Witch at Last: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 3 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries)

by Juliette Harper

  Did I look like a witch? When I passed people on the street, did they whisper behind my back? “Oh, yeah. That one’s a witch. Totally.” I leaned in and looked suspiciously at the end of my nose. No warts. Yet.

  No one who knew me would ever have described me as an ambitious person. I think that’s how it is for a lot of people. You get out of high school and according to how much money your folks have, or how willing you are to carry student loan debt, you float into something. Even the kids with a plan are likely to change majors once they find out they don’t actually like the “career” they’ve been talking about since grade school.

  My parents don’t have a lot of money, and I didn’t want to start out my adult life with tens of thousands of dollars in debt. Consequently, I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about my purpose in life. I just tried to work hard, be decent to other people, and make a little place for myself.

  Now I was part of something bigger than I’d ever imagined -- something that had been going on for hundreds of years.

  Let me jump ahead a few hours and tell you that the next morning I woke up ready to fully embrace my new role in life. Happy to embrace that role, in fact. What got me there?

  Tales of a hidden city in a mountain valley existing in another stream of time?

  Finding out my boyfriend was a werecat, which, if I’m going to be honest, was kind of hot?

  Living atop a fairy mound and hanging out with an ancient animating spirit?

  No, no, and no.

  While I was standing there looking at myself in the mirror, I caught sight of the satchel Mom gave me earlier in the day. I refused to carry it for fear my psychometry might kick in. Tori had apparently brought it up when she fed the cats earlier and left it on the foot of my bed.

  I went over and cautiously laid my hand on the worn leather. Opening my mind just a little, I “tasted” the energy. That’s really the only word I can use. The flavor was aged by time; mellowed, cured, and so familiar it seemed to flow out of the bag and up into my body.

  The brass snaps were cool under my fingers as I undid them and lifted the flap. The interior of the satchel was filled with papers, notebooks, and envelopes, but a single bundle caught my eye. It was a scrap of simple blue cotton, neatly folded, and tied with a red satin ribbon.

  The knot in the ribbon slid smoothly apart when I tugged gently on one end. The crimson length slid free and pooled around the cotton. When I carefully unfolded the fabric, I found a white lace handkerchief, delicate as the web of a spider. In one corner, embroidered in ecru thread, were the initials “JDS.”

  With some real genealogical work behind me now, I can tell you that the letters stand for Johanna Dawson Shaw, my great-great-grandmother on Mom’s side of the family. She was born in 1875. That night I knew nothing about her, but without a moment’s hesitation, I gently picked up the handkerchief, letting it rest whisper light on the palm of my hand.

  Closing my eyes, I instantly found myself in the store, as it had been more than a hundred years before. Myrtle was there, in her true form, the one she revealed to me earlier that night. And also there were 13 other women; the Briar Hollow Coven.

  They weren’t witches in pointy hats. They weren’t wizened crones with warts and green skin like the witch on the mystery cup someone had left on our doorstep. They were women with work-roughened hands and faces. Their eyes told me they had known the joy of birth and the crushing loss of death.

  Sitting together in a circle, many with bits of needlework in their hands, they talked and laughed. I was reminded of something Beau told me once about his wife, how she and her friends read books and discussed politics all under the guise of being a crocheting circle.

  I suddenly understood what women of ability had done through generations to survive in the world, to retain something of themselves while they fulfilled their roles as wives and mothers. There was power in that circle, but it wasn’t just the power of magic. It was the power of sisterhood.

  Myrtle sat with them, ancient and wise, being for them what she said she would be for me -- counselor and friend, sister and mother. It wasn’t just the aos sí that had been old when the earth was young; it was this ineffable essence of womankind.

  In my vision each of the women turned to look at me, warming me with their kindness and their acceptance. But it was Johnna who spoke, “This is your birthright, child. Seize it and take your place among us.”

  Just as suddenly as I had been transported through time, I was back sitting on the edge of my bed with the scrap of lace in my hand. I felt calm, safe, and suddenly tired, but in a good way. The kind of tired you feel when you’ve worked hard and done something right.

  After carefully rewrapping the handkerchief and tying the satin ribbon back in place, I put the satchel away, climbed into bed and fell into a peaceful sleep. The next morning I awakened to glorious, golden sun streaming through the front windows. All the cats were curled up on the foot of the bed, purring in unison. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I was shocked to see it was 8:30. The cats never let me sleep late.

  “What gives, guys?” I asked, peering down at them.

  Four contented and all-knowing gazes met my own.

  “You feel the magic, too, don’t you?” I said. “My little herd of familiars. Does that mean you don’t want cat food?”

  At those last two words, four sets of ears went instantly alert.

  “Yeah,” I said, throwing back the covers, “that’s what I thought.”

  Even though I was in no particular hurry, it was just after 9 o’clock when I came bouncing down the stairs. The tables in the espresso bar were all full. I exchanged greetings with several customers and stepped behind the counter to say good morning to Tori.

  “You look good today,” she said, eyeing me critically. “What’s up with that?”

  “I had a look inside that satchel Mom gave us,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “And it was a . . . visionary . . . experience.”

