slut.

  “And how did this cat fight play out?” I asked.

  “There was a great deal of unnecessary wind and some shrieking,” he said, “precisely the sort of thing that the living expect of a haunted graveyard. Thankfully there were no witnesses, but I really cannot allow that kind of behavior to go unchecked. It will disrupt the peaceful nature of our community.”

  “You really are a sort of mayor out here, aren’t you?” I said.

  “I think it’s simply the effect of the uniform,” Longworth said modestly.

  That was my opening. “Given your knowledge of everyone who lives . . .er, resides here,” I said, “can you help me locate a grave?”

  “Of course,” Longworth said. “Whose final resting place are you seeking?”

  “A Cherokee woman named Knasgowa Skea,” I said.

  Beau hesitated, and then said, “I do know the location of this woman’s grave, but if it is not too presumptuous of me, may I ask the nature of your interest in her?”

  That I wasn’t expecting.

  “I think she may be the key to why all of you are trapped inside the fence,” I explained. “Her husband, Alexander Skea, was born in the Orkney Islands. I've discovered that their folklore contains some unusual beliefs about the dead rising to torment the living. If I'm right, Alexander may have put some kind of spell on his wife's grave to bind her to that spot, and it worked too well.”

  “An interesting theory,” the Colonel said. “Most of the spirits here do not care to go near Mrs. Skea’s grave.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Beau seemed to be searching for the right words. “There is a certain . . . energy associated with her resting place,” he said finally. “The others find it uncomfortable.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I am aware of the sensation,” he admitted, “but it isn’t sufficient to drive me away. If you are determined to see her grave, I am capable of taking you there. Shall we?”

  With those words, the Colonel offered me his arm. The gesture was already an old game between us. All of the spirits in the graveyard appeared to me in much the same way, like images off an old black-and-white TV set. For some of them that analogy extends to wavy lines and static.

  Of all the ghosts, Colonel Longworth�
��s “signal” is the strongest. I can see him clearly, but I can't touch him. I certainly can't take his arm, but it makes him feel better to offer it, so I smiled, and said, “Thank you, kind sir,” and fell in beside him. As we walked, I held my left arm against my waist to make the illusion more real for the courtly old officer.

  Beau took me to the exact center of the graveyard. We stopped at a black marble marker, which must have been both expensive and unusual in its day. The inscription read, Knasgowa, wife of Alexander, daughter of the Cherokee Nation.

  Turning to me, Beau asked, “Do you feel it?”

  Thanks to the work I’d put into controlling my psychometry by that time, I had already taught myself to empty my thoughts and reach out with my mind. When I did, I encountered a kind of . . . blankness over the grave, almost as if the air itself was dead.

  I frowned and turned to Beau. “I don’t get it,” I said. “The other graves don’t feel like this.”

  “Precisely,” Beau said. “To us it feels like a void into which none of us wish to fall.”

  “I can sure understand why,” I said. “Maybe that’s the effect of the binding spell. Did Aunt Fiona know about this?”

  “Miss Fiona did know,” the Colonel said cryptically.

  I waited, but when Beau said nothing more, I had to prod him. “And?” I asked.

  “Your aunt said that what is connected to this grave should not be released,” the old man replied. “Perhaps you should heed her warning.”

  This would be the part where I should have clued in that if Aunt Fiona said leave it alone, my next move was to back away. Unfortunately, the last time I talked to my aunt, she told me that I possessed powers that were stronger than her own, and, as much as I hate to admit it, I let that go straight to my head.

  “I’ve done a lot of research into this topic of binding the dead,” I told Beau. “I think I can handle this.”

  Right. Of course you can — armed with a high school diploma, 11 years of experience waiting tables, about a month of being a witch, and Google.

  Hi, my name is Jinx, and I’m an egocentric idiot.

  Just then, Tori walked up to join us, and I saw a funny look come over her face. “Whoa,” she said, “this place gives me the heebie jeebies. What’s up with that?”

  “This is Knasgowa’s grave,” I said. “According to the Colonel, all the spirits in the cemetery feel the same way about her plot that you do.”

  “So we abort, right?” Tori said.

  That would be the voice of reason, which I was about to blithely ignore.

  “No,” I said. “I think you’re all just feeling the binding spell, which I’m going to try to turn off.” Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out a crinkled piece of paper.

  “What’s that?” Tori asked, justifiable suspicion dripping off every syllable.

  “It’s a spell to release a trapped ghost,” I said confidently. “I edited it a little bit so it will work on the binding spell.”

  Note that I just leveled up there on the egocentrism thing.

  “Now hang on,” Tori said. “We need to talk about this for a minute. You edited the spell?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “And where did you find this spell in the first place?” Tori asked.

  I felt the heat rise to my face. “It was on a Wiccan website.”

  “A real Wiccan website?”

  “Um,” I hedged, “she said she’s a Wiccan sole practitioner.”

  “And Miss I Make Up My Own Rules got this spell where exactly?” Tori asked, refusing to give up.

  “Uh, from a voodoo wiki.”

  Have I mentioned that Tori has an uncanny ability to summarize my bad ideas? Case in point, listen to what she said next. I should have. Listened, that is.

  “In what alternate universe is it a good idea to use an edited voodoo quasi-Wicca spell to release a Cherokee woman bound to her grave by some Orkney Scot dude?” Tori demanded. “I may not be an expert, Jinksy, but mixing magic has to be like mixing your booze. A really bad idea with a way worse hangover.”

