That left Merle, Earl, and Furl, three Scottish Fold littermates who waved at me in happy triplicate. From their glassy eyes and the globs of ropey drool on their chins, I could tell they’d all been enjoying their fair share of mood-altering kitty weed.
I tugged at Chase’s sleeve. When he leaned down, I whispered, “This might be kind of a personal question, but do all of you have distinct breeds?”
“Every werecat can assume large and small forms,” he said. “As big cats, Merle, Earl, and Furl are mountain lions like me and Dad.”
“So, uh . . . when you’re not . . . do you . . . ” I faltered and fell silent.
“Are you asking me if I’m a scruffy yellow tomcat like Dad?” Chase asked, his eyes twinkling.
“Uh, sort of,” I nodded, embarrassed.
“No,” he said, “in my small form I’m a Russian Blue.”
“Really?” I said, my voice going a little breathy.
Interest kindled in Chase’s eyes. “Yeah, why?” he asked.
Now I had backed myself completely into a corner. “I, uh, sort of have a thing for gray cats,” I admitted sheepishly.
Chase snaked his arm around my waist. “Well, I certainly hope so,” he said rakishly.
That won him a punch in the arm as we settled down on barstools to watch the next round of Red Dot. Chase got the bartender’s attention. He was a burly Canadian Lynx with forepaws like hams. The tufts on his ears swiveled in our direction as Chase ordered two bottles of Litter Box Lager.
“Not the best name for a beer,” I said. “Please tell me it doesn’t taste like something that belongs in the litter box.”
“It doesn’t,” Chase assured me. “They carry a beer called Ye Olde Cat Pi . . . er, by-product. Trust me. Don’t order it.”
Do I even need to tell you how much fun I was having by this time?
Turning my attention back to the pool table, I could see that Aloysius really was the only serious player, expertly swatting balls into the pockets with feline grace. Every time he won a nip cigar, he simply flicked it toward one of his cronies and went back to work.
“Is he always so focused?” I asked Chase.
“I think it keeps him warm,” Chase said. “Hairless cats always seem to be wound kind of tight.”
“What’s the story on Leo’s ear?” I asked.
Chase snickered. “His second wife caught him making time with a South American Jaguar named Lupita and dang near ripped it off. Maurice is his best friend. Leo has to keep him from walking into walls -- literally.”
Just then, Aloysius missed a shot, arching his back and hissing in irritation, which put Festus up for the next round of play. Rising unsteadily to a standing position, he wobbled forward on three legs, readied himself, and slurred, “Purrllll.”
He meant “pull,” which was the cue for the laser pointer to fire at a pocket.
Spotting his quarry, Festus spun on his one hind leg and actually got a front paw on the 9 ball before he did a faceplant on the felt.
“Whoa,” Earl said, “steady there, old man.”
Both he and Merle tried to lift Fesus, which led to all three of them going down as pool balls flew everywhere. Festus managed to raise his whiskers high enough off the table to call out, “I missed. Bring on the whiskey,” at which point Chase slid off the barstool and said, “I don’t think so, Dad.”
Amid cries of “spoiled sport” and “‘fraidy cat,’” Chase deftly extricated his father from the fur pile and tucked the protesting old codger under one arm.
“Put me down you no good worthless, hairball,” Festus demanded. “I licked your fur when you were a kitten, you ungrateful alley cat.”
Chase caught hold of Festus’ front paws and held them in place. “That’ll be enough out of you,” he said sternly.
Festus regarded him with a blearily bobbling gaze. He started to argue, but the old guy just couldn’t keep his eyes open. As we watched, his head dropped down on Chase’s wrist, and he started to snore.
“Thank God,” Chase said, looking at his Dad with loving tolerance, “he is so much easier to deal with when he passes out.” Turning to me he added, “Do you mind? I need to get him home and tucked in bed.”
I was laughing so hard tears were running down my cheeks. “Not at all,” I said, “but you have to promise we can come back.”
