Pawsitively Cursed

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  They were trapped in their own house.

  Soon, they were huddled together in the foyer.

  Belle yelped when Neil peered in through one of the front windows, his face cupped to the glass. Neil’s gaze flicked to the fallen suitcases on the ground. “What was the plan? You would give me the decoy and then run off with the real book? Were you going to leave your brats behind, or are they part of this asinine plan too?”

  “They don’t know anything about this!” Belle said. “They’ve never even seen the book.”

  “Oh, I know. I’ve watched them long enough to know how useless they both are. I should eliminate them just for being powerless abominations.” Before either Blackwood could protest, Neil said, “Pity you decided to betray me, Anna.”

  “Stop calling me Anna!” she snapped.

  Neil cackled. “I knew you couldn’t sever the ties to your grimoire and still keep it cloaked, so I’ve just been waiting for you to give up the location. I thought the most likely scenario was that you kept it well hidden somewhere with a powerful cloaking spell in place. Obscure locations that changed over the years—something like that. I never guessed you’d be stupid enough to keep it in your house, though. I do say, the Blackwood scum has ruined whatever good qualities you had left.” He sniffed. “But I can still smell the dregs of it here. Perhaps it’s in one of those bags.”

  Theo growled under his breath, glaring at the Penhallow’s obscure form outside.

  “What I do know about your grimoire, however, is that like all grimoires, it cannot be destroyed. Unfortunately, for you, you can be. Since you refuse to cooperate, I’ll have to collect the book by force. I’ve run out of patience for you and this terrible little town. I will burn this house to the ground, and like a phoenix rising from the ashes, your precious grimoire will be reborn—as mine. We really could have been good together, you and I, Anna.”

  Moments later, the first burst of blue flames licked up the walls.

  Chapter 14

  Someone was yelling at her, though their voice was far away, like they were at the end of a distant hallway. Their hands were on her shoulders, though. They were close. Shaking her once, twice. Hard.

  “Amber!”

  She gasped for air, arms jerking up to protect her face. But she kept her eyes closed, scared of what she’d see if she opened them. What if she was still in the past? What if she was stuck there?

  “Geez!” the man said. “Watch it with the elbows!”

  He’d called her Amber. She could feel the weight of the watch in her hand, not on her wrist. She was herself again.

  Slowly, she opened one eye, then the other.

  Connor Declan’s face, of all faces, swam into view. She was in her car; he was half-crouched by her open driver’s side door. She was parked by the old, ruined house.

  Then it came flooding back in. Her parents. Their plan to abandon her and Willow. Neil Penhallow. The fire.

  “Oh God, Connor,” Amber choked out, one hand to her mouth, the other, still clutching the watch, pressed to her stomach. “It was so horrible.”

  And then she was crying. Great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body and freaked Connor right the heck out.

  “Oh crap. Ooh crap,” Connor was muttering to himself. His hands fluttered from her shoulders, to her hands, to her face, but never touched any of them. As if she were a bomb about to explode and he couldn’t figure out if he should cut the red wire or the blue.

  Though some distant part of her knew she’d be horribly embarrassed by this later, Amber flung her arms around him, the back of his shirt bunched up in one of her fists, the other still holding tight to her father’s favorite watch.

  Connor fully squatted then, wrapping his arms around her. “Hey. Shh. Hey, it’s okay.” One hand cupped the back of her head.

  She buried her face in his neck, crying all the tears she’d inadvertently kept in reserve for today. For the day she found out what had really happened to her parents.

  How was she supposed to tell Willow any of this?

  It took Amber a while to finally cry herself out, and when she did, that expected sense of embarrassment crept in. She pulled away, finally throwing the watch into her purse, and then used both hands to wipe at her face. A mirror wasn’t needed to tell her that she was a snotty, puffy mess. She reached across the passenger seat to open her glovebox and pull out a small packet of tissues. Connor stood to full height and allowed her some semblance of privacy while she messily blew her nose a few times.

