Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1)

by Margo Bond Collins

  My resolution to stop working on Eric’s case left me with a new feeling of calm. It hurt to know he was upstairs and I couldn’t go to him, but it gave me a new feeling of control over my emotions. I had made all the effort, and he’d rewarded me with suspicion and jealousy. I was through with that shit. I had pulled off the Band-aid, and now I was free.

  The next morning I returned from a walk to the shop to find Duncan in the kitchen, and the house full of catering staff and florists and sound technicians and a bunch of carpenters assembling some kind of stage in the middle of the marquee. I exchanged a few awkward pleasantries with Duncan, but he was quite busy with the preparations and I didn’t really want to be drawn into a discussion about Alice’s estate with him, lest gave away the fact I’d discovered his little deception. So instead, I took my tea and toast out onto the back porch, along with the paper I’d purchased from the shop. I wiped away a spider’s web from the corner of the table and settled down to read the entertainment pages. There’s nothing like the sordid tales of B-list celebrities and reality TV stars to make you feel better about your own life.

  I was pleasantly surprised to see Damon Sputnik on the cover page. I’d been so preoccupied with Eric’s drama and the fraud and the funeral and everything else going on in Crookshollow that I had barely even lusted after him. Well, it was time to make up for lost time.

  In the picture Damon was standing behind his sound desk, his face bent in concentration as he spun out a tune. He wore black jeans and a blue vest that showed off his muscular arms and bold tattoos, his freshly shaved head gleamed with sweat. I licked my lips. Damon really was quite attractive, with that pouty mouth, smouldering eyes and broad, muscular shoulders. He was similar to Eric in many ways—they were both musicians at the top of their chosen genres, both arrogant, both creative and petulant and both excellent kissers. But Damon Sputnik wasn’t dead. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get back to London again to see if I had a chance with him. Maybe the easy confidence I felt around Eric would rub off on me around Damon? Maybe I’d come back a completely different person, and he’d fall at my feet? Maybe we could double-date with Cindy and her new man ...

  SPUTNIK’S SWEETHEART, the heading underneath Damon’s picture read. MEET THE MYSTERY WOMAM WHO’S STOLEN HIS HEART. For a moment my heart fluttered as I imagined discovering an image of Damon and I locked in a passionate kiss in front of the speaker stacks. Don’t be ridiculous, Elinor. That was weeks ago, and guys like Damon don’t stay off the market for long.

  That’s OK, you have other prospects, Devil’s Advocate Elinor reminded me, and an image of Allan’s face popped into my mind. Damn right. I didn’t need Damon Sputnik … unless he needed me to help him get over his heartache when this new girl eventually dumped him, in which case I would be all over that. Idly, I turned the page to see what the paper had to say about Damon’s new flame.

  It was one of those collage pages from a recent gallery opening in Shoreditch. I scanned the snaps of minor celebrities and nobles no one had ever heard of partying in designer clothing and drinking strangely coloured cocktails.

  There, in the bottom right corner, clinging to each other like their lives and balance depended on remaining joined, was a smiling couple. He looked absolutely badass in a white vest with DUH written across the front, his bare shoulders covered with familiar tattoos. She looked like a fairy princess in a flower crown and floaty gold dress that showed off her tanned shoulders and perfect tits. The photo caption called them the hottest couple on the club scene.

  The man was Damon Sputnik. And the woman was my best friend, Cindy.

  I dropped the paper with a shriek, kicking my cup over and spilling tea all down the leg of my jeans. Duncan appeared at the door of the porch, looking concerned. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is there a spider you need me to remove?”

  “No, sorry for scaring you Duncan.” I said, dabbing at my jeans with my sleeve. “I just spilled hot tea on myself, is all.” Duncan looked at me sympathetically, then turned and headed back into the kitchen.

