Crochet and Cauldrons: A paranormal cozy mystery (Vampire Knitting Club Book 3)

by Nancy Warren

  When we arrived at the coffee shop, we paused at the window to look inside. Being so near one of the colleges, most of the tables were packed with students sitting in front of open laptops, some with notebooks or textbooks beside them. Priya was near the back, staring at an open laptop. Though her fingers were moving on the keys, it didn't look as though her attention was engaged by the screen. I thought she only had the computer open to give her something to focus on. Her face looked drawn, and exhausted.

  No one else in the coffee shop looked remotely suspicious or interested in us as we walked in. Only Priya glanced up and put up a hand and half waved.

  We walked over and she stood, rather awkwardly, as we approached. I didn't know her very well, but I went with my instincts and pulled her into my arms for a hug. She clung for a moment and I could feel that she needed the support. After that, Pete also hugged her and then we sat down.

  A bearded server wearing a T-shirt that advertised a rowing meet came over and Pete and I both ordered coffee while Priya went with chamomile tea. She was clearly looking for something that would help her sleep or at least not keep her awake.

  When the server had left, and it was just three of us, I said, "Priya, I am so sorry about Logan."

  She nodded and blinked rapidly, but she couldn't stop the tears welling in her eyes. "I can't believe it. He was fine when we walked back from your place. He’d had a bit too much to drink, but he wasn't drunk or anything. He was joking and so looking forward to going on the dig. And then, this morning, he was dead.

  "I don't know what I'm going to do." She put her head in her hands. "The police said I was the last person to see him alive. Why does that make me feel so guilty?” She glanced up as though we knew the answer.

  I said, “I feel guilty, too. Because he ate his last meal in my flat.”

  “He wanted me to stay the night, and I refused." She began to weep. "Maybe if I'd stayed, he’d be all right. I'd have heard him choking, or noticed that he was in trouble, and been able to call for help. I'm even trained in first aid."

  Pete and I exchanged glances. How could we tell her we didn't think she had been the last person to see him alive? That distinction belonged to his killer.

  Pete reached over and took one of her hands in his. "If he went that fast, there was probably nothing you could have done."

  She sniffed and used one of the napkins from the dispenser on the table to blow her nose. "That's what the police said."

  "The police?" Pete asked, as though surprised they'd interviewed her.

  She nodded, "Because it was such a sudden death and he was so young, and because I was the one who found him." She dissolved into tears again. Pete was doing an excellent job of gently interrogating her and so I left him to it, trying to open up my other senses to hear what she wasn't saying.

  Her whole body looked tense and miserable. Completely consistent with shock and grief. She could be acting, of course, but she'd also passed the shepherd's pie test.

  "What did the police want to know?" Pete asked.

  I got the feeling that she was grateful someone was asking her these questions, and giving her a chance to talk through her terrible experience. It was also clear that she and Pete, along with Logan, had become quite friendly. I could tell that she trusted him.

  She took another napkin and wiped her eyes. "They asked me how I found him. We’d agreed to meet up for breakfast. He didn't come to my room like he’d said he would, but I imagined he was hung over or sleeping in, so I went to rouse him. His door was locked and when I banged on it there was no answer. I started to get a bad feeling. I got the porter to let me in." She looked sheepish. “I had to say I was his girlfriend.”

  Pete glanced at me and I nodded imperceptibly. He was doing a great job getting the story out of her on his own. I thought the best thing I could do was stay quiet.

  “When the porter opened the door, Logan was lying on the floor. I thought at first he'd fallen out of bed, or passed out or something. We called his name and I shook his arm and then he fell onto his back and his eyes were still open. I think I knew right away, but I checked his pulse to be certain. And then the porter called 999."

  "What was he wearing?" Pete asked.

  Good, it was the question in my mind. I wasn't sure if Pete was able to pick up my questions, if I concentrated on them hard enough, or whether he was following the same train of thought I was.

