Witch

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Client-attorney privacy.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks,” I said uncertainly.

  She nodded, brisk.

  “What can you tell me about Maya Croft?” I asked.

  She smiled. “What can I tell you? I was wondering when you’d get to that.”

  I waited. A jogger dashed past.

  “And…?” I prompted.

  “And she’s an accomplished young woman. I’d step carefully around that one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you shouldn’t look to me for gossip just because I’m an old lady,” she said tartly and turned to go.

  “Who are Mrs. Raven and Mr. O’Hare?” I asked.

  She went rigid and scowled. “That is an excellent question.”

  “Don’t you know them? You seemed to be friends in Antoine’s.”

  “A woman in my position can’t afford to have friends.” She leveled her cane at me. “And neither can you. Stick with your sisters. They’re mostly trustworthy.” She stomped down the sidewalk, her cane thumping, her black skirts swaying.

  Mostly trustworthy? What was that supposed to mean? And why had Mrs. Steinberg approached me in the first place? To share gossip, or to find out what I knew?

  Puzzled, I walked to the tasting room. The Vivian tasting room was in an old red schoolhouse, complete with a bell on the top. I walked up the wood steps just as Eclectus was exiting.

  The flaps of his hunter’s cap stuck out slightly where his ears were. Like Mrs. Steinberg, he also wore a black wool coat, but his looked like it had cost at least a month of my pay at Ground.

  He stopped short and tugged on the ends of his plaid scarf. “Ms. Bonheim.”

  “Hi. Are you in Vivian’s wine club?”

  “Why else would I be wine tasting in my own town?” He made to move off.

  I stepped sideways, blocking his path. “What a coincidence running into you. I just saw Maya,” I lied.

  “Who?”

  “Maya Croft.”

  He cocked his head, his pewter eyes narrowing. “And what’s so coincidental about that?”

  “Maybe not a coincidence, but strange,” I said, feeling less clever by the second. “Because you and she…” I trailed off, hopeful he’d fill in the gap I’d left.

  “Me and Maya Croft what?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I heard you’re working together, on the library project.”

  “I have no idea who or what you’re talking about.”

  Damn.

  “I suppose you have a point?” he asked.

  My shoulders slumped. “No, I guess I don’t. But I was thinking that with Alex, Candace, and David dead, you might be worried.”

  His brows rose. “Should I be? Are you threatening me?”

  “No, of course not. But whatever's happening now has to be connected to the past and that hazing incident. Why else kill David Senator?”

  “Because there was no reason to kill him because of his present?” he asked. “That’s a bit ignorant. You don’t know what he’s been up to since he returned.”

  “And you? Do you know what he was up to? Aside from sending poisoned pen letters, that is.”

  He colored. “It's a good thing you're not working for the Sheriff. David caused plenty of trouble when—” His jaw snapped shut.

  “When he returned? What sort of trouble?”

  He pushed past me. “Good day, Ms. Bonheim.”

  “Hey!”

  He stopped, turned.

  “Three people are dead. If you know something and don’t tell anyone, more people might die.”

  His smile was wintry. “Perhaps, but I see no reason to talk to you, Ms. Bonheim.” He strode to his Mercedes and slid inside, slamming the door.

  My hands fisted. I didn’t believe the lawyer’s denials. Maya was involved in this somehow. Now all I had to do was prove it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I couldn’t in good conscience leave Ground alone any longer. Unable to find Angela to interrogate, I returned to my coffeeshop. The café hummed with conversation. People sat at every table, the gloom outside encouraging people to huddle within.

  And I listened to those conversations, hoping some nugget of gossip would point toward Maya.

  None did.

  Finally, we closed, and I trudged upstairs to flop on the alcove couch. A baby potted philodendron tumbled off the table behind it, bounced off my shoulder, and landed upright in my lap.

  Picatrix leapt onto the couch and nosed the plant.

  “All right, all right,” I grumbled. “It’s a sign.” I got it – it was time for me to get back to my magic. It was one of the few things that made me truly happy, aside from Brayden.

