Bump (A Witchlight Novel)

by Jaime Munn

  I set the phone back on the cradle and turned to F.C.

  “Well Erica’s having a sleepover,” I told him.

  He gave me a pointed stare before half closing his eyes. I stood beside the phone a moment longer, half reached for it and then withdrew my hand before stamping my foot. I would not be one of those woman, I firmly told myself even as I rang the number for Truwill Boarding House.

  Diana Truwill answered and told me that Sofia Bragga was out. I thanked her and rang off; counting to myself the many different things Sofia could be up to. It didn’t distract me from the image of Sofia and Erica tangled up together in the throes of passion. I slumped down in the chair and stared at the photographs of Grace’s home feeling overwhelmed by emotions. F.C. grumbled at me disapprovingly and turned to face the opposite side of the room, curling up into a furred ball.

  “Oh stuff it Frankie Cat,” I told him, “or I’ll turn you into a dwarf and curse you to lifetime of unrequited love.”

  I studied a photograph of a mantle in Grace’s lounge that bore a series of framed photographs. There was one picture that I had previously taken for Grace herself but staring moodily at the photograph now it seemed more likely that the dated outfit and hairstyle belonged to an era past. Did Grace St John resemble her mother so accurately that the two could almost be twins? It was unnatural I thought to find a mother and daughter that were mirrors of each other. I knew that finding out about the bloodline was a priority. I went back to the phone, pulling out Cleo’s black and pink business card and dialling the number.

  A male voice answered. It was gentle and warm and vulnerable. I blinked at how strongly I connected with the voice, how confident I felt that if we ever met we would be intimate friends in no time at all.

  “Can I help you,” the voice prompted after a short silence.

  “Yes, sorry. This is Nilla Hayes. I’d like to leave a message for Cleo.”

  “Yes. What is the message?”

  “I need to know more about the bloodline. There’s something off about Grace St John’s family tree. If Cleo can shed any light on it, I would be grateful.”

  “I’ll pass along the message,” the soothing voice promised. “You’re working up quite the IOU,” he added. There was concern in his tone that touched me more deeply than the sentiment of a stranger was usually want to do.

  “I’m good for it,” I said.

  “I have no doubt,” he replied almost sounding hurt that I had chosen to interpret his gentle caution in this way. “I should be glad we have favours due from a good witch,” he added as though chiding himself. “Is there anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Good night, Vanilla.” The line went dead. I felt strangely warmed by the use of the name that no one had ever called me, aside from the officious folk at the Department of Home Affairs.

  I wondered if I’d ever meet the man that the voice belonged to. Given the rate at which I was accumulating debt to his pack I imagined that I had a good chance of it. The thought pleased me. I returned to my study of the photographs, but nothing else occurred to me. I shuffled them all together and returned them to the folder that Cleo had provided. I set it back in the box after removing the glove and shoved the container aside. I opened the plastic protecting the glove from contamination and hesitated before reaching in to touch it.

  I drew a deep breath as my fingers grazed the velvet fabric. Before I was lost in a psychic connection I recalled what Cleo had said about the glove. I wondered why Grace was handling hellebore in the first place, then I was in a string of visions that crowded all thoughts from my mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It’s always random chaos that crashes into a witch when she touches something psychically charged; revealing random chaos, but nothing useful in a direct twenty questions kind of way. I couldn’t direct where the visions took me but I wasn’t going to sit back and enjoy the ride either. Grace St John wasn’t that kind of woman.

  I braced myself for a scary movie, but most of what I got were day to day impressions of the life of an ordinary warlock. Like everyone else she put her shoes on one at a time and paid her bills. For the most part it was a montage of just that, the boring details that went into daily existence. I did however discover the entrance to her secret spelling room and happened across an altogether different picture of Grace that made me wonder if the hellebore wasn’t getting to me.

