by Bailey Cates
“I am.”
“Okay . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ll pick up if I can. The holiday crazies are starting up already. We had to go fetch a guy who’d had too much eggnog out of a tree earlier.”
I laughed.
“Oops. Just got a call. Talk to you later.” And he hung up.
Unsettled, I returned to the others. We chatted and ate until there was nothing but empty peanut shells and a few ribs of celery left. Angie and I finished our stouts, and I asked for the check. Earl brought it over. I waved away the others’ attempts to pay and put a couple of bills on the bar.
As we started to leave, Earl came over again. “Need change?”
I shook my head. “Nope. That’s for you. Those wings were fantastic.”
“My own special recipe,” he said with a grin.
“Say,” I said, shrugging into my jacket. “Who took all the bird photos? They’re awfully good.”
Pride infused his face. “Those are mine.” He walked down to the end of the bar and came around to where we stood. Pointing at the first picture in the array, a beautiful hawk perching on a piece of driftwood, he said, “This was my first one. Red-tailed hawk at my father’s hunting cabin. Saw it and just happened to have my camera with me. Took that photo, and I was hooked.” He looked fondly down the line of images. “I’ve been taking pictures of birds ever since.”
“On film?” Cookie asked.
He laughed. “Yep. Old-school.”
My head came up from buttoning my jacket. “Do you develop them yourself?”
“Absolutely. Learned how to do it years ago, and built myself a little darkroom at home.”
“Earl?” Sophie called.
“Thanks for stopping in,” he said as he turned away. “Come again soon.”
Out on the sidewalk, Cookie and I stopped. Looked at each other.
Angie frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Maybe Sophie King didn’t know Dr. Dana was going to be at the Fox and Hound, but her husband might have,” I speculated slowly.
“And if Iris was right,” Cookie said, “the chemicals he uses to develop his photos contain cyanide.”
Angie’s jaw slackened. “Do you think he killed Dana Dobbs?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But he sure didn’t like her, and if he had access to the poison . . .” I pulled my phone out. “I’m going to call Quinn. He said he’d have someone follow up with the Kings, but this information might light a fire under him.”
I had just finished leaving a message when Oscar Ruiz, Cookie’s handsome husband, pulled his SUV to the curb. As they pulled away, Angie and I started back to the Honeybee to pick up Mungo and head to my house.
* * *
“Oh,” Angie breathed when I got out of the Bug. She’d followed me home in her Toyota and stood on the front walk. “You live here?”
I smiled. “Mmm-hmm.” How could I leave it behind if Declan and I got married? It was too small for two people day in and day out. I pushed the thought away and got out of the car.
Yellow light streamed from Margie’s front window, and I saw the JJs jumping off the sofa into a pile of pillows. Somehow, I didn’t think Dr. Dana would have approved. Their shrieks and giggles drifted out to us, a sound so contagious I couldn’t help laughing. Angie grinned, too, and even Mungo’s eyes danced with humor.
I lowered him down, and he ran out to the lawn. “Has he always attracted fireflies?” I asked as I watched him.
Angie nodded. “When they’re in season.”
The lightning bugs were long gone by late November, of course, but during the months when they were plentiful—and sometimes when they weren’t supposed to be around at all—their little winking lights congregated around my familiar in droves. They were his totem, like dragonflies were mine.
And apparently they always had been.
I led her inside, which she found just as charming as the outside.
“There’s a futon in the loft upstairs. And I’ll clear a shelf in the bathroom for you.”
She gave me a grateful look. “This is really nice of you.”
“It’ll be fun to have the company. And maybe we can get to know each other a little better.”
“I’d like that.”
We made up the futon, and she unpacked a few of her things. Then she went back down the narrow stairs with a bag of toiletries. When she was out of sight, I quickly retrieved the key to the secretary’s desk from behind a stack of books. I twisted it in the lock and put it in my pocket. Angie might be innocent of murder, but I didn’t know her that well, and altars were very personal.
She was looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs when I turned back but didn’t comment.
I made tea and gave Mungo a bit of leftover beef Wellington sans béarnaise sauce, and we went into the living room. Grabbing my tote, I took out my phone and was about to put it in the bedroom when my hand encountered something unfamiliar. I drew it out.
The figurine Steve had given me. How had it gotten in there? I’d left it on the coffee counter at the bakery, and then later it had been gone. Perhaps Lucy had decided to tuck it in my tote?
“Where did you get that?” Angie asked from her wingback chair. Steam drifted up from the tea and curled around her face. However, her bow mouth was pursed with concern.
I hefted the little statue. “A friend gave it to me. At least I thought he was a friend.”
She leaned forward and put her tea on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”
“We dated—almost dated—a while ago. Then Declan—the fireman from the other night? That’s my boyfriend. Anyway, we got together, and Steve—that’s who gave this to me—Steve and I agreed we’d be friends.”
She frowned. “This Steve character wants to be a lot more than friends, believe me.”
My eyebrows rose. “How do you know that?”
“Because that”—she pointed at the dog/cat/bird figure in my hand—“is a furata.”
