Pawsitively Cursed

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  “We think it was a Penhallow!” she blurted out, taking another step forward, hoping the words would slip in through the crack in the door before he slammed it and shut her out again. One of her eyes instinctively shut, wincing in preparation for the door closing and all those locks and bolts sliding home. But it didn’t come.

  Instead, he darted toward her, grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into the house before she could react.

  Oh, sweet Lord, this is it! I’ve finally pestered him too much and he’s going to murder me.

  “Get in here, Willow!” he snapped. “Now!”

  Willow scurried in after them, Amber’s wrist still firmly clenched in Edgar’s grasp. When Willow was inside, Edgar unhanded her and quickly got to work locking the door. Amber watched as he did so, uttering spells under his breath, hands waving in the air like a conductor. Keys turned in locks of their own accord. Thick bolts slid along reinforced tracks.

  Now it was Willow who clutched at Amber’s arm. “Should we be worried?” she hissed in her ear.

  Before she could answer, Edgar whirled to face them in the dark foyer. Amber swallowed a breath. Gretchen had told her that she had an affinity for the manipulation of matter and time, but at the moment, her mind was just a jumbled buzz of panic. Not like she could just craft a spell out of thin air anyway. Besides, he was part Henbane, too. And, if Amber had to guess, he was a far more powerful witch.

  She had mace in her purse. But her purse was in the car. The foul protection tincture they’d drunk was meant to protect them from the twisted magic of a Penhallow. Would it work against the magic of a Henbane?

  “Don’t speak of the Penhallows in public,” he said, then stalked past them.

  Amber and Willow turned as a unit, watching his dark form travel further and further into the dark recesses of the house.

  He turned in a doorway several feet away, the room beyond it even darker than the foyer. “Are you coming or what? If you want to talk, let’s talk. I’ll make coffee.”

  Amber and Willow looked at each other, shrugged, and then followed their cousin into the kitchen.

  Chapter 10

  The lights in the kitchen flicked on just as Amber and Willow stepped inside. All three of them squinted in the glare. Amber wondered why he kept the place so dark.

  She’d half expected the kitchen to be a horrific disaster, the light revealing counters, walls, and floor caked in filth, dishes in the sink swarmed with flies, and stacks of pizza boxes towering precariously on every surface. While the sink and counter were stacked with dishes, there wasn’t a fly in sight. The white tile could use a thorough mopping, but her shoes didn’t stick to the floor, so she considered that a major plus. And only one box from Patch’s Pizza lay on the center island. Patch—a smiling cartoon cat with a large patch of black splashed over one eye and sporting a chef’s hat—graced the box’s lid.

  “Every pizza boy who delivers pizza here looks four seconds from soiling his pants,” Edgar said from across the kitchen, his back turned to them as he fussed with the coffee pot.

  Amber and Willow winced sheepishly at each other.

  Once the coffee was brewing, Edgar turned and rested his backside against the counter, arms folded over his chest, and his ankles crossed. “So what’s this about a …” He visibly swallowed. “What about the Penhallows? They went into hiding after your parents died.”

  A knot formed in Amber’s stomach.

  “That’s what we heard too,” Willow said. “But Aunt Gretchen unexpectedly showed up at Amber’s place almost a week ago, claiming the Penhallows were resurfacing and they were after Amber.”

  Edgar’s eyes cut to Amber. “Why you? Why now?”

  “Million-dollar question,” Amber said. “But their signature was all over the hotel room where the maid was killed. The Penhallow, whoever it is, is in Edgehill.”

  He jutted a chin at her. “And what do you want from me? As you’re well aware, I don’t get out much. So how would I know anything?”

  Amber and Willow shared another look.

  “Stop doing your weird sister-telepathy thing. Ask your questions so you get this out of your system once and for all—then you can get out of here and leave me alone.”

  “Why would the Penhallows want to kill our parents?”

  Edgar pursed his thin lips. “He wanted Belle. Theo was collateral damage.”

