“It’s true,” I said.
“All right,” she said, and the fire in her eyes died down.
Reyna picked up her phone, checked the screen, and said, “Sorry I have to run. I do have that appointment back at the office, and I’m already late.” She tossed something small and metallic at me: a key. “Take your time looking around the place. Zara, you can lock up when you’re done.”
I waved the key. “Are you serious?”
“That’s a spare,” she said. “I can grab it back from you sometime when I’m over on Beacon Street.”
Before I could decline the burden of responsibility for having a key to a place that was not my own, she was gone. After the front door banged shut, the resonance inside the house changed. The vibration was subtle, like a key change in a song that you weren’t paying attention to. I didn’t know what I was feeling, but I sensed the house’s relief that she was gone.
Frank looked at me and said, “I don’t like this house.”
“Aw. Don’t hurt the house’s feelings.”
“It’s not personal,” he said. “I just never cared for split levels.”
“Fair enough. There’s a reason nobody’s building them anymore.” I dangled the key between us. “But now that she’s gone, we can do another sweep of the house for Harry. Ghosts are way more active after dark.”
“After dark? The sun hasn’t set,” Frank said. “It won’t be down for a few hours yet.”
We both looked out the dark window. It was raining so hard, I’d mistakenly thought night had fallen.
“That’s September for you,” he said. “Told you so.”
“I believe you now. How is October?”
“Gorgeous.” He held his hands up and wiggled his fingers. “The leaves are spectacular, and there’s so much to do.”
We chatted about the local weather, and I began another sweep of the house.
Frank followed along behind me, chatting about all the upcoming October events. There would be corn mazes of all sizes and skill levels, pumpkin patches, hay rides, barn dances, and more. While some towns specialized in Christmas events or summer festivals, Wisteria put everything it had into Halloween. Given the number of supernaturals living in the town, or in the tunnels beneath it, I was not surprised.
On the sweep, we found no poisoned peppers, magical threats, or even Harry himself. At last, we checked the garage, which Reyna had skipped.
The garage workshop was about empty as the house. It was free of the typical clutter found in houses, but someone—likely a staging professional—had artfully arranged a selection of Harry’s tools on a pegboard that covered the wall opposite the garage door.
I cast a few spells, detecting multiple residual auras within the workspace—past projects of a magical nature. One of the auras had an orange cast, and a shape that matched Foxy Pumpkin’s sturdy body.
Frank stared at the wall of tools with his hands on his hips. “I feel like I should know the names of more of these tools than I do. They’re just so... intimidating.” He turned toward me with a raised eyebrow. “And this is exactly why I’m not cut out for home ownership.”
“Okay, okay.” I held up both hands. “I’ll stop bugging you about it.”
He shivered and rubbed his arms. “Can we get going? On the drive over, you got me all worked up about being in danger, and now I’m coming down from the adrenaline rush.” He shook his head. “You’re such a worry wart, with all your dire warnings. We weren’t in any danger, whatsoever.”
“Oh, Frank.” I crossed the garage to flick off the lights. “Cheer up. Maybe something will attack us on the way to the car.”
He snorted.
We went outside, made sure the door was locked, and prepared to dash through the rain.
Something bright yellow moved on the other side of the hedge. It was a person, and I had a feeling I knew who. Ambrosia Abernathy. She did live next door, after all.
I grabbed Frank by the elbow and whispered a warning to him, explaining what I’d seen. He whispered back, “Now what?” The rain pelted down, flattening his pink hair so it looked like melted cotton candy.
“Follow my lead and don’t do anything rash,” I said.
He nodded and didn’t say anything sassy. His adrenaline was back up again.
I walked toward the car at a normal pace, Frank on my heels, then abruptly reversed course and ran up to the teen girl in the yellow rain gear, who was crouching on the other side of the hedge.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said. “Twice in one day is quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
Ambrosia jumped up from her squatting position, tossed her yellow umbrella to the side, and held out both hands, palms up, as plasma pooled over her fingers.
