To Catch a Witch

by Heather Blake

  “There,” he said, jumping down.

  I let my aching arm drop and tried not to groan in relief. As I climbed down the ladder, I thought maybe I did recognize him. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place his face. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “No problem,” he said. With a nod of his head, he turned and walked away.

  As I folded the ladder, I again looked to my sister’s apartment. As much as Harper didn’t like being cold, it wasn’t like her to stand me up without an explanation. Suddenly concerned, I sent her a quick text and headed to the event tent to organize registration packets.

  Portable heaters placed throughout the tent buzzed, doing their best to battle the cold. Dozens of tables were scattered about, and a catering team from the Sorcerer’s Stove was busy setting up after-race provisions, which from my spot across the tent looked to consist of bagels, bananas, chocolate milk, and water.

  Just as I was wishing for a big cup of coffee, Abby Stillwell stumbled through the tent flaps, two to-go cups from the Witch’s Brew in her gloved hands.

  It seemed every once in a while the fates threw my wishes a bone.

  “Good morning,” Abby croaked.

  “Are you okay?”

  I’d known Abby since I moved to the village, which was also when I had taken up jogging. The running community here in the village was quite small, and it had been easy to get to know those who were part of it, though it was vastly divided in terms of talent.

  In one group there were recreational joggers like myself, along with more hardcore fitness buffs. In the other group were the professional runners who ran with Balefire Racing, the exclusive team that participated in elite races including national and world championships and even the Olympics.

  I was firmly in the first group.

  Abby was in the latter group, along with Joe, Ben, and Madison, as well. Ben Bryant and Abby had been dating for a few months, making the Balefire team seem like one big happy and extremely athletic family.

  I’d been working closely with Abby for more than a month now, and never in all that time had I ever known her to stumble or croak. In her late twenties, she tended to glide through life with long graceful strides. And also tended to chirp her words rather than speak them. Starla Sullivan had described Abby as “effervescent.” I agreed. Abby bubbled with life. Usually.

  Today, a green cast colored her cheeks as she handed me a coffee. “Stomach bug. Lousy timing.”

  After dragging a chair over to the registration table, she dropped her backpack at her feet and sat down, putting her head between her knees. She was dressed in upscale running apparel. The latest high-tech tights, shirt, jacket, gloves, and trail shoes. Dark brown hair curled out from beneath a red Balefire beanie that I knew was thermal and waterproof, only because I owned the same one in pink.

  I noticed her cup had a teabag tag dangling down its side, but I hadn’t seen her take a single sip. “Thanks for this,” I said of the coffee. “Can I get you anything? Bagel? Banana?”

  She moaned softly, and I took that as a no.

  My phone whistled, and I glanced at the text message Harper had sent back.

  HARPER: Dying. Don’t know if I can make it today.

  ME: Stomach bug?

  HARPER: How did u know?

  Harper was well and truly sick if she was using texting slang, which she despised. I glanced at Abby, who still had her head down.

  ME: Going around.

  HARPER: Great.

  “Darcy, can I have a word?” a female voice behind me said.

  I glanced over my shoulder and found Stefanie Millet wringing her hands. She was the new catering manager at the Sorcerer’s Stove, known locally as the Stove, and I didn’t like the look on her face one little bit. With a jerk of her dimpled chin, she motioned for me to step out of Abby’s earshot.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Stef’s blue eyes looked pained. In a low whisper, she said, “I was just notified that our answering service is being flooded with complaints about possible food poisoning from the banquet last night.”

  There had been a prerace get-together at the Stove the night before. Not all the Mad Dash participants had been there, but many of those staying in the village had attended, along with event sponsors and coordinators, including Harper, who had been helping me with last-minute planning. “But I ate there, and I’m fine.”

  “Did you eat the chocolate cake?”

  I hadn’t. Simply because it had been gone by the time I had a chance to look for it. “No, I didn’t. The cake was bad?”

