Endangered Spells (Witches Academy Series Book 6)

by S. R. Mallery

  He laughed. “I sure hope so. I would hate to think this is something you do to vending machines in general.”

  She couldn’t help it. It was absurd. She joined his laughter and together their guffaws ricocheted around the room.

  “No, destroying machines is not my caper[7].”

  Stepping back a pace, his one raised eyebrow was quickly replaced with a sly grin. “Caper. The last time I heard that word was when my mother would watch old gangster movies from the thirties and forties.” He paused. “Let me get you a water. No use breaking your foot, right?”

  He went off and within a couple of minutes he had returned with a bottle of the H20 liquid.

  Handing it over to her, he also gave her his business card. When she started to turn it over, he smirked. “I didn’t put down my home number, by the way.”

  Pulling herself up, she tried grabbing a shred of dignity. “Of course, I wasn’t looking for that.”

  “But Ms. Good, I will call to let you know how the case is progressing. That, I promise.”

  “If Adam is calling me Gillian, you can, too.” Why did I say that?

  Still, she was glad she did. His gentle smile and just a flick of a wink was worth it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In Wheelton, the Good family’s bookstore, Old Time Readers, was highly regarded and widely used. Opened more than twenty years ago, after the Good family had arrived from New Orleans, the store yielded a charming atmosphere, with its appealing books, overstuffed sofas, comfy chairs, and delightful toys for the children. As an added plus, holidays were special times because the Goods made sure that not only were colorful decorations placed throughout the premises, baked cookies, cupcakes, tempting teas, coffees, and hot chocolate were also offered. Such was their place of business located downtown.

  The Goods also thought of their own family’s home as wonderful—a true place of warmth and refuge. In need of a little repair, each room had a unique look to it. An “aura,” Gillian’s mother, Ellen Good, often called it. Drying herbs, tied up in individual bunches, hung from the ceiling in the kitchen. Special candles glowed throughout on a nightly basis. In addition, various types of books were present, as were unique hangings and pictures—all of which created a cozy abode. The Goods proudly called it their own “home sweet home.” But no matter where the Goods lived, witchcraft was never forgotten.

  “Remember, children,” Ellen Good had told her three daughters at an early age back in New Orleans, “from your father’s side, you are descendants of Sarah Good, one of the accused at the Salem Witchcraft trial. Although she had always proclaimed her innocence of witchcraft, it’s obvious someone in the Good ancestral line possessed magical powers because I’m proud to say that you girls are all special. Each one of you is capable of doing magical things.”

  Usually, after saying something like this, she would look at her warlock husband, Elijah, as if asking for his silent approval. But that wasn’t necessary. It was more than clear to the girls that not only did their father love each one of them, he simply adored his human wife, his “life partner,” to whom he had gladly taught everything he knew about White Witchcraft.

  Then later, in private, Ellen would add, “Girls, I give thanks every day for having such a kind, loving husband, unlike many of the nasty warlocks I’ve read about.” Blinking back tears, she further acknowledged, “And the fact that he can produce children with me being a human is beyond wonderful.”

  But at one point, Gillian remembered Ellen had urged extreme caution. “Yes, girls, you all have the makings of fine little witches, but you mustn’t let the world know this. As Sister Gertrude and Amanda Rankin from the Witch Academy have warned us, we all have a duty to protect our unique capabilities. There are humans out there who not only don’t believe in our practices, they would go out of their way to destroy them if they could.”

  “And even some witches are not very nice,” Elijah had thrown in. But it was their father who must have sensed the little girls’ fear of all of these dire warnings. “Don’t worry, children,” he quickly assured them, “I’ll make up a little clapping game to help you remember our little secret.”

  Motioning Gillian, their oldest child, over to him, he then told her to put up her little palms. Then, as he gently alternated clapping against them with his own large palms, he sang out.

  “I gotta a secret, nice and sweet,

  I gotta secret you can’t meet,

  Sing ‘em high, sing ‘em low,

  You’ll never get to know my glow.”