  My eyes burned, and I blinked back memories of the two of us, together and happy. I drew deep breaths into my heart. Magic. Think about the magic.

  Sitting cross-legged, I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Energy flowed up from the earth and into my heart. My chest tingled, growing lighter. Gently, I pushed the energy through my hands and toward the philodendron. “Grow,” I whispered.

  I opened my eyes.

  The heart-shaped leaves trembled. Or was it my hands, holding the ceramic pot, that shook?

  I rose and placed the houseplant on the square kitchen table. Breathing deeply, I held my right hand above the small pot and willed energy from the earth. Heat swelled up through my feet, into my heart, down my arm. My hand shivered with energy.

  I squinted at the philodendron.

  Had it grown bigger? Or had I imagined it?

  The ebony cat hopped onto the table and sat, head cocked.

  What I needed was to be more Karin-like and scientific. I walked to the black-quartz counter and rummaged in the drawers beneath it until I found a wrinkled yellow pad of paper. I tore off a sheet.

  Carefully turning the plant on its side, I outlined one of the leaves on the paper. I stuck a piece of tape to the leaf, so I’d know which leaf was which.

  I rubbed my hands together. “You can do this, Jayce.”

  I righted the philodendron, leaving flecks of potting soil on the table. Taking a deep breath, I pulled warm energy, humming through my feet, zinging through my body, flowing out my hand. “Grow.” My voice echoed across the laminate floor.

  Picatrix leapt from the table.

  I leaned forward, staring. There! Had it grown a bit?

  I laid the plant on its side and set the leaf over my tracing. It was bigger. Not by much, but by something.

  “Yes!” I punched my fist in the air. I’d done it! My new growth spell had worked. It hadn’t worked great, but—

  The phone in the back pocket of my jeans rang. I pulled it out and checked the number. Lenore.

  “Hey, witch,” I sang out. “What's going on?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?” Was I not supposed to make plants grow outside their natural cycle? How did Lenore always know these things?

  “I'm not sure.” She sighed. “It's just a feeling.”

  I laughed. “Hey, I'm the one who gets feelings. Keep off my territory.”

  “Want to come over?” she asked.

  I looked out the kitchen window. Street lamps glowed on Main Street, making a sheen on the pavement. Had it rained without me noticing?

  “I'll pick up a pizza,” she said.

  “Sure. I'll be there in ten.”

  We said our goodbyes and hung up. I did a quick search of the apartment for Picatrix, but the cat had vanished out the swinging cat door.

  Swiping on a fresh coat of lip gloss, I undid my hair from its work ponytail and ran my fingers across my scalp, closing my eyes, blissful. It felt so good sometimes to take things off. But now I had to go. I shrugged into my silvery parka and left out the alley door.

  The automatic light flipped on, and my breath caught. Another reminder of Brayden. I jogged down
the wooden staircase and out the alley.

  I walked down a residential street. The houses were set far apart and well back on their property. Their lights did little to illuminate the slick and gloomy road. Doyle hadn't bothered with streetlights here. My boots crunched on the quiet dirt path.

  I could walk this road blindfolded. These were my streets. My home. But I glanced over my shoulder. To the east, the mountains were a bruise against the deepening dark. Pines like jagged teeth outlined their peaks.

  A crow shrieked above me, and my shoulders hunched. Dozens joined the chorus, pinwheeling in the sky. The birds landed in a nearby oak.

  I lengthened my strides. Dammit. I’d been so full of my magical success, I hadn’t even considered the anthrophage.

  Stopping in my tracks, I centered myself and extended my senses. Now I felt the crows, settling into the trees, plucking at their feathers, getting just the right grip on the branches. I sensed no magic beyond nature's sparkling pulse, and no anthrophage.

  But the hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

  I broke into a trot.

  The dark road looped downward. Lenore's house wasn't far now, and my hands loosened.

