Witchful Thinking

by Kristen Painter

  Charlotte pushed her cart into the stacks as she gave that some thought. Maybe the woman needed a love spell cast on her. Then she’d have someone else to focus on. Or maybe being in love, if that was possible for an uptight woman like Millie, might soften her up. Millie had been married once upon a time, so clearly it was possible for her to fall in love. Now who should she direct that spell’s intent toward? Judge Turnbury? He could use a woman in his life. It might even take his mind off his late wife.

  But Millie might be more a curse than a blessing. Charlotte snorted out loud at the very idea.

  “Something funny?”

  She jumped and turned to see Mr. Black behind her. “You’re still here?”

  He leaned against the stack. “Is there a time limit on how long someone’s allowed to stay in the library?”

  “No, but…” She glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. “You’ve been here for half an hour.”

  “I’m still looking for something to read.”

  “I thought you wanted a sci-fi. This isn’t the science-fiction section.” Her words came out crosser than she’d intended, but she wasn’t a fan of being surprised. Hated it, actually. How anyone watched a scary movie was beyond her.

  “Nope, it isn’t. I moved on. Sorry about startling you.”

  “Yes, well, I’m fine. Thank you. So you want something from the metaphysical section?”

  He shrugged. “I like to read all sorts of things.” He gave her that look again, like he was sizing her up. “What do you like to read?”

  Books were the way to her heart. But she doubted he knew that. He was just making conversation. “I’ll read pretty much anything. Thrillers, biographies, cookbooks—not that I’m a great chef—foreign language translations—”

  “What are you reading now?”

  She hesitated, not because she was ashamed of her current selection but because technically she wasn’t reading it, she was rereading it. “A book I’ve read many times before. The Scoundrel Prince.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. It’s a romance. A historical romance, to boot.” She made a face at him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t like it.”

  He crossed his arms. The sleeves of his jacket stretched tight over his biceps, and for a split second she wondered what he looked like shirtless. “Oh really? Why? Because I’m a guy? Isn’t that a little judgmental?”

  It was. But it was also based on years of experience and a keen understanding of what men typically liked to read. “So you’re interested in it, then?”

  “Absolutely. Hook me up.”

  She studied him for a moment. There was no mockery in his eyes, nothing flippant about his smile or his tone of voice. “Okay, follow me.”

  She took him to the romance section and found the book easily. She knew exactly where it was because she recommended it quite often and the library had two copies. One of which had been checked out three days ago by Helena Grimaldi, who also reread the book at least once a year, but the other was in its place on the shelf.

  She pulled it down and handed it to him. “There you go.”

  She watched his face as he took in the cover with its passionately embracing couple replete in their slightly historically inaccurate outfit of breeches on him and a flowing, but nearly falling off, ball gown on her.

  Mr. Black looked up at her. “How about when I’m done with this, we discuss it over dinner?”

  Charlotte’s brows lifted. “That implies you’ll actually read it, Mr. Black.”

  “I plan to. And call me Walker, please. Dinner, then?”

  “I don’t know…” Dinner was a big commitment for someone whose last date had involved going with a second cousin to a third cousin’s wedding.

  “Lunch?”

  “Hard to do when I’m here. I only get half an hour.”

  “Coffee, then. With nothing planned afterward.”

  “I suppose that would be all right.” Especially because she doubted he’d finish the book. And if he lied about it, she’d know. She knew the book backward and forward. Just like she knew that Mr. Black—Walker was up to something. Which was almost forgivable given how he looked like he could be on the cover of a romance novel himself. She could just about picture him in a pirate’s shirt, sword on his hip, hair blowing in the brisk, sea breeze.

  “Great. Coffee it is, then.” He tipped his head. “Check me out?”

  “What?” She snapped out of her reverie, unaware she’d been so obvious.

  He waggled the book. “Can you check this book out for me?”

  “Oh, yes, sure.”

  They went back to the desk, and she got him sorted as quickly as possible. Millie was at the desk too, working on the computer. Probably compiling the next list of late notices to go out. Or tallying fines.

  Charlotte watched Walker leave. He’d better not abscond with that copy of The Scoundrel Prince.

  “Miss Fenchurch, you may take your break now.”

  “Hmm?” Charlotte looked at Millie, then checked the time. Lunch break already. But her appetite was for something much different than the chicken salad sandwich awaiting her. Much different. And much more appealing.

  Chapter Two

  Walker climbed into his truck in the library’s parking lot. Today’s visit hadn’t been as fruitful as he would have liked, but it was still a better day than he’d had after a week here. He’d made contact at least, and it had gone reasonably well. That’s how cases went sometimes. Some started slow and some started with gunfire. Literally.

  But he had yet to pinpoint the cause of the bitter aroma that accompanied all dark magic. The odor had been present in the library since he’d started coming. At first, he’d assumed it was a clue the book had arrived. Now, he wasn’t so sure the scent wasn’t a sign that the Collective’s agent had been there. Or was still there.

  It could also be that there was a witch with bad intentions in the building.