  At this juncture, I should have remembered that Tori was the one who told me not to mix sloe gin with Southern Comfort and Diet Dr. Pepper when we were in high school. She was also the person who held my hair later when I was calling Ralph.

  But no, my memory failed me, and I heard myself saying emphatically, “I think I know what I’m doing.”

  To Tori’s credit, she didn’t tell me to get over myself, but she did suggest that both she and Colonel Longworth back a long way off while I threw myself straight over a magical cliff.

  When she was several yards away, Tori turned and looked back at me. “Don’t blow yourself up or anything, Jinksy,” she called out, in a worried tone. “I’m kind of used to having you around.”

  That was the first time I felt a glimmer of doubt. I was kind of used to being around, but hey, in for a dime, in for a dollar. Ever heard of something called inflation?

  If I had really done as much homework as I claimed to have done, I would have cast a protective circle around the grave before I read the spell. That would have contained any spirits that I happened to wake up. But I didn't do that.

  Instead, I cleared my mind and started reading what was on the paper, trying to channel my inner energies outward, as the website had instructed me to do.

  Nothing happened.

  So, genius here, read the spell again.

  Nothing happened.

  Ever heard of a little game played at slumber parties with mirrors called Bloody Mary?

  I read the spell again.

  And promptly found out the real meaning of the phrase, “Three's the charm.”

  5

  What happened next is a whole lot harder to explain. A transparent column of energy rose from Knasgowa’s grave. It mushroomed at the top like water overflowing a glass, and then melted outward, rushing to cover the entire cemetery. The wave passed over me like thick, hot molasses. The barrier at the fence caught and contained the onslaught, but the mass pooled at the base, gaining momentum and weight. It felt as if we were standing inside a bubble strained to the brink. Within seconds, the thin shell shattered and energy flowed over the fence and into the night.

  Then I heard the voices. All around me spirits rose from their graves, but these were not like the ghosts who had become my friends. These spirits were confused and disoriented, awakened from the deepest slumber of all to stumble into a half reality caught in the void between two worlds.

  There was no one there who could help me undo what I had done, but I still turned toward Tori and the Colonel.

  “Beau,” I pleaded, “do something.”

  Colonel Beauregard T. Longworth was not a man to shirk the responsibilities of command, even one handed to him amidst the chaos of battle. At the top of his lungs he bellowed, “Silence!”

  The voices stopped, and all the ghosts turned toward the Colonel.

  “Resorting to bedlam will only increase your fears,” he said, in a strong, but kind voice. “In life, many of you were friends. Find the people you know and congregate quietly.”

  To my complete amazement, the spirits began to do as they were told. Many of them looked happy and relieved when they spotted people they knew, raising their hands in hopeful greetings and rushing to stand together, talking quietly amongst themselves.

  It was harder to look at the lone spirits, those who searched the crowd and saw no one familiar. They too began to clump together, seeking safety in numbers, but their expressions remained nervous and frightened.

  Beau and Tori joined me at the foot of Knasgowa’s grave. Speaking to the Colonel, I said, “With leadership skill like that, why exactly did the South lose the war?”

  “Gallantry in the face of fire was not the deficit of the Southern cause,” Beau said grimly. “Our issues rose in equal parts from Yankee perfidy and a rather deplorable lack of an industrial base.”

  I wasn’t sure what “perfidy” meant, but I was betting it wasn’t
a compliment.

  “Guess your Mocha Mojo Magic cocktail worked there, Jinksy,” Tori said, giving me a look that was an odd mixture of admiration and horror. “Now what the heck are we supposed to do?”

  A slight movement behind Knasgowa’s tombstone caught my eye. “Who’s back there?” I demanded.

  A small face peered apprehensively around the edge of the black marble. “Please, Great Sorceress, your humble minion means you no harm.”

  Humble minion? This was not sounding good. At all.

  “Step out here so we can see you,” I said.

  At first I thought the figure that emerged from the shadows was a child, but the shy, smiling face was that of an old man. He couldn’t have been more than two feet tall.

  In spite of my shock, I smiled back. “Who are you?” I asked.

  I wanted to say “what are you,” but that seemed incredibly rude.

  The name he gave us contained every syllable in the alphabet — twice — and ended with what sounded a lot like a cat hacking a hairball.

  We all hesitated awkwardly, and then Tori came to the rescue.

  “How about we just call you Darby?” she suggested.

  Our moms are both old movie freaks. I knew instantly what she meant. Darby O’Gill and the Little People. Disney, circa 1959. Think leprechauns.

  The little man turned to me. “Mistress, do you wish that I answer to this name?” he asked.

  Okay. “Mistress” was a marginal improvement over “great sorceress,” but I was still a little uncomfortable with all the metaphysical honorifics.

  “Yes,” I said, “it would be a lot easier for us to call you Darby. If you don't mind my asking, why do you keep calling me ‘mistress’?”

  To my acute embarrassment, Darby actually went down on one knee and bowed his head when he answered.

  “You are the Great Sorceress who freed me from my prison,” he said, in a humble and reverent tone. “I will serve you faithfully for the rest of my life, Mistress.”

  Oh, God.

  “Darby, please, stand up,” I said, trying to be both emphatic and appreciative at the same time. “You don’t need to do that kneeling thing again — ever.”