  Blowing out a calming breath, she said, “Wanted her for what?”

  Edgar cocked his head like a curious dog. “That’s what you want to know? That’s the most basic part of this whole thing. Penhallows want—need—magic, right? Well, as off their rockers as they are, they understand that they’re cursed. They’re constantly trying to find a way to end said curse. And we Henbanes have just the type of magic they think they need: the ability to manipulate time.”

  Amber blinked a few times. “So, what, they want to go back in time to before they were stripped of their powers to make sure they never get cursed in the first place?”

  “Bingo.”

  “But Gretchen says our magic doesn’t make us time travelers. A time spell wouldn’t be able to take someone back that far, would it? Was she lying?” Again?

  “Nope, she’s right on that. There isn’t a spell or magic affinity a cursed witch could steal to reverse this. The whole reason they were cursed was because they broke the cardinal rule of witchcraft: you don’t steal power from another witch. So stealing power to reverse a curse caused by stealing power is, as the kids say, bass ackwards.”

  Amber arched a brow at him. If he thought that was the kind of thing kids were saying these days, he needed to get out of the house even more than she did.

  “How do they reverse it?” Willow asked.

  “The way I heard it,” said Edgar, “is that a cursed witch has to willingly give up the search for magic. They have to want to resist the urge—but it’s like an addict trying to go cold turkey. Not an easy task, especially now that the insatiable urge to siphon magic has been passed on for generations. It’s instinctual now. It’s been warping Penhallows for generations.”

  “So all a Penhallow has to do is resist the urge to steal magic and the curse is lifted?” Amber asked.

  “Not quite. They also have to meet and fall in love with another Penhallow who’s also made a similar choice, and then they have to create offspring who are pure of character. Those Penhallows will be the start of a reborn clan. It’ll take generations to clean it up even if those first two resisters get the whole thing going.”

  Amber wondered if there was a dating site for magic-stealing-resistant Penhallows. Swipe right if you’re sick of that cursed life. How were they supposed to find each other?

  “Even when two of them meet, it’s almost inevitable that one of them will crack. Plus, often when it’s been revealed that there’s a resister somewhere in their ranks, the cursed witches find a way to break their resolve. The majority of them are convinced there’s a magical solution to all this, so resisters tick them off. Basically, they keep pursuing something impossible and are constantly digging the hole deeper.”

  “They really are like a virus. They even infect their own,” said Amber.

  “Yep,” Edgar said.

  “How do you know this much about them?” Amber asked, gaze sweeping over him.

  He squirmed a bit under her scrutiny and uncrossed his arms, resting his hands on the counter behind him. “When Belle and Theo died, there were all these rumors about who did it …” He crossed his arms again. “I was still connected to all this back then. Both the Henbane clan on my dad’s side, and the Caraway clan on Mom’s side. I heard a lot of them talking about the Penhallows. By then, I had enough spy-like spells up my sleeve that I could listen in on almost any conversation that went on in the house.”

  Amber wondered if one such spell was how he’d heard herself and Willow discussing nervous pizza boys. “Have you ever met a Penhallow?”

  “Not that I know of, but that’s how they play it, ri
ght?” he asked with a laugh.

  Amber hiked a brow at him.

  “What?” he asked, gaze shifting from one Blackwood sister to the other, when his amused expression clearly didn’t mirror theirs. “Their affinity is glamour.”

  “Like what Willow can do?” Amber asked.

  “Wow,” he said. “Belle really did keep you guys in the dark, didn’t she?”

  Amber crossed her arms tight over her chest.

  He held up his hands. “Okay. Chill. Let’s see how I can explain this. Each family, or clan, has an affinity. Just like how everyone in a family has, say, blonde hair. But just like you can have a kid with dark eyes show up in a family with mostly light ones, a witch doesn’t always inherit affinities. Or one sibling can favor their father’s clan’s affinity, while another sibling picks up her affinities from her mother. I think that’s what happened with you two.” Edgar wagged a finger back and forth between Amber and Willow. “Or a kid can have none of the affinities of either parent, but has ones that their great grandparent had. Make sense?”

