Wicked Wisteria (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance) (Wisteria Witches Book 2)

by Angela Pepper

She turned her back to me and kept loading the dishwasher clumsily with her left hand.

  I waited for the sound of the front door closing before getting down to brass tacks.

  “How'd you break your arm?”

  She closed the dishwasher and turned to face me slowly. “You're a very strong woman,” she said.

  “I'm the one who broke your arm?”

  “Not you. Not exactly. You must have been possessed at that point.” She reached up and touched the pink lines on her cheek. When I'd seen her in the attic, her flesh had been badly damaged and in need of multiple stitches. But apparently witches didn't need stitches. Her cheek was nearly healed, and I had a feeling the cast on her fractured arm would be coming off in the next day or two.

  “I'm so sorry that happened to you,” I said. “Was your arm already fractured when you came to the Pressman house?”

  “Among other things.”

  “That's awful. Just thinking about it is making my arm hurt in sympathy. You were all busted up, and you went charging in to the rescue anyway.”

  “You would do the same for me,” she said.

  “Let's hope we never have to test your theory,” I said.

  “I'm just so glad I didn't find you in pieces amongst the wreckage in that attic.” She wrestled open the coffee canister with one hand, and started making us a fresh pot of coffee.

  Once the brew was percolating, she joined me at the kitchen island again, and we went over the events that had transpired early Friday morning. With the information I had gleaned, combined with her insights, we puzzled together a complete—albeit horrifying - picture.

  She'd only caught the tail end of the big showdown, because her injuries had her lagging a few minutes behind the entity in possession of my body. She wasn't even on the scene long before a dozen agents in hazmat suits arrived to take control of the scene. One of the agents made her a splint for her arm, debriefed her in a van, and sent her off to the hospital.

  “The regular hospital?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Lucky for me I have Special Witch Clearance, so they didn't wipe my mind after the debriefing.”

  “Chet's people do mind wipes? That makes them the bad guys.” I shivered, despite the warmth of the kitchen. “That was exactly what that horrible machine was supposed to do. Wipe people's minds so their bodies could be used as blank flesh avatars.”

  She seemed to struggle with this for a moment.

  Finally, she said, “Good and bad is all about intention. Some of these agencies, including the Division of Water and Magic, are like dynamite.”

  “Did you say Division of Water and Magic? Is that the name of Chet's secret organization?”

  She nodded. “I'm not sure I was authorized to tell you the name, but the cat's out of the bag now. Chet Moore works for them.”

  “How's that related to Vincent Wick and the Department of Sanitation and Maintenance? Or the underground mad scientist hospital I woke up in?”

  “It's complicated,” she said. “The DWM—Division of Water and Magic—is regional, and they work in conjunction with the DSM, which is municipal. Sort of. And as for the hospital, nobody I know has ever seen the inside of that place.”

  “And how is this connected to the X-Files?”

  She looked at me, her face as serious as ever. “Are you sure you feel well? You and I can talk about this further after you've rested.”

  “I was joking about the X-Files,” I said. “I know it's just a TV show.”

  “Do you?” She looked into my eyes.

  “Back to what you said about the DWM. What did you mean by it's like dynamite?”

  She reached for the salt and pepper shakers and placed them squarely between us. “Well, these salt and pepper shakers look the same on the outside. And they do similar but different things.”

  I pushed the salt and pepper shakers away. “You said the DWM was like dynamite, not table seasonings.”

  She sighed. “On one hand, there's the dynamite that a terrorist might use to blow up a building full of innocent people. On the other hand, there's the dynamite that road crews use to clear boulders for a highway. The dynamite is neither good nor bad.”

  “Chet's people are the good guys,” I said. “They're the road crew.”

  She tipped her head to the side. “They're more like the dynamite.” She pressed her lips together. “Oh, floopy doop. I shouldn't have mentioned dynamite at all. It's not a perfect metaphor.”

  “Magic is the dynamite,” I said. “And science.”

