Spells and Jinglebells

by ReGina Welling

  “We can’t see the glow anymore.,” I said with dismay. “How do we find it now?”

  “I’ve just been sitting here,” Jezebel said. “I haven’t moved an inch. Follow me.”

  “Are you sure?” Abby asked, and I winced.

  “Look, ghost lady, I said I haven’t moved. What other options do we have?”

  “You’re right. Sorry, kitty.” Abby enjoyed her little snark and I had to stifle a giggle. “Lead the way.”

  Jezebel led us through a doorway into a large room with a giant wooden spool in the center. The spool was turned on its side and functioned as a table. Our feet made a swishing sound against the dirty, dusty concrete floor.

  The room had windows lining its outside walls, but they were all up near the ceiling. You couldn’t see anything but tree limbs through them.

  “Stay there,” a woman’s voice cried out from behind us.

  I whirled around and saw an older woman wearing a red velvet dress and matching hat. Both the dress and hat were trimmed in white fur.

  “That’s her,” Abby said. “That’s the woman that rang the doorbell. She’s dressed differently, but I know it’s her.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I shouldn’t have taken you the way I did, but we needed a witch. I couldn’t take a witch without Tinkerton noticing, so I took you. We needed your friend’s help.”

  “Did someone say my name?” A tiny voice emerged from the center of the room.

  “You’re done,” the woman in red said. “We’ve got a witch to help us.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Claus, that’s sweet. But you see, I knew what you were up to. That witch can’t do anything to help you. But she and her little friends can be your newest companions.” An elf stepped forward. In his hand was a snow globe with a green glow.

  “That’s it. The elf has the last object,” Abby said hopefully.

  “Haha. Silly ghost. This globe is the only object. The others were just to keep you busy. Well, it was actually more for my amusement. I had fun watching you guys run all over town collecting things. Unfortunately, none of that junk can help you.”

  “Does he have any magic other than that globe?” Jezebel asked.

  “Why?” Mrs. Claus looked perplexed.

  “Just go with me here, Lady Santa,” Jezebel said.

  “Well, he can create toys, but that’s about it.”

  Jezebel crouched down. She stared at the elf before us, and I watched as her pupils dilatated. Jez waggled her butt just before yelling, “Attack!”

  She sprinted at the elf and jumped onto his head. Abby and I ran over to him, but we stayed back as Tinkerton thrashed and hollered. He could not get Jezebel off of his head and keep hold of the snow globe.

  It crashed to the floor.

  Chapter Seven

  Suddenly, we were all standing in the living room. Nathan stood there with a Yule log cake in his hands and his mouth agape.

  “Well, dears. If I’d known that all we had to do was break that little twerp’s snow globe, I’d have pounded his little self right into a shelf days ago,” Mrs. Claus said.

  “I got the cake right,” Nathan said, and it was obvious he was in shock.

  “Well, that explains why you guys finally showed up. Something quite magical about getting one of those things right,” Mrs. Claus said with a wink.

  “Who are you?” Nathan asked, still dumfounded. “Abby?”

  “I’m Mrs. Claus. I had to borrow your friends for a while. A rogue elf imprisoned everyone in North Pole Village when he didn’t get the promotion he thought he deserved. It’s a long story. Suffice to say that your friends are heroes to all of the little boys and girls who will get their Christmas gifts on time this year.”

  “Abby looks funny,” Nate said.

  We turned around and looked, and sure enough, Abby was still alive. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Claus began. “About that. I have a little magic of my own now that I’m not trapped in that wretched globe. I thought as a reward for you saving us all, we’d give your friend the greatest gift of all.”

  “Life?” I asked.

  “Well, that too,” Mrs. Claus said with a chuckle. “Most importantly, I’ve given her a second chance.”

  Want to read more? Click here to find other books by Sara Bourgeois.

  About the Author

  Sara Bourgeois is a Midwesterner through and through. She spends her time writing, reading, and herding cats.

