by Josh Lanyon
Table of Contents
Cover
What This Book is About
Dedication
Epigraph
MAINLY BY MOONLIGHT
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
VIP Offer
I Buried a Witch
Author Notes
About the Author
Special thanks to my Patrons
Also by Josh Lanyon
copyright
A gay high-society wedding. A stolen book of spells. A love-threatening lie.
Can a witch avoid a murder rap without revealing the supernatural truth?
Cosmo Saville guiltily hides a paranormal secret from his soon-to-be husband. Thanks to a powerful love spell, uncertainty threatens his nuptial magic. But when he’s suspected of killing a longtime rival, he could spend his honeymoon behind bars…
Police Commissioner John Joseph Galbraith never believed in Happily Ever After until Cosmo came along. Falling head over heels for the elegant antiques dealer is an enchantment he never wants to break. But when all fingers point to Cosmo’s guilt, John struggles to trust what his heart is telling him.
As Cosmo hunts for the missing grimoire among the arcane aristocracy, John’s doubts grow. With an unseen enemy threatening to expose Cosmo’s true nature, the couple’s blissful future could shatter like a broken charm.
Can Cosmo find the lost grimoire, clear his name, and keep John’s love alive, or will black magic “rune” their wedding bells?
To Sabine and Hans. May you both live happily ever after!
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
MAINLY BY MOONLIGHT
Bedknobs & Broomsticks 1
Josh Lanyon
Prologue
Something dark was following him.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn’t notice at first.
When he did, he was not unduly concerned. It was an old part of town, a dark part of town—and Valencia Street ran through one of the darkest of the dark parts. Not in the sense of street lamps—or beings—missing a few light bulbs, though yes, come to think of it, it was a Stygian sort of night in the Mission District. The witch’s moon peeping slyly through the purple-edged girders of clouds shed little light on the closed shop fronts and wide empty streets. Deep shadows crawled from the mouths of alleyways, loitered by doorways.
A good night to get yourself mugged. Or magicked.
Neither thought worried him overmuch. He was running late. As usual. His main concern was that Seamus might grow impatient and leave—or worse, take offense and change his mind entirely.
In fact, it was hard to believe Seamus had invited him to this private viewing in the first place. They were not friends. Not even friendly.
Not after the incident of Great-great-great-uncle Arnold and the Louis XVI rococo hanging mirror.
Maybe offering Cosmo first chance at the grimoire was Seamus’s attempt to make amends. Though that was unlikely. There was no more arrogant son of a warlock than Seamus Reitherman. It was doubtful he believed he had anything to make amends for.
No, this gesture, if sincere, would be nothing more than a calculated effort to get the best price possible.
Which he would. If this was the real thing, Cosmo had no intention of quibbling over money. Let alone magic.
In three long strides he reached the darkened storefront of the Creaky Attic. His heart sank.
CLOSED read the sign in the front door. It was gently swinging, as though it had only been turned over a few moments ago.
Oh, but then the shop would be closed. It was well past midnight. Cosmo reached for the door handle.
Wrong again. It was locked.
He swore softly, studying the front of the store for movement within the indistinct interior. With the exception of the swaying sign, nothing moved. Even the playful night breeze stilled. Cosmo took a step back, absently considering the flowery white and gold script that flowed across the top of the unlit bay window: Antiques and the Arcane.
Though the lights were off, he could see straight down the crowded, shadowy center aisle to a sales desk—and the black outline of a doorway beyond. Pale lamplight glowed from within Seamus’s office.
Cosmo raised his hands before the front door. He murmured, “Ticktock, turn the lock.”
Simple magic. The kind of thing they learned as children. He didn’t expect it to work, but like the mortals say, it’s the little things. The locks turned—there didn’t appear to be any wards or enchantments protecting the entrance at all—and the door swung silently open as though pushed by an unseen hand.
Cosmo stepped inside. “Hello? Seamus?”
The shop smelled of old books and furniture polish and incense.
Barring the incense, it smelled like his own shop, though there was a sharp, unpleasant undernote he didn’t recognize. But then disagreeable smells were part of the antiques dealer job description. More often than not, the past stank.
“Sorry I’m late,” Cosmo called into the resounding silence. “Hello?”
No one answered. Nothing moved.
Yet the shop did not feel empty.
Framed in the office doorway, the lamp on Seamus’s desk shined with cheery disregard, a sharp black silhouette against the red walls. Cosmo walked soundlessly down the aisle, passing a Secor wooden barrel chest worth a couple grand, a late 19th century Broadwood upright piano in an ebonized and satinwood decorated case. The ivory keys rippled a ghostly little tune as he passed. Fauré’s “Clair de Lune.”
On the other side of the aisle he could make out Goddess boxes, smudging kits, and figure candles in the gloom. Seamus sold both the cheesy and the costly with equal aplomb.