  Damon and Cindy. I couldn’t believe it. My heart hammered against my chest as realisation dawned on me. Suddenly, everything Cindy had said over the last week made perfect sense. They way she’d got herself invited out partying with Damon after the rave on Saturday, the fact she had been so sketchy about details from the night, so interested in what was going on with me for a change, her secrecy around her new boyfriend … oh, God. She was fucking Damon Sputnik, and the two of them were probably exchanging stories about the weird fat girl with the glasses who was stalking him. And all the while I was here, with Eric, and we … after I ...

  I buried my face in my hands. I can’t believe this is happening. My best friend in the world had betrayed me. With her bombshell looks and confidence, Cindy could have any guy she wanted, but she’d chosen the one she knew I was after. And now, she was bringing him here, in person. Why? To rub my humiliation in my face? I wonder if she’d told her new beau about Operation Shag Damon, and they’d both had a nice laugh at my expense.

  For six months Cindy had been helping me scheme to get this guy. For six months she’d been encouraging me to talk to him and do whatever he asks, and then … the minute I’m away she swoops in and takes him. How long had she been planning this? How long had she been setting the putsch in motion?

  My toast tasted stale in my mouth, my tea like motor oil. I threw both away, and went into the study. But I couldn’t concentrate on my work, so I called Bianca.

  “I can’t work today,” I said. “The house is chaos. Are you free? Do you want to go and do some shopping or something?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ve got a client at 2pm, but I’m free until then. I can show you some great places. Crookshollow is actually quite cool, for a quaint little village.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ll meet you in front of your shop in 20 minutes.”

  I pulled on my favourite black shirt with the red ribbon, left Duncan supervising the decoration of the marquee, and walked down the drive past the newly manicured lawns. I arrived at Resurrection Ink just as Bianca was locking up. She looked amazing us usual, in knee-high black boots tied with thick buckles, a black tulle skirt, and a pink t-shirt that said WITCHY & BITCHY. She had put some kind of pink streaks in her white hair, making her look even more like a pixie.

  “Let’s go,” she said, linking arms with me. I grinned at her, all thoughts of Damon and Eric forgotten for the moment. If nothing else, at least my week in Crookshollow hadn’t been a total mess. I hoped Bianca and I would remain friends after I went back to London. Especially since I wasn’t sure what was going to happen with Cindy ...

  First, we stopped off at Bewitching Bites and snagged some warm, cheesy croissants. My mouth watered as I admired the cakes and slices in the cabinet. I couldn’t help but add a couple of Chelsea buns to our order.

  After we’d scarfed down our treats, Bianca took me to a tiny bookshop nestled between a music store and another crystal shop. The place was amazing—four flights of winding stairs and narrow, dimly-lit rooms crammed with bookcases and overstuffed chairs. I could’ve spent all day in there, especially when I saw a mother cat and three kittens playing amongst the science books. There was even an entire shelf dedicated to gothic literature. I brought a stack of classics that I hadn’t read since university. Daphne De Maurier’s Rebecca, Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black, Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw. Bianca laughed when I showed her my stack, and held up a grisly looking horror graphic novel she had purchased.

  “I think we’re going to get along just fine,” she said, as she led me into a funky-looking clothing store.

  For the next hour we tried on ridiculous outfits and imagined the ostentatious places we would wear them. Bianca did impressions of BBC presenters and in no time at all had both me and the saleslady laughing so hard we cried. I walked out with a blood-red scarf and a ridiculous feathered fascinator I’d probably never wear.

  “Thank you so much,” I wiped t
ears from my eyes. “It feels good to laugh.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? You should do it more often, Ms. Serious Lawyer.” Bianca glanced at her phone. “Look at the time. I’d better be getting back.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I had a stack of paperwork and a petulant ghost waiting for me.

  We started walking back towards Blossom Road, me swinging my bags of booty and Bianca telling me a hilarious story about one of her clients. We passed by the bookstore and music shop again. An idea sparked in my mind. “Can we go in here?” I asked Bianca, pointing at the sign that read TREBLE CLEF MUSIC: CLASSICAL, ROCK, JAZZ, DJ.

  “Sure,” she said, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. She was wondering what I was up to. To be honest, I was wondering myself. Before I could change my mind, I pushed open the door and darted inside.