My face went blank. “A what?”
“Furata. It’s like a poppet, or a voodoo doll, but it doesn’t represent you. It represents the giver. And it’s used exclusively to force the love of another.”
A chill ran down my back. “How do you know that?”
“Just because I don’t practice anymore doesn’t mean I don’t remember my training.” Her face reddened, and she looked away. “And I considered using a furata spell on my husband.”
The bronze cat’s eyes laughed up at me from my shaking hand.
“But I didn’t,” Angie continued. “It’s gray magic at best, and dark at its worst. I’d already tempted the Rule of Three once, and I knew better than to do it again.”
“Is that why you don’t practice anymore?” I asked, oddly unwilling to talk about the furata in my hand even though now it wasn’t just my hand shaking. My whole body quivered with revulsion and disbelief.
And hurt that Steve would violate our friendship in such a horrible way.
Yip! Mungo had finished his supper and now jumped up on the couch next to me. One look at my face and he scooted into my lap. He sniffed at the figure in my hand and his lips pulled back to expose his teeth.
Slowly, Angie’s chin dipped. “Mongo remembers why I stopped. It was a spell that went terribly wrong.” She nodded at the furata. “Does the man who gave you this have any knowledge of magic?”
Only the kind handed down from generations of the blatantly unscrupulous Dragoh clan.
With an effort, I tipped my palm over, but the little figure didn’t seem to want to leave my hand. I felt my eyes go wide, and my voice wavered. “He’s a druid.”
“A druid! Not one to believe in the Rule, then. And he’s trying to come between you and Declan.”
My eyes met hers. “I didn’t think so, but it seems obvious now. He seems pretty determi
ned, too.”
“Katie, you have to get rid of that thing!” Angie said.
I couldn’t keep the panic out of my voice. “How do I do that?”
Angie leaped to her feet. Mungo barked. “Water. Do you have any bottled spring water?”
I rose as well, still clutching the furata in my unwilling fist. “Better yet, I have natural live water. Come with me.”
She followed me out to the patio and across the backyard to the corner where the stream crossed my property. “Perfect!”
“Shh,” I warned with a glance at the Coopersmiths’ house. “My neighbor has a crazy instinct for showing up when I’m casting out here.”
“Okay, submerse the figurine in the water.” Angie looked skyward. Light clouds skidded across the face of the moon. “Luna is waning gibbous tonight. That will do. Place the furata in the stream and allow the natural water to wash away the spell. Leave it there until the new moon. As the light decreases, it will also take the power of the spell with it.”
I stared at her and said between chattering teeth, “You really know your stuff.”
She smiled. “When it comes to this, I do. Now, go ahead.”
Kneeling by the stream, I put my whole hand into the water. It instantly grew cold, but at the same time I was finally able to open my fingers. The spell figure drifted out. I pushed it down into the mud, sending a request to the elements of earth and water to strip all power away from it. Mungo leaned against my leg, peering into the stream. I let the mud rinse away from my fingers, then stood, feeling a clarity I hadn’t known was missing.
“That creep,” I said. “When I get my hands on him—”
A crash out front cut me off. My head whipped around. “What was that?” Dread ran down my spine.
Angie looked suddenly scared, the confidence she’d shown when telling me how to get rid of the furata instantly evaporating. “I don’t know.”
Mungo took off for the front of the house. I heard a voice yell and recognized it as Margie’s.
Chapter 21
I began to run, wiping my cold, wet hand on my shirt. Angie hesitated, then followed. The front gate latch stuck at first. Frantically, I rattled it back and forth. An eternity later, it slipped open. Pushing through, I rounded the corner of the house and skidded to a stop.
Someone had set a fire smack dab in the middle of my yard.
It was so out of place that I was stunned into inertia. Smaller than a bonfire but larger than a campfire, it crackled cheerily, as if inviting the neighbors to come over and make s’mores. The smell of patchouli swirled up in the smoke, so strong it made my eyes water. It was a scent I always associated with Lucy, but I was instantly certain she had nothing to do with this. Another odor joined it then, sour and rank.
Mungo circled the blaze, keeping his distance, the worry that was etched on his furry little face visible in the flickering light.
“I’ll call the fire department,” Margie called from her front walk.
Her voice broke my trance. “No, wait!” I said. “I have a hose right here.”
The last thing I needed was a full-fledged visit with ladder trucks and all the rest, especially when Declan was on shift. I ran to the spigot on the side of the house, grabbed the hose, and unreeled it out to the yard.
Angie rushed over and grabbed the nozzle out of my hand. “I’ve got this! Turn on the water!”
Soon the spray was hitting the flames, knocking them back and eventually defeating them. It seemed to take a long time. When the fire had been reduced to a few puffs of smoke, Margie approached with Baby Bart on her hip and a flashlight in her other hand. I saw the twins watching out the window.
Margie kept looking at them over her shoulder. “I told Jonathan and Julia to stay inside. There’s someone out there, Katie.”
“Out where?” Angie asked.
My neighbor did a double take when she recognized my companion. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story,” I broke in before she could get her back up. “Did you see who set this?”