  Amber and Willow nodded.

  “All right,” he said, “so Willow is a pretty classic example of a Blackwood, from what I can remember. You’re good at changing what things look like, right?”

  “Yeah. Better at changing objects though. Most every change I do to people—like hairstyles or whatever—usually fades after an hour or two.”

  “Makes sense. Thing is, your ability is more about illusion, though a glamour spell on an object, like you said, depending on how complicated the change is, often holds up for a while on its own. You make someone think they saw the change, but you’re usually not actually changing the makeup of the object or person in question. That’s why the change never lasts long or why the supposed-glamour ‘drops’ when you lose your concentration. But what you’re really doing is manipulating what someone sees. If you’re maintaining the illusion for one person, you can hold the glamour longer than if you’re maintaining the illusion for a crowd of fifty. Because in that case, you’re manipulating the minds of fifty people at once. Much harder to keep going without depleting all your energy.”

  Willow was nodding at this, eyes wide, as if she’d just had an epiphany. Glamour spells had rarely worked well for Amber, period, so most of this went over her head.

  “And that’s different from what a Penhallow can do?” Amber asked.

  “Yeah—” Edgar briefly closed his eyes, chin pressed to his shoulder. From the creases lining his forehead now, she wondered if he’d suddenly been stuck with a migraine.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, starting to move toward him.

  He held up a hand, eyes still closed, as if to ward her off. She settled back into place at the kitchen island, hands folded on the worn wood. After a long slow breath, he cracked open one eye, then the other. “I’m all right. I … uhh … what did you ask?”

  Amber and Willow shared a sister-telepathy glance. Willow shrugged, frowning slightly.

  “I asked if what a Penhallow can do is different from what a Blackwood can do,” Amber said.

  “Right,” he said, nodding, resuming his semi-relaxed posture. “Penhallows can cast true glamour spells. They can change themselves—facial structures, gender, race, age. A twelve-year-old boy can become a thirty-year-old pregnant woman.”

  Amber blinked. “So they’re like shapeshifters.”

  With a nod, he said, “In the past, a Penhallow couldn’t hold the shape of another person for longer than twenty-four hours at most. But now that their magic is warped? They can become someone else indefinitely. And they can change shape at will.”

  So the Penhallow could be literally anyone—in a town slowly filling with tourists, with even more on the way thanks to the rumor about Olaf Betzen making an appearance at the junior fashion show. Soon the town would be a sea of unfamiliar faces. Great.

  “Do they take on the personality and thoughts of the person they’re glamouring?” Amber asked.

  “No. They’re stealing their appearance, not bodysnatching,” he said. “So they’re still themselves, just wearing a different skin. But their voice and mannerisms will match the person they’ve become. Muscle memory, I guess.”

  How were they supposed to find someone who could change shape constantly?

  The coffee pot gave a click behind Edgar and he set about pulling three mugs from the cabinet above the pot. None of the cups matched. The trio spent a few minutes preparing their coffee to their specifications, then stood around the center island, idly sipping.

  Over the top of her mug, Amber eyed her cousin. He stared off into the middle distance now, occasionally taking a drink from his “Cattitude” mug as if on autopilot. At least the wild look in his eye had diminished, and the sudden maybe-headache had left as soon as it had come. He was still a disheveled mess, though. How had he gotten like this? They hadn’t been close as teenagers, per se, but they’d been friendly enough. He’d been a little quiet, a little closed off, but that hadn’t seemed so strange for a young man grieving his mother.

  His gaze suddenly fixed on her and she gave a start. “Why did you keep coming back here month after month even when I stopped answering the door? Everyone else gave up ages ago. But not you.”

  “I was worried about you way out here by yourself.”

  He shook his head. “Try again, Blackwood.”

