The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7)

by Juliette Harper

  In response, a curtain dragged itself across the arched entryway. Woven into the pattern in my handwriting was the message, “Please do not disturb. Thanks, Jinx.”

  That made me laugh, but when I stepped through the curtain into the cozy space, I immediately appreciated just how considerate the fairy mound had been. The covering didn’t just shield me from prying eyes; it substituted the soothing sounds of a forest and running water for any external noise.

  When I retreated to the alcove with my new grimoire, I had the curtain open and was sitting in the desk chair looking at the book and thinking. Under the desk, my feet bumped against the leather satchel my mother passed on to me months before. It contained all the private notebooks kept by my matrilineal ancestors.

  Next to the chair, Dílestos reclined in a softly padded niche created specifically for her comfort. I knew the staff felt contented because the raw quartz set atop the polished oak pulsated slowly and emitted a barely discernible but completely companionable hum.

  I thought I was alone until Festus McGregor sauntered into the alcove, jumped into the easy chair, circled three times, and lay down with a sigh. Festus lives in his small werecat form to better accommodate the limitations of a lame hip. In their large form, both he and Chase are mountain lions.

  “Well,” I said, eyeing him a little sardonically, “make yourself at home.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” the ginger tom said placidly. “It’s nice in here.”

  “It is,” I agreed, “but I don’t know why the fairy mound decided to make a space especially for me now.”

  “Because you need it,” Festus replied without hesitation. “That’s how the fairy mound works. It sensed you needed some place for private reflection and created it for you. This alcove should come in pretty handy when you’re up to something you want to hide from the rest of us.”

  He delivered the last line with an eye whisker waggle that told me he already had me dead to rights. Trust me, if you need a fast buck, play cards with me. I can’t bluff to save my life — at least not with someone who knows me as well as Festus does.

  I might have dated the son, but I also cultivated a good friendship with the father. Festus can be an irascible old coot at times, but he’s also one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known — with two legs or four. If I told him what I was working on, the information would never leave the alcove.

  I stood and pulled the curtain over the archway.

  Festus fixed me with a satisfied cat face. “I thought so,” he said. “What are you up to?”

  “I asked Hiram Folger to do me a favor,” I replied.

  This time those ever-expressive eye whiskers drew together in a decidedly feline frown. “You mean the dead guy out at the cemetery? The one who pitches on the baseball team?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You know that Tori and Beau have ghosts from all over the south wanting to play in the Dead Majors?”

  Through an odd series of events, I had a sort of ectoplasmic, ball-playing Pinkerton Detective Agency at my disposal. After Beau became solid and moved in with us, Tori got him interested in baseball. Soon interest turned to obsession, and the Colonel organized his deceased friends at the graveyard into two opposing teams.

  When a trio of local ghost hunters — one of whom was currently employed upstairs as our barista — managed to get footage of a game in progress, the video went viral on YouTube. Although I’m still not sure how, a ghost buried in the Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville, Kentucky got wind of the incident.

  Said spirit happened to be Henry Clay Pulliam, the deceased 1906 president of the National League, who contacted our spirits about organizing a league for players from the other side.

  Beau and Tori wanted to do it, but I only got on board after we struck a deal with the local team. The Briar Hollow ghosts could play and even host out-of-graveyard opponents, but in exchange, they had to become our actual “spooks” — as in intelligence agents. When you’re constantly the target of outlaw Creavit, you want boots on the ground even if they’re transparent.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I know about the League. Me and Rube are planning to make book on the season.”

  Rube, a raccoon, works as a containment specialist with the International Registry for Shapeshifters and does undercover work for the Division for Grid Integrity. I know Rube through Lucas Grayson and his partner, Greer MacVicar. The Mother Tree recently assigned the two DGI agents to work with me, and they’ve become lair regulars along with the rest of us.

  Holding up my hand to stop Festus, I said, “Don’t tell me. Ignorance is bliss where you and Rube are concerned.”

  “Fine,” Festus sniffed, “but I was going to offer to cut you in.”