“Neat,” I said. She was a witch! “Yours is purple?”
But she wasn’t just showing me her witch powers. Oh, no. A mere little spark would have sufficed. What she had in her palms was a double dose of Total Knockout.
Frank, new to adventuring and thus untrained in defensive maneuvers when it came to this kind of situation, stood at my side, frozen in shock.
I grabbed his arm and yelled, “Take cover,” but either I was too slow, or Frank was too slow, or some combination.
Chapter 19
To the untrained eye, Ambrosia Abernathy, dressed in bright yellow rain gear, might look about as intimidating as a rubber duckie.
But she was a witch, and she had some tricks up those yellow sleeves. Her pretty purple fireballs had some stank on them. Stank like I had never seen. Stank that I wanted for myself.
Both flaming balls of plasma arced around me—one left and one right. How did she do that?
I heard the wheeze of air being knocked out of someone’s lungs. I turned to see my eager sidekick clutching his chest.
Frank burped out two pink feathers, but stayed in his human form as he crumpled, going down like a demolished chimney.
I helped him land safely, checked that he was breathing, then whirled to face my adversary. My hair, wet from the downpour, whipped against my cheek.
“Not cool,” I said to Ambrosia, pulling a wet strand of hair from my mouth. “Not cool at all. I don’t know who your mentor is, but she should have taught you manners. We don’t fireball first and ask questions later.” As the words left my lips, I was keenly aware of my own hypocrisy. I was a fireball-first kind of witch myself—or at least I had been during my early days. I had much better control over my impulses now. I hardly ever zolted people without provocation.
The teen-sized troublemaker didn’t defend her actions. By the look of the purple plasma bubbling in her hands, she was preparing to take a shot at me.
I swept a defensive arc, easily blocking her magic, and, because I’m a class act, spreading a rain-blocking invisible umbrella overhead at the same time. Why not? Any non-magical person watching would be so distracted by the fireballs they wouldn’t notice the rain avoiding yours truly.
While she powered up, I knelt by Frank and checked his vitals again. He was unconscious, but he would be fine. Little Miss Purple Fireballs, however, was going to taste the consequences of her actions.
Witch Tongue curled in my mouth, and I actually tasted the fury. It was what I imagined blood in the water might taste like to piranhas.
My whole body was both numb and tingling at the same time. Combat! I was excited.
There were so many amazing combat spells I was itching to use!
But no.
No to the deadly hexes and the painful jinxes. I had to restrain myself. Ambrosia Abernathy was little more than a child. I couldn’t beat another witch senseless with my magic. Who did I think I was? Maisy Nix?
I had to treat her like the teenager she was.
So, before she could ruin my day further, I cast a simple spell to remove her boots. While she was standing in them. It was a cheap trick, but an effective battle tactic. I had Aunt Zinnia and Margaret Mills to thank for that particular bit of witchy wisdom.
&nb
sp; The shoe-removal spell worked like a—pardon the pun—charm.
Two yellow rubber boots twirled into the air. One yellow-rain-slicker-wearing teenaged witch had her legs yanked out from underneath her. She flipped through the air and landed on her back. The soggy ground cushioned her fall while providing a satisfying SPLAT sound.
“And stay down,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “You’re grounded!”
Ambrosia scrambled to right herself. She crouched low to the ground, her socked feet ankle-deep in mud. She was red-faced and spitting mad. “You’re not the boss of me! I’ll show you!”
And, as I would quickly learn, she really would show me.
Her lips were a blur as she cast another spell.
I didn’t recognize the spell, so I cast a general block. It wasn’t as effective as the correct counter spell, but what else could I do?
I knew within seconds that I’d failed. I might have blunted the force of her casting, but I hadn’t blocked it entirely. The dread came first. The weight on my chest. The pounding of my pulse in my ears. And then, the twisting pain inside. My insides felt like a beehive, and the bees were angry.
