“Sorry to hear that. Can I get you something?”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you, but I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee?” I’d been thinking of a glass of water, or an antacid tablet. We didn’t provide patrons with coffee; we didn’t even allow coffee outside the break room, because it smelled too good, and the aroma spread through the library faster than burned microwave popcorn.
I told Harry to take a seat over at the Information Services kiosk, and I’d join him in a moment, after I got clearance from the boss.
* * *
“This is the best coffee I’ve ever had,” Harry Blackstone said. We were seated comfortably across from each other with a round table between us. We both had a mug full of fresh coffee. Kathy had authorized my extra break with the implication I’d share what I learned.
Harry’s big, brown eyes were getting bigger with each sip. “So good,” he said.
“The beans are from Dreamland,” I said. There were two locations in Wisteria, and most residents were familiar with the local brand.
“Best coffee ever,” he repeated.
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw the cheap little brewer we use. It’s actually a Frankensteined unit, made from other broken machines. The carafe is too small for the percolation unit, so we have a wedge under one side to change the angle of the drip to line up with the hole in the lid.”
Harry let out another big laugh, like he had that morning when I’d tipped him off about our snoring trick. He smacked both of his knees.
“Your coffee pot sounds like a certain car I put together from a variety of sources.” He gave me a knowing look. “I believe your father dubbed it Foxy Pumpkin.”
“You made my car?”
He laughed again. “Your car? Rhys said he loaned it to you.”
I snorted. “He didn’t loan it to me. It’s my car now. He’s not getting it back. I love that car.”
Harry grinned. “Hearing that makes me very happy. Do you know about all of the aftermarket modifications?” He leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “I designed the system myself.” He winked. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that the vehicle’s fuel efficiency is not exactly average for the year and model.”
He wasn’t wrong about the efficiency. “I can’t remember the last time I had to visit a gas station,” I said. “Except to buy emergency late-night potato chips after the grocery store’s closed. Speaking of healthy eating habits, how’s that heartburn?”
He tapped his sternum once. “Much better now, thank you. I should stop eating those red peppers, but they taste so good, and my local supplier would be offended.”
Just then, a pair of ladies from the knitting group emerged from the shelves near the Information Services kiosk. Both turned their heads and gave us a curious look as they walked past. One lady muttered to the other that it was “high time” we’d started serving coffee in the library.
I rolled my eyes. We loved the knitters, but they could be a bit territorial.
Harry said, “Thanks to that car of yours, I suppose you understand my life’s work as well as anyone.”
“Your life’s work? You’re some sort of... special mechanic?”
“An inventor,” he said proudly.
“That’s cool,” I said. Most of the people I’d met who called themselves inventors were conspiracy nuts who invented new ways to use tinfoil.
Harry looked down, and his smile faded. “It’s a shame I won’t be able to finish my final project. Not unless...” He kept looking down, at the busy-patterned industrial carpet, and then at his socks. The hems of his pant legs had risen to mid-calf, thanks to the ultra-low seats at Information Services. His socks were argyle, with shades of purple and green.
“What is it, Harry? Can I help you with some research? The computer’s right here.” I waved to the unit we kept locked down on the table.
Without looking up, he said, “Zara, you may be the only person you can help me with my greatest work yet.”
“Mm-hmm.” I’d heard this line a few times at that very table. From the conspiracy nuts. I was starting to get a bad feeling about this conversation.
Harry said, “It’s not really my area of expertise, but, based on my research, I believe you could—”
Just then, a warm breeze passed over us and fluttered some nearby magazines. A gust had come in with the opening of the front doors. Harry jerked his head up and craned his neck, looking at the library’s entrance. I followed his gaze to find a pair of familiar people entering.
One was a pleasant sight: my boyfriend, Detective Bentley.
His companion was the last person I expected to see walking around freely: disgraced WPD administrator Persephone Rose.
What were those two up to?
I turned back to my new friend. “Harry, you were saying?”
His expression was frozen, his gaze locked on the newcomers.
“Harry?”
He placed both hands on the chair armrests and noisily hoisted himself upright. “I, uh, let’s continue this chat some other time,” he said, barely meeting my eyes.
Probably for the best, I thought.
He’d been about to ask me for a favor, by the sound of it. Normally I would have been eager to help a dying man, especially one as pleasant as Harry Blackstone, but given he was an associate of my father’s, I had to be on guard. I had to take everything he said with a grain of salt. Was he even sick at all?
“Sure,” I said lightly. “We can chat another time.”
“I can help you with the car,” he said, his big, brown eyes roving continuously, taking in everything. “I’ll show you a few tricks.”
“That would be great.” I got to my feet and smoothed down the magazines that had rustled in the breeze of the door. “You know where to find me.”
He pulled the folded hat from his pocket and put it on his head. With his black hair covered, he looked both older and more tired.
I picked up our empty coffee mugs. His had left a ring on the table. Kathy wouldn’t like that. I swiped my hand over the ring, using magic to clean it. The spell wasn’t one of my favorites. It didn’t make spills disappear into some magical void, but instead transferred the offending matter to the bottom of the spellcaster’s socks. I’d found that out the hard way after using it on a big spill of melted popcorn butter.