  “Moving on,” I said. “I asked Hiram if he could get me in touch with someone inside the Raleigh ghost community. He talked to a dead player for the Raleigh Capitals and came up with a name.”

  Festus eyed me with an odd mixture of suspicion and admiration. “Are you trying to recruit outside the legal process and run in a ringer? Because if you’re into game-fixing that sophisticated? I have serious respect for you.”

  “What? No! Festus!” I said. “Could you get your mind off gambling and listen to me? I’m trying to get us a lead on where Chesterfield went the night Connor and Gareth got away from him.”

  Chesterfield kidnapped my brother, but Connor escaped aided by a somewhat hapless amateur alchemist named Gareth who had been trapped inside a chess set since 1890. Gareth managed to transport them both inside Chesterfield’s fountain pen and back out again when the wizard absent-mindedly left the writing instrument in his Raleigh hotel room.

  We believe he went to meet with a thief named John Smyth to arrange to buy the Amulet of Caorunn, another Fae pendant, but this one crafted from amber derived from the Mother Rowan and encasing three rowan berries.

  “Do Barnaby and Moira know about this?” Festus asked.

  “No.”

  “Lucas and Greer?”

  “No.”

  “That uptight boy of mine?”

  “No,” I said, with exasperation. “Let’s not turn this into a game of twenty questions. You’re the only person I’ve told.”

  “What’s up with that?” he asked, with genuine curiosity.

  “I’m tired of running around like some little kid asking permission from the grown-ups,” I said. “Does everything have to be some major coordinated plan all the time?”

  “It does not,” Festus said, with a note of approval.

  I started to thank him and then realized that would more or less contradict my little declaration of witchly independence. I swear to you the old cat read my mind and bailed me out.

  “So,” he said, “who did the dead guy tell you to see?”

  “Mary Willis Mordecai Turk,” I replied.

  Festus’ eyes expanded. “That can’t be her real name,” he said.

  “I’m afraid it is,” I replied. “She haunts a place called Mordecai House that dates to around 1758.”

  “When you say ‘haunt,’ exactly what do you mean?” he asked warily.

  “What’s the matter, fraidy cat?” I said. “Since when do you have a problem with ghosts?”

  From time to time the spirit of Festus’ father, James makes an appearance in the lair, usually to have a conversation with Beau. The two of them are Lodge brothers. James found Beau’s body on the battlefield back in 1864 and arranged for him to have a Masonic funeral. That act of kindness created a bond between them that no form of death can shatter.

  “For your information,” Festus said, “I’ve gotten enough ectoplasm in my fur from hacked off haunts to last me through all nine lives and then some. If this one is a slimer, I’m not your cat.”

  “Who said I wanted you to go talk to her?” I asked, feigning innocence.”

  “Oh, please,” Festus scoffed. “How are you supposed to take a hop through the Raleigh portal without someone noticing? I go up there all the time.”

  I sighed.
“Okay, busted. Will you do it?”

  “Sure,” he said. “What do you want me to find out?”

  Opening the top drawer of my desk, I pulled out a map of Raleigh and laid it on the ottoman in front of the chair. Festus sat up and leaned over to look at the map.

  “This,” I said, pointing to a spot, “is the hotel where Chesterfield stayed the night Connor and Gareth escaped, and this is Miss Shania Moonbeam’s Divinatory Emporium where they asked for help thinking she was the real magical deal.”

  “Miss Shania is the real deal alright,” Festus muttered, “a real deal nutcase.”

  “Now stop that,” I said. “She’s very nice, just a little over the top.”

  “Whatever,” Festus muttered, still studying the map. “This is interesting,” he said, pointing with the tip of one claw. “Look how close the hotel is to Chesterfield’s old apartment.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “The restaurant where he met with John Smyth has to be close, but there’s always the possibility he took a cab somewhere. I’m hoping Mrs. Turk can put the word out on the ghost grapevine. If a spirit saw Chesterfield and this Smyth character, maybe we can get some real information on their meeting.”

