Dead Witch on a Bridge

by Gretchen Galway

  “Don’t scare away the magic by doubting it,” Helen had told me.

  “Maybe magic that’s so easily scared away isn’t very powerful,” I’d countered. “A spell tied with a chain of ancient silver isn’t so easy to break.”

  “You got a chain of ancient silver lying around?” she’d asked me.

  I’d had to admit I did not.

  “Yarn is cheap and doesn’t raise questions,” she’d said. “Everyone thinks you’re just a harmless old lady. They don’t look twice.”

  With just the yarn, maybe, but after I’d darkened my eyes with kohl and sat cross-legged in front of the guest room’s doorway—wearing a skirt but no underwear—I appreciated my solitude. Wielding the power of the feminine felt ridiculous, and I’d rather not have an audience.

  The cabinet flickered into view in the room in front of me. Now that I was looking for it, I could see the small gargoyle perched on the top, facing the door and me, his grotesque features twisted into a snarl. He was green as jade but no longer stone; his form was rippling, alive, with strands of slime hanging from his fangs and wet stains puddling under his feet. It slid down the outside of the cabinet to the floor, its landing an audible drip, drip, drip.

  Wordless terror struck me like a hot wind. The creature specialized in fear, triggering the latent survival instincts in every living thing. Prepared, I drew a simple circle in the air between us, a shield of safety.

  It took me a moment to calm down enough to concentrate on the familiar well of magic inside me, the warm glow of strength and power, like a small sun, that I’d felt as long as I could remember. There. That was real; that was power I could count on.

  The gargoyle would have to wait. The first hurdle was the spell Tristan had set in the rowan doorway with the silver pins. I really would’ve preferred the ancient silver chain to counteract his metal, or maybe copper, but Helen had promised the fancy knots in the yarn would function as a trap. The magic would be drawn to the twists and turns, strive to get closer, fall into my maze of wool.

  I put both hands on my necklaces, and easy as picking dandelions, I used my mind to lift each pin out of the wood, one by one, and move them aside. Disarmed, they fell into a harmless pile next to my bag.

  Thank you, Helen.

  Without the silver, the rowan could be bent to my will, and my years of working with wood served me now as I turned the spell away from me into the room, toward the little green monster. An invisible current of ice struck him in the face.

  The creature yelped, then froze into stone. Once again he was the smooth and immobile carving he’d been when Tristan had enchanted him.

  I stood, brushing my skirt over my thighs, and retrieved my bag for the remaining items. The frying pan hadn’t gotten any lighter when I’d filled it with a bag of pennies. About time those things came in useful. I’d kept meaning to roll them or bring them to the coin machine at the grocery store in Sebastopol. Now I’d use the metal coins for luck.

  Because I didn’t know what the next protective spell around the cabinet would be. I could feel something hot, red, blazing… somewhere inside the room. I held the frying pan as if it were a breakfast tray and stepped over the threshold.

  “Room service,” I muttered.

  The iron under my fingers began to get warm, uncomfortably warm, then hot, scalding. I held on. My skin began to blister and smoke, and a nauseating smell—my own cooking flesh—filled the room, but I held on and took another step.

  Oh my God. This was bad. Very bad.

  Don’t panic. Just hold on.

  The fire stretched up above my wrists, seeming to catch the hem of my sweater on fire. Yellow flames danced up to my elbows, and my skin bubbled under the blaze. My hands were raw, white finger bones visible under the blackened flesh that fell in small, crispy chunks to the floor.

  Nausea roiled within me. I was grossing myself out.

  I closed my eyes and took another step. The fire wasn’t real, the pain wasn’t real, nothing in our world was real, existence was an illusion, we were nothing more than the paintings of fairies, the nightmares of demons, the daydreams of angels—

  I screamed. It felt real. Something Tristan had left behind had set my hands on fire—for real—and I was just walking into it like an idiot, and then how would I make a living carving and stringing beads if I didn’t have any arms?

  To hell with arms—what if my heart stopped? The burning had raced beyond my elbows, over my shoulders, pierced my sternum, and was attacking my heart, surrounding it with heat, breaking its cell walls, melting…

  Melting my heart?

  Oh, Tristan, such a ladies’ man, even now. I lifted the burning pan to my lips and kissed it. If I was wrong, my face would fall off. But if I was right…

  Hah. I was right. I still had a face, with eyes that could see the source of the fire, a small box in the corner to my left. Ignoring the feeling I was a living candle and not living much longer from the feel of my chest, I staggered over to the box and swung the pan. It struck the wall, missing the box. I stuck my foot—what was left of it—into the corner and swept the box out with my charred, stumpy toes and then dropped the pan on it again, this time crushing it completely.