  I saw her weeping; gut wrenching, heartbreaking, soulful tears and sobs that I hadn’t thought the woman capable of. It was a weird moment. It struck me like one of those preachy tales with a moral filled chewy centre. It was one of those everyone has feelings stories. I got it. Even evil has a heart. It may be buried in the backyard, but it’s still there. It totally sucked that even for a brief moment I felt sympathy for the bitch who was responsible for making my life a Halloween special.

  I dropped the glove and headed for the bathroom to wash my hands, wishing I could wash the memory from my mind as well. I didn’t want Grace St John to be just like everyone else only with a darker shade of soul. I wanted her to be one sick, ice cold bitch. Life was totally unfair.

  Feeling the stirrings of hunger, I made myself a sandwich while eyeing the abandoned glove on the table. It had still had a few good reads in it before Grace’s psychic imprint was washed away. I could try again and maybe I’d see something more useful than crocodile tears. I couldn’t convince myself though that Grace had been faking the heartbreak. Her sadness had been overwhelming and very real. I wondered what could have struck her so deeply and tried to gauge how long ago I had been looking into. It was difficult to tell. I ate pondering this question and found no satisfactory answer.

  There had been nothing personal about the file that Cleo and her pack had compiled. It had been filled with all the dry facts you’d expect to find on a tax form, aside from the sketchy family history anyway. I didn’t see how any private investigator found enough in those dry bones to intuit anything. I wondered if Cleo would let me tag along the next time they visited Grace’s home when she wasn’t there.

  I didn’t so much like the idea as feel that if I was going to make any headway on solving the mission impossible I’d been given by Asbelia, who undoubtedly would make me explode if I failed, I needed to get more hands on and make my own intuitive leaps.

  It all seemed rather hopeless, but I resolved to make the proposition. I wondered if providing the spell I had promised to Sofia wouldn’t go a long way towards securing Cleo’s cooperation. I could imagine her saying no tourists, no spectators, and no witches purely on principle. Maybe a little leverage was required.

  It couldn’t hurt I decided. So I pulled out the physical pieces of the spell, the hair from Cristobella and the locket I had purchased, and placed them on the table. I carefully stuffed Grace’s glove back into the plastic bag Cleo had delivered it in without touching the material and sealed it in. Then I considered the spell I was about to craft. I was performing more than a little magic in my apartment. Although the light was still pure and untainted by the honey hues of the veiled world to the naked eye, I didn’t think it was as pristine as it looked.

  I was stealing away another part of the world, fragment by fragment. If I continued to spell here it would eventually fall into the veiled world and never return. It was a sobering thought, but still I felt that pressing on was the only course of action. I could walk back to the store and perform the magic in my spelling room, but the thought of being exposed in the darkness made my flesh crawl. I didn’t want to be out in the dark while a warlock flung curses and demons at me. You can’t blame me for that. I don’t imagine anyone with their sanity intact could choose any differently.

  On impulse I removed Asbelia’s broach from my lapel and pried out one of the stones. I was surprised at how easily it came away. It sparkled with a bright and powerful aura of magic. I set it down beside the fur and the locket. It would save me drawing on my own reserves of power and that I thought was a very smart move on
my part.

  Having nobody to impress meant that I could perform the spell with the minimum of fuss. There was no drama, there was no flare. It was rather boring for F.C. I know because he yawned several times at me. I simply focused on the intent, building the spell and unravelling the magical energy stored in the jewel from Asbelia’s broach. It felt pure to me, like silk against the rough cotton of my own power, but it flowed as I commanded. I wove it through the locket and the fur of the white wolf, Cristobella. I released the spell. Everything came together as it should have.

  The fur was gone, consumed by the magic, but the locket remained. The silver had turned ashen like it had been dipped in white ink that had dried to a glossy velvet sheen. I lifted it up to the light and examined it. I could feel my spell inside of it, like a pulse against my fingers. I didn’t doubt that it had worked though the true proof of that would be in the presence of the werewolf Cristobella. I stood up and swayed unsteadily on my feet. I felt lightheaded, like I’d drunk one too many glasses of wine. I had planned on calling Truwill Boarding House again to try and reach Sofia, but the spell had taken its toll on me.