  Her expression brightened. “Yes. That's more like it.”

  “And Chet's people can be considered the good guys until they prove otherwise.”

  Zinnia agreed, and pressed me for more details about my time with them. I confessed that other than the few lucid minutes I spent meeting the not-as-funny-as-she-thinks-she-is Charlize and the deep-voiced male doctor, I must have been unconscious most of Friday.

  “And how is Chet?” I asked, looking at the pretty orange and pink flowers he'd left. “Have you seen him since the incident?”

  “Just for a few minutes this morning. You probably won't see him today. He's gone away for DWM business for a few days.”

  “But how is he? Did you check the back of his head to see that he still has a back on his head, and it's not a swirly gross mess of tentacles?”

  “He seems the same as before.” She reached for the bouquet and fluffed up the arrangement. “It would be good for Chet to spend more time with you, Zara. You both have a lot to offer each other.”

  I sat back in my chair. I couldn't shake the image of him asking me for a kiss and then punching my lights out. How could he have been so certain an impostor was inside my body? He seemed awfully willing to punch first and ask questions later.

  “Sure,” I said. “Seeing as how we live next door to each other, and Zoey has adopted Corvin as her new little brother, I'm sure we'll see each other around.”

  She kept playing with the flowers. “Zara, he is a man.”

  “Yeah. I noticed.” I reached for the vase and took the bouquet from her. “And so is Vincent Wick. Do you two have some sort of history you'd like to share with me?”

  “Not today,” she said. She cleared her throat and looked away guiltily.

  She was hiding something, something to do with Vincent Wick. Our breakfast dishes had been cleared away and I was in need of a hot shower, but she wasn't showing any signs of getting ready to leave.

  Was her secret related to Vincent Wick, and the shock he'd given me? According to her, Vincent had meant to only give me a small buzz, a warning. But one of the power surges they'd been discussing boosted the power of his magic-fueled device. Zinnia wasn't certain, but the effect might have been exacerbated by the presence of Frank Wonder, with his face full of active bookwyrm ink.

  My body had dropped like a sack of onions on the sidewalk next to the bumper of the van. Vincent had apologized and offered to take me with him for medical attention, but Zinnia had shooed him away, telling him she'd take care of me herself. He left in a huff, with Frank.

  There was just one hole in the account she'd given me.

  I couldn't put my finger on what was missing, but I could feel around. The path to wisdom lies in asking the right questions.

  “Zinnia, when I got jolted with that shock, did I say or do something I should know about?”

  “No,” she said. “You were out cold.” Something flashed in her green eyes. I was getting closer to what was hidden.

  “Did you drag me into your house by the ankles?”

  She shook her head and made a strangled noise.

  I asked, “Did you use the same body-lightening spell you used on Frank?”

  She slumped forward in her chair as though shocked unconscious herself. Whispering, she said, “Yes. Unfortunately, that was a terrible mistake.”

  “Did someone see us? Catch it on video?”

  “No, thank goodness.” She reached across the kitchen island counter top wi
th her non-casted arm and clutched my hand. “I'm so sorry, Zara.”

  “Why be sorry? You couldn't have left me lying on the sidewalk.” I squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Why was making me light a mistake? Did you make me lighter than air, like a helium balloon? Did I puff up to ten times my size, float away, and start a parade in a neighboring town?”

  “There must have been an unintended interaction between my spell and the power-surged shock that Vincent Wick gave you.” She pulled her hand away from mine and looked down at her lap.

  “But I'm okay, Aunt Zinnia. I'm right here. In the flesh.”

  She sniffed. “I was foolish and careless.”

  “I gave you a scare, but I'm okay now. Look at me.”

  She looked up slowly, her eyes gleaming with tears.

  “What is it?” I leaned forward and looked into her eyes, glowing like green stained glass under the tears. “What haven't you told me?”

  Her voice a whisper, she said, “You died.” Her mouth made a dry, smacking sound as she licked her lips and swallowed. “Zara, you were dead.” She tore her eyes away from mine. “And then I did what I had to do.”

