WARDENS OF WISTERIA
WISTERIA WITCHES MYSTERIES - DAYBREAK BOOK 1
Angela Pepper
WWW.ANGELAPEPPER.COM
Chapter 1
“There’s a ghost in the house, Zed.”
I cracked open my eyelids to find a sight that would send most normal people into a screaming fit. Staring down at me was a mythical beast with green scales and gleaming black eyes. It was Ribbons, the telepathic wyvern who lived in my basement.
Unlike the monstrous wyverns of storybooks, it turned out the real ones weren’t much bigger than a housecat. Ribbons’ body, not including the tail, was only seven inches long. That morning, he sat comfortably on my second pillow, with his bat-like wings at his sides and his green-scaled legs tucked under himself. He flicked his long purple tongue over one black eyeball and then the other.
“There’s a ghost in the house, Zed,” he repeated. He rarely called me by my real name, Zara.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said, my voice croaky from sleep. “Who knew you were such a good watchdog?”
He snorted in my face, emitting a puff of minty steam. Ribbons didn’t appreciate being compared to a watchdog. Actually, he didn’t appreciate being compared to anything that might be helpful to humans. He considered humankind unworthy of assistance by wyverns. That was what he claimed, anyway. His actions, however, spoke louder than his telepathically delivered words.
“The ghost is downstairs,” Ribbons said in his vaguely Count Chocula accent.
“Any idea why the protective wards didn’t keep this one out?”
He snorted again. “I didn’t let it in.”
“I never said you did, Pint Size. Do I have to drop my telepathy shields and let you read my mind all the time just so you don’t get offended?”
He sniffed. “No need.”
I rolled out of bed, grabbed a loose T-shirt dress, and pulled it on over my sleeping camisole. The bedroom was bright with pre-dawn light. It was mid-July, and the sun wouldn’t be up until 6:00 am, but the house already felt hot. We were in the midst of a hot, dry spell, and the whole town of Wisteria was cranky from not sleeping well. I could have used a few hours more myself, but ghosts didn’t stick to office hours.
Ribbons followed me, doing his duck-like waddle over to the edge of the bed. His green scales gleamed like miniature daggers in the golden light.
“The spirit must be benign,” he said. “A malevolent entity would have triggered the alarms when it entered the house.”
I bit back a sarcastic comment about the alarms never being triggered by a certain malevolent entity with green scales who regularly raided the kitchen and drank all my maple syrup.
Before heading downstairs to face the ghost, I checked on my daughter, Zoey. She was sleeping soundly, sprawled sideways on her bed like a starfish. She looked younger than her sixteen years, with one hand clutched to her chin and her fingers curled childishly. I wished I could take in the sweetness for one moment longer, but the ghost was waiting.
Ribbons led the way down the stairs, gliding with his wings outstretched and the sharp talons of his feet curled around the handrail for balance. I paused to assess the damage his claws were doing. At the rate the wyvern was shredding the wood, I would need to replace the handrail annually. He was spectacularly destructive, surfing to the lower floor that way, but what other choice was there? He couldn’t fly down the narrow staircase without the claws on his wingtips gouging the walls, and he refused to take the stairs on foot because it was undignified, given his stumpy legs.
I followed Ribbons to the living room. He was right about there being a ghost in the house. A semitransparent man sat rigidly on the couch. He faced the TV, which wasn’t on. He didn’t stir when either the wyvern or I entered the living room.
My mouth went dry and my skin prickled. I wiped my sweaty palms on the bottom of my T-shirt dress. Despite the many ghost encounters I'd had, they still gave me the chills. In the four months since I’d become a witch, I’d been possessed by, on average, a ghost a month. That figure didn’t tell the whole story, since I’d also been possessed by the spirit of a coma patient, as well as an evil genie, plus one of the four ghosts I counted into my average hadn’t been entirely dead, but, long story short, a ghost a month.
At the start of July, however, I’d done something drastic to prepare myself for the next spirit. With the help of—if you could call it help—my telepathic wyvern housemate, I’d engineered a powerful spell and cast it on myself. I had, in laymen’s terms, “rezoned” myself as a library. Then I’d classified any ghosts who entered me as books. In theory, the rezoning would let me control the ghosts and access their memories as easily as flipping through the pages of books. That was the theory. In practice, well, I didn’t know yet. In practice, I might end up with scrambled eggs for brains. This was my first haunting since the transformation spell; it was time to find out.
“Hello,” I said to the semitransparent man in what I hoped was a soothing tone.
The ghost didn’t react. He continued facing the dead television.
I walked around the couch and took a seat next to him.
“My name is Zara Riddle. I’m a witch, and I’m Spirit Charmed, which means I help people such as yourself.” I laughed nervously. “Or at least I try to.”
He blinked and tilted his head slightly.
“Hello,” I said again, and then repeated the full introduction.
He turned his head slowly, ever so slowly, until he was facing me.