  We couldn’t talk directly for fear of being overheard, but Tori knew instantly what I meant. “I take it you’re happier about the direction of things?” she asked cryptically.

  “Yes,” I said with firm conviction. “I think we should meet again with the . . . group . . . tonight. Sound good?”

  Tori grinned. “Sounds good, because there were a few things that happened after you left the meeting last night that you should know about.”

  Color me shocked.

  “How about I go down to George and Irma’s and get us a bag of doughnuts,” I said. “We can hide in the storeroom and you can tell me about it.”

  “Deal,” Tori said. “If anybody wants anything, they can ring the bell.”

  Still keeping my voice low, I said, “You didn’t find anything large and insectoid down here this morning, did you?”

  Tori’s eyes widened. “Like what?” she asked.

  “When I started upstairs last night, I thought I saw a water bug fly by the end of the stairs,” I whispered.

  “Oh God,” Tori shuddered. “I hate those things. Get roach traps when you’re at the grocery store. Big ones.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I plan to.”

  After I transferred my coffee to a paper cup, I started to walk out, but Tori stopped me. “Hey,” she said, “hang on a sec.”

  She was staring at the mystery witch cup, which she’d taken down from the shelf over her work area.

  “Yeah?” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Do you notice anything different about this cup?” she asked, holding it out to me.

  I took the cup and turned it around, looking at it from all angles. “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “When you showed it to me yesterday, I could have sworn the witch was on the other side of the words,” she replied.

  You know how people say things like, “I don’t know, I’ve slept since then?”

  Well, sleeping would have been minor compared to everything that had happened to me since I f
ound that cup.

  “You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” I said.

  “I guess,” she said, still staring at the green-faced witch as she returned the cup to the shelf over the work area.

  When I stepped out on the sidewalk, I heard a soft “meow” to my right. Festus was sprawled on the bench outside the cobbler shop.

  “Good morning, you old rascal,” I said.

  With a wicked gleam in his eye, the cat answered, under his breath, “Don’t I get my ears scratched?”

  Before I could reply, Chase appeared in the doorway. “Dad,” he muttered, “behave yourself.” Looking over at me with hopeful eyes, he said hesitantly, “Hi.”

  When I smiled at him, those same eyes filled with so much relief, I felt my heart swell in my chest.

  “Hi, yourself,” I said. “Sorry for that abrupt exit last night.”

  “No problem,” Chase said. “It was a lot for you to take in at one time.”

  That was one way of putting it.

  “I was thinking we should all meet again tonight,” I said. “Are you and . . . your cat . . . free?”

  Festus regarded me impassively, yawned, and put his head down on his paws. “Very funny,” he grumbled.

  “We’ll be there,” Chase said. “And . . . could you and I . . . talk . . . later?”

  “I’d like that,” I said, “but I can tell you right now that what you’re worried about is going to be okay. I’m not sure how yet, but we’ll figure it out.”

  Chase regarded me curiously. “Has something happened?” he asked.

  “A visit from the ancestors,” I answered.

  Anyone else would have looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but Chase smiled and nodded. “Good,” he said. “The ones who came before us can generally see the path better than we can.”

  He sounded as if he spoke from experience, and I suddenly realized that it was going to be an incredible relief to talk this kind of thing over with someone who found it all perfectly normal.

  “Okay,” I said briskly. “We have a plan. Right now, I have doughnuts to buy and you need to get back to work.”

  Chase stood up straighter, as if at attention, and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Our easy exchange put even more of a spring in my step as I walked to the other end of the block. The grocery store was empty. Irma sat at her usual post on the stool at the cash register with her head buried in an “historical romance.” This time the half-naked, chesty hunk on the cover was wearing a helmet with horns. Irma’s reading tastes had apparently expanded to Vikings.

  I filled one of the white paper bags with doughnuts and located the roach traps. Being careful to keep the two separate, I went up to the counter to pay. If Irma found the two purchases an odd combination, she didn’t say so, probably because she was too focused on imparting the latest “news.” Leaning toward me, she whispered breathlessly, “Have you heard?”

  Irma loves to gossip. She missed her calling in life. The CIA could make good use of intelligence-gathering skills as sharp as hers.

  “Heard what?” I asked, trying not to look amused.

  “There’s a new bakery or cooking shop or something like that going in over in the old hardware store,” Irma said. “The lady who is running it is really sophisticated. She’s definitely not from around here.”

  “Really?” I said, interested in spite of myself. “I wonder what made her decide to open her shop in Briar Hollow?”

  As Irma rang up my purchase, she said, “Well, the ghost sightings are really helping the tourist trade this summer. I’ve already been talking to some of the other business people on the square about what we could do for Halloween. You know, it’s almost as big as Christmas these days.”

  “Well, whatever you all come up with,” I said, accepting my change, “count us in. What’s this new woman’s name?”

  “I don’t really remember her last name,” Irma said, picking her book up again, “but her first name is Brenda.”

  That didn’t raise any alarm bells with me until I stepped out of the shop and glanced over at the hardware store. The new owner was standing in the doorway and her name wasn’t Brenda.

  As I stared in shock, Brenna Sinclair smiled at me, raised her hand, and waved.