  The girls learned the game ultra-fast and giggled like crazy as they paired up to perform it. But there was a problem. There were other ears that easily learned the song.

  Joselyn—Elijah’s treasured cockatoo he’d bought years before and had carefully trained to talk at a moment’s notice. Not only talk, Joselyn could imitate animal sounds, whistles, and clicking.

  “Gotta secret, gotta secret,” she squawked.

  Ellen and Elijah laughed at first, but quickly realized the bird was a potential powder keg. Back in New Orleans, whenever Joselyn was allowed to go to the Witch Academy’s events, perched on Elijah’s shoulder, she was always the hit of the party. Everyone would come over to either stroke her or try and get her to talk to them They also wanted to see some magic power displayed, as most warlocks’ pets possessed special skills.

  But Elijah told his family later he wouldn’t let that happen. “The truth is,” he said, “I never really know what might spill out of Joselyn’s mouth.”

  He was right to worry. The day after he had taught his girls that special warning song about secrets, as soon as Joselyn began to screech, “Gotta secret, gotta secret,” the look of alarm on the face of the Academy’s leader, Sister Gertrude, was unmistakable.

  “Maybe we should teach Joselyn something else and not do our song too loud,” Gillian said later that day at home.

  “Gillian. You’re so smart,” Ellen said. “No wonder you have the greatest powers of all of us.”

  “Aren’t I smart, too, Mama?” Carly asked with a pout.

  The competition between the two sisters had begun.

  Up until that point, Ellen had always taken out her thick Book of Spells, turned to a page, and showed each girl how to do different incantations. But after Gillian’s comment about teaching Joselyn something else besides, “secret, secret,” Ellen tended to rely on her oldest for new ideas.

  Once again, Elijah stepped in. Observing a lip-trembling Carly, he pulled her close. “Here’s a spell for you to learn, Carly, because I know you can handle it.”

  “You mean Gilly can’t, right?”

  “Let’s just learn this certain spell, okay?” Elijah turned to a page in his old, Seasonal Spells, and proceeded. “This is how to remove bad powers. You know, like when you see someone not being nice to a friend of yours.”

  When Gillian opened her mouth, their father gave her a slight headshake, then continued. “With two bright red and two white candles, as well as a small magnet, I’m going to put them around a photograph of you and your friend, Lottie, having a great time. Remember, I took that picture, and here it is. That was the same day that you told me Lottie had a couple of mean girls teasing her so badly, she cried, remember? Well, that’s what this bright red candle and a magnet are for.”

  “Ooh, ooh! Can I draw a picture of the two girls? Can I?” Carly’s voice was high-pitched with excitement.

  “Can I? Can I?” Joselyn cackled.

  Elijah nodded, and soon, a picture was drawn, a spell had been placed, and Joselyn had learned more words.

  “Draw a picture, draw a picture,” she voiced over and over again that night.

  Yet, after a lesson like this, Elijah did pull Gillian aside. “You do realize, Gil, that you possess a far greater magic power than any of us.”

  “Oh, no. Not more than you, Papa,” Gillian said, her eyes widened with worry.

  It was then that Elijah leaned over to his eldest and stroked the young girl’s c
heek. “I know, I know. I can tell you don’t want this power. But the fact is, Gilly, we can’t always choose our gifts.”

  Perhaps that was true. Gillian was finding out something on her own that was amazing. Apparently, she could foresee good or bad things happening before they actually occurred. Jarring and inexplicable, it was as if a strange movie-like preview of what was about to take place would suddenly pop up in her brain. Whenever her youngest sister, Stevie, performed an act of kindness or generosity, while everyone else was complimenting the girl or giving her a hug, Gillian had to pretend to act surprised because she already knew all about it. On the other hand, it also worked against Carly, who was always getting in trouble. More than once, because of Gillian’s secret ability, she’d go to their mother or father and tell on Carly, complaining that her sister was about to do something bad.

  Her parents tended to praise her for being so protective of her sister. But the plain fact was, Gillian knew she did it as simply another way to get Carly into hot water. Although she enjoyed doing it, she was increasingly uncomfortable with having so much power in general.