  “Shh!” she said, looking around. “We don’t know for certain. It’s the only menu item consistent with those who’ve complained this morning.”

  “How many calls have come in?”

  “Two dozen, give or take. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I have the kitchen staff looking into it.”

  The Stove had a storied history of food poisoning incidents in the past, which had nothing to do with the quality of food and everything to do with abusing magic. It immediately made me wonder which had been at fault this time around.

  “Can you get me the names of the people who called?” I asked. “I’ll be sure to refund their race fees.”

  She said she would and walked back to the bananas.

  Food poisoning. Wonderful. I picked up my phone.

  ME: Good news is it’s not a stomach bug. Bad news is it’s food poisoning. Chocolate cake gone horribly wrong.

  HARPER: I’m going to kill somebody.

  ME: Glad to see you’re feeling better already.

  HARPER: I’d argue, but I have to go throw up now.

  ME: I’ll come check on you as soon as I can get away. Need anything?

  HARPER: A quick death.

  ME: I’ll see what I can do.

  What Harper really needed was a Curecrafter, a healing witch, but our good friend Cherise Goodwin was out of town with her boyfriend (and former ex-husband), Terry Goodwin, for a winter getaway. Their son, Dr. Dennis Goodwin, was still around, however. While he wasn’t my favorite witch in the world, he’d have to do. I made a mental note to get in touch with him to see if he could make a quick house call. He’d have Harper feeling good as new in minutes.

  I turned back to Abby. Her head was still down, but she said, “Do I want to know what Stef had to say?”

  “Nope.”

  Abby was a Vitacrafter, so I wasn’t the least bit surprised she had picked up on the tension in the air. Vitacrafters could read the energy of those around them.

  “Okay then,” she said. “In case I forget, thanks for your help with this race. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  It was true—she couldn’t have. I had never met a more disorganized person in all my life. When Abby first hired me, it had taken me a week just to make sense of her paperwork, then another week to get it into order again. Her enthusiasm for the race, however, had more than made up for the headaches. She was quite simply one of the sweetest people I’d ever met.

  An amazing feat, considering the life she’d had. Both her parents had been killed in a car crash, leaving her on her own as a young adult. She had no other family than the one she’d created at Balefire. “You’re welcome.”

  Bracing an elbow on her knee, she dropped her head into her palm. “If you have a little bit of time after the race, I’d like to show you something I found in last year’s paperwork, get your opinion.”

  “About?”

  She opened her backpack and pulled out a folder. “I think I might have messed up the race’s bookkeeping. Yesterday, I dug up last year’s ledger, and mine doesn’t come close to matching, even though we used the same vendors. I asked Ben to take a look, but because he’s not good with numbers, he suggested I ask Madison or Joe.”

  Abby handed the folder to me. In it were two ledgers. Accounting books. “What did they have to say?”

  “Nothing, because I didn’t ask them. I’d rather they not know I messed up. Inste
ad, I came to you. You’re so good at fixing my mistakes.” She gave me a smile, or tried to. She immediately put her head between her legs again.

  The Mad Dash had always been Joe and Madison Bryant’s baby … but that was before they had an actual baby. And with Aine’s birth, her health issues, and Joe’s intense training schedule for an upcoming international competition, they had been too overwhelmed to give the event the attention it needed, so they turned it over to Abby. Abby wasn’t one for finer details, so she’d come to me. We made a pretty good team, if I did say so myself.

  “I’d be happy to take a look,” I said, tucking the folder in my tote bag. “I’ll do it as soon as the race is over.”

  “Thanks, Darcy,” she said, dropping her head back between her knees.

  Racers began to filter into the tent, and I quickly became busy handing out racing bibs, timing chips, and course maps.

  Over the next hour, the color slowly returned to Abby’s face. In fact, all the stricken racers had made abrupt recoveries and showed up to compete as planned. Abby’s best friend and roommate Quinn Donegal had arrived to live-tweet the race for Balefire and smartly planted herself near a portable heater.