  I rounded the final bend, passing the silhouette of a mail box. It stuck out at an angle from a tangle of barren manzanita. The shingle and stone house rose into view, and I slowed.

  The spot between my shoulder blades heated.

  A wet growl sounded from the manzanita.

  I froze, paralyzed. Then I ran.

  My purse slipped from my shoulder to the ground, and I stumbled over it. My feet tangled in the strap. I kicked it free, and it thumped to the ground. Arms pumping, leaning forward, I raced toward the lit house. My heartbeat exploded in my chest. I wasn't going to make it.

  The sickening click and scratch of claws on earth. The crunch of my boots striking Lenore's empty gravel driveway. The stench of hot, animal breath on my neck.

  Lenore's two-story rose before me. Lights gleamed from the windows beneath its gabled peaks.

  My sister’s car wasn't in the driveway. She wasn't home. The door would be locked, and somewhere I'd dropped my damn purse, with the house keys, my phone.

  Sensing danger on my left, I veered right.

  Something burned my arm, and I gave a whimpering cry. I pounded onward, rounding the corner of her house.

  The anthrophage’s hot breath coiled, stinking of blood and sweat and viscera. The creature’s breath rasped. Claws scrabbled in the loose stone.

  A rectangular shape blotted out one corner of the garden. The shed. Its door hung open. I lunged forward.

  A snarl. A stripe of pain burned my back, and I whimpered from the shock.

  I grasped the edge of the door. Leaping inside, I whirled and slammed it shut, leaned my weight against the thin wood.

  The door shuddered against me, and I flinched. One shoulder braced against the door, I fumbled with my free hand in the darkness. The anthrophage had claws, hands. I was pretty sure it was stronger than me. Eventually, it would find the metal door handle.

  The thing outside barked, an odd, metallic sound.

  My fingers explored a dust-filmed shelf. A clay pot tumbled from the shelf and shattered on the floor.

  The anthrophage howled. The shed lurched sideways, things crashing and sliding and clattering to the floor. I shouted with fear.

  Panicky, I swept my free hand along the shelf, brushed a wisp of spiderweb, and grasped a round, wooden handle. I jammed the mystery tool through the door handle, creating a makeshift bolt.

  The door rattled.

  Breath quick, uneven, I edged from the door. My heel nudged something metal. It scraped and clanked.

  Our aunt had built the shed decades ago. It was wooden, and sturdy enough to withstand Doyle's winters. But it was old, the door made of flimsy particleboard.

  The tool clattered in the door handle. I imagined it slipping sideways, falling uselessly to the floor, the anthrophage bursting through.

  Kneeling, I patted the uneven floor until I found a long, round handle. I ran my hands down its length. A shovel, the metal crusted with earth.

  Panting, I stood and gripped it two handed.

  More scraping sounds.

  A thunk.

  Silence.

  I stood, chest heaving, clutching the shovel. Had it given up? I calmed my breathing, sending my energy into the earth, and the trees responded. Each step the creature took trembled through their roots.

  The anthrophage was waiting.

  And Lenore would be home soon. She'd gone for pizza. My sister could be back any minute.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, visualizing the scene. Her Volvo driving up, the headlights… I’d bet the anthrophage wouldn't like those lights. That would be my chance to distract it, to drive it off somehow.

  Back pulsing with hot pain, I edged toward the shed door. My feet slid along the floor, shoving fallen objects aside.

  Hand trembling, I ran my fingers along the door frame until I found the tool I'd wedged in the handle. I gripped the makeshift bolt in one hand, the shovel in the other, and turned my ear toward the door.

  Silence.

  The air thickened with magic, a malevolent force pressing against the shed’s fragile walls. My skin crawled with revulsion.

  I strained my ears, listening for Lenore's Volvo. My own, noisy breathing filled the dark shed.

  I adjusted my grip on the shovel. Was the creature’s presence here my fault? Had I made myself the anthrophage’s next target by chasing it all over Doyle?

