Addicted Witch: A Jagged Grove Mystery

by Willow Monroe

  By the time I wake up the next morning, the storm has dropped two feet of snow on the ground and the electricity - a system I can’t understand no matter how many times Angelo tries to explain it - is flickering intermittently again. By noon, it goes out completely.

  I’m more than a little fascinated by the snow, and I want to go play in it, regardless of the cold. Before coming to Jagged Grove, I lived in North Carolina - a place that thinks two inches of snow is too much. It takes some cajoling, but eventually I talk Angelo into going for a short walk with me - just around the yard.

  Between the biting cold and a few well-aimed snowballs from Angelo, I get over it fast. By the time we get back inside, I’m freezing and my knees are numb. The house is full of shadows, so I drag one of the wing chairs in my living room to the window nearest the fireplace and try studying the elixir handbook again, while Angelo set about making French toast in the kitchen.

  After we eat, I go back to my book, but I can’t keep my mind on it with Angelo prowling the rooms like a pent-up cat and constantly checking the windows, then announcing every new inch of snow that falls.

  I finally drop the book into my lap. “Would you please find something to do?” I ask, catching his attention.

  “Like what?”

  I’m trying to come up with an answer when someone knocks at the door. We look at each other, surprised. The snow has lessened, but it’s still too thick for people to be out running around in it.

  My first thought is that it’s Rain, but when I open the door I see Jones standing there. He’s bundled up against the snow in a heavy coat and boots, so that most of what I see are his beautiful dark eyes and long legs.

  Jones never comes here anymore. “What? Is Mom all right?”

  Angelo comes to stand close behind me, and Jones looks at him and pulls the heavy black scarf away from his mouth. He isn’t smiling a greeting. “Bilda is fine, if a little touched with cabin fever. I came to get you,” he says, looking past me to Angelo.

  “What’s wrong?” Angelo isn’t actually touching me, but I can still feel him stiffen.

  “There’s a problem down at the docks. We need your help.”

  Angelo is already turning away to grab his coat. “What kind of problem?” I ask.

  “The ice is getting too thick, and we need to clear it before the whole thing collapses.”

  “Oh.” That would be bad - most of our supplies come through there. Not that the ships will be sailing in this weather, but once the storm breaks, we’ll need provisions.

  Angelo brushes past me, pausing to kiss me quickly on the lips, and then they’re gone. I close the door against the freezing wind.

  Then I stare at the closed door for a moment, trying to make a decision.

  On the one hand, I probably just need to stay here, where it’s safe. On the other, I have errands to run. If Angelo can go out, why can’t I? The snow has slacked a bit, so walking shouldn’t be a problem.

  I can almost hear him yelling at me for it, but I go to the closet and put on my coat anyway.

  I’d like to start looking for Rain and the Penley kid, but there is no way I can go to the colony now. It only has one entrance - a mile long dirt path through the woods. I’m sure the snow is too deep to get there. I can do one other thing, though - I can go see Guthrie Phry. I’ve got to take care of this Angelo thing before I go crazy, and I’ll just keep trying until he gets tired of avoiding it.

  Also, I want to run by the office to grab those files I abandoned yesterday. It will be something to do, at least.

  My house sits atop one of the foothills, so when I step out onto the sidewalk I can look down into town. It’s eerie, how silent everything seems, even knowing that just out of sight, men are working at the docks. There is no movement but the blowing, drifting snow, making steep banks against the sides of curbs and buildings. The streets are indiscernible from the sidewalks, the lawns are indiscernible from the driveways. Beyond the coast, the ocean is choppy and dangerous-looking. My only clue about where to walk is the streetlights, standing stark and black against all the white of snow and sky. Not that it matters - I could walk down the middle of the street if I wanted. There is absolutely no traffic, and all I can hear is the squeak and crunch of my boots in the muted air.

  The walk downtown is exhausting. Even as I try hard to follow in Angelo and Jones’s footsteps, the snow is already filling in and getting deeper again. I have to basically kick my way through, and I’m so intent on doing it that I almost miss the little side street that runs beside the Crystal Cup.