I fell to my knees while desperately casting a motion-disruption spell combined with a tripwire plus a hard shove.
My spells came together, and Ambrosia fell into the mud again, this time face down. When she lifted her head to glare at me, everything but her big, dark-rimmed eyes was covered in thick, brown earth. In those eyes, I saw the fiery conviction. Not only would she try to destroy me, but she believed she was doing the right thing. It was hard to fight fiery conviction, but I had to try.
Ignoring the buzzing inside me, I held my head high and used my Mom-is-serious voice. “Listen up, you little witch. I may not be the boss of you, but I am bigger and badder. Now, stop this nonsense, you little brat.”
She smiled with muddy lips. She was up to something. Her arms stretched wide, and then she clapped her hands together.
I heard the SPLAT of her muddy palms coming together, and it was like a sonic boom inside me.
Time slowed.
The moment stretched out like gooey taffy. The rain streaming off my invisible umbrella stopped in the air, hanging like a beaded curtain.
My insides boiled, bubbling like a cauldron. I thought of a spell I knew of, a particular type of instant poisoning. I’d found the mechanics intriguing, and it was a simple spell, suitable for novices. But I hadn’t learn the casting, because no decent witch would use something so vile and nasty on another person! And yet... I knew in that instant that Ambrosia Abernathy had done exactly that. She was not a decent witch. She was...
Everything went black as I lost consciousness.
Chapter 20
Several Hours Later
I was dreaming a B-movie style dream about women in prison. One of the locked-up ladies kept dragging a metal cup back and forth over the bars, making a terrible racket.
I woke up to find that the metallic racket was happening in real life. And it was caused by—get this—a real woman dragging a real metal cup back and forth across some very real metal bars. I was inside what I quickly surmised was a holding cell. By the smell of it, this holding cell was commonly used as a drunk tank.
This wasn’t a dream. My body felt heavy, and my midsection was sore and prickly in a way it never would be in a dream.
The woman making music on the bars like she was vying for the title of World’s Least Enjoyable Harpist was both large and tattooed. She was the only other person in the cell with me.
“Hello,” I said.
She whipped around, revealing a face that had seen a rough night or two, or a few years’ worth.
Gruffly, she asked, “Did I wake ya from yer slumber, Sleeping Beauty?” She dropped her beefy, tattooed arms to her sides and banged the cup on the bars without looking.
If my ears hadn’t been ringing before, they sure were now.
I sat upright on the bench I’d been passed out on, and rapidly took stock of my surroundings. Three concrete walls, stainless steel toilet and sink, and a fourth wall of metal bars. There were a couple of benches, firmly attached to the concrete floor, plus me, and my sole inmate. There were plenty of times I’d been grateful for my witch powers, and this was one of those times. I didn’t know this tough-looking woman, but she looked like she could throw a punch. She looked like a Madge.
Madge watched me with bruised, puffy eyes. “Sorry I cut your beauty sleep short, Princess.”
“No worries,” I said lightly. “I probably slept enough. Do you happen to know how long I was out?”
“How should I know? I ain’t your babysitter.” Madge stared at me, but also through me, in that threatening yet unfocused way of ladies named Madge who rattle the bars inside drunk tanks.
I heard a heavy-sounding door on thick hinges squeal open. I couldn’t see the door from where I sat. Someone—one person, alone—approached the drunk tank, moving with the softest of footfalls, like a shadow. Either the person weighed less than seventy pounds or they had supernatural stealth.
When the person appeared, my breath caught in my throat and my mouth watered. It was a vampire. My vampire. Bentley. He looked good at all times, but at that moment, he was wearing casual clothes, a gray shirt, three buttons undone, paired with dark jeans. He looked yummier than a bacon salad out on a first date with a bacon burger. Also, I was a bit hungry.
He gave me a grim, jaw-clenched look, wordlessly warning me that both of our situations would be better if I didn’t let on to my pal Madge that I knew him.