  “As in, did any goods trade hands?” Festus said. “Okay, I like it. I’ll go talk to Mrs. Turkey.”

  “Do not start, Festus,” I warned. “You be polite to this woman. She’s been haunting the house since 1937. She wears a gray dress and plays the piano. Sometimes she only appears as a mist. Very benign stuff. I figure you can get in and out unseen.”

  “Of course I can,” Festus said, puffing out his chest. “I’m a professional. If she can help us narrow the search, I can talk to the street cats and see what they know.”

  That took me off guard. “Street cats?” I asked. “You don’t mean other werecats, do you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Festus said, stretching and yawning. “I mean street ferals. I may be a werecat, but I do speak Felinese with a perfect North American accent. How do you think I talk to your cats?”

  “About that,” I said, “are you the one who put it in Yule’s head that nothing but pâté is acceptable?”

  “I just explained to him the delicate art of the protest barf,” Festus chuckled. “Did he get your shoes like I told him to?”

  “He did,” I said, “but I’m a little surprised you eat cat food. I’ve never seen you eat anything but human food.”

  “I get hungry for something ethnic now and then,” Festus said, “but that crap you’re feeding your guys is disgusting. I mean seriously, would you eat anything labeled ‘chopped grill’ that costs forty cents a can?”

  “Well, I . . . I never thought about it,” I sputtered.

  “I suggest you get on that,” Festus said, hopping to the floor and switching his tail. “If your guys don’t start seeing some quality tuna and salmon coming through the door, I’m moving them up to advanced regurgitation resistance tactics. You’ve been warned. I’ll get back to you on the Mrs. Turkey thing.”

  And with that, he slid through the curtain and was gone.

  2

  Still inwardly grumbling from the impromptu lecture about my cat care standards, I drew the drape aside covering the mirror hanging over my desk. Concentrating on the center of the surface, I chanted the words of the calling spell and watched as the silver rippled and spun. When it stabilized, my brother’s face grinned back at me.

  “Hey, sis!” Connor greeted me. “What’s up?”

  As part of our search to recover Connor from Chesterfield’s clutches, Barnaby revealed the shocking news that I have magic on both sides of the family. Dad descends from a family of Druids who lived in the Orkney Islands called the Skeas.

  The first Skea in the New World, Alexander, married the founder of our magical line, a Cherokee woman named Knasgowa, who was Barnaby’s daughter by his second wife. Here’s the tricky part, though. Alexander wasn’t a Skea.

  Brenna Sinclair was his mother, which is a big deal because Creavit theoretically can’t bear or father children. Enter shipwreck survivor Hamish Crawford.

  Hamish and Brenna had a thing, resulting in Hamish being a baby daddy. Then he found out he’d been sleeping with a witch. That news might be a little tough for any guy to take, but Hamish was deeply religious.

  I assume he decided that you could only fight magic with magic since he went to local Druid Duncan Skea for help. Together they imprisoned Brenna in a cave, and then Duncan took the baby to raise.

  Fast forward to that child’s grandson, Alexander, who came to this country in 1787 to get away from his scary great-grandmother, Brenna, newly busted out of her cave.

  That part of the story I already knew. The revelation came in the form of a “brother,” Duncan Skea the Younger, who followed Alexander to the New World. Even though they weren’t related by blood, the men were raised together.

  Alexander refused to put Duncan in danger from Brenna, so Duncan changed his last name to Hamilton and stayed close by. Eight generations later, my Dad, Jeff Hamilton, married Kelly Ryan.

  The magic I have comes from the matrilineal line and is recessive in males. The Skea magic is patrilineal. By combining my blood and Dad’s, we used a tsavorite amulet to track Connor to Chesterfield’s hidden lair.

  But there were side effects. Aren’t there always?

  The spell awakened Connor’s magic and Dad’s.

  Working with Barnaby and Moira, Connor is making slow and steady progress toward controlling his powers. The first thing he wanted to master was using mirrors to place calls to us in Briar Hollow.

  As for our father, he’s on a suppression potion to control his erratically emerging abilities.

