Murder Of A Werewolf (A Brimstone Witch Mystery Book 1)

by Fernsby, April

  “Do you really need to know?”

  “I do. Please, Cassia. I think it would help you to share those memories too.”

  I quickly blinked my tears away and gave her a nod.

  Blythe put her palms against my temples and told me to focus on the reasons why I hadn’t returned to Brimstone. It didn’t take long for those particular thoughts to come to my mind. I wished there was a way to get rid of them forever, but I knew I never would.

  Blythe held her hands gently against my head for about a minute. Her hands were warm, and my eyelids began to feel heavy.

  Blythe took her hands away. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Cassia, you poor thing. I didn’t realise. I should have worked it out. You were seven when your mum went away. And the last time you saw her was when she went through your gran’s cellar door and came here. I saw you sitting in the cellar waiting for her. You were crying and calling out for her.”

  I said, “She told me to wait by the door for her. So I did. I waited and waited. But she never came back. Even when Gran told me Mum wouldn’t be coming back, I still waited. I went into that cellar every day. I kept myself busy while I waited. I drew lots of pictures for Mum, and I read loads of books. It took me a long time to realise she wouldn’t be coming back. That’s when I decided I’d never go into Gran’s cellar again. And I’d never go back to Brimstone. I blamed this town for taking Mum away.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks, but I couldn’t stop them.

  Blythe nodded. “I totally understand. We have missed you. The whole town has missed you. You were such a breath of fresh air. Cassia, I caught some of your other memories while I was in your head. You’re not happy. You’re miserable in your job, and you dread waking up each morning. It feels like you’re dying from the inside out. And what’s all this about Stanley and funeral caskets?”

  I wiped my tears away. It was one emotion after the other today. I wasn’t used to it. “I don’t want to talk about my life anymore. What’s going on with Gran? You said you’d tell me.”

  Blythe gave me a slow nod. “I did. Okay. Esther does work for this town. She takes care of any lawbreakers.”

  “Lawbreakers? She’s like the police?”

  “Sort of. We don’t have an official police force here. Everything is governed by the witches. Each coven has its own department. We have the health and healing witches, the environmental witches, the town and planning witches. You get the idea. The Winter witches take care of our justice system. Your mum used to do that too. We don’t have a lot of crime in this town, but when we do, Esther is the one who investigates it.”

  I smiled. “That explains it. Gran’s obsessed with police and mystery shows. She’s got dozens and dozens of box sets. She loves watching Poirot, Miss Marple and Murder, She Wrote. Amongst many others.”

  Blythe continued, “The Winter witches have special abilities. They’re observant and have a good instinct for how people behave. Or should I say, how supernatural creatures behave. Esther, in particular, is incredibly persistent when she has a case to deal with. She won’t rest until the mystery is solved.”

  “I had no idea she was doing this. Why didn’t she ever tell me?”

  “She couldn’t. You made it clear to her that you didn’t want to know what went on in Brimstone.”

  I lowered my head as guilt rushed through me. “Poor Gran. Has she been very busy with her work?”

  “She has. She refuses to let anyone help her. She’s said that she’ll only accept help from another Winter witch. That’s you, Cassia. You have to help Esther before she collapses from exhaustion.”

  “How can I do that? I have a job. I can’t just leave it. I have responsibilities. I’ve only just remembered that I’m a witch. I need time to process that. Does Gran use her witch powers when she’s working? Would I have to use my powers? I don’t even know what my powers are. I don’t even have a wand! Or a pointy hat!” I started to hyperventilate.

  Blythe placed a hand on my shoulder, and my breathing returned to normal. Blythe said, “I can help you with the witch part. I’ll train you. You don’t need a pointy hat, not unless you feel the need to wear one. Cassia, I’m not asking you to make a decision at this very moment. But you do need to think about it. Being a witch is what you are meant to be. And – ”

  “Don’t say another word,” Gran said as she walked into the room. “I don’t need any help. I’m as fit as a fiddle.” She hitched her tweed skirt up and jigged from side to side. “I’m as strong as an ox. Look.” She held her arm out as if flexing her muscle. Her cardigan sleeve didn’t move.