  She looked startled by the question. "The police asked me that, too. He was fully dressed. Wearing the same clothes he'd worn to dinner at your place," she said, glancing at me.

  "So he hadn’t been to bed?"

  "I don't know. He could've gotten up early and dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing the night before." She glanced at Pete. "He did that a lot."

  "Did you notice anything strange?" Pete asked. “Out of the ordinary?”

  "You mean, apart from a twenty-four-year-old university student being dead on the floor?"

  "Sorry, yeah, apart from that."

  "The porter asked if he'd been smoking. Obviously, there's no smoking allowed in the dorm rooms, and anyway, Logan didn't smoke." She looked at Pete, "Did he?"

  "Not that I ever saw."

  "I'm positive he didn't. But the porter was right, there was a slight smell of smoke in the air. And a burn mark on the floor."

  The hairs on my neck were standing up so hard they felt like porcupine spines. "A burn mark?" I asked. "You mean like a cigarette burn?"

  The wonderful thing about dealing with archaeologists is how precise they are. They are trained to differentiate between, say, petrified wood and charcoal, the marks from smoke versus the marks from actual flames. I imagined she was pulling the mental picture up and trying to decide exactly what it looked like.

  She said, "It wasn't from a cigarette. In fact, it wasn't a burn so much as a scorch. If you dropped a burning piece of paper onto a wooden floor, say, and it burned itself out. The burn mark had a funny shape, too, like a star."

  The server returned with our drinks and we took a break while we added sugars and creams and stirred our drinks. I sipped the hot liquid in the thick-rimmed ceramic mug and thought of star-shaped scorch marks.

  “Was it the same porter who let you in, when you got home last night?" Pete asked.

  "No, it was a different one. Which is weird, because the porter this morning said he'd been on duty, then. He can't figure out who let us in."

  I sent Pete an intense look and he asked, "Did the porter go on a break? Or fall asleep?"

  "You sound just like the police. He says not, but, of course, he might have."

  Pete said, possibly still reading my mind, "What did he look like, the porter from last night?"

  She shrugged. "Like a porter. He was probably in his fifties. A middle-aged balding, white man. There was nothing remarkable about him. I'd say he was average height and average build, wearing a porter's uniform. I couldn't pick him out of a crowd."

  I couldn't think of any more questions and I don't think Pete could, either.

  We sipped our coffees until Pete asked what her plans were. "Are you still going to come on the dig with us?"

  She shook her head. "Honestly, I don't know. This has been such a shock."

  "And you two were close, weren't you?"

  Her eyes filled with tears again. "Yeah. We were really excited about doing the dig together. I'm not sure I can do it alone."

  "Well, don't make any decisions now. Give yourself a few days to recover."

  She glanced at her watch. "I need to call my parents. I just need to talk to someone who loves me."

  Pete said, "Come on. Lucy and I will walk you back and make sure you're locked into your room, safely."

  She looked pathetically grateful to have been offered the escort. And I liked Pete the more for offering it. As we walked back, she told him that Logan's parents were already in Oxford. They’d identified the body and, as soon as it was released, they were taking Logan back to Glastonbury to be burie
d.

  I felt such sorrow for this bright young man, gone before his time. I was determined to fight this thing with everything I had, not only for myself, and that poor trapped witch who’d been stuck in the mirror for all those years, but also for Logan.

  Once we'd seen Priya settled safely in her room, Pete and I headed back to Harrington Street. He asked, "What do you reckon? Was it the porter?"

  "You mean the fake porter? It had to be. That seems to be this thing’s genius, it can shapeshift into something completely benign, like a university porter."

  I thought again about that older man who had applied for the job as my assistant. Ned Cruikshank was exactly like that porter. A middle-aged man, no distinguishing features, average height, average build. The only thing remarkable about him had been his wool allergy. I could imagine an evil warlock masquerading as a mild-mannered recent retiree, but why add in a wool allergy? It didn't make sense.