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  Summary

  Christmas week 1957. It's Santa week in Gothic Harbor, and Chimera Opal and her back-chatting cats should be having fun. But a case of a local missing man, his dead wife, and her grieving sister soon put an end to the festivities. Tasked with finding the dead woman's husband, Chimera and the Infiniti uncover dark family secrets that are best taken to the grave. Because someone is up to SnoW good.

  Can the crew unravel this triangular mystery and make it back to Glessie Isle on time for the cat's Christmas salmon dinner? The kitties are praying for a Christmas miracle.

  Chapter One

  “But why are we picking them if they’re illegal?” Gloom asked from her woolly spot on the passenger seat. My female cat had won the ‘Shotgun’ contest as soon as I had mentioned to my furry gang of eight that we were traveling to Bonemark Isle.

  I turned to my kitty. I could just make out the inky-blackness of her nose amid the jumble of the hat, scarf, and mittens I’d tossed on the seat earlier.

  “We have the permit, honey. We’re golden,” I said, waving the official document in the air between us. “Talisman approved,” I added, hoping I’d hear no more on the matter. Gloom’s something of a nay-sayer. But she couldn’t help being her any more than I could help being me so I mostly ignored her grumblings.

  “But, why so close to Christmas?” My kitty pressed. “How are we going to get back to Glessie Isle in time for you to prepare the salmon?” She pulled her head back into the tangle of cashmere, and muttered: “We’re gonna end up eating cat food, I know it.”

  “I heard that,” I said, giving Gloom a sideward glance. “And, let’s not forget, immortal and ...uh….talkative or not, you are, in fact, a cat.”

  “No salmon?” Shade’s head appeared between the two front seats. He flattened his ears. “Did I hear that right? We’re not getting our Christmas fish for Christmas dinner on Christmas day?”

  I glimpsed his crestfallen face in the rearview, and my hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles paled. I knew what was coming next. Shade would wake the others. And, for the purposes of this story, I really had no intention of unleashing my animals on you in one overwhelming torrent.

  Apologies, and strap yourselves in.

  “Nope, nope, nope. Who says we’re not getting salmon for Christmas dinner? That right? Is it, yep?” Jet’s staccato vocals ricocheted around the small car. His black face squeezed into the gap between the driver and passenger seat next to Shade. Jet’s eyes expanded, and he swerved his pupils out to the side of each of his eyeballs so he could pin both Gloom and me with an accusing glare.

  “Guys, there’s been no mention of you not getting--” I started.

  “You’re giving us c-cat food? For Christmas? Isn’t that like animal cruelty or something?” Fraidy popped up directly behind me. My cat’s bottom jaw fell so low it came to rest on top of my head. His horrified face was submerged under the red cyclone of my curls almost immediately.

  “If you’d let me fin --” I tried again.

  “I feel like I’ve awoken to a Dickensian nightmare,” Eclipse said, his chin plopping onto Shade’s head. The most cryptic of my eight cats, Eclipse’s expression was passive. He returned my mirrored stare with a pair of neutral black and golden eyes. “Please, ma’a
m, may I have some more cat-gruel?” He finished.

  Whether he was being flippant or highly intuitive was anyone’s guess.

  “See what you’ve started?” I said, turning to the lump-in-the-scarf next to me. I noticed Gloom’s lips curl into a crafty smile just before she pulled my hat over her head.

  Checking the rearview again, I only counted four heads. Good. Onyx, Carbon and Midnight were still sleeping. Maybe I could contain the situation while I had just five of the Infiniti to deal with.

  “I’m cold,” Carbon’s disembodied voice declared.

  My shoulders slumped.

  We’d just left the Glessie-to-Bonemark ferry and were now road-tripping along Bonemark Isle’s southern shores, about to head northward. Not toward Femur, the capital, though, but, instead, toward a snug little coastal town where we were to hole-up for a couple of days.

  Ordinarily, I’d have flown us across from Glessie by broom, but the skies over the Sea of Mages in December weren’t exactly a cozy thoroughfare. Besides, there’s no way I’d have exposed Carbon to these wintery elements. I’d never hear the last of it. On top of that, Bonemark had a strict ‘no travel magic’ policy. Even though the isle was inhabited entirely by folks from both the paranormal and magical communities, Bonemark’s entry requirements were wholly pedestrian.