  Hex Squared looks as abandoned as it did before, but this time I pay no attention to it and let myself in after stomping my boots on the steps to keep from tracking in snow. For a moment, every fiber of my being tells me to turn around and walk out. Since I don’t understand why, I simply close the door behind me and turn to look around.

  No one is in the store that I can see. However, it looks like Guthrie got a hew shipment in - a shelf full of poppets. That last one surprises me - why would Angelo allow voodoo dolls to be sold here on the island? That kind of magic is dangerous.

  Also, where did they come from? Angelo and Glade were on the last incoming ship, and I know he would have mentioned this, at least.

  A sound makes me turn to my right, where the small cluttered sales counter stands. If anything, it’s even messier than the last time I was here. Boxes teeter along the edges, topped with a few haphazard willow branches that are too wilted to be of use. One box, smaller than the others, is overturned on the floor, spilling out shards of broken ceramic candle holders. Why would any store owner treat their stock like this?

  I don’t see what made the noise, though, so I walk in that direction and peek behind the counter itself. Nothing there but a forgotten, sagging umbrella and a pair of boots. Both of them look like they’ve been there for a while.

  Farther on, though, around a corner near the back of the shop, I see an open door. It explains why he seemed to appear from nowhere the other day.

  That must be where Phry is, I think, with a small measure of relief as I go over to it and call his name down the stairs. A dank smell hits me in the face, and I wrinkle my nose.

  No answer comes, which is odd. There is a faint light down there. I slowly lower my foot onto the first step, wincing as it squeaks through the silence from below. Maybe I should wait for a day when Angelo can come with me, but who knows when that could be? I take another step, and then another, until I’m at the bottom.

  The room is made of chipped, earth-colored stone, making it feel cold and showing it to be much older than the structure above. I’m surprised to see that this isn’t a stock room after all. It’s more of a workshop, with a chaotic workbench built into the far wall under a bank of fluorescent lights. Above it, there are two skinny, dirty windows just at ground level outside, which explains where the light is coming from. Phry is obviously not a neat person.

  Amber and blue bottles - potion bottles by the size of them - glint here and there. Some are full, others look empty and covered with dust. A lot of them aren’t labeled. One is turned over and leaking something reddish onto the wood. Tools and toolboxes are scattered everywhere, and some are even jumbled on the floor. A shelf under the workbench holds even more boxes.

  I step to one end of the bench and look around, not sure what I’m even looking for. It would be nice to find a small blue bottle labeled with my name, but I’m not holding my breath. I mean, it would also be nice to find one labeled World Peace, but that isn’t going to happen either.

  I slip off my glove and pick up a random bottle, which is cold to the touch and fits in the palm of my hand. It’s labeled, but only with an X in blue ink. I put it down and grab another, only to see that it has an odd flag-shaped symbol, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. So does the next one. The third one I pick up has a different odd symbol. It’s clear that Guthrie Phry has his own special labeling system, and even if one did have my name on it, I wouldn’t know. I put t
he bottles down and back up, away from the work bench, wondering where Guthrie might be.

  That’s when I notice the hand.

  I’m backing up before my mind completely registers what I’m seeing, but that happens quickly. The hand is attached to an arm in a sleeve, which is attached to a man. That man is Guthrie Phry.

  He’s lying mostly under the workbench, like he was hastily shoved there, and he’s dead. I can see from here that there is no life in the gaunt, pale body. Something else, though - I can’t help but notice that spots of his face are...missing. As if his cheeks and forehead are melting away, now that he has no use for them. Or as if he pricked his skin all over with a sharp fork.

  I force myself to take a step closer. Everything feels tilted and somehow wrong here, I don’t dare make assumptions, but either he made some sort of terrible miscalculation with a spell, or somebody did something to him. Since his reputation speaks to skill in the magickal arts, I’m leaning toward the latter.