  By nine years old, she went to bed each night saying a little prayer: “Please take away my powers. Please take away my powers.” But that didn’t work. She was still not only able to foresee the future, she soon faced a mental picture of an upcoming event that was so horrendous, so upsetting to her, she simply froze. Instead of telling her parents, she kept it to herself.

  That was something she would forever regret.

  * *

  Twenty years later, sitting around their large rectangular pine kitchen table with the sun filtering in between Ellen’s long bunches of drying herbs, and their older than old-fashioned oven baking biscuits, the Good family were gathered for a breakfast meeting—to discuss Rebecca Newell.

  “Gillian, dear, what did the police say when you reported what you saw?” Ellen asked, pouring coffee into each of her daughters’ empty mugs.

  “Basically, they claim they don’t even believe anything bad happened to Rebecca. Apparently, they have on file a video that she made a while back, where she was tied up to a chair and claimed she had been kidnapped and would probably end up dead. One of the detectives said it was quite chilling. But after they searched for her and her supposed abductor secretly, so as not to create a sensation to the press, she suddenly turned up at their station and admitted the whole thing was a hoax. Let’s just say, the police were less than thrilled.”

  “Yes. Talk about a double-cross[8],” Ellen said.

  “Double-cross,” Joselyn cooed.

  Carly, sporting spiky red hair, snorted. “I don’t blame the cops. That’s so not cool.”

  “Says the girl who has active knowledge of the inside of our local police department,” Gillian said.

  “Well, Miss Perfect, maybe if you didn’t act like a scaredy-cat and shy away from using your gifts, you could stop me from being too—what did you call it? Oh, yeah. Self-destructive.” Carly’s infamous deep belly laugh echoed throughout.

  Gillian’s index finger was up and pointing at her sister. “You know why I don’t use my powers anymore. You especially know what happened, Carly. You were there when we all found out about Willy. So, just leave me alone about it.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled in—at least five seconds of it.

  “So, what you’re saying, Gil, is the police aren’t going to do anything?” Stevie asked.

  Gillian turned to her sweet and gentle youngest sister. “Actually, I’ve been assigned two detectives, who—”

  “Are they good looking?” Carly asked.

  “Don’t be such a Dumb Dora[9]. Is that all you think about?” Gillian paused. “Yes, they are. One is movie star handsome, the other is a very cute flattie[10]. Can I answer the question about the police now?”

  Carly made a waist bow and sweeping royal hand gesture from her chair.

  After a slight hiss, Gillian continued. “They promised to look into it, but I could tell one of them had figured this was just Rebecca playing another fake, attention-getting game.”

  “So, you probably won’t hear back from them?” Ellen asked.

  “Actually, I do have a contact there. Remember Charlotte? I went to school with her.”

  They all nodded.

  “She actually promised to tell me what comes up about Rebecca––within reason. Apparently, it’s a small enough department that case details kind of float around there. But don’t say anything to anybody. She’s doing this as a special favor to me and doesn’t want to get in trouble. All right?” Gillian eyed each person individually at the table.

  They all nodded back, although Carly did her usual, “What’s it worth to you?”

  When their mother aimed her narrowed eyes and pursed lips at her middle daughter, Carly let loose a playful wink.

  Just then, their cousin, Esther Flanagan, walked in. She poured herself a mug of coffee and sighed. “I can tell from your expressions what your conversation is all about. So. What’s the latest with Rebecca’s disappearance?”

  “Esther, do you know anything about that?” Stevie asked.

  Their cousin raised and lowered her eyebrows in rapid succession. “Maybe. I do have my ways, you know.”

  Gillian chuckled. “No magic here, folks. She went to school with one of the detectives, Bob Shiffer.” She looked at her cousin. “Didn’t you, Esther?”

  “And what did he say?” Carly asked.

  Esther shrugged. “Actually, not much. Bob told me that apparently because Rebecca had done some things to rouse more publicity for her, the detectives are most likely not going to go on another wild goose chase.”

