Addicted Witch: A Jagged Grove Mystery

by Willow Monroe

  The two of them exchange another look, and Jones says, “Actually, I’ve seen her hanging around with Penley Crowder quite a bit recently. Imala and I were just discussing it this morning.”

  I shake my head, excited that he knows anything. “Who is that?” I ask.

  “He’s a little older than her, maybe twenty-one. He works at Hex Squared, over behind the Crystal Cup on Gossimar Street.”

  I know that name. Hex Squared. I’ve heard it recently...

  “But Trinket, he lives in the Colony.”

  “Oh.”

  The Colony, in American terms, would be the wrong side of the tracks. Folks who live there don’t like the way Angelo is always around, trying to keep everyone peaceful. They would much rather go full anarchist and sort problems out themselves, whether the results are disastrous or not. Living on the other side of the island is their way of saying, leave us alone.

  Mostly, everyone does.

  “Why would Rain be hanging out with those kids?” I ask.

  “Good question. And the fact that Penley works at the Hex worries me even more.”

  I struggle to remember where I’ve heard that name before. “Why?” I ask.

  “Hex is the place you go to get your less-that-white magical supplies. Root-working, hoodoo, that sort of thing. The kind of magic that kids their age really shouldn’t be playing with.”

  “Do you think she’s in trouble?” I ask.

  “No, but just the fact that she’s hanging around with Penley, and I assume Phry, is enough to worry me.” Jones stands up straight.

  “Wait - Phry? Guthrie Phry?” Now I know where I’ve heard that name.

  “The one and only,” Imala says. She shivers a little. “That guy gives me the creeps.”

  Guthrie Phry, the man who is capable of dissolving my bond with Angelo, is the owner of Hex Squared. I remember Blakely mentioning it. “And you think Rain is hanging around with them?” I ask.

  But why? She loves the healing arts, so how could she be interested in dark magic?

  Jones must have seen the worry in my eyes, because he walks over to put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s probably nothing, Trinket. Maybe she’s got a crush on the boy, and she isn’t interested in anything else. She’s a smart girl, so I know she’ll be careful.”

  He’s right, she is a smart girl. But still... Suddenly I feel like crying, for some reason. “She didn’t show up for work today, Jones. She never, ever misses time at the clinic.”

  He nods and I see my concern mirrored in his own dark eyes. “I’ll go by there later. Maybe ask a few questions. Will that make you feel better?”

  I nod.

  “You,” he says, “Stop by and see your mother. Maybe Rain is home now, and we’re all worried for nothing.”

  She isn’t, I know she isn’t. Otherwise, she would have come to the clinic this morning.

  When I leave them, I head for Mom’s house anyway, just in case.

  She’s napping, so I don’t hang around long. I take a few minutes to check for donuts and any other goodies, then head for home. The idea of going back to the clinic today, without Rain, makes my stomach churn.

  The air is frigid now, and I see a few flakes of snow floating here and there when the wind isn’t gusting. Normally I like snowstorms, and I’d be happy to snuggle in and enjoy it, but now I’m too worried. I hope Rain is somewhere safe. I hope she’s warm and dry and with people who care about her. Then I shake off some of the worry. Of course she is - otherwise she would have come home by now. Like Jones said, she’s a smart girl. I just have to trust that she’s OK.

  I let myself into the house and go to put on my flannel PJs. I snap my fingers to start a fire in the fireplace, grab a book about mineral essences and get cozy on the sofa. Every time the wind howls and rattles the windows, I jump a little and hope that Rain is OK.

  Sometime after midnight, the electricity goes out.

  Chapter 4

  Bright and early the next morning, I’m standing on the front porch of Hex Squared. Guthrie Phry’s shop, oddly enough, looks more like an abandoned house than a store. I’m glad to see a light on inside, until I remember that the electricity is still out. This makes my steps falter for a second, but then the wind kicks up again, blowing me down the walk toward the door.

  There is no closed sign, but then there isn’t one that says open, either, so I hesitate in the lightly falling snow. Do I knock or go on in?

