Taken aback, the witch swung wildly. Rodney parried neatly and knocked the broom out of her hand. With a perfect lunge, he pinned his opponent to the ground.
A look of sheer terror contorted the witch’s green features. She tried to back away, but the shelf was too slick and smooth for her failing hands to get any traction.
“Don’t eat me,” she whispered in a trembling voice.
Rodney put down the stir stick and smiled at her, but the sight of his perfect white teeth only made the witch start shrieking again. They had a definite communication problem. There was only one thing to do. He had to take her to the humans who could speak with her in her own language.
Trying not to look menacing, Rodney moved toward the witch. As gently as possible, he used his forepaws to push her down on the shelf and roll her over. Then, he picked her up by the collar of her black dress, and making sure not to hit her head on anything; he started toward the basement.
“Put me DOWN!” she screamed. “Put me DOWN!”
But her protests died off into choked gurgles when he approached the edge of the shelf and gathered himself for the leap onto the counter. It was trickier with the extra weight, but Rodney made a perfect landing there and was once again on the floor. By that time, the witch was completely slack in his mouth, which made it much easier to carry her through the door and down the steps to the work table in the lair.
Jinx and Tori were both seated at the table having sandwiches. They looked up when he appeared at the edge of the table.
“Rodney,” Tori said, “what on earth are you carrying?”
Trotting to the edge of her plate, he gently put the witch down, nudging the crumpled figure with his paw. She came awake with a start, jumping to her feet and looking around in panic. The vibrant emerald of her face washed out to the color of a pea when she saw Tori and Jinx peering down at her.
“I told you there was something weird about that cup,” Tori said triumphantly. “There’s our resident spy, the cup witch.”
“I am not the ‘cup witch,’” the figure protested indignantly, stamping her foot. “My name is Glory Green, and I would appreciate it if you’d just keep that disgusting beast from eating me.”
Tori looked at Rodney. “Why on earth does she think you’re going to eat her?”
Rodney shrugged. Turning to the witch, he bowed and offered her his paw.
“What’s he doing?” Glory asked suspiciously.
“He’s trying to be your friend,” Tori said. “It might help if you’d quit calling him names.”
“He showed me his teeth before,” Glory said suspiciously.
“That’s called a smile,” Jinx said. “He isn’t going to hurt you, and neither are we. We just need you to answer some questions for us.”
“What are you doing?” Tori said out of the corner of her mouth. “She’s supposed to be one of the big bads.”
“Tori,” Jinx replied, “look at her. She’s three inches tall.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Glory said, smoothing the folds of her black robes. She then took a few steps toward Rodney. Even though her hand trembled, she took his paw and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Rodney. And don’t you ever pick me up and jump off a shelf with me again.”
Rodney held up one paw in promise.
“Okay,” Glory said, “then I guess you’re alright. And I’m sorry I called you a disgusting beast.”
She looked up at Jinx and Tori. “I didn’t want to do any of this,” she said earnestly, “but I can’t tell you why I’m here.”
“Why not?” Jinx asked.
“If I tell you anything,” she said, “Mr. Chesterfield will never make me big again.”
And then, realizing what she’d just done, Glory burst into tears.
21
It’s a toss up what wound up being stranger; the artifacts we found during the scavenger hunt or the discovery of our miniature spy. Tori and I didn't need our magical elders to confirm for us that while Glory might have been moving the chess pieces, she posed no other threat. She did, however, need to quit crying and start talking.
We tried to give her a tissue, but given her size, we might as well have handed her a tarp.
When Moira and Barnaby walked into the lair, Tori was tearing off tiny pieces of Kleenex and offering them to the wailing mini-witch while I attempted soothing talk. None of it worked. Glory’s crying jag showed no sign of slowing down, especially after Moira retrieved a magnifying glass from the roll top desk to get a better look.
“Stop that!” Glory wailed. “I’m not a bug with a pin stuck in me. Oh! You’re going to stick a pin in me, aren’t you? It’s because I’m green, isn’t it?”