  Once she felt at least a little calm, she climbed out of her car and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “I’m sorry about—”

  Connor raised a hand to stop her. “It’s okay. Can I ask what happened, though? I love kittens as much as the next guy, but I’m guessing it’s not because of them?” He pointed toward the house where a trio of people in bright green shirts were poking around under the porch.

  Amber only then noticed that a white SUV—with large, green letters spelling out NINE LIVES CAT RESCUE on one of the doors—was parked across the street. “No, it’s not about the kittens.”

  Connor frowned. “Can I do anything? Call anyone? Willow, maybe?”

  An involuntary whimper made its way out of Amber’s throat at the sound of her sister’s name. Amber closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath through her nose. She would not cry again. When she composed herself, she turned her attention back to him. She needed a distraction. “What are you doing over here?”

  “I guess it’s even weirder for me to be on this side of town than you,” he said, laughing nervously. “I was at lunch with Greg over there discussing a story I’m doing for the Gazette about the rescue, and when he got the call about the kittens, I asked to tag along.”

  “I’d think most of your time was being eaten up by the junior fashion show,” Amber said. “That was the story you volunteered to cover, right? And now the famous Olaf Betzen is coming to town.”

  Connor chuckled. “It’s still my priority for sure, but I need to balance it out with some smaller stories here and there. Besides, I figured a couple pictures of kittens would be sure to sell more papers. Who can resist a cute kitten picture?”

  Amber managed a faint, brief smile. “And when you got here, I was …?”

  He winced. “Slumped over in your car. I was surprised—in a good way—to see you here, but then it looked like you were … like you might have been … I sort of panicked …”

  “Ugh,” she said, rubbing the spot between her eyes. “Sorry if I freaked you out.”

  After a beat, he asked, “What brought you over here in the middle of the day? Everything okay at the shop—I mean at home? Nothing weird going on?”

  His last question gave her pause. But she had told him the place was crowded and tense with three people in such a tight space, hadn’t she? Or had she told that to Jack?

  She needed a long hot bath and a nap.

  Her gaze flicked back to the house. Past the green-shirt-wearing rescue workers, and up to the porch. The porch Neil Penhallow had stood on as he peered into the house just before he called on flames to kill her parents. She wondered how furious he’d been when the book in question wasn’t there in the rubble. When it didn’t rise out of the ashes like a phoenix.

  Questions buzzed around her head like a swarm of gnats. She wanted to swat them away, to think about something else. But she couldn’t. How had none of her neighbors seen or heard anything that night? Had Neil done something to them—to their memories—as she suspected he’d done to Edgar?

  Yet, the Penhallows were still looking for her mother’s grimoire. They’d never found it. They also didn’t seem to know Edgar was in Edgehill. Edgar who had been given the Henbane grimoire for safekeeping. Edgar who was a Henbane himself. So where was the book now?

  Then she recalled her parents’ conversation as Edgar drove away.

  “That boy is never going to forgive us,” her father had said.

  “If the spell works as it should
, he won’t remember enough to know he’s upset with us in the first place.”

  If the spell worked. What spell?

  “Amber?” Connor asked. “I asked what you were doing out here and then you disappeared into that head of yours.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just chasing ghosts, that’s all.”

  His brows rose. “Did you catch any?”

  “Yes, actually,” she said, still amazed at the magic that had hurled her back into time, at least in a memory. She had no idea how she’d managed to do it, or if she could do it again.

  “That so?” he asked. “Did you find something out here? It looked like you were holding something when I first found you. It was gold, wasn’t it? Was it a watch?”

  Amber pursed her lips. “Is this journalist Connor talking?”

  “Sorry.” He managed a sheepish grin. “Being insufferably nosy is an occupational hazard, I guess. Can never have too many story ideas going at once. I’ve always been curious about what happened here. I know other longtime residents of Edgehill would be interested too. Especially if you found something that … survived the fire. Could I see what you found? I think I saw you put it in your purse.”