  I grip the handle and open the door, half-surprised to find it unlocked. Apparently, Phry is here, so why does my heartbeat speed up when I step inside?

  The interior of the store is vintage 1950s gas station, complete with wooden shelves and the smell of old dust. Three aisles run perpendicular to the front of the store, all of them filled with various magical supplies - candles, bags of herbs and altar supplies - brass bowls, wands, athames. I even spot a few pentagram-shaped altar tiles stacked here and there. One shelf holds leather bound books, probably blank grimoires. Other than that, the place appears to be empty.

  “Hello?” I ask the room quietly, then hear a rustling noise off to my right. I turn to see a sales counter in the corner, stacked haphazardly with boxes and a plate of what looks like someone’s grilled cheese sandwich. “Hello?” I say again, louder.

  “Help you?”

  His voice startles me. The man that comes from around the counter is tall and almost painfully thin. His skin is dark and leathery, like he’s been left out in the sun for a few summers too many. With thinning gray hair sticking out in a fringe around his otherwise bald head, he looks a little manic.

  I know he wasn’t there a minute ago. “Hi,” I answer, stepping toward the counter. “Are you Guthrie Phry?”

  He hesitates, then nods sharply. “I am. How can I help you?”

  Everything about his posture is telling me to stay away, so I don’t come any closer. “I was told that you could help me,” I answer. “I need to break a handfast bond.”

  To my surprise, he laughs. The sound is grating. “You have to be Trinket,” he says. “Blakely told me you might come by - he said to be nice to you.”

  I frown, but don’t ask. Instead, I say, “So? Can you help?”

  “I can, I can. No problem.” He bobs his head so hard that his hair wavers around his ears, but the rest of him doesn’t move at all.

  “OK...what do I need to do?” I shift from one foot to the other and stuff my hands into my pockets. Now that I’m here and I have his assurance, I’m not sure what’s next.

  His eyes flicker past me, toward the door, then back to my face. “Where is your mate?” he asks.

  I feel myself blush at the intimacy of the term. “He’s not here - he had to go to the mainland.”

  Guthrie stiffens at that. His whole body jerks a little, as if he’s been slapped. “The mainland?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. “Who is he?”

  “Angelo.” I don’t elaborate. Everyone on the island knows who Angelo is, and I’m a little surprised that Guthrie doesn’t already know.

  Underneath the dark skin, he goes pale.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  He shakes his head too hard. “No, no! Of course not. I know Angelo, and I can do the ritual in an afternoon.”

  “OK...?” I keep hoping that Guthrie will give me an elixir, or maybe just do the ritual now, but it doesn’t look like it.

  “Oh. Um. Bring him back here.” He scratches his head and looks pat me, toward the front door. “I’ll need fresh blood samples from both of you.”

  My heart sinks. Angelo, the hero of the island, has a deep dark secret - he’s afraid of his own blood. He can handle it if it belongs to someone else, but his own makes him faint. I wouldn’t know this, except for the fact that he needed a physical a few weeks ago, and I was the only one qualified to do it. Just the sight of the needle made him squeak, and he wasn’t capable of speaking for a full minute. Then, when he nodded the OK, I took one step closer and he fainted and fell off my exam table. It took me an
d both the twins to hoist him off the ground.

  Getting him to let Guthrie have a sample will take some very fast talking. “OK. Is there anything else we need?”

  He still looks like he might bolt any moment. “No. Just bring yourselves.” Then he pauses. “When do you think you’ll be back?” he asks.

  I wrinkle my nose as I think. “It will be at least a few days. Maybe this weekend?”

  He scratches his head. “With the storm coming, I don’t know if I’ll be here then. How about next Monday?”

  “Oh, right.” I’d forgotten about the storm. “That’s fine.”

  I leave the store with the distinct impression that Guthrie Phry is terrified of Angelo, and I can’t figure out why that might be.

  Then I go home and worry about whether I’m doing the right thing. Now that I have a solution to my problem, I’m wondering if I’m about to make a big mistake.

