Misadventures of a Tongue-Tied Witch: Boxed Set Humorous Witch Series

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Well, your uncle must have used it to escape,” Donovan said, “because he sure didn’t come past us.”

  “He hasn’t had time to get out of the hotel,” Malcolm snapped. “Come on.”

  He led us out of the bedroom and back into the living room, where he went straight to the bank of monitors and turned them on. Standing there in front of the screens, his head jerked slightly as he swiveled it, searching through the images for any sign of Foster.

  “Did he leave b-because he didn’t want us to take the falcon?” I asked.

  “That seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” Malcolm glanced over at me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound that sharp. And I’m sorry about some of the things I said earlier, too.”

  “You should be,” Donovan told him. “I don’t care what you say about me, but – ” He stopped and took a deep breath before continuing, “I don’t know a finer person than Aren. She just wants to help her father.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I told both of them. “Just find Foster.”

  Malcolm leveled an arm and pointed at one of the screens. “There he is! That’s the parking garage.”

  Donovan and I both leaned forward to look closer. We saw a black-and-white image of Foster Flynn scurrying through a garage full of parked cars. He had a bundle of some sort in his arms. I knew it had to be the talisman. It looked like he had wrapped a sheet around it or stuffed it in a pillowcase, or something like that.

  He stopped at an old station wagon with wood paneling on the sides, a vehicle the likes of which I hadn’t seen in years. They must have been popular long before I was even born. As Donovan and I watched, Foster took some keys from his pocket, unlocked the driver’s door of the station wagon, and got behind the wheel.

  Malcolm had taken a cell phone from his pocket. He punched a button and said into it, “My uncle will be leaving the parking garage in a few minutes. Stop him and hold him until I get there.” He sounded a little relieved as he closed the phone and went on, “That ought to keep him from wandering around Las Vegas in the middle of the night. If the two of you want to wait here, I’ll go down and fetch him back.”

  “Does that m-mean you’re going to help us?”

  “I told you, we’ll talk to Foster about it once I get him back up here. If he’s agreeable, we’ll work out some sort of arrangement so you can use that bird for…whatever it is you want to use it for.”

  Donovan pointed at the security monitor and said in a worried voice, “I’m not sure you’re going to be able to fetch him.”

  Malcolm and I turned back quickly to the monitors and saw what he was talking about. Foster had backed out of the parking place and was driving through the garage at a high rate of speed. Even there was no sound with the picture, I could almost hear the station wagon’s tires squealing as he careened around corners on his way down to the ground level. The vehicle seemed to jump from screen to screen as it went out of range of one camera and came into the view of the next.

  “The guard will stop him,” Malcolm said. “He can’t get out.”

  I hoped he was right. I could see the garage exit on the screen now, with a wooden barrier lowered across it and a small enclosure next to it where a uniformed security guard normally sat. The guard was out of his cubbyhole and stood waving his arms to get Foster’s attention as the station wagon barreled toward the exit.

  “He’s not slowing down…” Donovan said.

  “Foster, damn it!” Malcolm exclaimed.

  I held my breath as the guard had to leap frantically out of the way to avoid being run over. The station wagon’s front end slammed into the barrier and shattered it, sending pieces of wood flying wildly into the air. Sparks flew as the undercarriage dragged on the street while Foster hauled the station wagon into a sharp turn.

  “That old thing’s built like a blasted tank!” Malcolm said. “I should have known he’d ram his way out.”

  “Where’s he g-going?” I asked as I clutched Malcolm’s arm without thinking. “We have to find him and get that t-talisman!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a pretty good idea where he’s headed. I’ll go get him.”

  “Yeah, you told us not to worry a few minutes ago, and he still got away,” Donovan said. “We’re coming with you.”

  Malcolm looked like he wanted to argue, but then he jerked his head in a nod.