  Mr. Cruikshank had also drunk the revealing potion with no effect. Frankly, I was beginning to wonder if the potion was any good. What if, in exchange for my beloved cat, Margaret had given me a jar of water with a few herbs boiled in it? If so, she'd put me more at risk than I was before.

  "You're deep in thought," Pete said, beside me.

  "Sorry. I just feel so confused. I don't know where to turn. I can't sit around waiting for this terrible evil thing to attack me. There must be a way we can go after it."

  "I'm listening."

  I was thinking. I stopped walking and turned to him. "What does it live on? It sounded as though there wasn't a mark on poor Logan." I was thinking, of course, of the vampires and how it was quite obvious that they’d fed off their victims because they sucked the blood out of their bodies. Meritamun had said the evil thing sucked the power and life spirit out of witches. But how? Was it something to do with those scorch marks?

  "I'm going to introduce you to the only witch who actually knows him. Her name is Meritamun and, well, you'll see."

  Glancing quickly up and down the street to make certain we were alone, I pulled the mirror out of my bag. Even as I touched the handle I felt that it was already warm. When I eased it out of the bag, I gave a gasp. It was already pulsing with blue light and I hadn’t recited the spell.

  Pete's eyes widened, his face taking on a bluish cast in the reflection of the strange light pulsing out of the mirror. "Well, I'll be damned," he said.

  I felt quite panicked. "I've never seen it do this before. Always, in the past, I've had to recite that incantation in order to bring it to life. What do you think this means?"

  He looked at me, completely baffled. "I don't know. I've never seen that mirror before. It looks ancient."

  Right, I wasn't thinking clearly. I briefly explained the history of the mirror, as I knew it. I couldn’t take a chance we’d be seen by someone out for an evening stroll, so I pulled Pete behind the wall of Jesus College, and wedged us behind a tree where hopefully, we’d be out of sight. I didn’t know what to do and was glad to have a wizard to discuss this with.

  “Do you think, if I recite the incantation, now, she’ll still appear."

  He looked dubious. "If that thing’s already going off on its own, I wouldn't want to activate any more magic. Maybe he uses this Meritamun character as another lure, and if you read out those words, it won’t be some sweet young Egyptian girl you conjure, it'll be the scariest monster you've ever seen come flying out of that mirror and attack you."

  "So that's a no then," I said. Sarcasm was my last defence when I'm terrified.

  Chapter 16

  Pete couldn’t take his gaze off the pulsing blue light coming out of the ancient mirror. "If I get a vote, then I say ‘no.’"

  I heard footsteps coming toward us and quickly pushed the mirror back into the bag, still holding onto the handle in case I needed it. I turned, ready to attack. Pete was equally vigilant, and turned at the very same moment. The footsteps slowed as they neared us, and then Alfred and Christopher Weaver walked, slowly by, glancing our way and then continuing as though they were just two old friends returning home after a night in the pub.

  I put my guard down, with a small sigh of relief. Pete watched the two for a moment longer, before doing the same. We could hear snatches of their conversation as they went by. Something about rival football teams and a playoff. I suspected their entire conversation was fictitious, but they did it well. I supposed those who were different and trying to blend in in society got very good at acting a part.

  Still, I didn’t relax. Why was the mirror still warm in my hand? I was certain that if I glanced into the leather bag I would see the blue light still pulsing. Was it trying to tell me something? Or was Pete right and the mirror was, in itself, a threat?

  We came back onto the quiet road and kept walking. The two vampires had disappeared, but I knew they weren’t far. As Pete and I walked down Harrington, toward the block where my shop was located, I think both of us became even more vigilant. An odd-looking person stood, looking in the window of the gift shop, two doors down from Cardinal Woolsey’s. It was a woman, and something about the posture looked vaguely familiar. She wore a long, black garment that looked almost like a cloak. A large hood tipped over her head so it shadowed her face. She was carrying a covered basket, rather like Little Red Riding Hood had except with a black cape. As we grew closer, I could hear strange sounds coming from the basket.