  Blythe said, “Esther, Brin’s potions won’t last for long. You need help with your justice work. You know you do. Cassia can help you.”

  “Nonsense. Cassia’s got her own life to lead. She’s got responsibilities. I don’t need her help. I don’t need anyone’s help.” Gran had that determined look on her face that I’d seen many times. It was the look that said, ‘Don’t even think about arguing with me.’

  Blythe stood up and held her hands out. “Esther, please think about this.”

  “I have thought about it,” Gran said. “I’ve made my decision. Cassia, we’re going home. You can go back to your job and forget all about being a witch. You can put all thoughts of Brimstone right out of your head. It’s time for you to return to your normal life.”

  Chapter 7

  Gran almost pulled my arm out of its socket as she dragged me out of Blythe’s house. I managed to give the confused-looking Blythe a swift goodbye before being pulled out of the door and along the path.

  Gran sped up as she forced me down the street and towards the cobbled road in front of the cellar door.

  “Gran, wait!” I protested as I was propelled along.

  Gran was having none of it. The determined set of her chin was a familiar sight.

  As we went through the door, I was vaguely aware of someone shouting my name. Luca? I looked over my shoulder as we went through the opening. Before I had the chance to search for Luca, the cellar door was slammed shut behind us.

  “Here we are,” Gran said. She gave me a sharp nod. “Back where you belong. We’ll have no more talk of Brimstone and witches. Haven’t you got somewhere to be? Haven’t you got some paperwork to do? Off you go then.” She put her hand on my elbow and steered me towards the cellar steps.

  I shrugged free. “Gran, I can manage to walk without you pushing and shoving me. Why did we leave Blythe’s house so abruptly? We didn’t even say thank you. And I could have sworn I heard Luca calling my name. I wanted to talk to him again.”

  “There’s no point. You won’t be seeing Luca or Blythe ever again.” She marched over to the steps and began to ascend them.

  I ran after her. “But Gran! Blythe told me you need help. I want to help you. I want to learn more about being a witch.”

  “No!” Gran spun around so quickly I was afraid she was going to topple down the steps. She pointed a finger at me. “You don’t belong there. It’s too dangerous. I won’t lose you like I lost your – ” She took a sharp intake of breath. “Cassia, I had no right telling you about this witch business. My life and work in Brimstone have nothing to do with you. You’ve managed this long without remembering you’re a witch, and you can continue to do so.” She turned back around and finished climbing the steps. She disappeared through the door.

  I raced after her. “But what about my health? You said my health was suffering because I was suppressing my true nature.” I ran through the door. “Gran, talk to me. Why don’t you want me to help you?”

  Gran was standing at the other side of the kitchen. She was holding the door open with one hand, and my handbag was in her other. Oliver was at her side, his head bowed and his gaze averted.

  Talk about feeling unwelcome.

  Gran held my handbag up. “It’s been lovely to see you, but I have a million and one things to do. I won’t see you to your car. Goodbye. Thanks for visiting.”

  Her forced smile wasn’t something I
’d seen aimed in my direction before. My throat felt tight, and my words wouldn’t come out. I took my handbag, gave her a small nod and walked out of the kitchen and into the garden.

  My vision swam with unshed tears as I walked to my car. I’m not entirely sure how I managed to drive in my confused state, but I must have because twenty minutes later I was pulling into the underground car park of my apartment building.

  I was still feeling numb as I let myself into my modern-looking apartment. I closed the door, dropped my handbag and leant back against the door. I let the tears flow freely.

  Gran had never, ever been that abrupt with me before. What had I done to upset her? What had happened to her when she went into that recovery room with Brin? Had she had a brain transplant?

  A quiet voice at the back of my mind told me Gran’s sudden change of mind had nothing to do with me. She was trying to protect me in the best way she could. I ignored the voice; it was far too sensible. And I wanted to feel sorry for myself for a while.