“Seamus?” This time Cosmo did not call out. Something in the listening silence made him uneasy.
He remembered the presence he had felt on the street outside. But no, whatever that had been, it was still behind him. Unable to cross the shop’s threshold? Perhaps he had been wrong about the lack of wards and enchantments on the front door.
He reached the old-fashioned wooden circulation desk, went behind it, and entered the office. He froze on the threshold.
Seamus was on the floor, lying prone in twin pools of lamplight and blood.
Cosmo stared and stared and yet couldn’t seem to make sense of it.
Every detail was imprinted on his mind—the strands of gray in Seamus’s long ponytail, the silver glint of the ring on his hand, his staring bloodshot eyes—and yet he couldn’t seem to take in the whole picture. He felt strange. Cold and far, far away. Not astral projection far, far away. More Am I about to faint? far away.
Seamus was…dead?
Dead?
Not just deceased. Violently dead.
He could not see a wound, but all that blood had to be coming from somewhere. Some opening not intended by Goddess or nature. He swallowed his rising sickness.
&nb
sp; An ebony-handled athame—the double-edge blade black with gore—lay a few inches from Seamus’s outstretched hand.
But this was not suicide.
Murder?
Who? Why?
Cosmo’s stricken gaze lit on what appeared to be yellow chalk markings above Seamus’s head. He moved closer for a better look, and his scalp prickled in horror.
The first strokes of a sacred symbol. Had someone begun to draw a pentagram?
No. This was truly unthinkable. Seamus had been slain by someone within the Craft. Cosmo knelt to reach for the dagger but remembered in time—all those hours spent watching television finally going to good use—and drew back.
He must touch nothing. He must leave. Now.
But those markings. He should make some record. He should… He felt for his phone.
A rustling sound overhead made him look up.
The image sliding across the low ceiling was straight out of his childhood, out of a lot of people’s childhoods: the sharp black silhouette of a witch on a broomstick. His relationship with that symbol was vastly different from most people his age—most people of any age. Even so, ridiculously, the sight of that profile—crooked hat, crooked nose, crooked chin—paralyzed him for a second or two.
“SFPD. Don’t move!” a voice bellowed from the doorway behind him—and Cosmo jumped.
“Keep your hands where I can see ’em. Do. Not. Move. A. Muscle.”
After his initial start, Cosmo did not move a muscle. He did not dare so much as breathe. Even with everything that had happened in the last four minutes, he could not believe he had not sensed the cop’s approach. Fool. Fool. Fool. He really was out of Practice.
“Facedown on the floor and lock your hands behind your head.”
Cosmo said urgently to the blinding white light, “I haven’t touched him. I found him like this—”
“Get on the floor. Facedown. Now.”
There were two of them. Two flashlight beams hitting him square in the eyes, and although the room was not in total darkness, it was disorienting. With time and cover there were evasive actions he could have taken, but he had neither.
The shock of finding Seamus dead had chased everything else from his mind. Now he remembered. The grimoire. Where was it? Was it in the shop? Had Seamus’s assailant taken it?
“Last chance. Get on the fucking floor, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
They were as frightened as he was.
He could not be arrested. There had to be some way—
Getting shot was not a viable alternative.
Though possibly preferable to having to explain…this.
Cosmo placed his hands on the floor, surreptitiously wiping the heel of his hand across the yellow chalk. He lowered himself, trying to avoid the spreading cobweb of Seamus’s blood weaving across the channels of woodgrain.
He blinked into the glare of the flashlights, forcing his soft voice to an even quieter and more soothing tone, seeking to reach them, to convince them. “This is a mistake. I’m not who you’re looking for. I just got here—”
“Hey,” the voice behind the second flashlight beam interrupted. “Isn’t that…”
“Isn’t that what?” demanded the first cop.
No, no, no. He tried again to reach them, keeping his voice so soft, so soothing… “This is a mistake. I’m not—”
The second cop said in a wondering tone, “Holy shit. I think I know him.”
“Well, who the hell is he, then?”
Goddess, no. Please no. He gulped. “Just listen, will you? This is not what it appears—”
“Holy shit,” the second cop repeated. Then in that same slow, incredulous voice, “Isn’t he the guy Commissioner Galbraith is supposed to be marrying this weekend?”
Chapter One
This is a bedtime story.
And like so many bedtime stories, it begins with a rebel prince, a brave soldier, a witch’s spell, and in our case, yes, a bed.
Not just any bed. A black and bronze Victorian antique four-poster with a superbly cast brass plaque decoration in the shape of a five-pointed star and one perfect crystal knob atop each tall and graceful post.
The perfect witch’s bed.
Or rather, the perfect bed for a witch.
The problem was, he saw it first.
John Joseph Galbraith.
I didn’t know who he was at the time.