  Angelo makes it home just as the storm hits, two days later. It’s as if the wind blows him banging in through the door, and his dark hair is covered in white.

  He’s out of breath and grinning. “I ran from the docks,” he laughs, shaking off the snow, and just like that, my life feels good again. I refuse to think about what that means, so I smile back and turn away while he’s kicking off his boots.

  “Where is the Jeep?” I ask.

  “I let Glade keep it.”

  “Oh. Hungry?” I ask, heading for the kitchen, already knowing the answer. Of course he’s hungry. Angelo is always hungry. He pads along behind me. “I made tacos.”

  “Mm, tacos.” He grabs me from behind and gives me a hard hug. “Missed you,” he says into my ear.

  Why, oh why, does he have to make this so hard?

  I reach up and pat him on the head, then squirm out of his grasp. It would be so easy to just roll with it, but that’s not a good idea. Still, I can’t deny how everything seems more vibrant, now that he’s here.

  I pull out plates and silverware to set the table, jumping a little when the wind catches a shutter outside and rattles it like gunshots

  “You all right?” he asks.

  I nod. “Rain is still missing, though. I’m worried for her.”

  He grabs the bowls of meat and veggies and carries them to the table, then turns back for the shells. I watch him move around the kitchen and fight my urge to step into his arms. Instead, I sit down and start putting together my meal.

  He sits across from me and studies my face before answering. “Glade and I saw her at the docks just a few minutes ago,” he says.

  I start to stand, but he reaches over to stop me with a hand on mine.

  “Relax. She’s fine,” he says, but he’s frowning.

  “What, then? Where has she been?”

  He sighs. “She’s hanging out with a kid named Penley Crowder. He’s...not the most upstanding person on the island.”

  This fits with what Jones told me. “He’s into dark magic, right?” I ask, hoping that that part at least was a mistake.

  No luck. Angelo nods.

  I notice that he’s not eating. “What else?” I ask, apprehension tickling my spine.

  “She said to tell you that she doesn’t want to work for you anymore.” His voice is low, like he regrets having to say the words.

  I blink. stunned. “But she loves the clinic...”

  “She’s confused, I think.” He’s trying to make me feel better.

  “No, Angelo.” I shake my head. “She was confused and lost when we found her. This is...this is more...I don’t know. Turning her back on her life.” I stand up. “I’m going to find her. Something is wrong.”

  He stands up too, and steps over to block my way. His eyes are sad and determined, all at once. “Trinket, stop. You won’t find her. She doesn’t want to be found, at least not right now. Besides...” He gestures toward the windows.

  I look to see that the blowing snow has become a complete whiteout. I couldn’t find my way off the porch, much less find a girl who is probably safely tucked away somewhere with her new boyfriend. My shoulders slump. Tears threaten, so I turn away and head for the stairs to go to my room. Suddenly, I’m not hungry at all.

  Angelo follows, pacing my footsteps up the stairs. In my room, he slips in before I can close the door, but I’m too exhausted to remind him that this room is off limits. He fills up the space.

  I sit down on the bed, and he kneels in front of me. “Talk to me,” he says quietly, taking my hands and searching my face for clues to my misery.

  I open my mouth, but then close it again. How do I explain what I barely comprehend?

  “Remember when I first met Rain?” I asked. “How she held so much of herself back? How she let Glade do all the talking and was barely able to meet our eyes?”

  He nods.

  “Remember how I thought it wasn’t a good idea for Mom to take them in?”

  He smiles. “You underestimated Bilda.”

  “I did,” I agreed. “And the twins, too. Rain turned into this gorgeous young woman with a future.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Angelo said.

  “It is. But now it feels like she’s just throwing all of that back in our faces. Like, OK, thanks for the lift. See ya.” My throats swells painfully.

  “That’s not what it means,” he says.

  “In my head, I know that. In my heart, it hurts, Angelo.”