  His face is pale, gray, and emotionless, as if he’s just lying there, contemplating some academic thing that doesn’t really matter. His hair, what there is of it around is ears, is gray and springy and sticking out all over. He’s wearing a forest green track suit that looks comfortable but not warm enough to wear out into a snowstorm, and an old pair of Reeboks.

  My eyes keep going back to his face, though. The holes sprinkled across his skin look more like pockmarks than stab wounds, but I can’t tell for sure.

  Besides, now that I’ve taken in the situation, I think I might throw up. I turn away to go back upstairs when I spot something new that stops me in my tracks.

  It’s a doorway, etched from the stone of the wall, half hidden by a black curtain of some sort and tucked away into the corner.

  I can’t see anything beyond it but darkness, and I’m positive, somehow, that it’s not a good idea to look closer. I can’t help it, though, so I take a small step in that direction anyway. Cold air wafts from the doorway, as if I’m stepping to the mouth of an underground cavern - which, I suppose, I am. The darkness is very thick and a curtain hangs over half the doorway, blocking most of the light from the windows behind me. I can’t make out the composition of the room beyond. It could be round, square, endless, or filled with bats - I have no idea.

  I fervently wish that Angelo was here right now. That thought angers me enough that I make myself go to the opening and push the curtain back, flooding the area with light. I hold my breath and look inside.

  The room is empty, but then I notice that it isn’t. Something shiny is lying in the corner.

  I step inside, before I lose my nerve, and touch it with my toe. It’s an iPod, and I know from the Hail, Anarchists! sticker on the back that it belongs to Rain.

  She never goes anywhere without it, and my hands shake when I pick it up. I remember her impatience, when Angelo took it to the mainland to fill it with music for her, the way she jumped every time the doorbell rang, and the way she asked every single day when he was coming back. I remember that when he did, she squealed like a child and made us all laugh. If it’s here, then something has happened to her.

  All of my pride is forgotten - I need Angelo. I need him right now.

  I trip up the stairs to the front door and almost break my shoulder when I bang through it out into the storm. I don’t even slow down, though the snow is blowing hard enough to sting the exposed skin of my face and hands. Still holding the iPod, I stuff my hands into my pockets and numbly head for the docks.

  Angelo is wielding a pickaxe when I get there, slamming it into huge icicles hanging from the edge of the pier. Other men are nearby, and the muffled sounds of their voices are comforting. I go directly to him and wait for a moment when he pauses. Then I step forward and tap him on the shoulder.

  He turns around and stares at me in disbelief, and then frustration. Pulling the scarf he’s wearing away from his face, he says, “What are you doing here? I told you to stay home.”

  “I know.” It didn’t occur to me until right now that I’d have to confess my little trip. “I went to Phry’s. Angelo, you have to come with me.”

  His eyes narrow. “I’ve got more important things to do right now than worry about spells, Trinket. It will have to wait.”

  Hurt laces his voice, and I realize he thinks I want to do the unbinding spell right now. I put my hand on his shoulder and shake my head. “No - Angelo - Guthrie is dead, and I’m afraid something has happened to Rain.” I pull the iPod from my pocket and wave it at him, fighting back sudden tears now that I’ve said it out loud.

  He looks from me to the device, and I see the change in his stance. He knows, too, that Rain’s life is her music, and that she wouldn’t let this thing out of her sight. When he takes it from me, I notice that the battery is dead, and I hope we aren’t too late to help her, wherever she is.

  “Please come?”

  He nods once, then turns away to talk to one of the men nearby. Then he walks past me, back toward town. I hurry to catch up, but when I do he stops and looks at me. “Go home, Trinket.”

  That hurts. “No. I’m coming with you. Something happened, and I -.”

  “You are going home. It’s too dangerous to be out in this storm in the first place.”

  “But Rain -.”

  “I’ll find out what’s going on. You go home, or go to Bilda’s. Go somewhere. Another storm is blowing in any minute, and I don’t want to lose you in it.”

  Another storm? I really need to start paying attention to the weather. “Rain could be anywhere, Angelo. What if she’s in trouble?”