  I know, I know. That sounds like I’m drugging my Dad to control him — because I am.

  There was no other way short of letting him burn down this side of the town square. Before the potion, all he had to do was walk in a room for light bulbs to explode and electronics to fry. I’m pretty sure when Dad gets a handle on things he’s not going to be a slacker in the hocus pocus department, but right now, he’s a total menace.

  “Hey yourself,” I said to Connor. “You’re getting good at this mirror thing.”

  “Answering calls is easy,” he said, “but yesterday when I tried to call Mom, I got through to Mrs. Shinglebutter by mistake. She spent fifteen minutes trying to understand why I would call her when she lives so close to the stables and I could have just walked over.”

  Behind Connor, a short, round man in a monk’s habit stuck his head into the picture. “Hi, Jinx,” he said, waving. “I’m on my way to Moira’s, but I wanted to say hello.”

  “Hi Gareth,” I said. “How are you and Dewey getting along?”

  Dewey, Moira’s dwarf assistant, was not amused when the alchemist decided to take Gareth on as an apprentice.

  From the way Gareth’s face fell, I knew the answer already. “I’m trying,” he said, “but Dewey insists on making everything I do a confrontation. I moved a beaker yesterday, and he threatened to take my head off — literally. He was holding an ax when he said it.”

  I started to point out that Dewey was too short to take Gareth’s head off, but decided that wouldn’t sound sympathetic. “Did you try what Darby suggested?” I asked.

  In one of the great paradoxes of true friendship, my perpetually happy little friend and the ever-contentious dwarf are best buddies.

  “I’m stopping by Madame Kaveh’s on my way to the workshop,” Gareth said mournfully. “But I’m not sure a dozen sugar coated fried pastries will help.”

  “But they probably won’t hurt,” I said encouragingly. “Good luck.”

  Gareth waved good-bye. I heard him cross the oak floorboards in Connor’s apartment over the tack room. When the door opened and closed, I asked Connor, “Think the bribe will work?”

  “I doubt it,” he said. “Dewey doesn’t like changes. He treats me pretty much the same way when I show up for my lessons.”

  Another face cam
e into view, this one covered in soft gray fur and dominated by enormous sad eyes. “Pretty lady come to Ailish’s house today?” the creature asked.

  Ailish, an Elven Gray Loris, is Connor’s constant companion, but she has developed a major crush on me.

  “Not today, Ailish,” I said, “but soon.”

  That won me an enormous sigh. “Soon never come fast,” she said, climbing down Connor’s arm.

  “She does guilt better than our mother,” I said, shaking my head. “I feel like I just walked away from an abandoned puppy in a rain storm.”

  “Try living with her,” Connor said.

  “Isn’t it morning in Shevington?” I asked. “I didn’t work out the time difference before I called.”

  “Mid-morning,” he said. “I finished mucking out the stalls and feeding the animals early, so Ellis let me take a couple of hours off to work on a commission for a client. Want to see?”

  Connor works for Ellis Groomsby in the Shevington stables, but he does leather work on the side. As I watched, he turned toward his workbench under the dormer window and held up a pair of gauntlets. One bore an intricately tooled family crest at the wrist.

  “I just finished the first one,” he said. “They’re dragon master gauntlets.”

  The only dragons indigenous to North America, Draco Americanus Minor, are about the size of a large dog. Some Fae communities in Eastern Europe still maintain flights of Draco Europa Major. I’ve never seen one, but the pictures look like what you’d expect from a storybook.

  “You’re working for a European client?” I said. “How’d that happen?”

  In theory, a huge rift exists between the New and Old World Fae, but the more I learn about the politics of the Otherworld, the more the division strikes me as artificial and anachronistic.

  In 1584, Barnaby led a group of Fae settlers to the New World ostensibly to colonize Roanoke Island for Sir Walter Raleigh. The ruse hid their escape from the turmoil of the Fae Reformation. The social and ideological conflict pitted “made” or Creavit witches like Brenna Sinclair and Irenaeus Chesterfield against natural or Hereditarium practitioners like my grandfather.