Harry paused, saying over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t mind giving Foxy Pumpkin one last tune-up before...”
I tilted my head, waiting. Before what? Before he passed away from whatever illness he might or might not have? Or before the next phase of some scheme he’d concocted with my father?
He didn’t finish. He gave me a quick nod, and then made a bee-line for the exit, avoiding eye contact with Bentley and Persephone.
As I watched him walk away, I imagined him changing form, and using a bushy black tail to wave goodbye. The mental image made me smile.
Now, let me make something perfectly clear.
In that particular moment, I did have questions about Harry Blackstone and his motivations, but one thing I was absolutely certain of was that the man was a shifter. Not just any shifter, but the same black fox I’d seen that morning in the forest.
I wasn’t the only one who’d made that leap in logic. My coworker Frank had made the connection first, and with less information.
And then, when I’d spoken to Harry, he had seemingly confirmed this hypothesis. He had offered only the smallest hint otherwise by way of his bout of confusion, which I’d excused due to his illness.
Eventually, I would learn of my error and make corrections, but it would take a while. A whopping fifty-five days.
I would kick myself for not seeing it sooner. Zara tries to be a smart witch who doesn’t make assumptions.
But for the moment, the pieces seemed to fit together, and, if anything, I was rather pleased with myself.
Chapter 5
The WPD duo had split by the time I finished talking to Harry.
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Persephone Rose appeared to be lost. She probably didn’t know what a library was. I offered her some helpful suggestions, and she busied herself looking over the new arrivals and staff picks.
I went over to Bentley, who coolly suggested we head upstairs to the children’s reading area for some privacy. Except for visits by a few preschoolers, it was a quiet place on weekday mornings.
“But it’s not that private,” I said, waggling my eyebrows. “Not like the stacks.”
“I wanted somewhere private to talk,” he said.
“Right.” I led the way upstairs.
We reached the storytime corner, and Bentley stopped in his tracks, transfixed by the new mural on the wall. And who could blame him? It was quite the mural.
“That is... quite the mural,” Bentley said neutrally, as though fishing for my uninfluenced reaction.
“It sure is,” I said, also neutrally, enjoying the drawn-out tension of Bentley’s unsatisfied curiosity about my uninfluenced reaction. Having a boyfriend was fun.
A moment of silence passed as we faced the mural, holding our hands behind our backs like polite visitors at a museum.
The artwork depicted a terrified young woman in a red dress fleeing a giant beast of a wolf with an enormous head and glistening fangs. The rendering was so realistic and dynamic, it practically screamed.
Frank, Kathy, and I all had mixed feelings about the mural. It was an artistic masterpiece, and yet it was not exactly what one would call “appropriate for taxpayer-funded premises,” especially in a zone designated for children.
“But why?” Bentley waved one hand at the slobbering wolf-beast. “How? Who did this?”
I smiled, enjoying his distress. “Someone, by which I mean Frank Wonder, thought it would be a good idea to allow Carrot to channel her creative energy into a Little Red Riding Hood mural.”
“Carrot Greyson? The tattooist?”
“How many Carrots do you know?”
He frowned and walked along the wall, examining the details. Carrot Greyson had recently left her job at City Hall to open her own tattoo studio. She was a talented artist who didn’t limit her canvas to human flesh. She was also working through some things. Exorcising her personal demons, one might say. Carrot didn’t have the best taste in boyfriends. She’d been through some dark times that year. We all hoped the mural might turn things around for her, and that her next boyfriend might not be a murderer.
“But...” My own boyfriend—a good one, as far as I could tell—looked utterly mystified. “How is this Little Red Riding Hood? There’s no cloak. No hood. The girl is just wearing a red dress.”
“That’s your main issue with the mural? The lack of a red hooded cloak? Not the fact that the wolf is drooling blood? Or that his glowing eyes follow you wherever you go? Or that the fangs and mouth are so detailed you can see the creature’s gingivitis?”
He took a step back to observe the mural’s full glory, and then shrugged. “I don’t mind the realism. And it’s accurate. The original fairy tales were quite violent compared to children’s entertainment today.”
“All true. And I’m all for it.” I waved a hand emphatically. “Beheadings, rolling people down waterfalls inside knife-filled barrels, and all the juicy Medieval torture—minus the witch-burning stuff, of course—but this painting may be a teensy weensy bit ahead of its time.” I brushed my fingertips over the textured paint near the wolf’s extended claws. “Our last storytime session was an unmitigated disaster. Between Frank’s dramatic reading style, and Carrot’s mural, five kids wet their pants.”
Bentley, who’d been about to seat himself on an upholstered stool, immediately reversed course and straightened up again.
I elaborated. “Five kids that we know of.”
He nodded grimly and glanced around. At least we were alone in the area. The Big Bad Wolf had created a zone of privacy by scaring people away.
I remembered what we’d come there to discuss.
“What’s up with your new partner?” I asked, thumbing in the direction of the stairs. “Is this some new WPD program, where they pair up the good employees with the ones who don’t understand basic rules about security and privacy?”