  I walked over to the kettle and filled it with water. I called out for Stanley, but he didn’t appear. I hoped he wasn’t attending another funeral.

  I recalled the happy feelings that had swept over me when I’d walked into Brimstone. It was home. It was welcoming. I belonged there. Luca’s face flashed into my mind, and I smiled. I so wanted to talk to him again. And I wanted to know more about being a witch. I wanted to have long talks with Blythe.

  I picked a mug up from the draining board, and my hand clenched around it. A spurt of anger burst through me. I slammed the mug down and cried out, “Damn it! I want to be a witch! I want to go back to Brimstone! I want to help Gran!”

  Just as swiftly, the anger was gone. I checked the mug and was glad to see it was still intact. Phew. It was my favourite mug. It had the name of one of my favourite TV shows on it: Supernatural. I loved that show. It was all about creatures from fantasy and fiction: werewolves, vampires, ghosts, demons. I also loved watching Buffy, The Vampire Slayer, The Vampire Diaries and Teen Wolf.

  Yes, there was a theme here.

  As I waited for the kettle to boil, I looked around my neat and compact apartment. Everything here was in varying shades of grey. It was the complete opposite of Gran’s house. There was nothing in my living space that was considered frivolous and ornamental. Everything had a purpose. Alastair had helped me to decorate it. He had good taste. He said the apartment should have a neutral look so that when it was time for me to sell it, potential buyers wouldn’t be put off by my personality stamped all over it.

  Alastair had also helped me find this apartment. It was a good investment, so he’d said. In an up-and-coming part of town. I would make a good profit when it was time to move on. I’d agreed with him even though I’d rather live in a home and make it mine than live in a grey, investment property.

  The kettle boiled and I made myself a coffee.

  Alastair Smith. My boyfriend of three years. We’d met at the insurance company where we both still worked. He’d been my supervisor and had given me considered feedback on my work. If he was harsh, he said it was because he could see the potential in me. He’d got promoted and moved to a different department, but he still made sure he could be my mentor. It worked because I was soon promoted too. When he asked me out, it seemed impolite to refuse after all he’d done for me.

  I wonder what Alastair would think about me being a witch? I smiled to myself. I knew exactly what he’d think. Stuff and nonsense. Hocus-pocus hogwash. A load of old codswallop. He didn’t understand why I liked watching supernatural shows, and he voiced his opinion loudly every time his attention landed on my box set collection. Needless to say, I watched those shows on my own.

  As if knowing I was thinking about him, my phone beeped and a text came through from Alastair:

  ‘Hope you’ve done those staff appraisals by now. Email them to me. I’ll edit them and add my opinions. A’

  No X at the end of the text. No note of affection in his words.

  I scowled at the message. Alastair had nothing to do with the staff appraisals. They were my responsibility. He only wanted to look at them because he liked to control me.

  Whoa. I’d never thought of Alastair in that way before. He cared about my career, that’s why he wanted to look at the appraisals. He didn’t want me to make any professional mistakes. He cared about me. He loved me.

  Does he? That treacherous voice was back in my head. I put the phone down. I didn’t trust myself to reply at the moment. Part of me wanted to tell Alastair where he could shove the appraisals.

  What had come over me? I never had thoughts like this.

  I took my coffee over to the small desk in the corner of the living room. This was my office area. Alastair insisted I have one so that I could maintain a professional attitude when I worked through my weekends –unpaid, I might add.

  I paused by the desk fully intending to sit down and do those stupid appraisals. My feet thought otherwise and carried me through to my small bedroom. I stopped next to the wardrobe and placed my coffee on the light grey carpet. I opened the wardrobe door and sank to my knees. I reached towards the box that was hidden at the back beneath a blanket. I knew looking at it would only bring me heartbreak, but I knew I had to.

  I pulled the box out, sat back on the carpet and looked at the lid. My childish writing noted the items inside the box as ‘Things To Show Mum When She Comes Back.’