  “Then I’ll do my best to find her.”

  “You might need help.” I’m grasping at straws here, and it isn’t working.

  “Then I’ll get Flux. I’ve got men trained to help. Go. Home.” He points in the direction of my house. The gesture turns his body so that the wind catches the hood of his coat and pulls it off, leaving his dark hair to flutter around his head.

  He’s not going to give in, and I know from experience that he’ll have me arrested if I push too far - binding spell or not. I turn and head that direction, fuming at him.

  I’m not far from home, but the storm hits before I get there. The first hint is the crackling air, and then the clouds turn black again and start dropping freezing rain on top of the snow. I glance back toward the docks, knowing that this will make things even more difficult for the men and women working down there. A sharp crack cuts through the air, answering my thought with a piece of the pier - where Angelo had just been standing - falling and disappearing into the deep snow.

  I shudder and turn away, but I still don’t want to go home, so I head for the street that will take me to my mom’s house. As I trudge along, I try not to think about Phry’s face, or what could cause that kind of damage, but it slips into my mind’s eye again and again, unbidden. Somehow, I know that something terrible happened to him.

  I also know that Phry’s death was no accident. The man didn’t die and then stuff himself under that workbench, and he didn’t do that horrible damage to his own face. Someone did this to him, and now they’re on the island somewhere, maybe with Rain.

  Is she a prisoner? Or just mixed up with someone who isn’t what they seem? I have no way of knowing, but I know that iPod is Rain’s life. Did Guthrie hold her captive in that little alcove? Or did she hide there at some point, dropping the device in the process? She would fight hard before she let anything happen to it, yet here it was - dead and tossed into a corner.

  I just hope the same thing didn’t happen to Rain.

  The thought brings tears to my eyes, which freeze on my cheeks and makes them itch, so I speed up and practically run for the comfort of Mom’s house, not slowing down until the cozy little bungalow is in sight.

  Chapter 6

  No one has shoveled Mom’s walkway, so I carry six inches of snow in on my boots. “Hello?” I call as I toe them off and unzip my coat, hanging it on the door knob for it to drip on the rug. />
  Voices from the other room stop, and then my mom pokes her head around the door. “Trinket! What are you doing out in this mess?” she asks, grabbing my hand to pull me to the kitchen, where Blakely and Imala are sitting at the small table.

  I look at them, and then look at her, wondering if I should be the one to do this. “It’s Rain,” I say finally. “I’m afraid something bad has happened to her.

  Mom’s already pale face goes even paler and she sits down. “What?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure.” I tell them what happened, my voice quivering a little more with every word. Now that I’m safe, I’m more afraid than ever. By the time I’m done, I’m almost in tears.

  Blakely stands up and goes to Mom, standing behind her and putting both hands on her shoulders protectively. Imala watches them for a moment, and turns back to me. “And Angelo sent you home?” she asks.

  I nod. “He said he’d handle it.”

  She mutters something under her breath, but I’m suddenly very tired, and I don’t ask her to repeat herself. The heat from the fireplace in the corner is soaking into my body and making me go limp.

  “Is he at least going to the Colony to talk to Penley?” she asks me.

  “I don’t know. I don’t see how - I’m sure the trail is blocked. Maybe later?”

  Mom sniffs. “He’ll have to, if she doesn’t come home soon, won’t he?”

  She looks completely devastated, and I’m sorry I came here. I should have just gone home and let her think that everything was OK. Cowardly of me, but still...

  I haven’t had to really protect my mom for a while now, but old habits die hard.

  I’m just upset that I can’t protect her from this, and unexpected anger toward Rain flares in my heart. What if she’s fine, and just messing around with that boy? What if she has no idea how much she’s making us all worry? Why would she do this to the woman who gave her a home?

  I feel immediately guilty for it, but it’s still there.

  “I think Angelo’s right,” Mom says suddenly. “I don’t think you should be involved in this mess. Let him handle it. Things could get dangerous. These people sound shady.”