  He zipped his leather jacket, then stuffed the romance novel inside for safe keeping before starting up the vehicle. Charlotte Fenchurch was most definitely a witch, and a very cute one on top of that, but there was no indication that she was that witch. Or that the book he was after was anywhere on the shelves. He’d been up and down the rows every day he’d been in the library, and his sixth sense for the presence of magic hadn’t narrowed in on anything.

  Except for when he’d been around Charlotte, which was how he knew what she was. Well, that and the information the FOL had supplied him.

  Didn’t mean the book wasn’t in the library. He was pretty sure it was. Again, based on the FOL intel. What it most likely meant was that the book just hadn’t found its way to a shelf yet. It could also mean Charlotte already had possession of it. Fortunately, the romance novel tucked into his jacket gave him a new excuse to return to the library and a reason to see her again. He’d go further in that direction before breaking into her home to make sure she hadn’t already taken the book there.

  He shifted into drive and headed for the apartment he was renting near the waterfront. It was the attic of a three-story Victorian that had once been a stately mansion but was now divided into apartments of various sizes.

  The apartment in the Marlboro House was paid through the month and larger than he needed, but it suited him well. He would only be in Everlasting until he found the book, and he didn’t always keep regular hours. The apartment had dormer windows he could slip in and out of, plus the building’s exterior had a lot of trims, moldings, and balconies to make the climb up or down an easy one. Although stairs were his first choice, in his line of work, being able to come and go with some stealth was sometimes a necessary thing.

  His line of work being an agent for the Fraternal Order of Light. And as an FOL agent, his job was the recovery of dangerous and occasionally deadly magical objects. In this case, that object was the rare copy of Middian’s that had found its way home to the small fishing village of Everlasting, Maine.

  Th
e book wasn’t just rare and dangerous, it was extremely dangerous. In the wrong hands, Middian’s could end the world. Granted, the person would have to be highly skilled and bent on destruction, and Charlotte didn’t come off like someone out to watch the world burn, but he’d seen enough craziness to know that no one should be underestimated.

  Just like this town. It seemed like a sleepy fishing village that got a little economical boost from the occasional influx of tourists looking to gorge themselves on lobster rolls, but there was something else going on here. And he wasn’t just thinking about the Cranberry Festival (which was causing more than the average bump in tourists). There was something just beneath the surface. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but the thrum of magic was as present here as the tang of salt air and the occasional aroma of a fishing boat in need of a good hose down.

  And the stench of the dark arts.

  Sure, New England was nice enough, but it was a touch cool for his tastes in October. And a little too sparse. The trees were bare of their leaves except for a few crispy stragglers. It was an interesting change from his last adventure in the panhandle of Florida, but it was only going to stay interesting for so long.

  He parked his truck in the lot behind the Marlboro House and headed inside. As he climbed the stairs, his phone vibrated. He took it out and checked the screen.

  The Collective’s agent is already there.

  With a few choice expletives, Walker ran the rest of the steps. He let himself into his room, locking the door behind him, then called his supervisor, Clark Stillwell. Probably not his real name. Or at least not the one he’d been born with.

  “Black checking in. Got the text. Any idea where their agent is?”

  “No.” Stillwell was a man of few words. “You went to the library?”

  “Yes. No sign of the book yet, but it has to be there by now. Based on the smell of dark magic, I’d say it definitely is. Plus, Flora’s been dead a week and a half. That’s enough time.”

  “Has been in the past.”

  Flora Mae Wellington, the previous owner of Middian’s, had died at the ripe old age of eighty-seven and three quarters. Not bad for a witch who, despite her sweet old lady name, specialized in the dark arts. Practicing black magic tended to take a toll on a person, and Flora had been menacing the unsuspecting people of Oklahoma City since her thirties, when she’d moved there.

  From Everlasting.

  The book, which apparently considered this quaint little village its home, specifically the town’s library, always returned here when its current owner passed on. The file Walker had been given said Flora had gotten the book the summer before she’d moved to Oklahoma. In theory, to be closer to her widowed sister. But maybe it was her way of getting out of town after she’d found the book in the stacks of the Everlasting library.

  Not that it was all as cut and dried as it sounded.

  The book didn’t respond to everyone. Grimoires, or books of magic, could be fickle like that, and Middian’s was no exception. In fact, very few people could even open it. To those who couldn’t because they lacked the special witchy abilities necessary, the book appeared old and worn with no discernable title. It was often thrown away. That didn’t seem to hurt the book in any way, because no matter what happened to it, the book always showed up on a shelf somewhere in the library and sat there until it was discovered by its new owner, however long that might take.

  But for those who had the right magical gifts, the book appeared very differently. Its title was plainly readable, as were the pages inside. And that’s when things got tricky.

  Because not only did the pages hold incredibly powerful and dangerous spells for the right people, but when that right person opened the book after bonding with it, the opener was granted one wish at any point in their lifetime.

