“Do you think me a fool, Blackwood?” the cats asked. “Grimoires cannot be destroyed.”
Amber’s and Willow’s gazes quipped to their aunt.
“Yes,” the cats said. “She lies to you once again.”
The cats tilted their heads back and sniffed the air in unison. The Santa hats on their heads somehow made it all the more creepy to Amber. “I can sense it. I’ve followed its scent here to Edgehill. But it’s … hard to pinpoint the exact location now that I’m here.” Their collective gaze moved to Amber and Willow. “Your mother was a Henbane. Surely you’ve seen her grimoire. If you’ve seen it, if you’ve touched it, then you can locate it. The spell you just used to find your phone, Amber, would be more than sufficient to locate the book. Just picture it in your mind’s eye and your magic will take care of the rest.”
“But we haven’t,” Amber said. “We were kept in the dark about our heritage. We’re just as clueless about the grimoire’s whereabouts as you are. So scurry back into the hole you crawled out of.”
The cats hissed.
“Don’t tick off the psychotic witch, Amber,” Willow sing-songed out the corner of her mouth.
“I am not psychotic!” the cats snapped.
Using a basket of Christmas cats to state such a message was a poor choice, Amber thought. It was like being scolded by a piglet in a tutu. The cute factor sort of overpowered everything else.
The wards on the building rattled and the three Blackwoods winced as one. Okay, so the witch could still be unsettling even if he chose to speak through cats.
“I’m watching you,” the cats said, collective voice calm again. “Eventually one of you will lead me to the spell book. Unless I find it first. Then you’ll regret not cooperating.”
Then, rather abruptly, the cats froze. Half of them toppled over, limbs stiff and lifeless once more.
Amber bolted for the front door, unlocked it, and hurried out onto the sidewalk, despite the frantic protests from her aunt and sister. She shuddered when she slammed into a wall of sticky, web-like air. The Penhallow had been out here. There was no question of that. But where was he now? She looked up one side of Russian Blue Avenue and then the other. No one walking around the sidewalk struck her as suspicious, though several gave her a wide berth. She could only imagine how frantic she looked, hands balled into fists by her sides, eyes wide and scanning.
“Everything all right, sugar?”
Amber glanced across the street to see Betty Harris standing outside Purrfectly Scrumptious, one hand on her hip and the other shielding her eyes from the bright noonday sun. She wore a white apron over her clothes, the color a stark contrast to her warm brown skin. Savannah, her blue-eyed Maine coon, sat obediently by her feet, tail swishing.
Amber waited for a slow-moving car to pass by before she crossed the street. The second she stopped in front of Betty, Savannah gave a soft chirp, then flopped over on her back. Savannah always seemed to know when Amber was distressed. But before she could bend down to greet the cat, a giggling little boy—who had clearly pulled away from his father—ran over and fell onto his knees so he could rub Savannah’s stomach.
Amber’s attention shifted back to Betty. “Have you seen anyone … odd outside my shop today?”
Betty cocked her head. “Odd how?”
“I don’t even know.” Amber sighed. “Maybe someone who looked like they were casing the place?”
Her dark brows shot toward her hairline. “What do you—”
“Betty?”
Both women turned toward Purrfectly Scrumptious where Betty’s husband, Bobby, stood in the doorway. He had a phone in his hand. “Hey, Amber! How you doing?”
“I’m okay. You?”
“Good, good. Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Mr. Gillory’s on the phone …”
“Oh, shoot,” Betty said, turning back to Amber and giving her arm a squeeze. “I’ve got to take this, but I’ll come check on you soon. You sure you’re all right?”
Amber managed a faint smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
With a nod, Betty took the phone from Bobby. He waved at Amber before following Betty back inside. Savannah stayed out on the sidewalk, allowing her stomach to be scratched by the little boy. Her eyes were squinted shut in pleasure.
The boy’s father arrived a couple seconds later. “George!” he said. “What have I told you about running off?”
“Sorry, Dad.” George stood, his head lowered. “I just wanted to say hi to the kitty.”
The man was tall, dark, and handsome. He smiled at Amber, shrugging sheepishly. “Sorry about that. Hope he wasn’t bothering your cat.”
“Oh, Savannah loves the attention,” Amber said, trying to muster up false cheer. “In fact, she looks rather put out that the attention stopped.”
The man chuckled. “I’ve had to apologize for George’s enthusiasm half a dozen times today. Good thing everyone is so friendly here—even the cats.”
“Part of Edgehill’s charm,” she said, smiling brightly as if she were a member of the Edgehill tourism committee.
“Indeed,” he said, scooping George up and walking past her. He paused, then glanced over his shoulder. “Now be a helpful lamb and find that book, Amber.”
She gaped at him, watching him walk away.
Only allowing the shock to affect her for a moment, she darted forward and grabbed the man by the elbow, hurrying around to face him. “What did you say?”
His brow furrowed. “Sorry … do I know you?”
“It’s the lady with the cat, Daddy,” George said.
The man looked from Amber to George and back again. “What are you two talking about?” He shook his head. “I’m … sorry, miss. I have to go meet my wife.”