  “All right, but we can’t waste any time,” he said. “My uncle’s not the only crazy old coot in Vegas!”

  o0o

  The ride down in the elevator seemed to take forever, and then we had to cross a driveway to the parking garage, which filled up one end of the block where the Shamrock sat. At least Malcolm’s car was parked on the ground level, just inside the entrance.

  It wasn’t a car, though, but rather an old Jeep with a canvas roof, the sort of thing you could take off-road into rugged country if you needed to. I hoped we wouldn’t have to do that.

  Malcolm motioned for me to take the passenger seat. That left a little storage area in back that wasn’t really a seat. Donovan didn’t complain about being stuck back there, though. He just climbed in and said, “Let’s go.”

  Malcolm backed out hurriedly and drove to the exit, where he paused long enough to say to the shaken security guard, “Are you all right, Tom?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Flynn,” the man replied. “Skinned my knee a little when I landed, that’s all.”

  “I’ll see to it that you’ve got something extra in your paycheck this week.”

  “Thanks, boss. Say, why was your uncle so eager to get out of here?”

  “It’s a long story,” Malcolm said without offering to tell it. “I’ll get somebody here to fix this gate as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll hold down the fort.”

  Malcolm gave him a nod of thanks and drove out of the garage. From the back of the Jeep, Donovan said, “I guess the people who work for you don’t know about the magic stuff.”

  “That’s right. We’ve always kept that in the family.”

  I said, “We’re the same way. No one knows unless they h-have to.”

  Or unless they find out by accident, like Taylor and Beth had, I thought. It just made things simpler if the public at large had no idea witches and warlocks were real.

  Malcolm drove quickly through the streets of Las Vegas, weaving in and out of the traffic with smooth efficiency. He didn’t say where we were going, and Donovan and I didn’t ask. Malcolm knew his uncle better than anyone else, so he stood the best chance of finding Foster. I was confident that the old-timer wouldn’t do anything to hurt the talisman, but he might hide it where we would never find it.

  Twenty minutes later, Malcolm brought the Jeep to a stop on a side street, not far from the glitz and glamor of the Strip but just out of the neon glare. There were restaurants and nightclubs on both sides of the street, but while most of them were still open, they looked like they had seen better days. Or better nights, actually, since that’s when they would have done most of their business.

  Malcolm had stopped in front of one of the businesses that appeared to be closed. The windows were all boarded up. Posters inside glass display windows were so faded it was hard to make out any details about them. The street was bright enough with the spillover from the Strip for me to read the sign over the door: HOCUS POCUS MAGIC CLUB.

  “Pretty cheesy,” Donovan commented.

  “Thirty years ago the Hocus Pocus was one of the hottest nightspots in town,” Malcolm said. “Some of the best magicians and illusionists in the country played here.”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t practice real magic.”

  “Most of them didn’t,” Malcolm said.

  I asked, “Did your uncle do stage m-magic?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “No, but this was his hang-out anyway. He was friends with all the magicians, especially the ones who were actual warlocks. This is where they would get together on nights that the club was closed to the public. They still do.”<
br />
  “The place is abandoned,” Donovan pointed out.

  “It just looks that way. The owner, Wally Fontaine – the Amazing Fontana, he called himself when he was performing – still lets his old friends use it.” Malcolm nodded toward the building. “I’d be willing to bet Foster is in there right now. He probably called his friends and had them meet him here.”

  “Why would he d-do that?” I asked.

  “So they can help him protect the falcon from the two of you,” Malcolm answered bluntly as he got out of the Jeep.

  Donovan and I joined him. Malcolm motioned to the alley beside the club and said, “You can wait out here if you want, while I go in and get him.”

  “We’ve come this f-far,” I said. “We’ll go with you.”

  “Is this because you don’t trust me?”

  “Let’s just say we’ll feel better if we can keep an eye on you,” Donovan said.

  Malcolm shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” He started toward the alley. Donovan and I hurried to keep up with his long-legged strides.