  The shop was tiny, and instruments crowded every square inch of it. I had to duck my head to avoid hitting it on one of the acoustic guitars hanging down from the ceiling. We squeezed down a tiny aisle crowded with stacks of snare drums and racks of guitars.

  “What are we looking for?” Bianca whispered behind me as I searched the racks of bass guitars.

  “Why are you whispering?” I whispered back.

  “Because the dude behind the counter has a crush on me, and I'm hoping he won’t see us—”

  “Hello!” A weedy teenage boy popped out from behind a Marshall amp. I yelped in fright and whirled away. My bag swung out and knocked over a wobbly stack of music books. Pages flew across the floor.

  “Oops,” My face flushed with heat. I bent down and started to pick up the books.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” The pimple-faced youth scrambled around after the last of the papers. He straightened up, a giant grin on his face. “Hi, Bianca.”

  “Hi, Ethan.” She waved noncommittally.

  “I’m sorry about the books,” I said, my face still burning. Behind me, Bianca was stifling a giggle.

  “It’s no worries. It happens at least three times a day.” The youth smiled at me as he stacked the books up again. “You’re lucky. The last customer who came in knocked an Ibanez guitar off the wall, and he had to pay for it. Can I help you ladies with anything?” He said the last bit looking hopefully at Bianca.

  “Yes, actually. I was wondering if you sold violins?”

  “We sure do.” Ethan led us down a cramped aisle to a wall at the back of the shop, where several models of violins, violas and other classical string instruments hung. I even saw a couple of cool carbon-fibre electric ones. “What model were you looking for?”

  “I … I’m not sure,” I said, whipping out my phone and pulling up Google. “It’s for a friend.”

  “I think she’s looking for a Cremona,” said Bianca, giving me a strange look. “I’m not sure what model, though.”

  I found Eric’s Wikipedia page, which listed the exact model of violin he used. I told the youth and he grinned. “Ah, the Eric Marshell special. You’re in luck,” he said, pointing to a plain black violin on the wall. “We’ve only got one of those left in stock. A lot of Ghost Symphony fans are in town for the funeral, and they’ve been buying them up. I’ve been up to my ears in lanky goth kids all week. Do you need the bow, as well?”

  “Yes, thanks. Whatever type Eric used, if you happen to know.” I could feel Bianca’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

  Ethan pulled the violin off the wall, and packed it into a box with a bow. “Do you need a case?”

  “No, this will be fine, thanks.”

  The kid wrapped up my purchase and I handed over the company credit card. If Clyde asked me about a £500 purchase at a music shop, I’d just mention the fact that he hadn’t told me I’d be working through a funeral.

  “Well, there you go.” Ethan pushed the box across the table to me. “I hope your friend likes it. And Bianca, I’m nearly ready to come in for that tat soon.”

  “Have you been saving your pocket money, Ethan?” Bianca smirked. His face reddened. Bianca blew him a kiss as we left.

  Outside, Bianca grabbed my arm. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest.” I said, shifting the heavy box to my other hand. Bianca’s hot-pink nails dug into my arm.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said. “Something about Marshell House.”

  Phew. I couldn’t even begin to explain. I was bursting to tell Bianca the truth about Eric, but I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of nutjob freak. I wanted her friendship. But her eyes were boring into me. I wasn’t going to get out of it without saying something. “Truthfully, I’m a little freaked out about the funeral on Saturday.”

  “Why? You didn’t know Eric.”

  “True. But the last funeral I went to … it wasn’t so good.”

  “Tell me.” Bianca looked concerned. “Here, hand me that violin for a bit. You have enough to carry.”

  I took a deep breath, and handed her the violin. We started walking again. “I dated this guy, Joel, for three years. It was pretty serious. I was already-planning-the-wedding kind of serious. He was everything I thought I wanted—a junior lawyer at a prominent London firm, extremely worldly, quite handsome, and very socially connected. My parents loved him, and my friends thought he was great fun. I must admit I loved being on his arm at events and gala dinners. Women would stare at me enviously, and I couldn’t blame them. Joel was a catch, and he could have had any woman he wanted. I just couldn’t believe he’d chosen me.”