  A small, mental version of herself was dancing around in her head now, frantically waving a red flag. “I should get back to the shop.”

  “Yeah, of course,” he said, holding up his hands. “Sorry if I was too forward.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t. “I hope the kittens find good homes.” She got back into her car and grabbed onto the handle to close the door, but Connor stopped it.

  The red flag had morphed into a red banner flapping in a gale-force wind.

  Connor bent over, hands on his knees. He cocked his head and smiled at her. “I hope you feel better soon. And if you want to talk about anything …” His gaze flicked to her purse before returning to her eyes. “You know where to find me. You’ll find that I truly enjoy talking about the discovery of lost items. Objects hold so many memories, don’t they?”

  How could he know?

  “Have a good day, Amber,” he said, then shut her door. She flinched. He slapped an open palm on the roof twice—making her flinch again—before he walked to his car.

  The trio of rescue workers never once looked his way. Connor didn’t have a notebook, phone, or camera out.

  Doing her best to control her breathing and make a calm, three-point turn out of the cul-de-sac, Amber drove away from Ocicat Lane. While idling at the stop sign, her gaze shifted to her rear-view mirror. Connor stood outside his car, backside rested against the trunk and arms crossed, as he watched her drive away. He raised a single hand in farewell.

  Once she made it back toward the heart of town, she could no longer ignore the niggling thought in the back of her mind. She prompted her phone to call the Edgehill Gazette. A perky receptionist answered.

  “Hi,” Amber said. “Can I speak to Connor Declan, please?”

  Say he’s not there. Say he’s out to lunch—that he’s following up on a story about the Nine Lives Cat Rescue.

  “Oh, sure, one sec,” she said. “Luckily for you, he stayed in for lunch today. Though that’s not weird for him lately.”

  Amber cursed.

  “Miss? Are you okay?”

  “Connor didn’t leave for lunch today?”

  The woman took a second to reply, the silence clearly saying, Yeah, you weirdo. I just told you that. “Nope. He’s been swamped because of the upcoming junior fashion show. Olaf Betzen’s coming to see it, as I’m sure you know. He’s been glued to his computer for hours.”

  “Thanks,” Amber said. “I’ll just call him later. I don’t want to bother him.” She disconnected the call on the confused receptionist.

  If Connor has been in the office all day, then who in the hell was I just talking to?

  Amber was on high alert on her drive home, though she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. The Penhallow could be anyone. She’d convinced herself that it was a witch working alone, if only to somewhat calm her nerves, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew there could be more.

  She thought of what Neil Penhallow had said in the memory—that the moment the supposed cloaking spell had dropped, the book had become like a beacon to any Penhallows waiting for the signal. Was that why this particular witch was here now? He’d said he could “smell” the grimoire. Had the cloaking spell put on her mother’s grimoire faded? Was the book like those floodlights outside the grand opening of a store or night club? Thick beams of white light sweeping back and forth across the sky and high into the air, summoning anyone in range to come see what all the fuss was about?

  Long-lost Henbane grimoire up for grabs! First come, first served!

  Was this Penhallow simply the first in an oncoming flood of cursed witches, all with Edgehill as their destination?

  Amber desperately wished she could talk to her parents, if only so she could ask why they hadn’t prepared her and Willow for this. Though, she supposed they hadn’t planned for the fire. Perhaps they’d planned to stay in hiding until it was safe, then find them again when Amber turned eighteen.

  But all that was in the past now. Time travel spells didn’t exist. The past was the past. Fixed. Unchangeable. She had to focus on the present now—on her future. It wasn’t something she’d ever been very good at.

  It had only been two hours since the Quirky Whisker reopened after lunch, but the store was practically buzzing with people when she strolled in, the bell above the door announcing her arrival. The sound was lost in the din of chatter. Amber squeezed her way in, clutching her purse tight to her side as she made her way to the counter. Aunt Gretchen and Lily Bowen—one of Amber’s teenaged temp helpers—manned the cash register. Daisy and Willow were flitting about the store helping customers.

