Hex at a House Party

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Hex at a House Party Page 15

by Gretchen Galway


  With sandwiches of our own, Birdie and I went upstairs. I wanted to linger in the garden, eavesdrop, or watch to see if Tierra and Warren left the carriage house, but Darius told me to stay in the house as long as the nonmag authorities were there. Hoping to get more information out of him later, I didn’t argue.

  Birdie followed me into my room, closed the door to the hallway, walked around the bed to close the connecting door to the bathroom, and then turned to me with a confidential expression.

  “I heard something,” she whispered. “When I went to the bathroom. Two guys were talking outside the door.”

  “Police?”

  She nodded. “The blond one was talking to the big, hairy one.” She took a deep breath. “Warren told them they’re broke. He thinks that’s why she did it.”

  “Broke?” Blackmail and suicide. I wasn’t sure it made sense. I sat on the edge of the four-poster bed to think. “Do they believe him?”

  “Sure, why not?” Birdie sat next to me. “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” I closed my eyes, conjured the memory of the note, the power it had emitted. It tasted like death, anger, loss. “I don’t know,” I repeated.

  Birdie nodded, accepting my ignorance without judgment. “They don’t spend a lot of money around here. There’s nice soap but not much help in the kitchen or around the house. I like Gail’s cooking, but she’s not the fancy chef with a full staff I would’ve expected if they were really rolling in it.”

  Had Crystal turned to blackmail because she was so desperate for money? And then killed herself when the Protectorate found out?

  Darius had shown me the pictures of her clothes on the beach before the police had taken over the scene, but I didn’t know what he’d felt. Had there been a particular magical residue? Would I have detected more if I’d been there instead? One witch was dead. Raynor wouldn’t like that even if—or especially when—she was his suspect.

  I thought about Crystal—arrogant, selfish, proud. A witch might commit suicide, but because of money? A person with magical powers would have other ways to acquire wealth. My father, famously, had found ways.

  “It would have to be something worse,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  I remembered the look on her face when Darius had gotten out of his car in the silver jacket. “Social humiliation… exile… imprisonment…” I went over to the window and looked out on the empty, fae-free grass, rocks, and cliffs. If she had made a bargain with a demon, the creature could threaten her with untold suffering. “Or pain,” I added.

  “Do you think Darius threatened her with any of that?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “but he wouldn’t have to. He implied it when he showed up in the silver jacket.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I woke up the next morning with a headache. A nonmagical one but bad enough to make me think of ice picks. I slapped the nightstand to find my phone, brought it to my grimacing face, and regarded the date and time.

  Monday, 7:02 a.m.

  Was it selfish to wonder if there would be hot coffee provided on the morning after the unexplained and tragic death of the hostess?

  Yes, I concluded, setting the phone back down. I should take care of myself and then volunteer to help with anything I could. In a normal situation, we would all have left already; with witches, the Protectorate, and an agent on site, we had to stay until given permission to leave.

  I still suspected I could escape with Birdie if I really wanted to, but…

  The compulsion to discover what had happened in all its Shadowed, despicable glory was undeniable. My unbearable thirst for knowledge had to be quenched.

  Speaking of quenching… I needed coffee.

  One great thing about being addicted to canned coffee was the flexibility it offered when traveling. I’d brought a few of my own in my suitcase—but I also had a fruit-and-treat basket on the little table near the upholstered chair by the fireplace that I hadn’t broken into yet.

  Helen must’ve told Crystal about my taste, because there in the welcome basket with the cookies and fruit was a can of my favorite brand. Usually I drank it iced, but it was a cold, foggy morning on the coast, and room temperature or microwaved—yes, I was a monster—would work.

  I staggered over to the chair and plucked the caffeinated nectar out of the basket. Tucking the throw blanket around me, I lifted my feet under me and popped open the top of the can.

  BAM.

  The can exploded in my hands, blinding me with pink light.