He held his son a little closer and then quickly walked away. Had the man been acting? Was that the Penhallow feigning ignorance? Or had the man been temporarily compelled to speak something against his will?
Stomach in knots, Amber headed back toward the Quirky Whisker, then immediately ran into another patch of the sticky air. Her breath whooshed out of her.
Not only was the Penhallow in Edgehill, but now he was toying with her. And Amber was not in the mood to play.
She flinched when her phone started to ring. It was still clutched in her hand. The chief was calling again.
“Hello?” she said, her voice sounding a little croaky. She cleared her throat.
“I need you to come down to the station,” he said. “I have something you need to see. And I don’t think anyone other than someone with your … particular skillset can explain what it is.”
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter 12
After a very intense conversation with her aunt and sister, they finally agreed that it was likely safe for Amber to go talk to the chief. The Penhallow could be anyone, yes, but Amber also knew what he or she wanted now: the Henbane grimoire. Which neither Amber nor Willow had ever seen—they surely didn’t have it.
What the Penhallow had said about the locator spell, though, kept replaying in her head. Since Amber had never seen the book, she didn’t have the details needed to conduct a spell to find it. Had her mother kept the book from her and Willow because of that? Had she never let them see the book—not even as children—to ensure they’d never be able to give up the book’s location?
But an even more nagging question plagued her. Why was the Penhallow harassing them for the grimoire? Edgar was the Henbane, not them. And Edgar was in Edgehill. He had been for years. Had the Penhallow’s nose led him to Edgehill because of what Edgar potentially had squirreled away?
Given what the Penhallow said about grimoires being indestructible, and that Edgar said he didn’t know where “it” was—that it likely wasn’t “there” anymore—Amber figured the Henbane grimoire was still intact and in Edgehill. Somewhere. She had no clue where to start looking. Up until an hour ago, she’d assumed it had been lost forever. Edgar apparently didn’t know its location because it was “hidde
n even from him.”
Whatever that meant.
Was it possible the Penhallow didn’t know about Edgar? Perhaps the wards on his house were even stronger than the ones on the Quirky Whisker. If that was the case, and the Penhallow didn’t know Edgar Henbane was out in the middle of nowhere with the hiding place of a highly coveted grimoire locked away in his mind, Amber wasn’t about to lead the cursed witch to his doorstep. Visiting Edgar’s again, even if the book was there, was out of the question—at least until she had a better plan.
What truly unnerved her was that the Penhallow had known about the Christmas cats. She was certain the box had been in storage. Had the witch been watching her as early as November or December, when Amber had been slaving over the intricate spells? When had the witch been in the Quirky Whisker to plant her phone in the box? It would have been in the past few hours, as Amber would have noticed the box last night when she did her quick tidying up of the shop after closing. Whose face had the Penhallow been wearing this morning while the witch went about the store, setting up their trick?
Yet, the sticky magic had been outside the store, not in.
This made her feel better, if only by a little. Now she imagined the Penhallow working during the dead of night, standing outside the Quirky Whisker while they used their magic to move items around the shop. Floating the basket out of a storage closet. Moving her oft-forgotten cell phone from one location to the inside of the basket.
The wards had held. They were still safe.
For now, anyway.
She wondered if the Penhallow was following her right this moment. Her gaze flicked to her rear-view mirror, then darted to her side mirrors, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.
By the time she pulled in front of the police station, she was a ball of nerves. She remembered her calming “turn it blue” spell too late.
When she walked into the station’s lobby, she didn’t bother trying to engage Dolores in conversation. Amber merely said, “I’m meeting with Chief Brown” as she passed by her wooden box-desk, then turned left, as she had with Carl only a few days ago. Dolores made no move to stop her. Amber was fairly sure the clack of her keyboard never faltered.
The station was relatively quiet. Were the officers out chasing down leads? Eating lunch?
When she raised a fist to knock on the chief’s door, she was half tempted to use the familiar knocking pattern Carl kept trying to fool the chief with, just to see the look on his face. She resisted the urge and rapped twice on the door.
“Come on in, Miss Blackwood,” he called.
“You are a clever detective,” she said by way of greeting.
He managed a small smile. “I was both expecting you, and expecting Dolores not to escort you down the hall.”
“Does she ever not scowl?” Amber asked.
“Wouldn’t know,” he said.
Taking a seat in one of the two chairs opposite his desk and dropping her purse to the floor by her feet, she said, “So what did you want to show me?”
He huffed a breath out of his nose. He then stood and plucked up a folder from on top of the stack nearest him. “Dr. Bunson finished the autopsy on Wilma Bennett.”
After a brief moment of confusion, she said, “The maid.” She finally had a name.
“Yes. There was nothing in her system or her stomach that points to poisoning. She looks … shrunken, as I mentioned. Like all the moisture in her body evaporated at once. But from what Bunson can tell, he believes the cause of death was electrocution. As if a bolt of electricity hit her and stopped her heart.”
How awful. Poor Wilma.
“Any of this sound familiar?”
“Not at all,” she said. “If this shock to her system stopped her heart, does that mean the death was quick, at least?”
The chief, still standing behind his desk with the folder in hand, nodded. “Bunson thinks whatever happened to her was instant.”