  I turned in early, putting the charmed locket under my pillow like it was a lucky charm and fell asleep. I dreamed of a white wolf who was nobody’s damsel in distress.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The morning was insistent, waking me with a quiet rumble that I quickly realised was F.C. snuggled up so close his rough edged purr sounded like a low pitched chainsaw. I was peeved to realise that even without purposefully breaking my sleep, my familiar was still forcing me out of bed at the crack of dawn. I stretched, recalling fragments of my dreams, though most of it was quickly fading. If Cristobella was anything like the wolf in my dreams then Cleo had definitely met her match.

  I was glad the spell I had created allowed the white wolf to decide when and whom she communicated with, because I didn’t want to be the one who forced her to do anything she didn’t want to do. The dreams might have been merely that. Maybe I would feel silly for equating the dream wolf to the werewolf for whom the spell had been crafted, but I doubted it. The spell had been to forge a connection between the white wolf and her pack. Even though distance prevented the connection from being more than cursory, I was fairly certain it had still worked as designed to some degree.

  I removed the locket from under the pillow, studying it closely. No werewolf would get their kicks from ostentatiously flaunting silver when they put it on. The white stain had lingered. I thought it would be permanent, which was a shame. It still looked funky, but not very antiestablishment werewolf funky.

  I opened it up and even the interior was white washed. It was deeper than merely a coating though. It was like the white wolf’s fur had been infused into the metal. They could still hang it on a silver chain, I thought. I left it on the bedside table.

  I had a cold shower. The morning was already starting to warm up and the cool water was the perfect antidote to the promise of heat already in the air. I dressed and let F.C. out for his morning ablutions. I searched the kitchen cupboards for some string and threaded the white wolf locket. Then I tied it closed in a loop large enough to pull over my head. I wore it under my shirt.

  It was cold like ice against my skin. It warmed slowly. I opened F.C. a can of tuna and poured myself a bright bowl of Froot Loops. It was too early to call Truwill Boarding House so I resisted the impulse and got myself high on sugared cereal instead.

  Before F.C. and I headed out, I pushed Asbelia’s broach into a pocket.

  As I locked my apartment door, I noticed the slip of paper in the corridor. It looked like it had been thrust under the door that led out onto the sidewalk. The hair suddenly stood up on the back of my neck as a chill ran down my spine. It came to me suddenly, and with the sharp ring of certainty about it, that this was the reason that someone had hexed my door. Not to curse me, but to make sure that I didn't have any kind of spell on the door that would make things difficult for someone trying to push a note under it. I couldn’t really say how I jumped to that conclusion, but I didn’t doubt that it was true.

  I walked slowly to the folded note and examined it with my witchy senses. It seemed nothing more than a sheet of paper. F.C. gave it a sniff and then completely lost interest in it. As far as he was concerned it was no different from litter he found in the street.

  I touched it tentatively with a finger and sensed only a kind of aching sadness and nothing more. Unfolding the note I found only a single line of text on it. It didn’t need more than the handful of words to chill me to the bone.

  I know he wasn't the best of boys, but what kind of person would I be if I didn't show you how much his passing hurt?

  Daudie Schalko. I should have known that his death would come back to haunt me. I tried to read more in the note, but the page had come from a brand new writing pad. All that had etched into it psychically was a deep sense of sorrow and loss and regret.

  I wondered how Daudie’s special someone or parent planned on making me share in the hurt. The tone of the note gave me hope that Mr or Mrs Schalko wasn’t quite the psychopath that Daudie had been, but what significant other or parent wouldn’t cross a line or two at the death of a son or lover. Worse than that, I thought, at the murder of a son or lover. I shuddered. It struck me harder still knowing that they laid the blame at my doorstep. I couldn’t see Daudie in the arms of anyone, so intuition told me that my suspects were mommy or daddy Schalko.