  I jumped to my feet, the blanket tangling between my legs, my body pumping with stress hormones, and fumbled at my neck for the beads I never removed. How could I be so careless? The basket had been there when I’d arrived, but the can… no, I remembered belatedly, the coffee had arrived later. I’d thought the cleaner yesterday afternoon had added it, forgetting I’d put up my own magical do-not-disturb spell.

  My heart was pounding in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. Was I hurt? The can had exploded; did I still have my hands?

  Yes, I still had my hands.

  I felt my face, made sure my nose was still there. Yes, still there.

  And so was the headache. The ice pick was bigger and struck faster, more forcefully, as if a serial killer had just found his favorite victim, the cops were at the door, and he had to get the slaying over with ASAP.

  I began to wonder if I’d imagined everything. Had the can and the explosion been an illusion to frighten me? I’d been half-asleep, vulnerable to a mischievous hex—

  Paper. A piece of paper had fallen to the floor at my feet.

  Cautious now, I prepared a defensive posture, established my magic boundaries, took a deep breath, and picked it up.

  It was just a piece of paper with a typewritten note.

  Dear Alma,

  I have discovered your secret. Your blood is thick with demon Shadow. I have met your father, but as unpleasant as he is, he is clean. I conclude therefore your contamination must be from your mother’s side. How embarrassing for you! And how sad it will be to leave your home in Silverpool. The Protectorate will never allow a demon-stained witch to live so close to a wellspring. If they ever found out, that is. I am a generous witch. I’m willing to consider you didn’t know about your mother’s demon blood. If you are generous with me, I’m willing to keep your secret to myself. Your father refused to help me, but I’m sure you know how to manage him. I would be so appreciative.

  Yours, C. H.

  The moment I finished reading the last line, the paper burst into an oval cloud of pink smoke. In the middle of the cloud were two eyes, feminine and long lashed, looking directly into mine; they were the last section of the smoke to fade into nothingness.

  I collapsed into the chair, my heart beating faster than before.

  The explosion was a surprise; the letter was a nightmare.

  My mother?

  Demon stained?

  I put my shaking hand on my bracelet and struggled to pull calm from the old redwood’s soul that lingered in the bead I’d carved from a branch in my yard that had fallen naturally in a winter rainstorm.

  Crystal had wanted my father to help her, probably with something illegal. I wasn’t surprised he’d refused; other than me or bewitched animals, Malcolm always worked alone.

  She’d put that can in the room after meeting me. Even after Darius had arrived, she’d taken the risk of trying to blackmail another victim. Our handshake—what had she felt? Did the opal ring have something to do with what she saw? I kept thinking about it, prodding my memory for more.

  I thought back to the photographs Darius had taken. The ring had been there with the other jewelry on the beach.

  I closed my eyes, afraid I was going to hyperventilate if I didn’t calm down.

  My mother was a complete unknown to me. There was my father; there was me. I’d lived and traveled with him until I was old enough to board at school, and then I began to learn the courage to refuse to go
on heists—he sometimes called them shopping trips—with him. I spent school breaks during my teen years with witch families of classmates and teachers kind enough to take me in over the summer.

  But really, if I thought about family, if I thought about forever people, I thought about Malcolm.

  Crystal’s message reverberated in my skull. My mother might’ve had demon blood. Or Crystal thought she could convince me I did.

  My mother, the theoretical person, the biological inference, the deepest mystery, the unhealed wound of my psyche.

  If this was how Crystal had gone after her other victims, I understood why they’d paid up. If she were alive, I’d be downstairs right now demanding answers and possibly offering to get what she wanted. She’d found my most vulnerable point—my maternal lineage—within a day of our first meeting.

  No wonder she was dead. Who else had she targeted?

  Someone at the Protectorate, someone very powerful. Raynor himself? Or another mage?

  But he’d sent Darius, showing her he wasn’t going to play her game.

  Like me, Raynor could see fairies.