“Small blessings, I guess.”
The chief nodded.
She stared at him, waiting for him to make the decision to round the desk and show her what was in that folder.
Several long, silent moments passed before he tapped it. “I have photos. I have no idea what this is. But I’m hoping you might.”
Still, he didn’t move. His gaze flicked up to her, then away. Twice.
“Chief, I’m still me. I don’t bite. I don’t carry a wand in my purse. I won’t hex you or turn you into a frog,” she said.
His shoulders relaxed a little.
“Besides, if I was going to turn you into anything, it would be a hamster. They’re good pets. I had one a few years ago, but Alley ate him.”
His mouth slightly dropped open, the color draining from his face.
“Chief! I’m kidding!”
He managed an awkward breathy laugh. “I know. Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He rounded the desk. Tucking the folder under his arm, he shoved the papers and binders aside so he could make room. “Okay, so take a look at these …”
Amber stood and closed the distance, watching as he laid the autopsy photos out for her in a row. She hadn’t known Wilma—heck, until a minute ago, she hadn’t even known the woman’s name—but tears sprang to her eyes anyway. This poor, unsuspecting woman didn’t deserve what happened to her. All because this cursed Penhallow wanted a book?
Due to Wilma’s shrunken appearance, Amber couldn’t tell how old she’d been before she died. But she also wasn’t seeing anything in this series of four photos that struck her as particularly unique; her prone body and wrinkled skin were just as he’d described then. Amber was about to ask him if there was something she was missing, when he laid down another picture. He set the folder to the left of the laid-out photos.
This one was of the woman’s bare stomach. In the center was a black circle, about the size of a dime, and tendrils of black radiated out from it. As if the blood in her veins had blackened. It looked vaguely like a scorch mark left on the sidewalk by a small firework. The tendrils, though, reminded her of what she’d seen in movies when someone’s blood was poisoned by something supernatural. Actual blood poisoning left thick lines of red beneath the skin. This … this was something else. Had he thought she’d have insight into this very nasty-looking wound because it screamed “not normal”?
“You said a witch did this to her, right?” he asked, voice soft, his gaze focused on the photos. “Can magic … hit a person? Is it a physical thing?”
Amber shook her head. “No. That’s not how magic works. Magic can move air, let’s say. My energy can push against the air, but it’s the air that hits the person. The magic is more like a catalyst for the movement, if that makes sense?” She glanced up at him, where he stood beside her with his arms crossed. He glared at the photographs as if they’d just insulted his mother.
“So this—” he said, tapping the impact site on Wilma’s stomach, “isn’t from a magical blast?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said, staring at the black scorch-wound again, “but a Penhallow’s magic doesn’t behave like magic should. It’s possible that his magic has been warped to the point that it can cause harm. It’s not supposed to. Magic can be used to hurt someone, sure, but it’s not the magic itself that’s responsible.”
“That sounds like a gun control argument,” he muttered.
She wasn’t getting into that debate, so she kept her mouth shut.
He reached over to flip open the folder, then pulled out a final picture and set it on top of the stack before Amber.
She gasped.
“This was taken today, whereas the one before this was taken the day Wilma was brought in,” the chief said.
The picture was very similar to the first, except now, the area around the scorch mark was ringed in deep shades of purple and blue; a massive bruise that took up nearly her entire abdomen.
“I’ve seen postmortem bruising before,” the chief said, “but nothing like this. It looks like she took a battering ram to th
e stomach, yet from all reports, no one heard a sound come from that room. Another maid had seen Wilma enter several minutes earlier to bring in the set of towels your aunt had requested before she went to pick up dinner. When Wilma wasn’t back out after a couple minutes, the maid peeked her head in to make sure everything was okay, and then found Wilma in the position you saw her in: collapsed on the side of the bed.”
Amber stared at Wilma’s bruised stomach. Could that truly be an impact site created by magic?
“How did someone sustain injuries this extensive in only a matter of minutes and no one saw or heard anything?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Amber said, finally looking up at the chief. She could see her own worry mirrored on his face. “But we need to figure it out before it happens again.”
Because if Amber and her family couldn’t locate this spell book, it was very possible that Wilma’s fate would befall the Blackwoods too.
After calling Willow and telling her everything she’d learned from the chief, Amber asked if Willow and Gretchen would be able to man the store for a little while without her.
“Yeah, of course,” Willow said. “But where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” Amber said. “I just need to think.”
“I don’t like you being out by yourself,” she said. “We’re safer together.”
“I won’t be gone long.”
“I’m going to set the box of Christmas cats on fire, by the way. I feel like they’re watching me.”
“They might be. Who knows at this point?” Amber asked.
“I was joking,” Willow said. “But now I’m not. Farewell, Christmas cats.”
Amber could barely muster a smile. “Talk to you later, Will.”
She disconnected before her sister could say anything else. Amber desperately wanted to see Edgar, to ask him if he’d ever heard of a witch causing wounds like the ones she’d seen on Wilma. But she couldn’t risk revealing Edgar’s location. They’d been lucky that the Penhallow hadn’t followed them out there days before.
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