  It was supposed to be a fun weekend getaway; a pre-Christmas break in a cozy cottage by the sea, on the most northerly of our island chain. This ‘chain’ is our home, and our little ‘plot’ lies at the southern end of the archipelago: Glessie Isle.

  Snowflakes with the size and grace of monarch butterflies fluttered silently around the car as I rounded into the northbound road. Like so many intricate petals, the flakes of snow danced along the black serpentine highway before us. The scene was so beautiful as to be almost magical.

  The sparkly spectacle momentarily silenced the cats.

  “Neat, neat. Yep. We’re gonna catch us some of those, right boss? Yep, yep.” Jet’s paws pummeled the window in a mock exercise for some upcoming snowflake-hunting.

  “Why’d you think I brought you guys out here, buster?” I asked, grinning at my cat via the rear view. “Snow’s one of the only things you’ll leave the house for, Jetpack.”

  Jet was an agoraphobe. He left the house rarely, and only if he was under the influence of a good dose of catnip. Catnip gave my zippy kitty confidence.

  I swept a glance at my backseat passengers and felt my heart squeeze a little. The thought of them bouncing, leaping, pouncing and tearing through the snow brought me more than a little warmth. The Infiniti LOVED snow.

  Which is why I brought them on this trip. A two-for-one deal in that I’d get to harvest the Stillbreath, and my moggies would get to cavort in mounds of the cold powdery stuff. It was a win-win. They just didn’t realize it yet.

  Gloom spoke: “Snow’s peachy, I’ll admit. And I’ve no doubt I’ll look swell against this white background.” To the window, she swept a paw across the snow-covered fields to our right and then busied herself with re-forming her bed of scarf and hat. She stopped in mid arrangement. “But, we’re risking losing our dinner for dirty old mushrooms?” Gloom wrinkled her nose and went to work washing a glossy patch of resplendent fur. Must be the fish oils.

  “My dear sister, Chimera has brought us to Bonemark so we can assist her with the harvest of a rather incredible specimen of fungus. The Stillbreath toadstool is one of the most talked about mushrooms among mycology enthusiasts today. Originating in the Precambrian …”

  Onyx was awake.

  Shade’s ears rotated. “I feel a nap comin’ on,” he said through a gaping yawn.

  Unaware and unperturbed, Onyx, the self-appointed president and scholar of my clatch of kitties, continued. “... so, of course, the Stillbreath has many diverse applications. However, its high toxicity level, and, well, let us say, its more unsavory uses, has led to strict regulation of both its application and distribution. These days the toadstool is mostly used for --”

  “Death Magic?” Eclipse interrupted, piercing Onyx with his unreadable gaze. Other than the sound of Fraidy’s chattering teeth, a heavy silence fell over the car.

  “‘Clipsy! Enough of that now,” I cautioned.

  “W-what is death magic?” Fraidy squeaked.

  “It’s a spell the Warlocks used on innocent witches and wizards in WW1,” Eclipse said. “The Warlocks cast Death Magic over no fewer than two-hundred and eighty-four souls.”

  “S-so it … “ Fraidy gulped. “...killed them? This D-Death Magic made these people dead?”

  “No, it was far dirtier than that,” Gloom said, her voice taking on a low pitch. “The Warlocks didn’t kill them. Death Magic makes it look like someone’s dead. But, all the hex really does, is slow down the victim’s metabolism to an unreadable level.” Gloom stared at her timid brother. “It’s not hard to pronounce someone dead if they have no vital signs.”

  “But.. but... what’s so dirty about that? Making people look dead seems much friendlier than making them dead.” Fraidy pressed.

  Onyx sighed. “I regret to further your agitation, dear brother, but the Warlocks were never charged for the murder of these poor souls. The Wizard Council for Burials, on the other hand, was charged with manslaughter.”