Shaking his head, Chase said ruefully, “Great, another party animal in the family.”
We said our good-byes, weaving our way through the crowd with Festus still draped over Chase’s arm snoring contentedly. Once we were out in the street, Chase transferred his father to a more comfortable position and we walked slowly back to the Inn.
At the door, Chase said, “I guess this is where I say good night.”
“Don’t I get a good night kiss?” I teased.
“Right,” he said, “as I cradle my drunken alley cat father in the crook of my arm.”
Giggling, I stood on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You be sure he drinks plenty of water in the morning,” I said. “Hangovers are worse when you’re dehydrated.”
“I’ll tell him you said so,” Chase said.
I watched the two of them walk away. At the corner, Chase turned and waved. I waved back and only went into the inn when he disappeared from sight.
20
Beau Longworth finished his materialization at the base of the Confederate monument. Nearby, a small gaggle of paranormal tourists talked excitedly, holding their camera screens out to one another to compare the images they had just captured. Beau was most grateful for Miss Tori’s tutelage regarding the evolution of photography. He was aware of the ponderous equipment carried by Matthew Brady during what was now referred to as the “Civil War.” Frankly, Beau still bristled a bit at that name. The conflict had been anything but civil.
At any rate, in those days, several pounds of accouterment were required to create a single, grainy sepia-toned photograph. In the 21st century, however, even laymen carried ubiquitous electronic boxes Miss Tori referred to as “smartphones.”
Both the name and the multipurpose functionality of the devices appealed to the Colonel’s utilitarian nature. As he understood the concept, telephones were a considerable improvement over the telegraphic method of his own day, but Beau did not completely grasp how the connection was established without wires. But the inclusion of a camera capable of creating high-quality color images to serve in tandem with the device was nothing less than a marvel.
Thus armed, all citizens were in a position to function as front-line journalists. Oddly enough, however, Miss Tori assured him that the power was not always used wisely. With what insight he held into the nature of humankind, the information did not surprise Beau, but it did disappoint him. The regression of social responsibility since his own former lifetime came as a cruel blow for a man who had always hewed to a belief in the perfectibility of human character.
Miss Tori had also kindly served as something of a paranormal acting coach for his appearances on the square. She explained that he must never give the ghost seekers conclusive proof of his existence. The goal was to continue to lure them to Briar Hollow in continual search of better evidence, thus leveraging their presence to spend dollars in support of the local economy.
She showed him numerous, highly debated spectral images. He chose to model his own materializations after the 1936 photograph of the Brown Lady of Raynham Hall in England. Although potentially a fake, Beau found the vaguely human form of the woman descending the stairs to be tastefully translucent and decidedly worthy of long-standing debate. After some practice in front of Miss Tori, the Colonel had perfected the correct amount of energy to project himself into an amorphous suggestion of his true self, which, judging from the reaction of tonight’s assemblage, was garnering positive critical reviews.
Leaving the ghost hunters to their speculations, Beau crossed the street and passed unencumbered through the front door of the store. Although he had not wanted to pry, Jinx’s tea
rful visit to the cemetery left Beau deeply concerned about the stresses with which she was dealing. After his materializations, however, he often visited the store, which created the perfect opportunity now for him to pay a call without appearing to be overly protective.
The fact that the first floor was dark and deserted did not bother him. The Colonel assumed that he would find Jinx and Tori in the basement with Myrtle, but to his surprise that area was deserted as well. He saw nothing that would give him cause for alarm and was about to return to the cemetery when he heard the door above him open and close quickly. The furtiveness of the sound struck Beau as odd. Dimming his energy to an even lower level than that he used for the tourists, Beau started to investigate, but stopped when the basement door gave a tentative creak.