  Well, he did say he didn’t want her to waste his time. Might as well cut to the chase. She put down her mug. “Why did you recant your story about the fire? Were you lying then or now?”

  Willow let out what Amber assumed was an involuntary groan.

  Edgar worked his jaw. “Relentless.”

  “Wouldn’t you want to know if things were reversed?” she asked. “Why claim something so specific and then say it didn’t happen?”

  “Because I was sick, okay?” he snapped, putting his mug down too. He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling as if the strength to get through this conversation could be found amongst the cobwebs clinging to the dark corners. He balled his fists on the kitchen island. They were mannerisms she recognized as her own. Was this another Henbane trait? Something she did instinctively when she was frustrated because it’s something her mother did? Something her uncle did and then passed on to his son?

  Edgar focused on Amber. “I was troubled as a kid and that only got worse when Mom died. Belle and Theo were like parents to me in a lot of ways. I was jealous of you—both of you—for having such normal, loving parents. So when they died, making up an elaborate story about it helped me cope.”

  He’d slowly taken on a more poised tone the longer he talked, as if this was all something he’d said before. A well-worn explanation he could recite easily.

  “How did a story about them being trapped—” Willow started, but Edgar cut her off.

  “I had dreams about that night for weeks—before and after the fire. They felt so real, I’d convinced myself they’d actually happened. I blamed myself for their deaths, you see. Like the dreams had been a warning and I ignored them. Caraways often have prophetic dreams; my mom had them a lot when she was growing up. It was easier for me to make up some wild story than to deal with the guilt stemming from the fact that I’d had a chance to save them and didn’t. I even saw the point of origin of the fire in my dreams. A charging battery pack that overheated and caused a spark. I could have gone to your house to unplug that thing so many times. I could have warned your parents. But I ignored the signs. That, paired with the issues I’d already been having?” He shrugged. “I cracked.”

  Amber stared at him for a long time, not sure if it was the words he spoke or his sudden calm that unnerved her more. The more he talked, the more his demeanor seemed to change. Something didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t put her finger on what. All those years ago, Gretchen had said Edgar was unhinged and had filled Amber’s head with false hope, that the fire was a result of an electrical glitch. Now Gretchen said she believed Penhallows had killed Amber’s parents, bu
t Edgar was claiming it had been an unfortunate accident.

  Amber worried she was in denial. She’d needed his original story to be true. That was the story she’d hung onto for years. The truth of what happened fourteen years ago was here in Edgehill, and Edgar’s original claims had been a big part of what had fueled her doubts.

  Yet now the person who was responsible, in part, for the path her life had taken, was telling her he’d made it up. Had Gretchen truly been right all this time? Edgar was simply “off his nut”?

  “So you’re saying the Penhallows didn’t kill our parents?”

  “I’m saying what happened was suspicious. There’s no doubt about that. I’m saying I understand why a Penhallow would have wanted Belle dead. But I cannot say for certain that a Penhallow was responsible for that fire.”

  Why did Edgar suddenly have the countenance of a patient teacher entertaining the creative fancies of a child with a too-active imagination? What he said sounded too rehearsed. Alarm bells went off in her head.

  “Are you scared of them, Edgar?”

  His eyes darted back and forth, back and forth, like a spooked horse. Then, abruptly, the wild look vanished and Edgar shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly—the first one she’d seen from him in … years—and said, “But of course. Any witch worth his salt would be concerned. They’re cursed and their magic is dangerous. I’m very sorry for that maid’s family. I send them my regards.”

  The gruff version of her cousin, the one growling at them to get off his property, seemed to be retreating further and further, slowly replaced by someone much calmer and almost pleasant. Almost robotic. His posture was straighter, his tone more even. The scowl lines marring his forehead had smoothed out and a small smile touched his mouth. An expression that seemed stuck there. Her mental alarm bells grew shriller.

  Somehow, Amber was more uncomfortable now than she’d been when she feared he was going to aim a shotgun at her. Could he be a Penhallow? How do we know he’s the real Edgar Henbane?