Wardens of Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 1)

by Angela Pepper

I snorted. “Good luck with that. Have you met a teenager? They’re the last people who know what they are.”

  Ribbons didn’t seem rattled. “With my kind, there is a story about a special kind of being.”

  “What kind?”

  “A creature of mixed origin.”

  “Do you mean one who is half genie, one quarter witch, and one quarter shifter?”

  “The story doesn’t say so much about her pedigree, but I can tell you she is called the Soul Eater.”

  The Soul Eater. That sounded an awful lot like the Soul Catcher.

  I waved for Ribbons to keep talking.

  “The Soul Eater will reunite the worlds,” Ribbons said. “Or destroy them all.”

  I got goose bumps all over. I immediately blocked my mind from the wyvern before he could read my next thoughts.

  I had also heard such a story. Only it had been called a prophecy. My daughter had been named in the text of some ancient scrolls that had been dug up from the bottom of the sea. In the translation, she was called a Soul Catcher, not a Soul Eater. However, even with the more neutral term, the prophecy hadn’t exactly filled me with gleeful anticipation about my daughter’s future.

  My mind was reeling. The prophecy had seemed like such a ridiculous thing. Who believed in prophecies anymore? Probably the same people who believed the Earth was flat or the moon landing was faked. But now that the wyvern was talking about his kind’s version of the prophecy, it didn’t seem so ridiculous.

  In the dead of night, it was much easier to believe the unbelievable.

  My goose bumps were growing more goose bumps.

  Boa, who’d been purring away in my lap, suddenly went from a soft noodle consistency to rigid muscle tension. She hissed at something behind me, then licked her lips and transitioned into a low, guttural howl.

  I turned my head slowly. I already knew what I was going to see before I saw it.

  A ghost.

  Ishmael Greyson stood near the foot of the stairs, looking lost, his neck faintly glowing where it had been chopped by a curved blade or two.

  With all the family drama, all the talk about genies and other worlds and prophecies, I’d actually forgotten about the poor fellow.

  Chapter 26

  My ghostly drop-in visitor put an end to my discussion of genies with Ribbons.

  Boa continued making horrible noises, her white tail twitching in agitation.

  “I’m getting a ghastly headache,” Ribbons announced. “You’ve got to do something about that ghost, Zed.”

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all day?”

  “Try harder.” He launched himself into the air above my desk. The beating of his wings sent my hair flying, blinding me. By the time my hair settled back down, the pint-size wyvern had already disappeared. Where had he gone? I squinted at the inky blackness along the edges of the basement. I really had to get a decent lighting system installed down there. Or hire a decorator. It was a shame that whenever my magical house spontaneously remodeled itself, it didn’t provide the same cozy comforts that a good interior designer would.

  Boa hissed once more, then jumped off my lap and high-tailed it up the stairs.

  Ishmael stood where he’d appeared, still looking lost and confused.

  “Sorry about the chilly reception from my pets,” I said to Ishmael. “But you’re welcome to hang out with me for a bit.”

  He gave me a glum nod.

  * * *

  For the next hour, I tried to gently prod Ishmael into communicating with me. I hoped he’d tell me who or what he was involved with that might have gotten him killed. It was slow going, without much progress. He seemed to know he was deceased, but not understand what that meant.

  After a while, I was frustrated nearly to the point of crying. His sadness was affecting me. He seemed like a nice enough young man, and it really was a tragedy that his life had been cut short. Also, I was worn out by a lack of sleep and a lack of progress.

  Was the real problem coming from my foolish attempt to improve my powers? I was on the verge of caving in, of admitting Zoey was right. Casting the rezoning spell on myself had been a mistake. I was not a tidy, well-organized library for ghosts. I was Zara Riddle. I was a witch. I was a woman, and my life was messy.

  I took out my notes, looked them over, and considered how I might reverse the spell. The markings on the page swam before my eyes. My head began to throb with the same ghastly headache Ribbons had complained of.

  I snapped my journal shut and tucked it back into the hidden drawer.