  “Ah, falling for guys whose egos are as large and unfounded as your insecurities.” said Bianca. “I know the feeling well.”

  I grinned. “Of course, we had our problems. What couple doesn’t? Joel wanted his freedom, and he’d get cagey if I asked him where he was going or who he was with. He could be erratic—ready for partying one minute, the next screaming at me because I’d shut the refrigerator too loudly.” I laughed grimly. “Of course, I had such low self-esteem, I thought it was all my fault. I spent hours dreaming up ways to be the perfect girlfriend, the perfect wife.”

  “I think I know where this is going,” Bianca said, with a knowing look. “I’ve dated my share of Joels, too.”

  I gave her a weak smile. “For your sake, I really hope not. So this was going on, but I was too ashamed to talk to my friends about it. They all saw Joel as this great catch, and I admit I wanted them to believe I had it all. I’d never been the envy of anyone before, I didn’t want to lose the little bit of status I’d gained. So I kept on trying to make things work. But Joel kept getting worse. His mood swings became more manic than ever. And, despite earning a higher salary than me, he started having money problems. He got kicked out of his flat for non-payment of rent, and I let him move in with me. Joel didn’t pay rent at my place, either, and bit by bit he convinced me to pay all the bills and buy him clothes and then just give him cash. And I did it, I did all of it because I wanted things to work so badly.”

  “He started staying out all night. And the rare occasions that he did come home, his clothes were dishevelled and he smelled as if he hadn’t showered in days. I’d convinced myself he was just pulling all-nighters at work to get through a difficult case, so I redoubled my efforts. I made him homemade soups, I massaged his feet, I washed his reeking clothing. I was so naive.”

  “Oh, Elinor.”

  “And then, one evening, Joel was out and I went to bed early. I remember that I was mad at him about something. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up to the doorbell ringing. I thought it was Joel, but it was a police officer.”

  Bianca bit her lip.

  “He told me Joel had been found in the bathroom of an illegal rave at a warehouse in Camden. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived at the scene. But what was even more shocking was that the police officer told me he’d died of a cocaine overdose.”

  Bianca gasped. “Oh, Elinor. I’m so sorry.”

  I waved my hand away. Weirdly, this was the first time since Joel’s
death I’d been able to talk about him without tearing up. The whole event felt surreal to me, as if it had happened in a movie I’d seen. “It’s OK. It wasn’t your fault, or my fault, either, for that matter. But it shattered me. Of course it was obvious in hindsight, but I couldn’t believe he’d been hiding a serious drug habit from me. The police came and searched my house, apparently they’d been watching Joel for some time, and they had to make sure our house was clean and I wasn’t involved. His firm had to hold a press conference. No one in the law circles would talk to me for six months, because of the scandal. I felt like a complete and utter idiot.”

  “You're not an idiot.”

  “Don’t speak too soon.” I laughed bitterly. “I haven’t got to the most idiotic bit yet. Joel’s parents organised this ridiculously lavish funeral with fancy French champagne and a swing band and ice sculptures shaped like Joel, as if they’d conveniently forgotten that he’d humiliated them publically. I was struggling to hold it together. Everyone was crying and sad, and I just felt this great ball of anger welling up inside of me. If I’d died, no one would have made an ice sculpture in my image. I’d done everything I could to be a good partner to Joel, and all he’d done was pay me back in lies and deceit. Now he was the hero just because he was dead, while I was in danger of losing my job because of his bad decisions? I was fuming. Finally, it was time for the service. People were giving eulogies and talking about what a great guy Joel was and I just couldn’t take it. So …” I cringed, knowing what was next but not wanting to say it. “I stood up and said I’d like to say something. And then I laid into Joel and his drug use and horrible behaviour and all the awful things he’d done. I’d had just enough of that expensive French champagne that I thought it would be a great idea to set the record straight on Joel’s character, but not enough wine so that I was rendered incoherent, which at least would have made the aftermath more bearable.”