  I hadn’t looked inside this box for years. Not since I’d finally realised Mum wasn’t coming back. I frowned as I thought about that time. Had there been a funeral? I couldn’t remember one. Perhaps I didn’t go. Or perhaps I’d fully blocked the painful memories from my mind. I was good at blocking memories.

  I took the lid off and carefully took the contents out. I laid them on the carpet and began to look through them.

  Lots of drawings and paintings. Lots of little notes telling Mum what I’d done at school that day. Many, many heart-shaped notes telling Mum that I loved her and I hoped she’d come back soon.

  The paintings showed Mum and me together. Gran was in some of them. I found pictures I’d drawn of a small boy with dark blue eyes. Luca? We were holding hands and chasing green butterflies down a street. I’d attempted to draw something that looked like a vampire. Or a werewolf. Or a cloud with legs. It was hard to make out. I turned the drawing around and squinted at it. An elf?

  A sudden thudding at the front door made me drop the picture. My heart sped up.

  Alastair? Somehow, he must know that I hadn’t done the appraisals yet. I could ignore him, but he’d know I was inside. He’d put one of those ‘find my friend’ apps on my phone so he always knew where I was. For my own safety, he’d explained to me.

  The thudding came again. It sounded angry.

  I dragged myself over to the door and tried to come up with excuses as to why I was behind with my work. That defiant voice in my head shouted, ‘Tell him it’s Sunday! You don’t do office work on a Sunday! Tell him to get a life!’

  I slowly opened the door.

  It wasn’t Alastair standing there.

  Chapter 8

  “Is this your cat?”

  I looked at the short, elderly woman in front of me. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She wasn’t the first bereaved person to turn up at my door. My glance went to the grey-haired cat in her arms.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Sorry for any inconvenience he’s caused you.”

  The woman tickled Stanley behind his ears. “Inconvenience? He hasn’t been an inconvenience at all. In fact, he’s been a great comfort to me today.”

  “Has he?”

  Stanley hadn’t met my gaze yet. He was staring intently at the woman’s sleeve as if he knew I was looking at him.

  “Yes.” The woman chuckled. “I buried my Arthur today. We’d been married sixty years. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through today.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I hope today hasn’t been too upsettin
g for you.”

  “Upsetting? No. You’ve got me wrong. I wasn’t upset that Arthur had gone. He was a miserable, old trout and I’m glad to see the back of him. He made my life a misery. He complained non-stop about every little thing you could imagine. Everyone hated him. He didn’t have any friends. Even his mother didn’t like him.” She tickled Stanley again and smiled.

  My brow wrinkled. “I’m confused. How was Stanley a comfort to you if you weren’t upset about your husband passing on?”

  “Because I was the only one at the church service. Well, besides the vicar and the undertakers. I was so embarrassed! I thought his brothers might have turned up. At least to see the back of him. But no, it was just me. And then your lovely cat walked into the church. He gave me a nod as if to say hello and then he jumped up onto the coffin. He cheered me right up. Your cat must have known my Arthur. Perhaps he brought out a hidden kind side to him. Anyway, it was nice to have company. Your adorable cat stayed with me right through the service. He even refused to get off the coffin when it was taken to the cemetery. He rode in the hearse with it!”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d done that three times last week.

  She continued, “I was a bit worried when he jumped into the hole after the coffin was lowered into the ground.”

  “Pardon? He jumped into the hole?” He’d never done that before.

  Stanley twisted his head fully away from my searching look.

  Great. Not only was my cat obsessed with death, he was now suicidal. Did cats get suicidal? If so, what do I do about it? I’d have to Google that later.

  A concerned look crossed the woman’s face and she said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but your cat is terribly thin. Is he ill? Has he seen a vet?”

  “Yes, many times. The vet said he’s in perfect health.”

  She took a step closer and looked over my shoulder into my apartment which I thought was a bit cheeky.

  “You don’t have a garden. And that’s a very small space for a cat to run around in.”