  I didn’t want to think about what we might step in or run into as we went along the dark, dingy alley beside the magic club. We had already risked a lot to try to help my dad and Donovan’s mother, so a little urban exploring wasn’t anything to balk at. I shuddered, though, as I heard something scurry away from us and visualized a big Las Vegas rat. Maybe dressed as an Elvis impersonator.

  That thought almost made me giggle, but I controlled the impulse. It was just because I was nervous, anyway, and I knew that.

  We came to a side door. Malcolm tried the knob, then said under his breath, “I was afraid of that. It’s locked. Foster and his friends must have locked it behind them when they went in.”

  “If they’re even here,” Donovan said, still not sounding convinced.

  At that moment something hit me with such force that I staggered against Donovan. The impact wasn’t a physical one. It was something I felt on an entirely different level.

  “Aren, what – ” Donovan said as his arms tightened around me.

  “They’re in there, all right,” I said breathlessly. “I can s-sense them. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, Donovan, not even when your mother and my d-dad were fighting. They’re using magic, and they’ve got the talisman helping them!”

  Chapter 20

  “We’ve got to get in there!” Donovan said. “They may make themselves so powerful we’ll never get the falcon away from them.”

  I knew he was right. I’d been hesitant to use witchcraft before, because I didn’t want to alert Foster and his friends to our presence at the magic club. But since they were already trying to put some sort of spell in place in there, they might not notice somebody else using magic in the vicinity.

  Anyway, there was no time to waste. I thrust a hand at the door and sang, “Open the door right away, do it now, without delay.”

  The door didn’t just open. It blew inward, right off its hinges.

  Malcolm stared at me for a second, then said, “Well, now they probably know we’re coming.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. I could still feel the power inside the club pounding against me, like the heavy waves along the seawall back home. I was getting used to it, so it didn’t throw me for a loop anymore. “They’re pretty b-busy.”

  Donovan didn’t hesitate. He plunged through the broken door into the darkness inside. Malcolm went after him. I hurried after them, bringing up the rear. Again, I hoped I wouldn’t step on a rat or anything else disgusting. I was definitely having second thoughts about wearing my cute dressy sandals.

  After a moment I realized the club wasn’t completely dark inside. I could see the two of them in front of me, their shapes moving against a faint glow from somewhere up ahead. We were in a hallway when my eyes began to adjust to the light. The door I had knocked down was probably the stage door entrance, so we ought to be backstage somewhere.

  Donovan and Malcolm went around a corner and came to an abrupt stop. I moved up between them so I could see. The light was brighter now. We were in the wings to one side of the club’s stage. The curtains were open, so I could see out into the area where the audience had once sat. The tables and chairs were still there, but all the chairs were turned upside-down on the tables and a thick layer of dust lay over everything. That was true of the curtains as well. I had a feeling that if I shook them, the air would fill with so much dust it would be like fog.

  I took all that in at a glance. Most of my attention was focused on the men standing in a circle in the middle of the stage. There were twelve of them, and in the middle of the circle stood Foster Flynn, the thirteenth member of the coven. A small spotlight was shining on Foster. He held the green falcon in his gnarled old hands, lifting it above his head as he chanted. The other warlocks were chanting as well. Their voices were cracked and garbled, because they were all about the same age as Foster, and I couldn’t make out the words. I knew whatever spell they were trying to cast, though, it couldn’t be anything good for Donovan and me.

  “Foster!” Malcolm shouted. “Stop that!”

  The warlocks ignored him. I stared wide-eyed at the falcon as a nimbus of energy began to form around it. The air crackled, like it does before a thunderstorm, and I seemed to smell rain. I knew that was just the atmosphere around the talisman ionizing, but what should have been a good smell was sinister and menacing to me at that moment.

  Donovan lunged forward, like a linebacker intent on breaking through the circle of warlocks around Foster and tackling him. He only made it a couple of steps before a bolt of force sprang from the talisman and struck him, throwing him backward. I cried out in alarm as he slammed down on the stage and slid to a stop at my feet.

