Way of the Witch

by Cate Dean

  “I didn’t—” She lowered her head and fought the nausea. “I wanted to take Spencer some personal items. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “So, it was bad timing. Isn’t that unfortunate.”

  Maggie’s heart pounded at Grace’s words. “Why did you kill Regina?”

  That distracted Grace.

  “The fool was going to ruin the exhibit, have it stopped because of her ‘connection’ to Anya. That exhibit had to move forward. It was the only way I could—”

  “Take the cup, and the wand.”

  Grace’s smile chilled her. “You are clever, Maggie. I didn’t mean to kill her in Spencer’s flat. But she followed me, shouting, and I lost my temper. It turned things my way. I had already laid the foundation with Spencer, so laying the blame on him was simple.”

  Maggie shoved down her anger. There would be time for that, later. “And Givens?”

  Grace sighed, and actually showed what looked like regret. “That was an accident. Once I knew my time here was almost at an end, I met Spencer at the museum, drugged him, and started to clean out the display case. Givens walked in on me. I could hardly allow him to leave.”

  The regret faded as Grace hauled her up. Maggie fought the darkness pressing at her.

  “Breathe, Maggie. You are less resilient than I thought. Maybe I used too much—”

  “Pregnant,” Maggie whispered, before she could stop herself.

  “What?” Grace caught her chin and lifted her head. “What did you say?”

  “I’m—pregnant.”

  Grace studied her face. Maggie let out a gasp when Grace’s hand pressed against her stomach. Letting out a string of curses, Grace led her over to an upholstered chair and helped her sit.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Maggie’s hand moved to her stomach. “I—we wanted to wait. It won’t—hurt my baby?”

  “The sedative? No. It’s a natural compound. What might have hurt you was falling over and hitting something.” Grace stalked away from her, looking up at Anya’s portrait. “I was disgusted, when I first learned about my connection to Anya. But the more I learned about her, the more I realized how much I am like her.”

  “You are nothing like her.” Maggie wanted to take the words back almost before they left her mouth.

  “How dare you!” Grace pulled her up, her fingers digging into Maggie’s right arm. “How would you know? To you, and the rest of the stupid villagers, Anya is a legend to use for money.”

  Maggie kept her voice quiet, hoping to calm Grace. “I met her.”

  “You—what?”

  “How do you think Spencer has her scrolls?”

  Grace glared at her, but her grip eased. “Continue.”

  “Spencer and I found Anya’s ritual cup, when we were twenty. It led us here, where Anya had trapped her soul, rather than be burned at the stake. We helped her free herself.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Maggie was half sure she wouldn’t be believed, but she had to try. The conversation also gave her an idea. Probably a crazy idea, but one she could work with.

  “I can show you the secret room, where we found the scrolls, and the crystal Anya had used to hold her soul.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s behind the fireplace.”

  Grace dragged her over to the fireplace, Maggie hanging on to her, since her legs weren’t cooperating yet.

  “Which side?”

  “Left,” Maggie whispered, grabbing the mantle. “There’s a—vine, on side of the mantle.”

  Grace let her go and ran her fingers down the wood. A familiar click told her that Grace had found the latch. The wall next to her moved, revealing the room Maggie and Spencer had discovered during their first visit.

  “Yes!” Grace pushed at the wall and stepped inside, her back to Maggie.

  This would be her only chance.

  Maggie closed her hand around the tall candlestick, almost dropping it when the weight surprised her. Leaning against the fireplace, she wrapped her other hand around the carved silver, and took a deep breath.

  Then she straightened, raised the candlestick, and followed Grace inside.

  The room hadn’t changed, except for the dust that coated every surface. A small crystal she didn’t remember sat in the spot on the altar where Anya’s crystal had rested, a quiet, soft glow pouring from it.

  Grace headed right for the crystal, distracted by it. Maggie wouldn’t have a better shot.

  She moved fast, raising the candlestick, and smacked Grace across the back.

  The taller woman stumbled forward, falling against the altar.