  Now was not the time to make a big life decisions. I was too emotional, too exhausted.

  Also, perhaps I was giving up on my transformation too easily. The homicide was barely a day old. A very long day, but still just one day. Had I ever resolved anything thorny in just one day?

  Nope.

  My briefest ghost possession had been by the Pressman girl. And even with the help of several DWM agents, solving that apparent homicide had still taken me a few days. Complicated things took time to unravel.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” I said to the ghost. “Wanna go for a walk?”

  He brightened up at once. If he’d had puppy ears, they would have pricked up eagerly. He didn’t quite understand that he was dead or even that I was a witch, but there was enough humanity left in the guy that he knew a walk outside was a good idea.

  I led him up from the basement, and through the house. The sun was rising, and the rooms were filled with eerie orange light that wasn’t as bright as it should have been. The sun was red again, glowing like an ember. The smoke from the nearby forest fires still hadn’t cleared away.

  The house was quiet.

  “Shh,” I told Ishmael. “Be very quiet. Don’t wake my daughter.”

  I was kidding, of course. Ghosts didn’t make noises without great effort. But poor goofy-looking Ishmael didn’t know that. He hunched his shoulders, held his finger to his semitransparent lips, and tiptoed along behind me. He tiptoed all the way out the front door.

  “The air smells smoky,” I said to him as we walked down the sidewalk.

  He sniffed the air and gave me a puzzled look. He didn’t seem to detect the smoke.

  “Your nose might not be working the way it used to,” I said. “Since you don’t have any olfactory cells, you can’t pick up on smells.” I tilted my head. “Then again, by the same rule, you don’t have any retinas or optical nerves, yet you can see me.”

  He continued giving me a puzzled look as we walked.

  “Maybe it’s a type of radar,” I said. “Sonar. Like what bats use.”

  He shrugged, put his hands in his pockets, and kicked a pine cone off the sidewalk. The pine cone bounced into the street.

  Ghost, I thought. The movie, not the noun. In the classic nineties movie Ghost, starring Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore—no relation to the Moores next door, according to them—the fictional ghosts could move objects in the real world if they knew how to focus their energy. There had been a touching scene where Swayze’s character had floated a penny over to a tearful Moore.

  I shivered. It was eerie how often movies got the details about magic right.

  * * *

  For the next hour, as the red sun rose overhead, I walked around Wisteria with my new ghost pal at my side.

  I hoped we might walk past something or someone that triggered a reaction from him, but he remained calm and amiable. As far as ghosts went, he was pleasant company. As long as someone or something—like Codex—didn’t drop the truth bombs hard enough to ignite him into a volcano of rage.

  We wound up in front of Dreamland Coffee—the same downtown location I’d visited the day before with Bentley. Because I hadn’t been to bed in the meantime, my sense of time wasn’t working right, and being there again gave me a strong feeling of déjà vu.

  The door opened, and customers came out, along with the scent of freshly roasted coffee. When the heavenly smell hit my olfactory cells—which were ve
ry real and working perfectly, unlike Ishmael’s—my very real mouth watered. I’d never wanted coffee more.

  I turned to Ishmael. “Do you happen to have any cash on you? We left the house so quietly that I forgot to grab my purse.”

  Ishmael reached into his pockets and turned them inside out. A couple of people in exercise clothes jogged by. All but one of them jogged straight through my ghost friend. The one person who dodged around the ghost, a man, slowed down and looked back at me over his shoulder, puzzled.

  Another group of joggers rounded the corner and came through. This time nobody avoided Ishmael. They all jogged right thought like he wasn’t there.

  Ishmael patted himself and gave me a hurt look. Further up the street were even more joggers heading our way. In the other direction, the man who’d dodged Ishmael was now standing still, drinking from a bottle of water while watching us.

  “We need to get you off the street,” I told the ghost.