  8

  Earlier That Summer

  Brenna Sinclair watched the scene in the cemetery from the wooded shadows beyond the rock wall. The newly raised spirits milled anxiously among the tombstones. The little witch who had released her from the coldness of the nether regions had also awakened them, but now she offered the ghosts no direction. Why would the child raise a spectral horde without a plan for its use?

  Granted, Brenna herself animated shambling mobs during the Black Plague, but that was for her own amusement. The necromancy had been nothing more than the youthful indiscretion of a sorceress still shy of her 150th year. Terrorizing peasants grew old for her centuries ago. Brenna found the mortal rats roaming the halls of power to be far better sport. Morals decay with less stench and higher entertainment value.

  The cemetery looked much as it had on that night of lightning and thunder when the Cherokee savage bound her in shackles worthy of Hephaestus himself. Brenna would have far preferred eternity in that lake of fire the religious scholars prattled about than the unendurable boredom of the nowhere from which she was now free.

  The Druid, Duncan Skea, had been kinder than Knasgowa. He consigned Brenna to a sealed cavern in the Orkneys, but she had not known monotony there. Inside the cave, her magic continued to work. She used it to create comforts to stave off the madness of her isolation.

  Her magic was her companion. Brenna held it close to her breast like a lover, allowing it to whisper deeper and deeper secrets in her ear. Then came the day when the light of insight pierced her understanding. She uttered the correct words and the seal on the stones broke.

  On that day, Brenna stepped out on the windswept mountainside and drew in the clean, salty air off the ocean. With marks on the walls, she had tracked the passage of 108 years. Brenna was prepared to find a changed world. Instead, the islands’ remoteness preserved her surroundings largely as she had known them on the day her son was born and stolen from her.

  Brenna knew the men who were responsible for her exile were long dead, but she found her grandson, Angus, living in the Skea household. He spoke to her, offered her food and drink, but only as a ruse to give his son, Alexander, time to board a ship for the New World.

  When Brenna realized what was happening, Angus tried to stop her, clutching in his hand a pathetic oak wand that Brenna snapped like a twig before she drove it through his traitorous heart. It was a pity, really. She had rather liked the man, but Brenna no longer had the luxury of trusting anyone who was not completely loyal to her.

  Angus had not, however, died in vain, at least in terms of the success of his delaying tactic. Brenna arrived on the coast too late. Alexander’s ship was already well out to sea.

  Had she chosen, Brenna could have reached the deck on the wings of the wind, but that did not suit her purposes. Alexander was Brenna’s only living descendant, a man of just 20 years. There was plenty of time to locate him and to encourage the young man to be more reasonable than his late father.

  Let Alexander think he had escaped. Let him believe that any wilderness existed deep enough to shelter his presence. Rather than follow, Brenna sent only her voice on the morning breeze, whispering to Alexander the message that she would not be far behind his desperate flight.

  The scent of fear on the night air drew Brenna’s attention away from her memories. It was the young witch’s apprehension she tasted. How could this mere child have undone Knasgowa’s magic, yet seem so terrified now? What game was she playing?

  Brenna cautiously extended her senses, careful not to betray her presence. The girl felt impossibly young, and her roiling emotions tasted so very sweet. She should be easily corruptible. Brenna did not know in what year she now found herself, but the energy of th
e world was far different than she remembered.

  On her last night in this reality she had been a sorceress for almost 770 years. The eighteen years that came before that counted for nothing but a dim memory of misery and subservience. No matter what befell her, Brenna would never allow herself to be so weak again. Her days as a victim ended the night she entered the blackest reaches of the forest and traded her mortality for real power.

  "Sure be thee of this path, mortal?" the wizened hag cackled. "Thee asks to die to all thee has known. Thy path never again will return to where thee now stand. No children will comfort thy bones that will never age. Want this, do thee?"

  Brenna wanted it. The hot blood of revenge coursed through the veins of the woman who walked out of those woods to maim and torture the callous men who treated her as their chattel. From that night forward her choices were her own -- until Hamish Crawford was cast upon the beach below her remote Orkney home.

  Immortality demands the periodic ruse. Brenna went to the Orkney Islands to disappear briefly, to allow the mortals to forget that business in Paris. The court of King Louis XIV had been so charmingly amusing until Madame de Brinvilliers and her lover, Captain Godin de Sainte-Croix, began poisoning men.

  The good Captain conveniently died before he could be charged, but, of course, with a woman accused of perpetrating three murders -- her father and both of her brothers -- the behavior was attributed to witchcraft. And just as inconveniently for Brenna, she had been friendly with the cursed woman.

  While the remote Orkneys were a bit of an extreme choice, Brenna had wanted time alone to pick her next venue from among the courts of Europe. She could watch the political currents in the polished depths of her looking glass, study the ebb and tide of power, and enter the game again at a time and place of her choosing.

  But then a wretched man of religious principle washed ashore on her beach. Brenna had no idea why she took Hamish in, why she nursed him to health, or why she let herself feel love for him. The physical pleasures of his company were no better or worse than those she had known from any of the men with whom she had toyed, but there was that fire of conviction in Hamish she found compelling.