  She’d accused me of having demon blood. Was that the source of our sight? Was Raynor also tainted?

  I leaned back in my chair and stared at my hands, my fingers, my thumb. Hands had always seemed the most human, most powerful part of me. Magic warmed my fingertips, tingled through my palms, crafted my beads, drove my car, petted my dog, delivered spells.

  But what if I wasn’t entirely human?

  I lifted my fingers to my face and breathed in the warmth of my skin. I dragged my lips across the back of my hand, feeling the knuckle bones and tiny hairs against my lips. Hoping I had the courage to deal with whatever I found, I laid bare my magical senses, willing to find a possessing spirit where I’d never looked for one before—inside myself.

  I was trembling and nauseated. I was terrified. But I had to know.

  After several long, painful seconds, my pulse began to settle. I released my breath, relaxing against the cushions.

  Well, if I was part demon, that part was tiny, timid, and excellent at hiding. I sensed the usual loathing for violence and pain I always associated with my truest self. There didn’t seem to be a bloodthirsty, immortal spirit monster hiding amid the roots of my soul, plotting to take over.

  No, I was alone in there. I was sure of it.

  Cursing my dead hostess, I got to my feet, kicking aside the blanket, and went into the bathroom to shower and dress for the day. I’d been stupid to pop open that can without checking it first. It had given me one of the biggest scares of my life. I doubted I’d ever touch coffee again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I didn’t tell Birdie about the note. I needed time to think. When she and I went downstairs, we found Gail and her assistant serving breakfast in the dining room as if nothing had happened. We walked over to the bar where Zoe was arranging a bouquet of flowers near a tray of sliced watermelon. Looking pale and tired, she met my surprised expression with a weak smile.

  “Crystal would want me to pick up where she left off,” Zoe said. “The show must go on, so to speak.”

  Still traumatized by the canned coffee, I tore open a tea bag. “Please don’t worry about serving us. We can take care of ourselves.”

  “Oh, I’m not really doing anything. Gail’s doing all the work. The food has been ordered and paid for in advance, and as long as we all have to stay here”—she shot a bitter look at the second floor, as if at Darius—“we’ll need food to eat.”

  Birdie reached past me to scoop sliced almonds into her bowl. “Is Phil going to have breakfast with us too?”

  Zoe shook her head. “He’s still in bed. I was tossing and turning all night. Neither one of us got much sleep.” She took a bowl of granola from Gail and set it on the counter next to a ceramic pitcher. “We’re going to check in on Warren after breakfast. Tierra spent the entire day with him, and Phil and I realized we need to step up and give her a break. We’re practically family.”

  “I never saw it coming,” Gail said. When we looked at her, she flushed and busied her hands with a stack of colorful cloth napkins. “Sorry. She really didn’t seem the type.”

  Zoe took the napkins from her. “Is the quiche about ready? You wouldn’t want to burn it.”

  Gail took the hint and returned to the kitchen.

  Birdie and I brought our breakfast to the corner table; I took the seat that gave me the best view of the kitchen door, the entrance to the dining area, the side door, and the bar.

  Zoe set the napkins down, tapped them into a perfect stack, and came around the bar to sit with us. “He’s coming,” she muttered.

  “Who?” Birdie asked.

  Zoe nodded at the window to my left.

  I turned to see Darius striding toward the farmhouse from the cliff path. I wanted to get him alone so I could see those photos again and ask him about the opal ring.

  Tierra and Nathan walked into the dining area just as Darius entered by the side door. He’d probably timed that intentionally, using a dash of drama to exert his authority. His gaze scanned over the small group, taking inventory, and immediately landed on Zoe.

  “Where’s your husband?” he asked.

  An olive-green cloud of defensive magic puffed up around Zoe’s head. “He’s here. Don’t worry.”

  Darius put his hand on a chain at his throat. “Here? Or in that cottage?”

  “You said we had to stay on the property,” Zoe said. “You didn’t say the farmhouse.” She turned and went into the kitchen, faint green smoke trailing behind.