  Quinn had worked at Balefire for a couple of years, managing the store’s and team’s websites and social media accounts. She stood out among the others at Balefire for the simple reason that she wasn’t a runner. According to Abby, Quinn preferred yoga.

  The Bryants arrived as well, even the baby who looked like an angel in her fluffy custom-made snow suit that had been created to fit around her body cast. Joe, Ben, and their mother Lucinda would be participating in the race, while Madison and Aine cheered them on.

  There was still no sign of Harper.

  With only fifteen minutes to the start of the Mad Dash, Abby stood and said, “I’m going to head out for my warm-up.”

  I didn’t try to talk her out of participating in such a grueling competition after a night battling a stomach bug. I’d learned runners of her caliber were dedicated and tenacious. I’d be wasting my breath.

  “Be careful out there,” I said instead, unable to stop the mama hen in me from squawking.

  She smiled broadly, and her eyes twinkled. “See you at the starting line.”

  Snow fell steadily as I left the warmth of the tent to supervise the start of the race. The DJ had set up in a covered booth near the starting line and was playing, of all things, “Let It Snow.” The crowd was happily singing along, despite Christmas being two months ago.

  Time ticked along, and I busied myself with last minute issues like the race clock malfunctioning, bibs flying off despite safety pins, and the doors to the portable restrooms locking shut. All of which occurred out of the blue, no rhyme or reason.

  Or so it would seem to someone not attuned to the magical world around them. I’d bet my Crafting cloak it was Vince and his sorcery behind these troubles. I was going to have to deal with him sooner rather than later.

  Despite it all, I was soon caught up in race excitement, setting my worries aside.

  Right up until I spotted Stef Millet walking into Lotions and Potions … and straight into Vince’s arms for a long hug. My stomach churned with the sudden thought that he’d somehow been behind the chocolate cake disaster as well as the other mischief.

  Turning away from them, I put it out of my mind for the time being. I needed to focus on the race. There was less than a minute until the starting gun went off, and worry had crept back in, overtaking any remaining excitement.

  Because Abby Stillwell had never returned from her warm-up run.

  Chapter Two

  By the time the race finished and the trophies, medals, and winners’ checks were handed out, my worry for Abby had turned into full-blown panic.

  No one had seen her since she left for her warm-up run more than two hours ago.

  The police were out looking for her, and I, along with several of Abby’s nearest and dearest, were gathered in the event tent waiting on news. Any news at all.

  Nick Sawyer took one look at my face, held my hand, and said, “We’ll find her, Darcy.”

  Nick and I had been engaged for four months now and had set a wedding date for this coming June. Not many knew me better than he did, and he usually possessed the amazing ability to calm me when I was frazzled. Not today though. Not with this situation.

  Abby Stillwell had vanished.

  Both Ben and Quinn, who knew Abby best, insisted she wouldn’t have just gone off without telling anyone. Especially since her car was still parked in the driveway of her house, and her wallet and cellphone were in the backpack she had left under the Mad Dash’s registration table.

  “Abby shouldn’t have been running in the first place, after being ill all night.” Ben’s square jaw clenched as he finished the statement.

  We were all working on the assumption that Abby had become lightheaded during her warm-up run and had wandered off course. If she was disoriented, she could be anywhere in the expansive woods.

  “This is Abby we’re talking about,” Madison Bryant said, looking upward at her brother-in-law, Ben. About my height, five six, Madison had long, blonde hair that had been braided and pinned in a coil at the nape of her neck. The tips of her ears were pink from the cold, and her breath came out in frosty puffs, but there was fervent heat in her tone. “The woman who competed at the Olympic trials with a stress fracture in her foot. And won.” Madison had Aine secured to her chest in a fancy sling. The bright, happy pink of the baby’s spica cast peeking out of her snowsuit fairly glowed in the gloomy atmosphere of the tent. The little one was sound asleep, peacefully oblivious to the drama unfolding around her.