  Maggie spun and ran toward the entrance. She let out a cry as she tripped, falling over the threshold. That cry turned to a scream when a hand grabbed her ankle.

  Sixteen

  Fear drove Spencer as he barreled down the narrow high street of Dell.

  He never thought to return. Once had been enough, as far as he was concerned. But for Maggie, he would happily walk into Hell.

  Martin sat in the passenger seat of the van, holding the dashboard as they bumped down the rough street. Behind them, Ian scanned both sides, obviously watching for Maggie.

  Spencer didn’t need to look. He knew exactly where she was, where Grace had taken her. Seeing the scroll in Grace’s suitcase had told him, and he had a suspicion that Grace was more than she showed—to him, to the world.

  If she harmed a hair on Maggie’s head—

  Stop thinking like that. Maggie’s strong—stronger than anyone I know.

  “Where are we going?” Martin’s quiet voice jerked him out of his thoughts.

  “The manor house, at the bottom of the street.” He understood now why Grace wanted to keep him away from her throat. She was hiding the birthmark that would have told him exactly who she was. Anya’s descendent. “Grace knew where that scroll came from. That’s where she’ll take Maggie.”

  “Will Grace harm her?”

  Spencer risked a quick glance. Martin looked white, his hand shaking where he gripped the dash.

  “I don’t think so.” But he could be wrong.

  Spencer coaxed more speed out of the van, already prepared to turn when the manor came into sight. He slammed on the brakes instead, shock jolting him when he got his first good look at the manor.

  The glamour was long gone, but the house looked just as fresh, just as new as it had more than ten years ago. Someone had been busy.

  Grace had been busy, if what he thought was right.

  Martin shoved the door open and sprinted toward the manor. Cursing, Spencer joined him, Ian on his heels. He burst through the door, ready to take Grace down—and stumbled to a halt.

  Maggie sat on the floor, leaning against the wall that hid the secret room. A tall silver candlestick stood on the floor next to her, and she still held it with what looked like a death grip.

  Martin beat Spencer to her side, crouching next to her.

  “All right, love?”

  “A little nauseated, but I think I’m okay.” She looked up at Martin, and Spencer almost dropped to his knees at the anguish on her face. “I need to have the baby checked. Grace drugged me,” she whispered, just before she let go of the candlestick and reached for him.

  Martin scooped her up and carried her to what looked like a brand new sofa, cradling her in his lap.

  “I’ll ring the doctor,” Ian said, pulling out his mobile. “Have him join us.”

  Martin lifted his head. “Thank you.” He gently brushed hair off Maggie’s cheek. “Can you tell us what happened, love?”

  “Yeah.” She cleared her throat, and lifted her head. “Please, put me down, Martin.”

  He settled her on the sofa beside him, but refused to let go of her hand. Spencer didn’t blame him.

  She looked over at Spencer, and held out her free hand. “Come here.”

  He didn’t want to. This was his fault; if she was hurt, or heaven help him, the baby, he could never forgiv
e—

  “Spencer Knight. Stop blaming yourself and get over here. You, too, Ian. I don’t want to shout. My head won’t appreciate that.”

  He nodded at her, then ended his call. “Dr. Smith is on his way. He told me to have you sit still, no stress.”

  “I’m fine.” Frantic pounding had her looking at the wall. “Grace might not be. I hit her kind of hard with the candlestick.”

  Ian almost choked. “You hit her, and locked her behind the wall?”

  “In a secret room. Didn’t Spencer tell you we’ve been here before?”

  Both Martin and Ian stared at him.

  “I—I was worried about you, Maggie. I didn’t think it was important at the time.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow. “We will discuss that comment later. Maggie, did Grace say anything to you that would make you think she was involved?”

  “Would confessing to both murders count?” She almost smiled when Ian raised both eyebrows, clearly close to losing his patience. “Yes, Ian, she did.”

  “Then I won’t feel guilty about handcuffing her.”

  He moved to the wall, then glanced over his shoulder. “Would you happen to know how to open this, Knight?”