Moira hastily put the magnifying glass down as a new wave of shrieking started up.
Barnaby backed off toward the fireplace and motioned for Moira to follow. “We're not going to get anywhere with her in this excitable condition,” he said. “Perhaps you could reverse the magic Chesterfield used to create her?”
“Hmm,” Moira said, “she does appear to be fully human, but without knowing the exact spell, I cannot reverse it.”
Little or not, Glory had excellent hearing.
“Of course I’m human!” she sobbed. “All I wanted was a lock of Elvis’ hair and a career in Vegas and instead I’m going to look like an Apple Sour Jolly Rancher forever!”
Barnaby frowned at me. “Do you have the slightest idea what she’s talking about?”
“It's a bright green hard candy,” I explained.
Holding out her thumb and forefinger to take a rough estimate of Glory’s size, Tori observed clinically, “She's really more like a cocktail pickle.”
That touched off a fresh wave of hysteria.
“Not helpful, Tori,” I hissed.
“Look at her and tell me she doesn't remind you of one of those little cornichons,” Tori whispered back.
From our years waiting tables at Tom's Cafe, I knew what she was talking about. For the uninitiated, a cornichon looks like a mini gherkin, and Glory did indeed resemble one.
That’s when I got an idea. Cornichons made me think of gherkins, which made me think of dill pickles.
“Moira,” I said, “if you can’t reverse the spell, can you at least make her a little bigger?”
“I'm not sure,” Moira said, “it depends on how Chesterfield miniaturized her.” She approached Glory cautiously. “Excuse me,” Moira said politely. “Excuse me! Did Chesterfield make you drink anything?”
Glory sniffled and shook her head. Hiccuping slightly, she said, “He said something in a foreign language that made me feel funny, and then I shrunk up like cotton in the hot water cycle.”
“Uh, yes, well, of course,” Moira said uncertainly. “Thank you.” To Barnaby, she said, “No potion, just an incantation. Barnaby, I believe this is more in your line of expertise.”
“My pleasure,” Barnaby said.
He held his hand over Glory, who shrank away.
“Now, now,” he said gently. “This will not hurt you. Amplifico!”
A shower of what looked like glitter rained down over Glory, who instantly grew to the size of an action figure. She was not only bigger but to our immense relief, she stopped crying. Unfortunately, she continued screeching.
“Quick! Get a ruler!” she demanded. When none of us moved, she stamped her foot, “Now!”
“Geez,” Tori muttered, “bossy much?”
She went to the desk and came back with a wooden ruler stamped with the words “Briar Hollow Funeral Parlor: Let Us Measure You for a Custom Casket.”
“We're in an ancient fairy mound surrounded by priceless magical artifacts, and that’s the only ruler you could find?” I asked.
“Something tells me it's a leftover ‘treasure’ of Aunt Fiona’s,” Tori shrugged.
“I don't care what it is,” Glory said impatiently. “How tall am I?”
This was taking the short-person syndrome to a whole new level.
Tori dire
cted Glory to stand up straight so she could take a measurement.
Eleven and a half inches.
“Oh, praise the little baby Jesus!” Glory exclaimed when she heard the number. “I'm exactly the size of a Barbie doll! I can finally get some new clothes! Do you think I could wear anything from the Jackie Kennedy Barbie collection?”
I had my doubts, but since the last thing we needed was any more crying, I murmured something about how we'd try. That launched Glory into a recitation of all the things her new size would allow her do, which could have gone on all night if Barnaby hadn't cleared his throat and cut her off.
“While I'm sure the potential of your new condition excites you, Miss . . . ”
“Green,” she said, “Glory Green.”
For just a minute I thought Barnaby was going to laugh, but he managed to hold it together. “Miss Green,” he continued, “would you be so good as to explain your connection to Irenaeus Chesterfield?”
“Connection?” Glory said angrily. “That awful man imprisoned me on that cup and made me spy on these girls.”