As he watched, the transparent figure of a disheveled old man came down the steps holding a filthy canvas cap with a leather bill in his hands. At first Beau thought he was looking at another ghost like himself, but then he realized the man in front of him was in color, not the shaded gray tones of a disembodied spirit. Jinx had told Beau that there was some form of alternate reality in play in the basement. Could it be possible that he, himself, was standing in one dimension and the man with the cap was in another?
The elderly intruder came no farther than the last step, where he now stood nervously looking left and right. Seeming to assure himself that he was, indeed, alone, the man bent over and carefully deposited the cap on the floor. The instant the object left his hand, he turned on his heel and fled back upstairs. Beau heard his steps cross the floor and pause at the back door. An odd little series of taps echoed through the stillness, and then the door opened and closed again.
Before Beau could even begin to surmise why an interloper would break into the shop only to deposit a piece of odd headgear on the basement floor, he felt a breath of wind stir at his back. Turning, Beau watched as a thin, whirling cloud formed on the wall.
After a moment or two, a wavering opening became visible, and the red-haired sorceress, Brenna Sinclair, stepped through. But, like the old man before her, Brenna appeared to be only a projection of her true self. Beau instantly understood that she could not see the basement as he saw it any more than the elderly man possessed that perception. How long that would remain the case, Beau could not guess, but for the moment, it gave him a tactical advantage.
What the Colonel did know, with much greater certainty, was that Brenna Sinclair represented a danger to his friends. She had infiltrated their home. It was Beau’s duty to locate Jinx and give her the information. But how?
He hurriedly looked around the area Miss Tori insisted on calling their “lair.” Nothing seemed out of place with the exception of one or two volumes that had been taken from the bookcase by the fireplace. Then, his eye fell on something lying just at the entrance to the long aisle that ran between the endless rows of shelves stretching so far into the distance they seemed to shrink in enveloping blackness.
Going down on his knee to get a closer look, Beau recognized one of the compressed food pellets Jinx insisted Master Rodney the Rat consume on a daily basis. Allowing his eye to roam over the floor, Beau spotted a second pellet a few feet away. He stood up and moved forward until he found the third and knew he was being presented with a trail to follow.
The Colonel glanced over his shoulder. He saw Brenna Sinclair raise her head as if she were listening to something, but he didn’t have time to find out what. Levitating a few inches into the air, Beau floated down the aisle, following the trail of rat food. As he picked up speed, the rectangle of light behind him grew smaller and smaller.
Previously, Beau had formed no sense of the vastness of the subterranean archive through which he now traveled. He was surprised how many moments passed until he attained its farthest reaches and came to a halt hovering before a door. Reaching forward, he turned the knob, intent upon completing his mission, but found himself staring at a solid wall.
In life, the Colonel had not been a man given to a belief in the fantastical, but after more than two hundred years as a ghost and then having made the acquaintance of magical beings, his opinions had evolved considerably. There must be more to the portal before him than a simple plaster barrier. Perhaps a second latch concealed nearby?
Beau examined the adjacent wall and found nothing. Then, his gaze wandered over the storage boxes piled in the shelves behind him. To his surprise, he recognized the name on one of the labels: James McGregor -- the Masonic brother who found Beau’s body on the battlefield, arranged his funeral, and contacted his wife and daughter to inform them of his demise.
Gliding over to the box, Beau lifted the lid. There, carefully folded and lying on top of the contents, he found McGregor’s Masonic apron. Running his cold, lifeless fingers over the soft lambskin, Beau whispered, “If only you were here to help me, Brother McGregor.”
From somewhere to his left, a voice said, “What service do you require, Brother Longworth?”
Pivoting toward the sound, Beau looked on the face of the man in whose debt he had remained since the day of his own death.
“Brother McGregor,” he said, his words thick with emotion, “how can I ever thank you for the services you have already performed for me and mine?”
“Please,” the other spirit said, “call me James. And any service performed was my great honor, sir.”
Inclining his head in gracious acknowledgement, the Colonel replied, “The honor is mine. To my friends, I am Beau. I can think of no man I would more heartily wish to call friend than you, sir.”