  I dropped to my knees beside him. He appeared to be stunned but not really hurt. “D-Donovan!” I said anxiously as I leaned over him. “Donovan, are you all right?”

  A wind started to whip up inside the Hocus Pocus Club. Malcolm said, “I can’t fight this! I’m not a warlock!”

  I looked up at him. The wind blew his thick sandy hair around. The supreme self-confidence bordering on arrogance I had seen in him earlier was gone. He was out of his element here and he knew it.

  But I wasn’t. From the wings of the stage, I raised a hand toward the warlocks gathered in the center of it and sang over the rising howl of the wind, “Let their words cease, let their voices still, make them unable to cast a spell. Thicken their tongues and muddle their minds, end this threat in the nick of time!”

  The rhyming wasn’t very good, I know. But I wasn’t going for a Top Ten song hit here. I just wanted to stop them from doing what they were doing.

  The wind was almost hard enough to blow us over, but with one final gust, it suddenly stopped. In the center of the circle, Foster Flynn staggered, taking an unsteady step one way and then the other. His arms sagged as he lowered the talisman.

  “Whass…whass goin’ on here?” he demanded in a loud, slurred voice.

  The other warlocks started stumbling around as well, some of them mumbling incoherently while others struggled to form questions. The circle fell apart as they weaved and staggered.

  Donovan pushed himself up into a sitting position and said, “Good Lord. They’re all drunk!”

  He was right. My thoughts flashed back to that riot at the Twin Palms Club in Corpus Christi a few nights earlier. Some of the guests there had been almost too drunk to stand up, and that seemed to be the case here at the Hocus Pocus, too.

  As usual, one of my spells had had a somewhat different effect than what I’d intended. I had thought the spell would make them unable to talk or think straight for a few minutes, which would prevent them from completing the spell they were trying to cast. That was the result, all right, but not exactly the way I’d planned on accomplishing it.

  Malcolm started toward his uncle. “Foster, give me that bird,” he said.

  That was probably a mistake. Even drunk, Foster knew he didn’t want to hand over t
he talisman. He clutched it to him and yelled, “No! It’s mine! You can’t have it! Shtop…shtop him, boys!”

  Several of the old men lurched into Malcolm’s way. He was bigger, stronger, and faster, and I didn’t doubt that he could have bulled his way right through them, especially in their inebriated condition, knocking them off their feet.

  But he hesitated, and I could tell that he didn’t want to hurt them. They were his uncle’s friends, after all, and not only that, they had to remind him of Foster as well. Their powers had faded along with their youth, and they were just trying to regain some of what they had once had. The same thing might happen to me if I lived long enough.

  That didn’t stop me from being angry with them. They weren’t just getting in Malcolm’s way, they were keeping me from rescuing my father. That anger welled up inside me, and I started to sweep a hand toward them to knock them aside with a wall of mystical force.

  Donovan gripped my wrist and stopped me. “Aren,” he said, “you don’t want to do that. Not really. Old bones are too brittle.”

  He was right, of course, and I realized that as soon as I got my emotions under control. But there was still the matter of getting our hands on that talisman, which had just become harder because I saw Foster running unsteadily off the other side of the stage with the falcon tucked under his arm.

  “He’s g-getting away!” I cried.

  Donovan leaped to his feet. He and Malcolm waded into the warlocks, trying to move them aside without hurting them. I took advantage of that distraction to circle around to the back of the stage and dart past them.

  Foster had disappeared among the lights and the rigging and all the backstage apparatus of a magic club. I heard his footsteps, though, as he ran through the shadows. By following the echoing sounds, I was able to close in on him. I was a lot younger than he was, and sober, to boot. But I ran into a couple of walls along the way, not hard enough to do any damage to myself, but the collisions definitely slowed me down.

  “Aren!” Donovan called from somewhere behind me. He and Malcolm must have gotten pasted the drunken warlocks. “Aren, where are you?”