  “Which was what?”

  She fidgeted with the buttons on her vest. “Just a spell.”

  She looked past me and held very still.

  I didn't say anything. I looked past her as well.

  I could see my purse on the counter. It looked fuller than usual. The edge of a yellow envelope was sticking out of the top. I was curious about the contents, but it could wait.

  After a minute, my aunt took a big, deep breath, her torso straining against her vest buttons. With a lighter tone, she said, “So, how about on this coming Monday, you and Zoey come for dinner, and I teach you a second-level spell? Or how would you like to learn a basic glamour disguise?”

  I slowly picked up the coffee pot and refilled both of our mugs. She felt responsible for what happened to me, and she wanted to buy my forgiveness.

  A week ago, I would have jumped at the chance to learn a second-level spell. But now, with all this talk of power surges and unintended interactions, not to mention the fact that I'd already died once from a magic spell, I wasn't so sure about barging ahead beyond my skill level.

  “Yes to dinner,” I said. “As for the glamour spells, let's revisit the topic on Monday. I don't want to get too far ahead of Zoey before her powers kick in.”

  Zinnia blinked away her tears and gave me a smile. “Of course. We shall see what we shall see.”

  Chapter 29

  On Monday morning, I decided to pick up another box of treats for the library and to pay off my tab from that hilarious incident in which a ghost cut up my credit cards and then a demonic Erasure Machine sucked all the ink off my money.

  I approached the Gingerbread House of Baking and opened the door using the peppermint candy cane door handle.

  There was one other customer inside the fragrant shop.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” said Detective Bentley. He was sitting on a stool at the long eating counter along the bakery's front window. He looked anything but surprised to see me there.

  “Detective Bentley, aren't there a dozen other bakeries that are closer to the police station?”

  “I like the scenery at this one,” he said.

  I glanced down at his plate, which was empty except for a few multi-colored sugar sprinkles. “And the donuts.”

  “How was your weekend, Ms. Riddle? Did you experience anything interesting or unusual?”

  “That depends on what you consider unusual.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder. “As far as interesting goes, I wouldn't bother getting out of bed just to be boring all day.”

  He almost smiled but didn't. “Take care of yourself,” he said.

  “Same.” I strode up to the counter and showed the baker, Jordan Taub, a handful of money to assure him I was no deadbeat. Jordan pulled my bill from a drawer and ripped it up.

  “What'll it be today, Ms. Riddle?”

  “One dozen rainbow sprinkle donuts, please.”

  Jordan wrinkled his nose and tilted his head to the side. “Sorry, but we only make a dozen rainbow sprinkles in the morning. I could give you eleven, plus one of something else?” He reached for the silver tongs and held them up like a battle weapon.

  “Sure.” Loudly, I said, “I guess if I want a full dozen of your finest rainbow sprinkle donuts, I'll have to get here a bit earlier.”

  “That would probably work,” Jordan said.

  “It will be tough luck tomorrow for anyone else who wants a sprinkle donut,” I said.

  I had my back to Detective Bentley, so I couldn't see his expression, but he did cough on whatever he'd been sipping.

  * * *

  At work, everybody was talking about the strange fire that had taken place at an ugly house with a gravel lawn.

  “Probably an insurance fire,” a visiting patron said to her friend. “The man who owned it was a notorious penny pincher. He used to run that cheap little newspaper.”

  “But he died in the fire,” her friend said. “Not much good getting a payout if you're not around to spend it.”

  “That's why, in my next life, I'm going to marry rich.”

  Her friend laughed, and they finished checking out their books and left.

  Frank, who'd been helping them, turned to me and gave me a bored look. Earlier that morning, I'd been so relieved to see him back at the library, his face the regular color, that I'd hugged him. As far as he knew, he'd come down with stomach flu and a fever on Thursday, then slept it off at his apartment for a few days. He had no memory of being at Vincent Wick's underground bunker, or anything else.