  “Hi, Lily. I can help Gretchen,” Amber said, raising her voice slightly to be heard. She threw her purse into a cubby under the counter.

  “Phew!” Lily said, wasting no time with greetings, and hurried into the throng.

  There was a stack of tea-order slips on the counter that no one had had time to get to yet, so Amber busied herself with pulling the requested items out of the drawers and jars behind the counter. Gretchen worked her way through the line.

  The bonus of having Ramp It Up fans swarming Edgehill was that it kept Amber so busy, she didn’t have time to dwell too long on what happened to her that afternoon. It didn’t keep her from watching every new face with suspicion though, unsure who was an innocent tourist and who was a crafty Penhallow.

  As the sun set on Edgehill, the streetlights lining Russian Blue Avenue flicked on, and the customers in the Quirky Whisker finally thinned out, Amber’s urge to talk to her aunt and sister reared its head. After ushering out the last of the customers, Amber locked the door behind them and whirled to face Willow and Aunt Gretchen.

  “We need to talk,” she said. “But … upstairs. And are there … like … I don’t know … sound-proofing protection spells either of you know?”

  Thankfully her aunt and sister just nodded and followed her up the stairs without asking any questions.

  Once in the studio, Amber quickly fed the cats. The nervous energy coming off the Blackwood women—Amber in particular—caused Tom to wolf his food down in record time, and then take refuge under the bed. Amber paced up and down the length of her apartment, wondering how much detail to give them. Though Amber knew Gretchen had always suspected a Penhallow was behind the death of Amber’s and Willow’s parents, Gretchen didn’t know the gory details. Amber assumed few did.

  “Amber? Amber,” Willow said.

  When Amber snapped out of her thoughts—coming to an abrupt halt in her pacing—she found her aunt and sister sitting shoulder to shoulder at the end of Amber’s bed, watching her as warily as Alley was from the window bench seat. Tom’s little pink nose poked out from behind the dust ruffle.

  Amber steeled herself, then focused on Willow. “I know wh
at happened to Mom and Dad.”

  “What?” Willow’s brows pulled together. “How?”

  Despite giving them a watered-down version of the memories she’d lived through, by the end—the blue flames flickering in the background of Amber’s mind—Gretchen was white as a sheet, and Willow had tears tracking down her face.

  Willow let out a shaky sigh, not bothering to wipe the tears away. “You didn’t see what happened to Edgar after he left the house with the book?”

  Amber shook her head.

  “He was saying all that weird stuff just before we left. You think he still has it?” Willow immediately shook her head. “But if we go back, this lunatic Penhallow will follow us, won’t he? We can’t give up Edgar’s—or the book’s—location if the Penhallow somehow doesn’t know they’re out there.”

  “I agree,” said Amber. “But what will he do the longer we refuse to give him the book? If it’s the same witch who … who killed Mom and Dad, he had clearly already been well on his way to going mad then. Imagine what fourteen years could do. I’m also starting to think Wilma’s death was a message to us. He picked off that innocent maid solely to let us know nowhere is safe. And to show us how powerful he is.”

  “And to possibly get us all into one place?” Willow asked. “Maybe he assumed if the hotel was unsafe for Gretchen, she’d come stay here with you.”

  “Maybe,” Amber said, chewing on a thumbnail.

  “Do you think he’s been here in Edgehill all this time?” Willow asked. “Even after the fire? He waited for Mom and Dad to slip up. Maybe he’s been waiting for us too.”

  “I don’t think so. Seems like he got here recently because he suddenly sensed the book,” Amber said. “And Aunt Gretchen being here this early in the year was a fluke. She wasn’t feeling well. The Penhallow just got lucky that the book gave off a signal around the same time that Gretchen got sick.”

  Gretchen had gotten up and walked to the window while Amber spoke. Her arms were crossed, her back to her nieces. “Actually, I think my illness can be tied back to the Penhallow too.”