“Hey, jailkeeper man,” I said toughly, channelling my own inner Madge. “Lemme out of here. I didn’t do nothin’. Even if I did, you can’t prove it.”
Bentley clenched his jaw even tighter, then instructed the other woman—whose name was Becky Anderson, strangely enough—to step back from the bars and place her palms on the cinderblock wall. She did so, begrudgingly.
Bentley nodded for me to exit and follow him down the hallway.
“Nice to meet you, Becky,” I said. “Good luck with everything.”
“Catch ya on the flip side, Princess Buttercup,” she said. “Or is it Petunia?”
I shot a glance over my shoulder at her. “It’s Zara,” I said. “I work at the public library. Perhaps we’ll meet again!”
“Stay outta trouble,” she called back, equally cheerful, then, “Nice to meet ya!”
* * *
Bentley and I travelled through a maze of corridors without saying a word to each other. He opened the door for a small room, and I went in.
As soon as the door closed behind us, I threw my arms around my handsome vampire and kissed his cheek.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I said. “How long was I out? Did you arrest the little witch? Is she being booked in another room?”
He pulled away and looked me in the eyes. “Slow down. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What little witch?”
“The one who knocked me out! You didn’t arrest her?”
He gave me a guarded look and spoke slowly. “I’m not supposed to be working tonight.”
“Thanks for coming to get me on your night off.”
“You’re welcome.” He spoke through gritted teeth, as though angry about something.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“You tell me.”
“I was trying to tell you. Someone attacked me. You’d better arrest her soon. For her own protection. When I get my hands on her...” I mimed casting some strangling-type spells that Bentley wouldn’t understand at all. “Well? What are you waiting for. Go out and arrest her. I’ll give you her name and address.”
He sighed. “I’m not working tonight.”
“So? When has that stopped you before?”
With forced patience, he explained, “Earlier this evening, I was sitting inside a very nice restaurant, wondering why my date for the evening was running so late. Then I received a phone call that a certain Zara Riddle had b
een picked up, and she was currently passed out in the drunk tank.”
“Why did they put me in the drunk tank, anyway?”
“You were drunk.”
I snorted. “I wasn’t drunk!”
He raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at my mouth. “Your breath would say otherwise.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I haven’t had a drop of booze since the last time I saw Charlize, and that was ages ago. You must be smelling Madge, or Becky Anderson, or whatever her name is.”
He waved his hand in the air between us. “Your breath reeks of booze. And might I remind you that I’m the cop here. I know booze breath when I smell it.” He sniffed, his nostrils flaring. “Rum?”
I held up my hand, exhaled fully onto my palm, and sniffed.
Booze.
He was right. Not necessarily about it being rum, but there was the distinctive aroma of alcohol on my breath.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I said. “Or what it smells like. It’s not real booze. It’s magic booze.”
“Magic booze?”
“Never mind about that. Where’s Frank? He was with me. Or at least he was the last time I was conscious. Is it still Friday?”
“First, Frank Wonder is okay. He’s safe and sound at another facility. As for the time, it’s past midnight, so it’s technically Saturday. The breadsticks at the restaurant were excellent, by the way. Thanks for asking. When your date leaves you waiting for an hour, they give you as many breadsticks as you want.”
“Our date! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to stand you up. Honestly. I stayed at work a bit late, and then—”
Bentley cut me off. “And one thing led to another, and you wound up drunk and passed out in a pile of mud in a residential neighborhood.”
“This isn’t how it looks,” I said. “Someone cast a spell on me.”
“Someone cast a spell on you and made you drink to intoxication? Aren’t you supposed to be incapable of passing out from booze? Isn’t that how you keep up with the gorgon?”
“There’s a spell that mimics severe intoxication,” I said. “Listen. I can explain everything, and once you hear it, you won’t be mad at me anymore.”
Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3) Page 12