  Uh, oh—Spencer had a feeling he was going to do more than discuss. He nodded, and moved to the mantle, finding the spot on the decorative vine. The wall moved, and a pair of familiar hands wrapped around the edge of the wall, pulling it open.

  “I will kill you slowly for that, Maggie. I don’t care if you are...” Her voice faded when she came face to face with Ian. “Inspector. I was joking, of course. Maggie accidentally—”

  “Clobbered you with the silver candlestick and locked you in here, after you drugged her, kidnapped her, and confessed to murdering Regina Draper and Dr. Givens?” The color drained out of Grace’s face with every word—and highlighted the heart-shaped birthmark on her throat. “Turn around, miss. Hands behind your back.”

  “She is lying to you! She brought me here, wanting to get rid of me so she could have Spencer to herself—” Spencer’s laughter cut her off, and she glared at him. “What?”

  “The problem with a village, Grace, is that everyone knows everyone’s business. And everyone in Holmestead knows that Maggie and I are as close to being a brother and sister as two unrelated people can be.”

  “I—she—why couldn’t you be the man who fell in love with me? I wouldn’t have had to do any of this if you fell for me, and let me have what I needed.”

  “Like a lovesick fool?” He glanced up at Anya’s portrait. “I kept trying to figure out where I’d seen you before. Now I understand why I couldn’t remember. It wasn’t you I met. It was Anya.” He turned away, done with her lies, her manipulation—and relieved that he hadn’t fallen for her.

  “Spencer, please!” Her panicked voice hurt, but he refused to turn around. “I love you—”

  “No.” He wouldn’t let that comment pass. “You loved what I had, what you could wheedle out of me.” He moved back to her, met her eyes. She couldn’t hurt him, not anymore. “How many times did you drug me, Grace?”

  She stared past his shoulder, her jaw clenched. Ian finished with the handcuffs, and took her arm. “We’ll wait outside. Once Dr. Smith examines Maggie, we’ll ride back to Holmestead with him.”

  “Thanks,” Spencer said. He wasn’t certain he could stomach having Grace in his van. As Ian walked Grace out, he headed back to Maggie and Martin, crouching in front of her. “Mags—I’m so—”

  “Stop that apology right now, Spencer Knight.” She cradled his cheek, and he felt tears sting his eyes. “None of this was your fault. I brought Grace into our lives, not you.”

  “Whoa—wait. You think you’re the reason? If she wanted to find her way to me, she would have. You happened to be in the right place, and she took advantage of your need to set up your best friend.”

  “I did not need to—ouch.” She pressed one shaking hand to her forehead. “Can we argue about this later? My head is kind of killing me.”

  “Maggie.” Martin cradled the back of her head. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I figured you wouldn’t have any aspirin on you.”

  Dr. Smith cleared his throat, and walked into the room, his focus on Maggie. “How are you, my dear girl?”

  “You tell me,” she whispered, and Spencer wanted to punch something when her hand spread over her belly.

  “If Grace used the same sedative, you will be fine, Maggie. Both of you will be fine.”

  She closed her eyes, tears slipping free. “Thank you.”

  Dr. Smith examined her, and Spencer paced, stomping down his fear every time he looked at her pale face.

  “All right,” Dr. Smith finally said, closing his bag. “Drink plenty of water. It will help push the sedative through your system. Take these for your headache.” He handed her three pills, along with a small bottle of water. “I’d like to see you again, in two days. We can do a follow up check, make certain that mum and baby are doing well.”

  “We will be there,” Martin said. He held out his hand. “Thank you for coming all this way.”

  “My pleasure. It was also an excuse to see this place. My wife, Lydia, would never let me come near it, otherwise.” He winked at Maggie. “I am a bit of a supernatural lover.”

  He stood, patted Spencer’s shoulder, and strode out of the room.

  Maggie swallowed the pills, and sipped at the water, studying Martin and Spencer.

  “So,” she said. “When is one of you going to ask?”

  Spencer shook his head when Martin looked at him.