  The coffee shop smelled great, and it was also the nearest shelter. I could see through the windows that Maisy Nix was at the counter. How was she feeling toward me now? Had she talked to her niece, Fatima, and received the report that I knew about her family’s secret? Would she welcome me to the coven with open arms and show me how to make that neat rainbow?

  Or would she fly into a witch rage and hit me with hot, sparking plasma?

  Time to find out.

  I pushed open the door and pretended to fuss with my jacket button, pausing long enough to let Ishmael come inside as well. He could have walked through the door, but it probably didn’t help his self-esteem to do so.

  “Zara Riddle,” Maisy called out with a cheery tone. She looked as tall and gorgeous as I felt rumpled and sleep-deprived. Her ebony hair was swept up in a topknot, all the better to feature the length of her neck and her perfect, medium-brown skin. She gave me a quick smile that emphasized the sharp planes of her face and broadened her strong jaw. She wore an orange Dreamland Coffee apron, this time with a hot-pink blouse underneath. The orange and pink, almost tertiary on the color wheel, looked so wrong together they were right, vibrating with energy. She wasn’t yawning today.

  Upon receiving her cheerful greeting, I smiled with relief. She wasn’t going to char me with lightning on the spot.

  “Two times in two days,” she exclaimed loudly. “I haven’t seen you this much since good ol’ Tansy Wick’s ghost was in possession of your taste buds! Get in here and get a coffee, you silly ol’ witch, you!”

  I stopped in my tracks, horrified. So much for subtlety. The coffee shop was crowded, full of people enjoying their first cups of the morning in small groups. A few of them had sweaty hair and wore jogging shoes. This was evidently where the Sunday morning jogging crew wound up after their run.

  I backtracked toward the door. The joggers weren’t looking my way yet. If I ducked out quick enough, they might not connect my face to Maisy’s proclamation of witch!

  But the door wouldn’t open for me. It was stuck tight, by magic.

  “Oh, Zara! The look on your face!” Maisy cackled.

  I raised both of my hands, palms-up, in a gesture of what’s-your-problem?

  “Calm down,” the other witch said. “I’m speaking to you through a sound focus.” She waved at the seated customers. “None of them can hear us. Look.”

  I glanced around. Sure enough, none of the coffee drinkers were even looking my way, let alone showing interest in Maisy’s talk of ghostly possession.

  “You got me,” I said. “You totally got me.”

  Maisy replied, “It’s a pretty simple spell. I can show you sometime.”

  I walked up to the counter and asked—quietly, because I didn’t know if the sound focus went both ways, “Is it the sound bubble spell, modified in shape to form a tunnel?”

  “No.” She drew her head back and twisted her lips. “But that’s a good idea. One could approach a sound focus that way.” She looked me up and down. “Zara, you’re not modifying spells, are you? Don’t tell me you’re into dangerous home brew!”

  “Home brew?” I’d never heard it called that before. “That wouldn’t be a very wise thing for a novice such as myself to do.”

  She watched me, her expression frozen. “No. It wouldn’t be wise for someone such as yourself to attempt. As a novice, you really should be under constant supervision by a mentor.”

  “Are you offering?” I grinned. “My aunt’s out of town at the moment, as I’m guessing you already know.”

  Through a tight mouth, she said, “I’ve got my hands full with my niece, but I might be available for the occasional lesson or question.”

  “Great! I have two questions. First, can you see the ghost standing next to me?”

  “No.” Her mouth contorted into a tight frown. “Sadly, I do not possess that type of sight.”

  “Second question, then. Can I run a tab? I’d love to get one of your amazing coffees, but I left my house in a hurry and forgot my purse.”

  Her frown changed into a smile of bemusement. “A witch need not beg for money.”

  “So, you’ll loan it to me? Sort of a witch-to-witch thing?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “Just that a witch need never beg for money. Haven’t you figured that out?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I could pickpocket like a professional if I wanted to, but a life of crime is not the life for me.”

  “Probably for the best.” She shook her head and moved over to the coffee machine. “What would you like?”

  “Vanilla latte.”

  “That was Ishmael Greyson’s favorite drink. Are you here about him again?”