  It sounded as though a wild animal were trapped in there. It was snarling, and spitting, and then meowing. I sped up, thinking I recognized that meow.

  "What's going on?" Pete asked me in a whisper, lengthening his stride to keep up with me. I was walking so fast I was nearly at a jog. "I think that's my cat."

  Oh, please let it be Nyx. As though the cat could sense my approach, it began to meow louder and more plaintively. At the sound of our hurrying feet, the black-cloaked figure turned our way. But whoever was holding the basket didn't move or speak until I was very close.

  "Margaret?" I asked. The figure was the right size and general shape, but why on earth was she hiding her face?

  "Be careful," Pete warned, and I knew he was right. I should be very wary, considering that I had no way of identifying the cat and the figure hadn't shown itself.

  The mirror was getting warmer in my hand.

  My heart was thumping, but I think it was partly in anticipation of hopefully being reunited with Nyx as well as nervous excitement caused by the strange actions of the mirror.

  I slowed down and began to approach more slowly. And then the figure pushed the basket out toward me and said in a voice that I definitely recognized as Margaret's, "Is that you, Lucy? Take this bloody cat and don't let it come near me, ever again."

  She unclasped the wicker basket and opened the lid and Nyx leapt out and right into my arms.

  "Nyx," I cried cradling my cat in my arms. Already I began to feel better. Nyx was an important part of my team, and I couldn't go into battle without her.

  I was curious, though, as to why Margaret had demanded her as payment and now seemed so annoyed to have had the keeping of her.

  Margaret made a sound, rather like Nyx when she was spitting mad in the basket. "Oh, now she's purring! Look at that creature, cuddled up against you as though she's the sweetest tempered cat in the world. Well, you'd better have a spell to cure this, or I will hex you."

  After spitting out those enraged words, she eased her hood back and, with an astonished gasp, I realized why she was so annoyed. Her face was liberally streaked with scratches and each one of them had erupted into a string of horrible looking boils and warts. My favorite was the particularly bulbous wart on the end of her slightly pointed nose. I tickled Nyx under the chin, one of her favorite spots, to let her know how deeply I approved of her actions.

  I wanted to tell Margaret Twig that perhaps this would be a lesson to her not to steal another witch’s familiar, but I had to bear in mind that she was not only a very powerful witch, but she’d given me the revealing potion, as
suming it worked, and helped me with the spell.

  I tried to be sympathetic. "I’ll look in my family grimoire. I must have some kind of spell that will work."

  Then I looked at her again. "But you’re a much more powerful witch than I am. Couldn't you cure yourself?"

  She pointed a finger at Nyx and I saw that it was so covered in warts and boils, she couldn’t straighten it. Her finger was hooked and hideous looking. “That little varmint is more powerful than I am. In fact, I think it's the devil itself."

  Nothing could look less like the devil than the sweet, black cat purring contentedly in my arms. She was sleek, and warm, still halfway between kitten and cat. I said, "Nyx, you're home now. Can you help me cure Margaret? She promises she’ll never take you again."

  The cat half-closed its green eyes and I swear it was glaring at Margaret. Then, Nyx turned to me and licked my hand with her sandpaper tongue. As she was looking at me, I suddenly knew exactly what I had to do. I recited the words of a simple spell for the cure of skin ailments that I’d found in my grimoire.

  It had worked when I’d thrown out a truly annoying pimple. Maybe it would work on a curse of boils and warts. I wasn’t sure I remembered the words exactly, but I’d found with magic a lot of the power was in the intent and the way I concentrated. I looked at Margaret’s truly messed up face and, after letting myself enjoy the sight for one more second, pulled all my focus into picturing smooth skin on her face and hands.

  This imperfection is painful to see,

  Smooth of skin, let her be.

  So I say, so mote it be.

  As I said the simple rhyme, I reached forward and touched my fingers, still damp from where Nyx had licked them, against the marks on Margaret’s face.

  Immediately they disappeared. All that was left was the faintest scratches which grew fainter as I watched. It was like magic!