  Frank sighed. “That silly fire was only three days ago and I'm already sick to death of hearing about it. Don't get any older, Zara. You start to see the patterns in life, and you stop being surprised.”

  “Okay, Frank. I promise to not get old and jaded like you.”

  He had the bar code scanner in his hand, and proceeded to shoot it at me while making PEW PEW sounds.

  I clutched my chest and pretended to die dramatically.

  He applauded my performance and helped me to my feet again. “Zara, I'm so bored. Please tell me you did something exciting over the weekend. Anything. Tell me all the gory details about cleaning gutters or fluffing up dandelions or whatever it is you homeowners get up to over the weekend.”

  “I had a quiet weekend at home,” I lied.

  “Details.”

  “Mostly fluffing up dandelions, which is something homeowners have to do bi-annually.” Frank lived in an apartment because he claimed to be allergic to home ownership and all the responsibilities attached to the “care and feeding of a house.”

  “Right.” He winked. “Because you were also sick with the stomach flu on Friday.” He winked again. “And you weren't spending a three-day weekend at some romantic resort with your beau.”

  “I wish I had been,” I said honestly.

  After a few more quips about my non-existent love life, we stopped goofing around and got back to our work duties like good, responsible librarians.

  We didn't joke around or prank each other again until eleven o'clock, when Frank jumped out at me from behind a bookshelf while wearing a papier mache bunny head from the children's storytime props closet.

  “I'll get you back, Frank Wonder,” I threatened.

  At three o'clock, I finally did get him back.

  I'd spent half of my lunch break working on my little surprise.

  You know those spring-coil snakes you can plant inside a fake canister of peanuts? The cheap kind of trick you buy at any novelty store? Anyway, I found one such item in our Lost and Found box. I carefully loaded two snakes into Frank's plastic snack container—the one he used to store his mid-afternoon teddy-shaped graham wafer cookies.

  I switched my afternoon coffee break time with one of the pages so I could be in the staff lounge at the same time as Frank, to witness my most glorious plan coming
to fruition.

  As he reached for his container of cookies, my heart started pounding. My forehead was hot. A trickle of sweat sprang from my armpits and streamed down my sides.

  It was just a simple prank, but I was beyond excited to see if it worked.

  Finally, after a very long diatribe from Frank about how his generation had contributed the most to modern fashion, he began prying open the lid of the container.

  The spring-loaded snakes shot up as though being fired from a starter's pistol.

  Frank let out a strangled shriek, and suddenly his pink hair was no longer hair.

  His hair was feathers.

  Frank was gone, and in his place stood an elegant, stunned-looking pink flamingo.

  He'd turned into a big, pink bird.

  Right there in the staff lounge.

  I didn't know the spell for turning a person into a flamingo, and I certainly didn't know the spell for turning a flamingo into a person.

  “Easy now,” I said soothingly. “Frank, everything's going to be okay.”

  The flamingo eyed me and made a noise in bird language that I translated to mean I doubt that very much.

  I circled around the flamingo slowly. Frank squawked and rotated to face me, his large beak between us.

  Quietly, I closed and locked the door to the staff lounge. Kathy was there at the front counter, and she'd probably be banging on the door any minute now, but I couldn't risk her seeing this. With the room secure, I went to get something from my purse.

  I pulled out the special burner phone I'd found in the envelope in my purse, along with my instructions.

  I hit the button for the one and only contact in the phone.

  Meanwhile, Frank the Pink Flamingo proudly strutted around the tall tables in the staff lounge, his long neck flexing left and right gracefully.

  I held the phone to my ear. It made the ring tone twice and then clicked.

  “Hello?” I asked tentatively. “Is this the receptionist? Do I need to ask for a specific department?”

  A female voice came through. “Go ahead, Zara.”

  “I need to report an incursion, or maybe it's a power surge. I'm at the Wisteria Public Library, and it's my coworker, Frank Wonder.”