He was a young man, in his mid-twenties. He had fair hair, pale eyebrows and eyelashes, and close-set blue eyes that bulged like those of a flat-faced dog. His face was skinny and angular, with a jaw that began as two sharp corners under his ears. He had the hungry look of a street kid, yet his clothes—a button-down shirt and suit trousers—were tailored, pressed, and clean. I scanned him for signs of injury. Some ghosts manifested with their death wounds visible whereas others appeared as they looked on an average day. There was no blood visible, yet there was something unusual near his shirt collar. His throat glowed slightly brighter than the rest of him. Had he died of strangulation? If he’d been choked, that might have explained the bulging eyes.
The young man’s eyes widened further, as though he could read my thoughts and was horrified about being strangled.
I glanced away, feeling ashamed about assessing him so dispassionately. He was a person. A young one. And his life had been cut short, presumably through foul play. The victims of everyday accidents and disease didn’t come to witches as ghosts.
When I looked up again, the young man was frowning. He wrinkled his nose, sniffing the air between us, and then lifted one hand. The translucent hand traveled slowly through the air toward my face. I braced myself for what might be coming next: him turning into smoke and swirling up into my head through my nose.
But he didn’t turn into smoke. His outstretched hand passed through my face and arced down. Now his arm was submerged, elbow-deep, in my upper chest. He met my gaze with narrowed, suspicious eyes. His mouth moved, and he uttered a single word. I heard nothing but the hum of my house. He was mute, like all the ghosts I’d encountered. He repeated the word, and this time it was clear by the shape of his lips what he’d said. Ghost.
I actually laughed out loud. The ghost thought that I was a ghost. Me!
I turned to Ribbons, who was watching from his perch on the back of the recliner. His talons dug deeper into the upholstery, making little pops as each sharp talon passed through layers of fabric and foam. The beast was trying very hard to seem dis
interested, but I knew him too well. One of his tells was tightly gripping whatever perch he was on. The more damage he did, the more interested he was. I dropped the shield from my mind and asked Ribbons telepathically if he knew anything about the young man on my couch.
“Nothing,” the wyvern replied. His speech was always sent directly to my mind, where I heard it in his cartoonishly Old Europe, Count Chocula voice. He continued with a sigh, “I’m bored now. This is boring. Are you sure it’s a ghost? All I can see is a bit of shimmering light.”
I told him it was a ghost, and I described what I saw. Then I asked how he’d detected the ghost in the first place if he couldn’t see it.
“Ask the fluffball,” Ribbons said. He lifted his elongated, boxy chin in a pointing gesture, indicating the upper corner of the living room.
I followed his gaze. Sure enough, there was a fluffball up there. A white one. Boa, our cat, was perched at the very top of a bookshelf, perfectly still, watching the ghost on the couch with eyes as big as saucers. I didn’t bother asking Boa what she saw. The cat was, as far as I knew, just a regular cat.
The ghost man on the couch suddenly leaned forward, got to his feet, and glanced around the room.
I got to my feet as well. “Leaving so soon? I hope it wasn’t something I said.”
The white fluffball on top of the bookshelf let out a low, guttural moan. Her fluffy tail whipped from side to side. The moan continued much longer than you’d expect from such a small non-magical creature.
“Something’s happening,” Ribbons said. “What’s happening, Zed?” The frame of the recliner creaked under his sharp talons.
The ghost man turned toward the front door and walked toward me as though I wasn’t there. He didn’t slow as he reached me. He kept going, disappearing into me. Halfway through, his ghostly body seemed to get stuck. He responded by dropping a shoulder and pushing through, angling his upper body like he was moving furniture. The sensation of the ghost passing through me was unpleasant, and also familiar. It was the same sticky, tugging feeling of pulling oneself out of a dream on purpose. Then he was finally out of me and on his way to the front door.
In a flash of white, Boa soared from the bookshelf, ricocheted off the couch, and landed on the wood floor with claws extended. She skittered after the ghost at top speed, chasing him all the way to the front door. The ghost, who seemed only mildly concerned about his cat pursuer, passed through the front door with no resistance. Boa, being a solid cat, smacked into the door head first.
I immediately scooped her up and checked that she was okay. Her body was rigid, but she gradually melted in my arms and gave me a soft, sweet meow.
“I know,” I said. “There was a ghost in the house. You did a very good job protecting us.” I kissed her on the top of her head. “Good kitty.” She gave me a fierce purr.
Ribbons made a throat-clearing sound in my head. “It’s getting away, Zed. I see a ball of light crossing the street.”
I clutched the cat to my chest. What was I supposed to do? Run around my neighborhood at dawn, chasing a ghost? No way. I was going back to bed.
“You have to follow it, Zed.”
“Get out of my head,” I said sourly.
“I didn’t have to read your mind. It’s all over your face. Come on, Zed. Get the ghost. You know you want to.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d always felt a strong need to help people. It was what had drawn me to my vocation as a librarian—besides all the books, of course. Once I’d become a witch, my compulsion to help others had only gotten stronger. Never mind that this compulsion had gotten me injured plenty and killed at least once. The ghost had come to me for help, and going back to bed now wasn’t an option.
Boa meowed softly as I set her down. I grabbed a pair of sandals.
Seconds later, I was out the door, along with the wyvern, who flitted silently from tree to tree, following me. If any of the neighbors happened to look in Ribbons’ direction, they would have seen whatever bird their minds thought appropriate. His glamour was powerful magic. I was very familiar with him, and yet, at times, even I saw him as a crow or an owl.