She turned back toward Tori and me. “After the first few days I didn't want to do any such thing,” she said earnestly. “You are both just the nicest young ladies in the world. Your mamas raised you up right even if you are real witches. I don't think the Southern Baptist Convention would approve of you, but only because they don't know that you're good Christians. You are good Christians, aren't you?”
I nodded numbly, and Tori pointed out the obvious, “You’re a witch, too, Glory.”
“In appearance only,” Glory said. “I’m an involuntary witch, so that doesn’t count, and I can’t do anything but put myself on the side of the cup and then peel myself back off again and fly around on my broom. But now I won’t fit on the cup or the broom, so that means that unless you have a magic travel mug or a whisk broom, I can’t really do anything anymore.”
A magic whisk broom?
“Uh, I think you’re safe,” I assured her.
“There you go,” Glory said triumphantly. “So I’m really just a little person with a skin condition. But anyway, where was I? Oh! Well, I just knew after the first or second day sitting up there on that shelf that you all weren't in league with the forces of evil, but that Mr. Chesterfield is the devil himself. I swear to you I wouldn't be one bit surprised if he has horns and a tail!”
In case you haven’t caught on, Glory can be exhausting, but if you just let her talk, she’ll tell you everything you want to know and a whole lot you don’t. It took the better part of an hour, with endless rabbit trails veering off the subject, but she ultimately told us the entire story about how her deal with Irenaeus Chesterfield to buy a lock of Elvis Presley’s hair went badly awry.
She confirmed his alliance with Brenna Sinclair and described in excruciating detail her arrival by special courier on our doorstep. “Those uppity delivery services are not worth the money,” she said. “I had bruises for a week after getting bounced around inside that box, tissue paper or not. Mr. Chesterfield should have used UPS like the rest of us.”
“Miss Green,” Barnaby said, “do you think Chesterfield was behind the murder of the man found on the sidewalk here at the store?”
Glory shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “They did hire that old man to break in and put something down here in the basement. I guess Mr. Chesterfield might have killed him to keep him from telling you all about that, but wouldn’t he have done that right away?”
“Indeed he would have,” Barnaby said.
Out of nowhere, Festus jumped up on the table. “Where’d the talking dill pickle come from?” he asked genially.
To our utter astonishment, Glory marched forward and smacked him solidly on the nose. “Bad kitty!” she said sternly. “Bad kitty!”
“You are not serious,” Festus growled, narrowing his eyes and curling back his lips. “I’ll show you ‘bad kitty.’”
“Dad, stop!” Chase ordered, joining the group standing around the table.
“The munchkin punched me in the nose,” Festus said indignantly. “I’m just supposed to put up with that?”
“Lighten up, Festus,” Tori said. “Glory is having a bad day.”
“Oh, but I’m not!” Glory trilled happily. “I’ve tripled in size minus half an inch. I don’t have to be on the cup any more, and I can go shopping again. Can I go shopping now, please?”
Seizing the opportunity to get Glory occupied in doing anything but talking, I said, “Tori, why don’t you and Glory get on Amazon and order some clothes in her size.”
Tori glared at me, but she held her hand out to Glory, who happily deposited herself on Tori’s palm. They went over to one of the secondary work tables, and Tori fired up her laptop.
“Good heavens,” Barnaby said in a low voice, “that woman is utterly exhausting. I cannot imagine what she would be like at full size.”
“She must be what you’ve been seeing flying around upstairs,” Chase said.
We went over everything Glory had told us for him and Festus, who was still rubbing his nose with his paw and looking grumpy. “I might have known this would all go back to that Creavit scum Chesterfield,” he said darkly. “You should have taken that guy out when you had the chance, Barnaby.”
“I do not disagree,” Barnaby said tightly, “but at the time, I believed I was acting on my principles.”
“You were,” Moira said, “but Chesterfield abused those principles badly.”
“So what do you think?” I asked. “Did Chesterfield hire the hit man to kill Fish Pike?”