  He raises up and sits beside me on the bed, then pulls me into his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “I can’t imagine how Mom feels - she was even more invested.”

  “She’s fine, actually. I stopped there to tell her. Remember - she’s been through this before.”

  I blink up at him, not understanding.

  “She let you go, when it was time. That’s what parents do.”

  “Oh.”

  “You aren’t ready to do that, not with Rain.”

  He’s right. I’m not. Besides, I’m still afraid that something is wrong, that this isn’t normal teenager stuff. But looking into his eyes, I see that he’ll just placate me if I say so, so I keep it to myself. I look past him, toward the window, because the man can read me like a book. It’s annoying. And sexy. And distracting.

  “OK,” I say.

  He pulls back and looks into my eyes. His gaze sharpens.

  “What?”

  “I mean it, Trinket. You have to let her do her thing.”

  “Of course. You’re right.”

  He pulls back farther.

  “What?”

  “You’ve never said that to me before...I don’t like it.”

  I almost laugh. “You don’t like being right?”

  “No - I don’t like you saying I’m right. That means you don’t think I’m right.”

  Now I do laugh. “That doesn’t make sense, Angelo.”

  “If you’re me, it does.”

  “Do you want me to say you’re wrong?”

  “It would be more in keeping with your general opinion of me.”

  “But I don’t think you’re wrong. I’m confused.”

  “When you tell me I’m wrong, I know I’m right, so now that you’re telling me I’m right, I’m confused too. Am I right or wrong?”

  “This conversation is ridiculous.”

  “So is the idea of you thinking I’m right, but there it is. Tell me the truth.”

  “I did, but you want to argue about it.”

  “I’m not arguing. I’m...concerned.”

  “Can we go eat?”

  We drop the subject, thank Goddess, and go eat.

  After supper, the electricity comes back on and we spend the evening watching old movies. For a while I’m able to tune out the hum of my body wanting him. We laugh at Beetlejuice and then Bill Murray’s insanity in Caddyshack, but when he pulls up What Women Want, I stop him. The last thing I need is a sappy sweet love story.

  “Oh, no,” I say, lunging for the remote. I miss and land half on his lap when he jerks it away.

  “What�
��s wrong with it?” he asks. “This is a good movie.”

  “I don’t want to watch it,” I say, scooting my butt off his lap. “I hate Mel Gibson.”

  He shoots me a look. “You do not.”

  He’s right, I don’t, but I’m not about to get into reasons right now. “I just decided.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You can’t tell me what I like.” I make a grab for the remote and miss again.

  “But you can tell me why you don’t want to watch this movie,” he counters.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. Reasons. Aren’t you a guy? Guys like action movies. Find one of those.”

  A grin spreads across his face. “OK,” he says, and starts pushing buttons.

  The opening credits for Lethal Weapon start to roll across the screen and I sink back into the sofa. “Thank you! I love this movie.”

  Then I clap my hand over my mouth and groan, realizing that he’s just tricked me.

  “But I thought you hated Mel Gibson...?”

  “Shut up,” I mumble, and spend the rest of the evening avoiding his glances.

  Just before I go up to bed, I stop at the bottom of the stairs and turn back to him. Quietly, I say, “Angelo, I went to see Guthrie Phry today.”

  He turns from the TV to me. “Oh, yeah? I thought you were going to wait for me.”

  I shrug, going for nonchalance. “I thought he might just give me what we need and then you wouldn’t have to go.”

  He nods slowly. “Did he?”

  “No. He needs fresh blood samples.”

  Even in the dim light from the single lamp, I watch his face pale. “Nope. Sorry.”

  I was afraid of this. “We have to, Angelo. It’s the only way.”

  “Find another way.”

  I open my mouth, but then just close it again and turn for the stairs. I don’t know if there is another way, but part of me wonders if he’ll accept any way, no matter what I come up with. It’s common knowledge between us that he isn’t interested in breaking our marriage bond. Will he find an excuse, no matter what I try?

  Maybe.

  That just means I’ll have to work harder.

  Chapter 5