I noticed him, though. At six-foot-four, with shoulders like a gladiator, he was hard to miss. Early forties. Not handsome exactly—or at least the handsomeness was secondary to his air of command. Of authority. Not a guy to fool around with.
So naturally, I had to try and fool around with him.
“That’s going to be a tight fit,” I said.
John looked up from his frowning contemplation of the star escutcheon. “What?”
I’m six feet, so it was a novelty to have to look up to meet his eyes. They were a striking shade of yellow-brown—amber—and those alert hawk eyes perfectly suited the severity of his features.
Despite the red glints in his thick hair, there were no freckles on his tanned face. Nor did it look like a face that creased into a smile very often, and he was definitely not smiling for me that afternoon.
I nodded at the empty rectangle formed by the black and bronze bed frame. “Especially if you’re planning on company.” I gazed right into his amber eyes.
He stared right back at me and said, “I sleep alone.”
“That would have to be by choice.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
He was not flirting back. He was not regretting his lack of bedtime companionship, and he was bluntly declining any and all offers I might have in mind.
I felt my smile falter a little. Not that I think I’m irresistible, but some people do. Mortals usually do. When I want them to.
Beside me, Andi gave a little Mary Poppins kind of sniff. Which is always a danger signal.
It occurs to me that a little backstory might be needed here. Andi—Andromeda Merriweather—and I were at Bonhams’ warehouse previewing Lot 132, a late 19th century George III-style mahogany quarter-chiming tall case clock, and Lot 136, the previously mentioned Victorian four-poster with the crystal bedknobs, in advance of the Elegant Home auction being held the following day.
I’d already decided to bid on the bed before that curtly delivered smackdown. Post smackdown, I determined the bed would be mine, period. I’d been trying not to use Craft for day-to-day interactions. We all rely on it too much. Plus, it’s not really fair when dealing with mortals. But I cannot lie. That crisp “Now you’re catching on” smarted.
Not that I can’t take no for an answer, but it could have been phrased a little more diplomatically.
So I said sweetly, “You’ll have to choose to do it elsewhere.”
He laughed.
It was not a nice laugh. There was no creasing of cheek, no crinkling of eyes, no smile in that sound. It was the sound of someone planning to take no prisoners. It was the chuckle Alexander the Great gave before burning Persepolis to ashes.
Did I mention that, in addition to all the time spent watching TV, I have a classical education? It’s not really relevant, except that those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it—and when it comes to romance, I can be a slow study.
“You think so?” John said, still amused.
“I know so.”
“We’ll see.” He nodded in dismissal, I nodded in I’ll-see-your-bet-and-raise-you-one-thousand, and we went our separate ways.
When the bidding began the next day, I didn’t have to resort to Craft. I’d have mortgaged my townhouse to make sure Paddle Number 131 didn’t win that auction, but it wasn’t necessary. He gave up the third time I doubled his bid. When the auctioneer’s gavel came down, John gave me a nod and a flicker of a wry smile.
At least he was a good sport. The truth was, that bed was way too small for him. I wasn’t sure why he’d even bid on it.
“Prick,” Andi muttered when we spotted him on our way out of the auction house.
I said nothing.
The second time I saw John Joseph Galbraith, Andi and I were shopping for TVs at Best Buy. Her old one had exploded when I’d tried to manually mute the sound. I’m no fan of technology—and the feeling is mutual.
Anyway, multiple mirror images of an ecstatic-looking woman showing off her clean laundry flashed off, and the bank of TV screens offered instead a view of a solemn-faced John being sworn into office at City Hall.
The chyron at the bottom of the TV screen read: New San Francisco Police Commissioner John Galbraith sworn in.
“Hey, is that him?” I demanded. “Isn’t that the same guy—”
Andi had an odd expression, but at the time I put it down to the price the salesman had just quoted her for a Samsung Q9FN.
“Is it?” she said.
“It is.” I stared at the screen. The severely tailored black suit set off John’s fierce, no frills good looks. He made a striking, even imposing, figure.
“He’s an ex-Navy SEAL,” the salesman put in. “He’ll clean up this town for sure.”
The three of us watched in silence as the screen-sized John raised his right hand and silently recited his oath of office. His brown-gold eyes seemed to stare right through the television cameras into my own.
“Let’s try someplace else,” Andi said, tugging on my arm.
The third time I saw John Joseph Galbraith was two weeks ago at the San Francisco Symphony’s newly reinvented Black and White Ball.
I hadn’t expected to see him—I’d like to pretend I’d forgotten all about him by then—but there he was. Our brand-new police commissioner.
The city’s first openly gay—and reportedly available—police commissioner was surrounded by city officials, local celebrities, and wealthy citizens in the patrons’ tent. Given the fuss everyone was making, I thought the center of that storm had to be at the very least Harry Connick Jr., who was the evening’s main musical guest. But no, it was just him. Prince Charming. A.k.a. John Joseph Galbraith.