  Fraidy’s eyes widened, then bulged, then squeezed shut. “Please don’t tell me that the good guys buried their own good guys ….a-alive?”

  Onyx placed a paw on Fraidy’s shoulders. “As our beloved sister just said: The Warlocks pulled a lascivious and dirty move.”

  Fraidy started to sway.

  “Ice it, guys,” I said. “Death Magic has been outlawed for over a century now. The crime you’re talking about was the last known case, in fact. Besides, no warlock or Big Daddy wizard can just waltz into a Sillbreath field and start picking. These toadstools are stringently regulated these days.” I grabbed the consent form once more, and this time shook it in front of my cat's faces. “The ‘go-ahead’ is right here. A medicinal application permit. We’re allowed to harvest twelve grams of the fungus so I can formulate a compound for anxiety and stress. No Death Magic in sight, capiche?”

  Carbon’s sleepy face popped up in the mirror. “If this car gets any colder then we won’t need Death Magic to kill us off,” he grumbled. “Think you can crank the heat a little, Chimera?”

  I pretended to turn the heating dial. The car already felt like a toaster oven, but my fire-loving cat needed to see that I was taking action on his behalf.

  “Who are these ‘shrooms for, anyway, boss-lady?” Shade asked, headbutting Carbon’s face away from the center position.

  “I’m preparing a formula for Portia Fearwyn. Saint John’s Wort isn’t cutting it, so I need something stronger.” I raised the permit for the third time. “Hence the Stillbreath. Because these toadstools aren’t just used for evil deeds. They can also help slow down respiration and most other metabolic bodily processes. Portia’s panic attacks will almost certainly reduce in frequency and intensity with a little help from these ‘stools.”

  I might be a witch -- a proficient one, at that -- with eight talking cats, but I’m also a practicing herbalist. And I took my work at The Angel, my apothecary, with compassionate seriousness. I’m not kidding...my clients’ well-being is at the top of my business plan. The ‘spiky’ Portia Fearwyn might be an at-arm's-length-friend, but she was suffering. By preparing this formula using Stillbreath’s, I fully intended to help cushion the Witch Fearwyn’s strife somewhat.

  I turned the car left, this time onto a gravel road. The snow continued to fall, covering the lane in a snuggly blanket of bedazzling white.

  “Guys?” I said. “Can we stop with all this death talk now? Can’t we just all try to have a happy couple of days?” I couldn’t keep the pleading out of my voice.

  My cats said nothing, but I got a silent nod of furry heads from the seven conscious ones.

  A small hand-painted sign came into view. Through the plump snowflakes, I co
uld just make out the words. In black painted Gothic styled script: Gothic Harbor 12 miles. Our destination, and where Foxley Cottage, our rented home for the next two nights awaited us.

  Chapter Two

  “Huh?” Gloom said, raising her paws to the window and swiveling her head. “There isn’t a mountain in sight, so why would there be a risk of….”

  My front-seat kitty peered at the curious ‘warning’ sign as we rounded the last bend. I shrugged at the crude depiction of snow tumbling helter-skelter down a mountain. I looked around at the low lying landscape.

  “Weird,” I whispered.

  Without notice, and out of nowhere. And, I mean nowhere, the fields on our right gave way to a stand of perilously high peaks. Four giant sentinels of sheer rock face loomed over our passage. We gawped at the drifts of snow, fathoms deep, as it overflowed from the mountains’ geographical scars and gullies. And then we noticed the flashing red and blue lights through the curtain of windblown snow. The cruiser’s door opened, and a man with the bulk and gait of a mainland moose lumbered to the middle of the road and presented a giant palm to us.

  I understood the man’s implied ‘stop’ signal and brought the car to a somewhat sliding standstill before the uniformed man.

  “Keep quiet, guys,” I cautioned my kitties. I rolled down the window just as Officer Moose ducked down to parlay with me.

  “Going somewhere, ma’am?”

  Strange question.

  “Yes, I am, officer,” I offered. “We’re heading to Gothic Harbor right now. Is there a problem?”

  The man chewed gum the way I imagined a moose would chew on a water-reed.