  Tierra carried a plate of toast and a cup of coffee past Darius. “Have a little consideration. One of her oldest friends died yesterday.”

  To my surprise, Darius quickly dropped his hand from his necklace. “You’re right. I’ll apologize.” His posture relaxing, he helped himself to a large bowl of granola, topped it with almond milk, and joined Birdie and me. “The police left the tape on the cliff, but they’re gone. After breakfast we can go down and see if I missed anything yesterday.”

  “We?” I asked.

  His attention was fixed on the clumps of toasted oats and dried fruit in his bowl. “I’ve received instructions to include you.”

  Birdie’s knee nudged mine.

  “I have something to tell you about,” I said.

  He finally met my eyes. A streak of dried shaving cream clung to his left temple, a humbling spot in an otherwise spotless appearance. “Important?”

  “Maybe.” I sipped my tea. It was the worst temperature, neither hot nor cold. I made a face and set it down.

  Darius studied my mug. “Since when do you drink tea?”

  The man didn’t miss a thing. “Since this morning,” I said.

  He began shoveling the granola into his mouth more quickly, holding my gaze with his, nodding as he chewed.

  “I’ll get a sweatshirt and meet you in the garden.” I leaned toward Birdie, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry,” Birdie whispered back. “I’ll be fine.”

  I patted her on the shoulder, passing over a quick protective spell. Then I waved at Tierra and Nathan as I walked by them to get to the stairs. Nathan was in running clothes, pacing the room, not eating, but Tierra was in jeans and a thick sweater, curled up in an overstuffed chair with a huge bowl of oatmeal. They weren’t talking to each other.

  When I got to my room, I tucked a sachet filled with dried sage, redwood bark, and a clump of Random’s fur into my left pocket as a defense against malicious spirits just in case. The stones would give me an excuse for seeing fairies, so I put those in my right pocket. There wasn’t any remaining evidence of the canned coffee note, so I took some of the tissue paper stuffed in the basket to give him for testing. He probably wouldn’t find anything, but I felt the need to offer some kind of tangible proof of what I’d experienced.

  I found him squatting next to the stone basin under the big
rhododendron, running his fingers over the surface of the water. He held a white plate heavy with sliced watermelon in his other hand.

  “Hello, good beings. Honorable gnome, peaceful sprite, clever fairy, I am Darius Ironford, brother of Rochelle.” He set down the watermelon. “This sweet fruit is a gesture of my friendship.”

  I bit my lip. It was an excellent ritual and well said. But he was only talking to himself.

  I cleared my throat. “They’re not here.”

  He rotated the plate, pushing it under an overhanging lavender branch. “You haven’t tried the stones.”

  Right. I would have to play along. I took out the rocks, rolling them in my palm, closing my eyes, and spun a spell of seeking that he would be able to feel swirling around me.

  “They are not here,” I said.

  He wrote something quickly in his notebook and turned back to the garden. “I suppose I should bring the watermelon inside. I don’t want animals to get at it and make a mess.”

  “Leave it,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe they’ll be hungry when they come back.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, considering. “Maybe it would be good to have a lure. Keep checking back. If you see any fae activity, let me try to reach out again. They might talk to a Protectorate agent if they think I can help them.”

  At first I doubted his confidence, but then I had to admit to myself he might be right. Although I could see and hear the fae, they didn’t find me particularly attractive. Some humans and their familiars, like a gentle dog or cat, were magnetic for local fairies of all kinds. A small human child could sit under a tree and be greeted by friendly, curious wood sprites for hours. But not me, even when I was little. Other than Willy, the fae had always looked upon me with wariness, hostility, or suspicion.

  The exploding coffee can came to mind again. But if I were part demon, wouldn’t they run away from me and hide? In Silverpool, the fae ignored me—they didn’t seem to fear me. There had been a widespread revolt over the summer, but it hadn’t been directed at me personally.

 

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