Margie shook her head and glanced back at the JJs again. “No. I heard something knock over my garbage can out by the street. I thought it was probably a dog or a raccoon or something and came out to shoo it away. But I saw someone running away. And that was when I saw the fire.”
“You saw them? What did they look like?”
“Oh, gosh. I couldn’t see them that well.”
“Man or woman?”
She shook her head. “I just got a quick look before they cut around the corner. Dark clothes, some kind of hat.” Her brow wrinkled. “Why would someone set a fire in your yard, for heaven’s sake?”
My shoulders rose and fell. “I have no idea.” I was baffled more than frightened. The fire had been out in the open, away from the house, and there was no wind. It probably would have burned itself out if no one had noticed it. There hadn’t been any real danger, though I’d certainly have to do something about the ring of charred grass the fire had left behind.
Angie, though, looked quite shaken. Her eyes searched the shadows, then returned to the still-smoldering pile of . . . what?
“Margie, could you direct your flashlight over here?” I asked.
Instead, she handed it to me. “Take it. I need to get back to the twins. Be sure to lock your door tonight, Katie.” Her gaze raked the street in front. “Whoever it was might come back.”
Well, that was a cheery thought.
“Thanks, Margie. You, too.”
“I think you should call the police.”
“It was probably just teenagers,” I said, remembering Declan’s earlier reference to how many people misbehaved during holidays.
With one last concerned look at Angie, my neighbor trotted across to her house and went inside.
I turned the beam of the flashlight onto the little pile of wet charcoal. “I wonder if we should call the police.”
Angie kneeled and pulled out a length of ribbon. It was satin and had started out shiny white. Now it was smudged with ashes. The patchouli scent had lessened, but now a spicy clove scent rose into the air. She continued to pull until the ribbon came free. It was about a yard long.
“What the . . . ?” I bent down beside her as she reached into the ashes again.
This time the ribbon she pulled out had started black and was smudged lighter in some places by the ashes. Only eight inches of the fabric hadn’t been consumed by the flames.
And finally, she pulled out the remnants of one more ribbon. Careful inspection revealed it to be dark red.
She looked over at me, her big eyes haunted. “This was burning magic. A binding spell.”
Magic? But the only magical connections to this case were Angie and, if she’d been serious about the tarot deck I’d seen in her things, perhaps Dr. Dana herself. Was there another player?
“Binding who?” I wondered out loud. “You or me?”
Angie pointed at the red ribbon. “This ribbon represents the one to be bound. It’s likely you.”
I blinked.
“It’s your house, for one thing. Not many people know I’m here. But I’m also guessing the red represents your hair.”
A thought occurred to me. Slowly, I rose to my feet. “Could Steve have done this?”
She stood as well, her mouth set in a grim line.
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh, no. You really think this was him?” The twinge of sorrow that had tempered my anger about the furata unfurled into a deep regret for my friend. “Holy smokes. He’s really gone to the dark side.”
And he directed that darkness against me.
My anger surged back, hot and tinted with fear. “Could the spell have really worked? Am I somehow bound in a way I don’t know about?”
Angie came over and gave me a hug. “You’re fine, thanks to you
r observant neighbor. You put the fire out before the spell could be completed.”
* * *
We decided against calling the police. What were they going to do? Without understanding the fire was a burning spell, they’d put it down to pranksters, shake their heads, and walk away. Also, I could see the idea of dealing with the authorities made Angie nervous.
So we gathered what was left from the fire and put it in a metal bucket, which we then filled to the brim with water from the stream. After one more dousing of the blackened grass in the yard, we went inside.
“The police might not be able to help,” I said, “but at least there are a few things I can do to protect this house.”
Up in the loft, I edged around the now-open futon and removed a few items from a cupboard. First, a bundle of white sage to give my little abode a thorough smudging. Then I dug out a vial of four thieves vinegar—this batch infused with black pepper, cayenne, rosemary, and thyme. Legend had it that a similar herbal vinegar had protected the four thieves who had been sentenced to bury plague victims in medieval France. Finally, I grabbed a bag of small quartz crystals. They rattled together as I went down the stairs.
Without any discussion, Angie stepped in to help. As we burned the sage and walked the periphery of the house, I could feel her power. It was considerable. Afterward, I opened the French doors to let some of the smoky smell escape. Keeping a sharp eye out for any movement in the shadows, I went out and retrieved the besom from the gazebo. Back inside, I used a stepstool to hang the ceremonial broom over the back door. A decorative woven bag filled with cumin, lemongrass, and dill already protected the front door.
Then we shut the doors and checked the locks on the windows. At each one, I placed a small crystal on the sill with a request for protection, and Angie placed drops of the four thieves vinegar on the corners of the glass with her fingertips. Finally, she went one more step and sprinkled some kitchen salt on the floor in front of the doors.
“I think that should do it,” I said. “If anything can get past all that, we’ll have to do battle using other methods.”
Angie turned from where she was drying her hands in the kitchen. “What do you mean, ‘battle’?”