James offered his hand, and to Beau’s immense relief, he was able to take it.
“Then so may it ever be,” James said. “What brings you to the home of the aos sí?”
With as much brevity as he could muster, Beau explained the recent series of events and the significance of Brenna Sinclair’s presence in the basement.
James listened intently, and then said, “The aos sí must be in Shevington, or this sorceress could not have advanced so far beyond the defenses that guard the fairy mound.”
“I have only recently learned of this realm of Shevington,” Beau said, “but I must warn my friends of the danger. Is there a way to access this other plain?”
James shook his head. “Not for ones such as us,” he replied. “We are but shades of our mortal selves.”
“There must be a way,” Beau insisted. “We are both military men, sir. I am not yet ready to admit defeat.”
By this time, they had both floated over to the door. James studied the portal for a moment and then said, as if suddenly struck by inspiration, “We buried you with your pocket watch, did we not, Beau?”
“You did,” the Colonel replied. “Why?”
“Although I see the haunting aspect of the watch chain there on your vest,” James said, “the object itself still exists in this stream of time, even if it does lie encased in your casket. Although I was in life but a mere dabbler in things alchemical, I believe that if you attempt to cast the watch through the entrance to Shevington, it will reform as whole matter on the other side. It is but the slightest of chances, but if your young friend were to see your watch, would she interpret it as a message?”
“She would,” Beau said without hesitation. “Miss Jinx is a most remarkable woman. But, how do we move beyond the solid barrier presented by this wall?”
James smiled. “Due to the role my family has long played in the life of Shevington,” he said, “I can, in that respect, be of assistance.”
At that, he held his hand aloft and began to softly chant in a language Beau did not recognize. To his amazement, the plaster drew away until they were looking through the opening into a beautiful, sunlit mountain meadow.
“Is all of Shevington like that?” Beau asked, pointing toward the scene.
“Like that,” James said, “and ever so much more. But please, make haste, I do not know how long I can hold the portal open.”
Beau reached down and drew out his heavy
pocket watch, unfastening the chain from his vest. “What are the chances that Miss Jinx will find this?” he asked.
“I do not know,” James admitted, “but the entrances to The Valley are patrolled. Perhaps, at the very least, the watch will be taken to the Lord High Mayor.”
Gathering the timepiece and chain in his hand, Beau lobbed them through the opening, but before they could hit the ground, a flash of iridescent blue careened across their view, snatching the watch in mid-air, and flying rapidly away.
“Damnation,” James swore under his breath.
“What was that creature?” Beau asked.
“That,” James said, “was a dragonlet and I fear, Brother Longworth, that our tenuous plan has now gone terribly awry.”
21
For what must have been the tenth time, Gemma cut her eyes over to the passenger side of the car. She just could make out Kelly’s profile in the light from the dashboard.
“Kell, are you sure about this?” she asked. “We can still turn around.”
Although Kelly Hamilton was normally soft spoken and the soul of good manners, her frayed nerves couldn’t take much more. Telling Jinx and Tori the truth about what happened back in high school had been stressful enough, but now . . . No. She wasn’t going to think about any of that. She just wanted to check on Jinx and get back home.
“For God’s sake, Gemma,” she snapped, “would I be sitting here in this car with you if I wasn’t sure? This is my idea after all. I just want to see for myself that they’re both okay and then we’ll leave.”
Unperturbed by her friend’s outburst, Gemma replied, “Well, fine, but I have to tell you, I picked a hell of a time to quit smoking.”
“You should have quit years ago,” Kelly said distractedly, looking out the car window at the sign that flashed by declaring, “Welcome to Briar Hollow.”
Gemma sighed. “So you’ve been telling me since we were 16 years old.”
They drove a couple of blocks in silence until, out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw Kelly thumb on the screen of her smartphone -- yet again. “Anything from the girls?” she asked.
Witch at Last: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 3 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) Page 16