“Possibly,” Barnaby said, “but now that we are aware of his involvement in all of this, I do believe it is even more likely that there is something in this basement dampening Myrtle’s powers. For the time being, our efforts are best spent continuing the search.”
We continued all right, unearthing Leonardo da Vinci’s lost manuscripts, which contained all his notes on the Fae, including several wine-drinking sessions with Brenna Sinclair. There’s a good reason why only about a fifth of his papers is known to have “survived.” The guy was a major magic groupie. Think mosh pit level obsession.
Mom and Gemma turned up the missing end of the Bayeux Tapestry.
Never heard of it? Don’t feel bad. I thought it was one of Aunt Fiona’s unfinished needlepoint projects until Myrtle explained the 10-foot long piece of cloth should have completed the 230-foot piece that is considered the world’s most recognized tapestry, dating from 1092.
Whatever they used for mothballs in the 11th century totally worked.
Anyway, the end of the tapestry had to be cut from the original because the imagery showed shapeshifters, wizards, and other magical creatures in attendance at the crowning of William the Conqueror.
We could have hosted the world’s most lucrative garage sale, but nothing we turned up seemed to affect Myrtle in the slightest until the third night. That evening, first Moira, and then Barnaby, turned sharply and looked into the stacks.
“Do you feel it?” Moira asked.
Barnaby nodded. “An object of great power, approaching with some velocity.”
At just that moment, Merle, Earl, and Furl burst out of the archives batting a jet black ball in front of them in a wild game of feline hockey. With one last resounding smack of his paw, Furl sent the ball careening into the lair where it slowed and rolled to a gentle stop in front of the fire.
Everyone froze except Moira, who drew her wand. Myrtle, who was seated at the table, went catatonic.
“Where did you find that?” Barnaby asked, cautiously approaching the ebony sphere.
“All the way at the back of the north section of the archives,” Merle said. “Earl spotted it and took a swipe at it. He has an obsession with stuff that rolls.”
Earl shrugged. “It’s a cat thing,” he said. “Anyway, the instant my paw touched it, there was like this blue energy wave that rippled off the thing and then we could feel the artifact’s power, so we b
rought it in.”
“And you didn’t think to warn us?” Moira asked. “That was incredibly reckless.”
Barnaby bent to study the object. “It must have been shielded,” he said to Moira, “but how did they get through?”
“They are in their shifted form,” she replied. “Their native magic must have disrupted the shield sufficiently to shatter it.”
“Is it what I think it is?” Barnaby asked.
Moira nodded. “Yes,” she said, “that is the Orb of Thoth.”
As usual, I was out of the metaphysical trivia loop.
“And he was?” I asked.
“An Egyptian Fae revered in the ancient world as a god,” Gemma answered. “He was believed to be the scribe of the underworld, the maintainer of the universe, the developer of science, and the master of magic.”
Oh. Him.
“Thoth was the Egyptian equivalent of an Alchemist,” Moira said. “Legend has it that Thoth fashioned an orb from a meteorite that damaged the step pyramid at Saqqara during its construction sometime around 2630 B.C. The artifact has long been considered apocryphal since no astrological records record the descent of any such meteorite.”
“How can you be sure this is the orb?” I asked.
“Look closely on the surface that is turned toward the fire,” she said.
The flames highlighted an Egyptian hieroglyph. The body of a man with the head of a long-billed bird.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Thoth,” she said. “That is his sigil, his mark of power.”
Great. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Now, it was time to mark the thing ‘return to sender.’
“How do we get rid of it?” I asked.
Moira shook her head. “According to the story, Thoth used the flames of the Otherworld to create sufficient heat to melt the metal and fashion the sphere. The material retains both the icy cold of deep space and the burning heat of the earth’s core. Thoth forged the orb as a symbol of the balance which must be maintained between good and evil. It is an alchemical creation of phenomenal skill and genius, second only to the Philosopher's Stone. It must not be destroyed.”
Witch on First: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 4 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels) Page 18