  “And she paid the price for it, didn’t she?” Ben snapped, his blue eyes narrowing. “That decision ultimately ruined her career. She should have known better then, and she should have known better this morning.” He shook his head in dismay. “She should have stayed home.”

  Anxiety seeped out in his voice. It was clear to me he was worried sick. It would do no good, however, to dwell on should-haves. It wouldn’t change anything at this point.

  Quinn stood back from the group, and looked like she wanted to throw up. She was walking in little circles, her head down and her arms wrapped around herself. According to Abby, she and Quinn were more like sisters than friends, and I immediately felt a rush of sympathy for the woman.

  “Hush now,” Lucinda Bryant said quietly to her younger son. “Imagine if Abby heard you talking this way.”

  With a gravelly voice that reminded me of Kathleen Turner, Lucinda was in her late fifties and still had a lithe runner’s body. She was slightly shorter than her sons, who were both about six feet tall, and was the most decorated athlete among them, having succeeded as an Olympic marathoner while her sons had never quite reached that athletic mark.

  The fact that all three were elite runners wasn’t the least bit surprising to me. But that was because I knew they were Vincicrafters, witches who had innate athleticism. They excelled at whatever sport they chose.

  While Vincicrafters possessed above-average athletic ability, they still had to take that natural ability to the next level. They trained long, grueling hours and were focused and disciplined.

  Lucinda, for example, made it to the Olympics because she worked hard to get there. There were many Vincis—before and after her—who hadn’t been able to reach that level. Mortals could beat them. And had.

  But still … among witches, there was no denying that Vincis had an upper hand at athletic events. Which was why there were Craft laws denying Vincicrafters monetary gain from the sports in which they participated. No major league contracts. No Nike sponsorships. No check at the finish line. Most Vincis didn’t mind the rule—they weren’t in sports for money. They were there for the competition.

  Joe Bryant ran a hand down his face, his fingers lingering on his dark, trimmed beard. “Talking isn’t getting us anywhere, anyway. We need to find her.”

  Nick said, “Although
there is a team out searching, it might be time to recruit some extra help with the search efforts. If Abby is out in this storm, the sooner we find her, the better.”

  The storm had taken a turn for the worse with whiteout conditions and high winds. Even so, forming additional search parties was not going to be a difficult task. Once word had leaked about Abby’s disappearance, most of the Mad Dashers had stuck around, wanting to help in some way. They were not the least bit fazed by the snow and rough terrain.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vince Paxton slip into the tent and make his way over to Stef, who was standing off to the side watching us. She whispered something to him.

  So help me if Vince decided to pull one of his pranks right now. I was too upset to deal with his shenanigans. Feeling fury rising, I had to look away before I marched over there and had it out with him.

  Madison said, “Count me in on the search team. I’m in the woods all the time, so I have a good feel for the spots Abby could have taken shelter.”

  Madison was a Terracrafter—a witch with the ultimate green thumb. Her affinity for the woods was in her blood. I was certain she had explored every inch of the Enchanted Woods and knew each and every hollowed tree trunk and hidden cave.

  Turning to her mother-in-law, she said, “Lucinda, can you watch Aine for a while?”

  I loved the way Madison said her baby’s name. Awn-yah. It wasn’t a name I’d been familiar with until I met the little girl.

  Lucinda’s eyes softened as she glanced at her granddaughter. “Of course.”

  I pulled Nick aside. “I’ll see what help I can round up, too.” There were many Crafters in this village who’d be more than willing to risk their own lives to help find a fellow witch.

  First and foremost, the Elder. I needed to get in touch with her as soon as possible about this situation. She was the most powerful witch in the village and had endless resources to help in the search for Abby.

  A flood of emotions filled me just thinking about the Elder.

  The Elder … my mother.