  “So, no spells, no auras happening at all, GG? Oh, that’s right. You’ve turned into a wanna-be human now.” Carly’s smirk was particularly obvious.

  “GG. GG,” Joselyn aped.

  Gillian grit her teeth. I hate it when she uses that nickname for me.

  “Oh, GG. Can’t you do a tiny little spell for Rebecca?” Stevie’s gentle plea hit Gillian like a tiny wake-up call. That girl has always gotten to me—and usually when I least expect it. Suddenly, she flashed on when they were kids. When Stevie used to gently, yet firmly, intervene when Carly and she were having it out. Whether it was about who was getting extra dessert or who got the most Christmas presents, Stevie was always there to interject a Buddhist hold on their fights.

  She’s right. Maybe I should at least try something for Rebecca’s sake. Just in case.

  The sudden ping from Gillian’s cellphone slammed her back to present time. Looking down she viewed a text from Charlotte. “Call me now,” it said.

  She muttered, “It’s from Charlotte. I’ve got to get back to her.”

  In her bedroom, she sank down onto her bed amongst the eclectic throw pillows strewn across her comforter and called her friend.

  “So?” Gillian asked.

  “FYI,” Charlotte said in a hushed tone, “Adam Springer and Nate Meeks just took off to look into a new police report.”

  Somehow, her friend’s long pause felt ominous. “And?” Gillian slowly asked.

  “It seems down by the lake a woman’s body has washed up on shore,” Charlotte said, her voice holding a slight tremble. “A couple of teenagers discovered it just a little while ago and called it in. As soon as she’s identified, I’ll let you know. Gotta go. Bye.”

  * *

  Ordinarily, going down to the local river this time of year, Nate would have seen it as a chance to relax. The glorious reds, yellows, and browns of New England’s autumnal leaves, the crispness of Connecticut’s October air, and a flock of birds rising up as a cluster, then flying away together like a tight, jet-like squadron, was always a treat to watch.

  But not today. As he and Adam trudged over the narrow, mud-packed path interlaced with gnarled tree roots, Adam’s silence felt as heavy with anticipation as his own. And even though yesterday he had understood Adam’s blatant dismissal of Rebecca being a victim for real, now, as they
both approached the water lapping up against a sprawled-out woman’s body, all he could think of was the folly of overconfidence. And not believing Gillian.

  Armed with a photograph of Rebecca Newell from when they had had dealings with her before, each detective took one last look at the picture before leaning over the pale, stiff female victim, already showing signs of bloating and decay.

  “It’s her, all right,” Adam said without looking up. “Looks like that Gillian girl was right.”

  Of course, she was. But we sure weren’t. I need to call her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As soon as Esther Flanagan barged into Gillian’s bedroom the next morning and plopped down on the soft, comfy bed, she immediately clustered together several of the charming, little vintage throw pillows around her, like gathering sheep. Or, as Gillian suspected, creating a makeshift barricade.

  Already completely rattled by first Charlotte’s, then Detective Meek’s calls regarding Rebecca the night before, the last thing Gillian needed this morning was to deal with her overly nosey, brutally honest cousin.

  Planted in her large, nineteenth century rocker, she closed one of Carly’s escapist fashion magazines and steeled herself. Oh, boy. Here comes trouble. Knowing her older cousin inside and out, she instantly recognized her signature hard-boiled expression. It said, “You are going to listen to me today—no matter what.”

  She was right.

  “Look, Gillian, you cannot emotionally avoid our coven any longer, no matter how much you think you’ve pulled away from magic. Phoebe McCann and the other head witches expect certain things from you. Besides, your mother told me she had closed the shop today, so you have no excuse not to go.”

  Gillian assessed her cousin, her chest tightening. “Oh, come on, Esther. Applesauce. I seriously doubt they care about me, anyway. They undoubtedly have other things to think about. As for Phoebe McCann, that woman has disliked me from day one. All she’s ever had for me were snide, disparaging comments.”