  I should have brought those spell bottles. Or maybe the water balloons I’d threatened.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled in my chest. I squeezed my jaw shut. Next up, magical water balloons. But now I had to swallow down my panic, stay alert.

  Don’t think of what the anthrophage might do. Pay attention to what’s happening now.

  But my mind sheered into denial.

  Someone — Connor? — had once told me there were three motives for murder: greed, love, revenge. There was evidence David had been blackmailing his teen-year tormentors. Killing David would end the blackmail.

  But why had Alex died first?

  A fatalistic calm blanketed my awareness.

  Why kill Alex at all? Had he been about to come clean about his role in David’s disappearance? His wife had said something had been gnawing at the forensic analyst. Maybe Eclectus had decided to shut Alex up before he broke ranks, and then Eclectus had killed David. And then… Candace had somehow figured it out and had to die too?

  The shed lurched sideways. My calm fled. I pulled the shovel closer to my chest.

  I swallowed. If Eclectus could have killed Alex, David and Candace, Wharton had the same motive. The lumberyard owner had claimed he hadn't been involved in the hazing, that Alex and Eclectus had let him take the blame. But I only had his word for that.

  Something scraped along the side wall. I closed my eyes. It wasn’t getting in. Not now. I had to think!

  Why kill Alex first? What was Alex that made him a threat? He was a husband. He did forensics for the local police. Killing Alex may have slowed the police investigation of David and Candace’s murders. But it wouldn't stop the sheriff. The authorities had figured out quick enough the victims had all been shot.

  What else? Alex had been a DNA expert, and that was another connection to David. David had surely gone through a DNA test, like all the other Returned. Had those results come back yet? The newspaper article had said the testing was taking time…

  Something heavy bumped against the shed. I sucked in a quick breath, my grip on the tools damp.

  There was a soft scrabbling sound, like digging. There were about six inches of space between the shed floor and the ground. But if the anthrophage was trying to come up from beneath me, I didn't think it would have much luck. The floor was solid and weighted with tools. And with me.

  I listened, heard nothing. My shoul
ders fractionally relaxed.

  Could the DNA test be the link in these murders? But why? Was David who he said he was? His sister said he'd come back a different person, but all the Returned had been changed by their experience.

  If David wasn't the real David, was that why he’d sent threatening letters to Alex, the DNA tester? To keep Alex quiet?

  And Angela had been overheard arguing with Alex…

  “Oh, shit,” I mouthed. Of course. Of course! Love, greed, revenge.

  A car engine hummed, and I straightened.

  Lenore.

  See my purse on the ground. Feel something's wrong. Don't get out of the car.

  Tires crunched on gravel. I didn’t have time. Couldn’t hope she’d see.

  I ripped the tool from the door handle, kicked open the door, and screamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Headlights swept the garden, angular shadows tilting swiftly across the side of the house.

  Motion blurred on my left. I swung on blind instinct. The shovel connected with a solid mass.

  A yelp, a growl, the thing was gone.

  I blinked sweat from my eyes, trying to adjust my vision to the dim light from the windows. Around the corner of the house, Lenore’s headlights cast a diffused glow from the driveway.

  “Jayce?” Lenore shouted.

  I turned in place, my moist palms gripping the shovel’s handle, trying to find the thing. Indistinct silhouettes of trees and twisted branches dotted the garden. “It's here! The anthrophage!”

  She cursed. A car door slammed.

  “Wait,” I called, “don't turn off your headlights—”

  The Volvo roared around the corner of the house. It jounced over a mound of earth, and the side door flew open. “Get in!”

  I scrambled into the car. Pinning the shovel awkwardly between my legs, I slammed the door. “Thanks.” I panted.

  “Don't thank me yet,” she said, her face stark white above her thick, ivory scarf and wool jacket. “Is it still out there?”

  The anthrophage crashed onto the hood of the Volvo, and we screamed. The crimson slash in its chest gaped. It slammed its claw-like hand into the windshield. A spiderweb of cracks laced the glass.

  “That is so not good,” I sputtered.