  “Sort of. I’m here with him.”

  “Then I’ll make two vanilla lattes,” she said. “One for him and one for you.”

  “That’s not nece—” My attention was drawn by the sight of Ishmael nodding his head. He’d been leaning against the counter next to me, watching my conversation with Maisy with great interest.

  “Actually, that’s perfect,” I said. “He’s currently smiling and looking forward to it.”

  “I always liked Ishmael,” she said. “I can’t be bothered to give people a hard time unless I like them. You do understand what I mean, don’t you?”

  “I think so. My coworker at the library, Frank Wonder, is always pulling elaborate pranks on me. He’s a good friend, in spite of that.”

  “On the contrary. That’s how you know he’s a good friend.”

  “Okay. I do see what you mean.”

  “Frank. He’s the flamingo?”

  I pressed my lips together to give my brain time to catch up with my mouth. She’d casually asked me to confirm a friend’s powers. Was this a trap? A test?

  I answered slowly, “Frank does have bright pink hair, like a flamingo, if that’s what you mean.”

  She winked at me. “Of course that’s what I mean. I would never expect you to divulge anyone else’s secrets.”

  “Maybe. You did suggest I might pick people’s pockets for coffee money.”

  Her chin dipped down, and she fumbled the silver mini-pitcher she’d been using to catch the machine’s espresso.

  She quickly recovered and said, “Oh, Zara. I was only teasing you. It’s what we witches do. Even the good ones can be naughty sometimes.”

  “I have a lot to learn. I guess your niece told you about my visit to the vet clinic yesterday afternoon?”

  “She’s talked about nothing but.” The machine whirred as the brown elixir dripped into the silver mini-pitchers. “I understand there’s a new menace on the loose. One who chops off heads.”

  I gave a sidelong glance over to Ishmael to check on the ghost. He was staring at the coffee and smiling, seemingly not connecting the idea of heads being chopped off with his own situation.

  “I’m glad you’re up to speed,” I said. “Perhaps you can help. Two heads are better than one.”

  Her coffee-black eyes twinkle
d. “Two witches are better than one.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  After she’d made the vanilla lattes, as well as an espresso for herself, Maisy said, “Let’s take these coffees and sit in the back room. It’s not very pretty to look at, but it’s quiet and private, so I don’t have to keep up the sound spell.”

  “Sure,” I said, and she led me and my ghost buddy into the coffee shop’s back office and storage room. She was right about it not being very pretty to look at.

  Chapter 27

  The three of us—Maisy Nix, Ishmael Greyson, and myself—sat around a small table in the storage area at the back of Dreamland Coffee.

  Ishmael tentatively touched the rim of his coffee mug, wrapped his fingers around the handle, then left his hand there. His expression was serene. He didn’t appear to be bothered that he couldn’t pick up the mug or sip any of the vanilla latte. He simply sat there, quietly as always, as though waiting for something to happen.

  “This table is unbalanced,” I said to Maisy, noting the angle of my latte inside my cup. “That must be why it got sent away from the other tables in the front.”

  “Things around witches do have a tendency to become unbalanced.” She kicked the base. To my surprise, the surface became more level and my latte evened out in the mug. There was no way kicking the table made it level. It had to have been magic.

  “Fixed it,” I said.

  “This table is particularly jinxed,” she said. “We’ve cast a lot of big spells on top of the old gal.” She gave it a loving rub.

  I leaned forward and touched a dark spot. “Is this a burn mark?”

  Maisy raised an eyebrow. “You should ask Zinnia about that burn. She nearly set the whole place on fire.”

  “Oh?” I gave her my good-listener face—the one I used at the library when I suspected a patron with multiple late fees was about to tell me a whale of a tale that was well worth the equivalent of their late fees.

  “Zinnia wouldn’t like me discussing her business in her absence,” Maisy said.

  “She would not,” I agreed.

  “But we can talk about spells,” she said. “Have you found the secret to peeling the raw egg?”