  “Ask what, love?”

  A smile tugged at her mouth, and Spencer almost sagged with relief. She was going to be fine.

  “How I managed to trap Grace in the secret room.”

  Seventeen

  Maggie was under orders—bed rest for at least a week. Martin refused to hear any arguments. She knew, because she tried.

  Now, three days in, she felt like a prisoner.

  “Enough,” she muttered, and climbed out of bed.

  Grabbing her favorite blue chenille robe, she pulled it on as she headed downstairs, bracing herself for Martin's anger.

  She found him in the kitchen, making what looked the blandest meal yet. He'd outdone himself this time.

  “I'm not eating that.”

  “Maggie—what are you doing out of bed?” He set down the white bread and strode to her. “Come and sit.”

  “I'm fine, Martin. I've been fine since yesterday. But I won't stay fine if I have to spend another minute being treated like an invalid.”

  “You were drugged, love.”

  “And it's out of my system.” She cradled his check. “We're okay.”

  He closed his eyes. “I was afraid I'd lost you, Maggie.”

  “I'm here. Look at me, Martin.” He did, his grey blue eyes dark, exhaustion leaving shadows under his eyes. “You need a nap.”

  He smiled, easing some of the strain. “After you eat.”

  “After I eat real food.” She patted his cheek, then headed to the fridge. “I know there's—yes.” Smiling, she grabbed a plate of leftover roast chicken. "Where are the vegetables? There you are."

  She snagged the container and handed it over her shoulder. Martin took it, his other hand appearing. “I will take the chicken, so you have your hands free for the potatoes.”

  With a snort of laughter, she turned and gave him the plate. “You know me too well.”

  “I like to think I am learning more about you, every day. For example, your slight addiction to mashed potato.”

  “It's one white food I approve.”

  His chuckle warmed her.

  Together, they arranged the food, then set out plates, forks, and a spoon for Maggie to eat her mashed potatoes. She gave him a thank you kiss before she sat, her stomach rumbling.

  “Real food,” she said, and started filling her plate. “My stomach can't wait.”

  “Maggie.” Martin's quie
t voice had her lowering her spoon. “I am sorry for overreacting.”

  “Don't apologize, ever, for wanting to take care of me. Just don't serve me plates of white food, and we're good. Unless it's mashed potatoes.”

  She smiled at his laughter, and scooped up her first serving. Hot or cold, she loved them.

  They ate in comfortable silence, and Maggie had three servings of potatoes before she called it quits, rubbing her full stomach.

  Martin stood and took her arm, shaking his head when she started to protest. “Please, allow me one more day of fussing.”

  “Okay. If I have to.” She smiled up at him, then leaned into him as he led her down the hall and toward the stairs. “I can stretch out on the sofa.”

  He frowned. “Maggie—”

  “I promise to stay put. If I have to spend another minute staring at the bedroom ceiling, I will go crazy.”

  “As long as you stay put.”

  “With a book.”

  He faced away from her, but she figured he was rolling his eyes. “Very well, with a book.”

  “Thank you.”

  His chuckle had her smiling.

  Once he had arranged her on the comfy sofa in the lounge, Martin headed to the library, leaving Maggie a few, blessed minutes of alone time.

  She stretched her arms out, stiff from all that time in bed—and stilled when the air turned cold.

  “Anthea?” Her ghost hadn’t made an appearance since they buried her remains. Maggie waffled between nerves and missing her surprise visits. “Are you here?”

  Anthea appeared next to her, one hand hovering above Maggie’s stomach.

  “Oh,” Maggie whispered. “You know, about the baby?” The ghost nodded, putting space between them. “Don’t leave—please. I would be honored to have you as part of our lives, Anthea. You earned that right.”

  Anthea nodded, her hands clasped at her waist, and Maggie laughed.

  “Were you this sure of yourself when you were alive?”

  The ghost hesitated, then shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. I hope this doesn’t bring back painful memories.” Anthea shook her head again, smiling this time. “I was afraid we’d never see you again.”