  I pocketed the note and drew a deep breath. Then opened up the door to the sidewalk and headed to work. Studying each face I passed, wondering if they hid a succubus or an incubus inside. It was only as I reached the store that I wondered if I shouldn’t give Cleo and her pack a warning. The answer was, of course, and I quickly unlocked the shop to make the call. This time the voice on the other end connected me directly to the pelt-spelled werewolf.

  “You better have good news,” she said as a greeting, her voice smooth, even, and controlled. “Or I’m going to have to bite you.”

  I started at that. I wondered if Cleo had bitten anyone before. Did her bite carry the werewolf taint? At least I knew what to lead the conversation with.

  “Good news first then,” I told her, scratching F.C. under the chin and letting his rough purr punctuate my words. “Sofia’s spell is done.” I heard Cleo’s breath catch in her throat.

  “The bad news?” she asked a heartbeat later, her voice just a little wired with emotion. She cleared her throat. I wondered if it had been a sob or a cry of joy that she’d shuffled away. I could imagine tears in her eyes, but maybe I’m just a terrible romantic at heart.

  “The bad news is that Daudie Schalko has a pissed mommy or daddy wanting to balance the scales.”

  I expected anger, I expected concern. I couldn’t have been further off the mark.

  “Impossible,” Cleo replied coolly. “They’re already dead.”

  Startled I sat in silence until Cleo prompted a response. I told her about the hex on my door and the note I’d found this morning, reading it to her twice.

  “Someone’s playing you,” Cleo concluded, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful. I’ll get a wolf on you.”

  I raised my brows. “That’s hardly necessary,” I began but Cleo cut me off brusquely.

  “We’ve invested in you. We want to make sure we get to claim our money’s worth back.”

  That made me swallow. IOUs in the supernatural world were serious business. I hated wracking them up, but it was probably preferable to death. Probably mind. I couldn’t really be certain without trying out option two first, but the problem with option two was there was no try before you buy opportunities.

  Drawing in a breath, I gathered my courage. “There’s something else.”

  I heard a little growl down the line from Cleo. She didn’t say a word. I thought a werewolf’s growl spoke volumes and was suitably cautioned, but perhaps not wise enough to keep my silence.

  “I need to tag along next time
you visit Grace’s house when she’s not home.”

  “Oh that,” Cleo said, “I expected you would. You witches, always getting touchy-feely with the furniture. I swear I don’t know why people worry about werewolves peeing on the rug when a witch get’s way more invasive and intimate with just a single touch.”

  I couldn’t help it, I had to ask, “You peed on her rug?”

  Cleo snorted. “I’ll make the arrangements for your little visit to the warlock’s granny shack. You’ll get an invite soon enough.” She hung up.

  I considered her description of Grace’s house, running the photographs I could recall through my mind. It did have that look of a home that had been handed down through the generations, stuffy and old fashioned. I supposed that merited the granny, but if Cleo thought that the house was a shack I really wanted to see what she and her pack called home. Besides, what kind of granny had a bed with its own custom cuffs?

  I called Truwill Boarding House next and Diana Truwill answered after only one ring. “No,” she told me, “I haven’t seen Sofia. She didn’t come in last night I don’t think.” She paused as though considering something then added, “It’s Nilla Hayes isn’t it?”

  “Oh,” I said in surprise, “Yes. It is.” I had wondered if she would remember me from just one visit. Remembering people was probably an acquired skill of her trade.

  “I’ll let Sofia know you called shall I?”

  “Thank you,” I said and rang off with a goodbye. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tried not to think of Sofia and Erica tangled up together in bed linen as I prepped the store for the first customers of the day.

  Livia was the early bird to first open the door to Which Light bringing in two cups of Coffee-on-Main specials. I could tell they were special just from the way the sight of them perked me right up. I gave Livia a grateful smile.

  “Wow, someone looks like they need a holiday.” Livia had her bounce back. It was plain to me that this time my role as fairy godmother had gone a little more according to scripture. I’d turned a curse into a healing sleep. I breathed a sigh of relief, but swallowed it at the thought of Daudie’s parental unit, out there plotting and scheming vengeance. Was Livia a target too?