  Flora Mae had used hers to get a cookie jar that was perpetually full of gold coins. Unfortunately for her heirs, the granted wish became null and void upon the death of the book’s owner. The cookie jar had gone poof.

  But there was no telling what the Collective, an organization of power-hungry megalomaniacs, would do with that wish. They’d been trying to get their hands on the book for a very long time. They’d had it several times throughout history, employing an array of powerful witches able to use the book at will. The last time they’d had it, they’d failed to get the wish. The witch who owned the book had used it already, but the Collective had managed to kill the FOL agent in charge of the book’s recovery and subsequently blown up the Hindenburg.

  There would be no disasters on Walker’s watch. He’d taken an oath to serve the Fraternal Order of Light in whatever capacity necessary to accomplish his missions and he meant it. He’d grown up in the service of the FOL. He’d known no other life. No other family.

  Once he had possession of the book, he’d have until midnight to put it in the specially designed case that would negate the book’s magic. Then it could be safely transported to the FOL’s nearest vault and secured for good. Otherwise at midnight, the book would return itself to the library.

  It would always return to the library. At least until it was bonded to the witch who was meant to be its new owner. Then it would return itself to the witch that owned it, and would continue to do that until that witch passed on.

  If by some chance the book had already found its new owner, Walker was going to have to take it away from that witch, something that wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as strolling into the library. In fact, it might result in him bringing in the book and the witch.

  He really hoped it didn’t come to that. And he really hoped that witch wasn’t Charlotte. He unzipped his jacket, took out the paperback she’d given him, and tossed it on the bed. He hung the jacket up and put his phone on the nightstand before grabbing a protein bar from his stash and settling down on the bed to plow through as many chapters of the book as possible.

  This was definitely the first time a mission had required him to read a romance novel.

  Focusing on the pages proved more difficult than he’d imaged, though. It wasn’t because of the story, but rather the pretty witch who kept popping into his head.

  What if she was the Collective’s agent? She didn’t seem like the type who’d be interested in world domination or evil geniuses. And he didn’t really want her to be.

  Because Walker wasn’t just any FOL agent. He was more than that. Much more. For one thing, he was a leopard shifter. Most of the recovery agents were some kind of supernatural. It made the job easier.

  But Walker was also a witch hunter, trained in the art of fighting dark magic and the devious practitioners of it. Witches who’d gone to the dark side were very dangerous creatures, but he’d chosen that specialty because the man who’d raised him had been an FOL witch hunter. And that skill was why he’d been sent here on this particular mission. He could sense witches. Knew how to fight them. Knew how to survive their magic. Knew how to contain it.

  He had never failed a mission. He wouldn’t this time either. One way or another, no matter what obstacles fell into his path, no matter what measures he had to take, the book was coming back with him.

  * * *

  Charlotte was distracted. And not just because of the smooth-talking Mr. Black. Walker. She snorted. Honestly, what kind of name was that? The kind of name a romance hero would have. But that was beside the point.

  It was also hard not to be curious about the interesting book in her tote bag. Even more than Walker, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. How had it come to be in the drop-off box? Had someone actually meant to donate it? Who had it belonged to? And why would they get rid of a book like that? It looked old. And maybe valuable. There could be a name inside. Lots of old, donated books had the owner’s name scrawled on the inside cover.

  “Hello, Charlotte.”

  “Sheriff Bull, nice to see you.” Francine Bull was always on the job. Although sometimes that job was less about law enforcement and more about finding the nearest handsome man.
Her cool, gray gaze scanned the library for signs of trouble (probably) even as she stood in front of Charlotte. “Arrest anyone interesting lately?”

  Francine laughed and finally made eye contact. “Not in this town. At best, I’ll probably catch Owen McCreary jaywalking again.”

  “Not likely, as he’s in the historical room working on his lecture.” Owen was the head of the Everlasting Historical Society and always gave a talk at the Cranberry Festival. “Speaking of, with the Festival going on, there’s always a chance for a drunk and disorderly among the tourists.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Possibly. I like to make an example of the first one. Sets the tone, you know?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She put her hand on the counter and leaned in. “You have that new Jack Reacher for me?”

  “I do. Just a sec.” She went back to the hold shelf and pulled the book. Sheriff Bull was always the first to get the new Jack Reacher. It’s just how things worked in Everlasting. Charlotte carried it back, scanned the barcode and handed it to her. “There you go. Evelyn White’s next on the list so don’t dally.”

  “Evelyn can wait her turn. I like to savor a good book, not treat it like fast food.” She rolled her eyes. “Say, anything else interesting come in? You know I’m always looking for something new and even with the savoring, this Reacher won’t last me more than three days tops.”

  Sheriff Bull liked Lee Childs, Elmore Leonard, and Jackie Collins. Any books that were similar were fine, but rarely lived up in her estimation. Unfortunately, Childs was the only one still producing new books since he was the only living author of the three, which meant Charlotte was always on the lookout for books the sheriff might like. She thought about the book in her tote bag. “Nothing that I think would suit your tastes, but I’ll keep my eyes out.”