“I told you last night. Rose was working undercover for the Department. She was authorized to send the photos to Krinkle through her work account. She’s been cleared of all charges, and she’s getting promoted. Don’t you remember? I told you all about it last night.”
“Oh.” I lightly smacked my forehead. “I should have listened to the words coming out of your mouth when we were at the beach. I guess I didn’t care about what your lips were doing when they weren’t...” I took a step toward the detective, closing the distance between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed the wolf on the mural watching and salivating. Kissing me, I finished in my head.
Bentley’s cool, detached expression broke. A flash of guilty pleasure crossed his face. He swayed forward, closing the gap between us without moving his feet, as though his body was magnetically attracted to mine—which it was. In a deep growl, he said, “Zara.” It was both a warning and an invitation.
I took a step back. “Don’t you dare use your sexy voice on me.” I flashed my eyes and whisper-yelled, “I’m at work!”
He swayed his body back and shook his head. “I should have phoned you with the news.”
“What news? About your new partner? Wait. Is she your partner?” I’d been joking about the young woman being his partner, but now I feared my intuition had spoken through humor, as intuition often did.
“She is my partner now.”
Ba dump dump, as the comedians say.
Bentley continued, “But that’s not why I came here.”
“Are you serious?” I waved at the stairs as though accusing them. “Does she even know about you-know-what?” It was a dumb question. If she worked undercover for the Department, she knew more than most people.
He locked his silver-eyed gaze on me. “She knows.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever, Zara. She comes from an old family.” An old family was a euphemism for supernatural bloodlines.
“What kind? She’s not a witch, is she?” I snorted and pushed up the sleeves on my double layer of cardigans.
He said nothing.
I glared at him for withholding, but I understood. He couldn’t say what she was. It was Persephone Rose’s secret to share.
And yet, because she worked for the DWM—apparently, according to what I’d just learned—she had access to information on all the supernaturals in town, including me and my friends. She knew all about my private life, but I didn’t know about hers.
What kind of last name was Rose, anyway? I didn’t know anyone else in town by that name, so I couldn’t even guess at her abilities. She could be a shifter, or a mage, or a sprite, or a gnome, or any number of things.
Since the DWM didn’t trust witches—except when they needed a witch to do their dirty work—she probably wasn’t a witch. That narrowed it down, but not by much.
What else did I know about the girl? Not much, except that I’d taken an immediate dislike to her. I had bristled at the first mention of her name, and her voice alone. I didn’t like her one bit. That had to mean something, but what?
Bentley spoke, pulling me from my thoughts. “Ms. Rose would probably tell you everything herself, if you could manage to be civil to her for all of five seconds.”
He was being so melodramatic. I’d been plenty civil to the young detective. Why, just moments earlier, I had thoughtfully steered her toward the new releases for reluctant readers, suggesting that the shorter books might be appropriate for someone at her reading level.
Bentley waved a hand. “But that’s not why I’m here.” He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Zara, your father’s been spotted in town.”
“I know. I saw him this morning.”
“You did?”
With a weary sigh, as though this were an everyday oc
currence, I listed off my points on my fingers. “Saw him, spelled him, sent him on his way.”
“You spelled him?”
To answer his question, I showed him. I conjured the form-locking bird in my palm, illuminated it specifically so Bentley could see it, then explained what had happened, including the part where Harry Blackstone had spoken to me briefly as Black Fox.
“Shifters aren’t supposed to be psychic,” Bentley said. “There’s nothing in the resources about that.”
“I’ve got news for you, my tall, dark, and handsome detective.” I made air quotes. “The resources aren’t exactly reliable. My Monster Manual says that a single line of pink Himalayan salt drawn across a doorway keeps out flying magical creatures, but all the salt in the world hasn’t kept Ribbons from raiding my refrigerator. I understand that the definition of doorway may or may not apply to a refrigerator, but we have to understand that when those spells were first documented, things like refrigerators didn’t exist. Maybe it’s just me, but I feel like anything that’s called a door has to fit into a doorway. That means cars have doorways and cupboards, too. The text is very clear about creatures not being able to pass the line of pink salt, and yet, all my orange juice was gone this morning. It was a new carton, too. He didn’t even open the top! It looked untouched, but then I picked it up and nearly fell over backwards, because it was just an empty box. That was when I saw the two tell-tale fang holes on the bottom. He sucked it dry like some sort of...” I suddenly realized the word I’d been about to say, and stopped my tirade.
“Vampire,” Bentley finished. “Ribbons sucked your orange juice dry like some sort of vampire.”
“No offence,” I said.
“None taken.”
We stared at each other a moment.
In his very serious, professional tone, the vampire detective said, “I’m sorry to hear about your orange juice, ma’am. Would you like to press charges?”
I swatted him on the shoulder. “My point is that the resources don’t get everything right. Some shifters might be psychic. Harry said his powers only worked with family members, so he’s probably related to me somehow. He’s a fox, and my father’s a fox, and they’re friends, so they’ve probably got a number of people in common, possibly family members. Harry might be my distant uncle.” I rubbed my chin. “I wonder if he has a will.” I shook my head. “That was dark. Forget I said it.”
Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3) Page 3