Ribbons urged me on excitedly. I followed the ghost as he casually walked down the middle of the street. A car suddenly pulled out of its spot and careened toward me. I had to jump out of the way. The car sped away without stopping, almost as if fleeing a crime scene. I made a mental note of the car’s plate number. I didn’t get every digit before it turned, but I got a few.
The ghost was now off the street, walking up a driveway. He turned toward a freestanding garage that had been converted into a two-story apartment. The ghost walked up the external stairs to the apartment, and then passed straight through the door.
“You have to follow him inside,” Ribbons urged. “Do it, Zed.”
I walked up the stairs, but paused at the door. I rubbed a trickle of sweat from my forehead. It was one thing to try to communicate with a ghost who came to me, but now I was the pursuer.
Ribbons, who was in a tree that overhung the garage apartment, shook a branch impatiently, raining down leaves around me. “Do it, Zed.”
“Behave yourself,” I hissed. “I’m not breaking and entering.”
“At least knock on the door.”
I crossed my arms and stared up at the gloomy shape in the treetop. “Are you truly that bored? You want me to bang on this door and confront a potential murderer?”
“Zed, I respect you too much to lie.”
I snorted. Ribbons had no problem lying, especially if it was to blame someone else—usually the cat—for something he did.
“Yes,” Ribbons said in his Count Chocula accent. “I am that bored. Knock on the ghost’s door and see what happens. Do it.”
I raised my fist to rap on the door. More leaves rained down around me. But despite the wyvern’s urging, I didn’t knock. Not because I was afraid I couldn’t protect myself—I could, thanks to my defensive fireballs, among other spells—but because I didn’t have to enter the apartment to see inside. There was a large picture window next to the door. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, probably to promote air flow through the opening on such a warm night.
On the other side of the window was a small living room. The TV was on, flickering light around the room and illuminating the room’s only occupant. And the occupant was—
Both of my hands flew up to cover my mouth.
The body of the room’s occupant was dressed in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt, not unlike the one the ghost had been wearing. Except this shirt was red. I might have assumed the shirt was made of blood-red fabric if it was not for one important detail.
The body sitting on the couch, facing the TV, didn’t have a head.
No wonder the spirit’s neck had been glowing.
The poor young fellow had been beheaded.
Chapter 2
Ribbons dropped from his tree branch and landed on my shoulder with a startling thump.
He took in the grisly sight before commenting, “I’m no expert on human biology, but I believe an injury such as that is not repairable.”
I shook my head. “Cheeky wyvern. Yes. Head removal is pretty serious and generally not repairable.”
“Don’t let my pessimism stop you from trying to get that human’s head back on and working.” He reached across my face to point one of the claw-like fingers connected to his wings at the garage-apartment’s door. “Go on. Use your magic to open the door so you can practice those healing powers of yours. It’ll be fun. You haven’t healed anyone in ages. Do it, Zed.”
“Not gonna happen,” I said. “I can’t bring back the dead. I’m a witch, not a necromancer.”
“But it’s such a clean cut. You could at least stick him back together and see what happens.”
“You’re assuming the young man’s head is even in there.” I touched the tip of my nose on the window as I peered around the living room. “Where is that head? It must have rolled away, but it can’t have gotten ve
ry far on its own.”
“Ooh! I’ll help you find it. I’m good at finding things,” Ribbons said excitedly. “Let’s go inside.” Multiple pricks of pain shot through my shoulder as the wyvern curled his protractible claws into my flesh.
“Let’s not go inside the blood-soaked crime scene.” I took a step back from the window and turned toward the stairs. “If you really want to help, I’ll mention you by name when I talk to Detective Bentley.”
He made a disappointed croaking sound with his throat. “Bok bok,” he said, doing his bad impression of a chicken.
I ignored him and made the sensible choice to walk down the stairs, away from the headless body. Sure, I was a witch, but I was also a librarian, not a police detective.
As I crossed the street again, I scanned the area for signs of anything unusual. Beacon Street looked, sounded, and smelled pretty much as expected for 5:45 am on a Saturday morning in July. The only thing strange was the color of the rising sun. It was crimson red. There were a few forest fires burning in the region, and the smoke had been hanging over the town all week, blotting out the distant mountains and darkening our skies. I hoped some rain would come soon and help the firefighters extinguish the blaze.
I turned my head to say something to Ribbons about the fires, but my shoulder was empty. He’d flitted back up to the treetops, presumably to keep watch over the crime scene when the local law enforcement arrived.
Back inside my house, I made a phone call and reported what I’d seen. I considered making a second call to my mentor, my aunt. She was traveling with my mother overseas, in a different time zone. I decided she wouldn’t want to be bothered on her holiday. Besides, I knew Zinnia well enough that I could fill in her part on her behalf. I knew the drill. I lectured myself to be more careful, to not use magic unless absolutely necessary, and to wash the plastic dome that covered food in the microwave.
* * *
When my daughter came downstairs a few hours later, she took one look at the clean plastic dome next to the sink and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Wardens of Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 1) Page 1