  I was still on fire. Crap. I reached through the blaze to grab the box—an old-fashioned matchbox, palm-sized, cardboard—and shake out the contents into the frying pan.

  A red and black powder scattered over the coins, sizzling like steaks on a grill—or was that my flesh?—and finally, slowly, the fire went out.

  As the heat cooled, I forced myself to look at my hands as they regrew their muscle, flesh, veins, skin, tiny hairs, each freckle. My sweater knitted back into view. My heart returned to its healthy, stony state.

  Damn. Whatever spell that had been, I wanted Helen to teach it to me. Keeping my eye on the cabinet for further horrors, I rested against the wall as I caught my breath.

  No wonder Donna hadn’t forgotten this cabinet. If I were the housekeeper, I’d be out of here pronto no matter what Tristan paid me.

  I put my hand on my necklace and rubbed my thumb along the largest bead as much for habitual comfort as for power. Casting out my awareness to the cabinet, I felt for more gargoyles, boxes of pepper and camphor, silver, anything at all—but found nothing else blocking me.

  I got to my feet and forced myself to approach. It was a lovely piece of furniture, not that I knew about woodworking, but it looked artistic, unique, complicated. Dozens of cubbies, doors, slots, and drawers on three of four sides. The back was smooth and plain, designed to go against the wall, although it stood in the center of the room.

  My gaze was drawn immediately to the keyholes, of which there were seven, lucky seven, on each of the three usable sides of the cabinet.

  Nick Takata had never changed his mind about sharing any keys with me. Fortunately, however, I’d been raised by a thief. Well, we’d spent vacations together.

  I pulled a mass of keys out from under my shirt. I’d hung the silver ring on a black ribbon like I’d done in the old days, back when I would risk anything to be with my father, even my own future. It’s hard to care about your future when you’re only eight.

  They might not work. They were old, some of my earliest, clumsiest magic, the witch equivalent of a crayon family portrait in kindergarten.

  They didn’t look like keys, but they should function as them. They were pieces of elements, minerals, metals, botanicals, anything that could unlock the power of the universe. I had a soft chunk of redwood, my first love; a stainless steel measuring spoon; old coins from around the world, drilled with holes; a rabbit’s foot I still felt guilty about, although I loved to rub its silky toes; a gold-plated bracelet; an angrily discarded platinum wedding band; more broken jewelry containing assorted metals and gems; a vial of witch’s spit (my own); a single juniper berry…

  I flipped through the collection, feeling for a reaction from any of the pieces, deciding to go with my favorite, the redwood. I held it up to the largest key
hole on the side facing the door and sent my wish through the wood into the opening.

  It rattled and popped open. Inside was a black velvet bag, and inside that was…

  I pulled out a black onyx bracelet. I recognized the hum of power, the flavor of Protectorate magic surrounding it, similar to licorice, and slipped it back inside.

  There were good reasons Tristan might have Protectorate artifacts in his house, such as guardianship, self-protection, compensation for services rendered. I would reserve judgment.

  The next door didn’t respond to the redwood key, so I used the rabbit foot, offering my millionth apology to the bunny who would never bounce again. The door popped open, this time revealing a small green bottle, unmarked and uncorked.

  I didn’t pick it up. The stench was warning enough. Whatever small monster had died hadn’t wanted its heart to end up pickled in cat urine and left in a cabinet, no matter how skilled the craftsmanship.

  I pushed the door shut until it clicked.

  The next six compartments were much the same, filled with some magical treasure or horror, beautiful art or disgusting trophy, some things powerful, others simply unique.

  My understanding of Tristan was rapidly evolving. He’d been a Protector, a respected leader in the ruling magical bureaucracy, but now I saw evidence he’d dipped his toes into Shadow.

  And he’d never told me, never hinted at it. In fact, he’d frequently consoled me for having a father who had made my life so difficult by staining the family name with his antics. With noblesse oblige, Tristan had seemed to have the grace to console me, the pathetic child of an infamous thief, a woman who herself had been sacked by his employer for not being quite good enough. A woman he’d slept with. But that almost went without saying.

  Teeth gritted, I opened the rest of the cabinet, each door and drawer, cursing his unhappy, murdered soul under my breath.

  He could live under a bridge with trolls for as long as the earth rotated around the sun, for all I cared. The hypocrite.

  There were books, amulets, rings. There were sculptures, icons, dried herbs, carvings, snakeskins, animal teeth of all types and sizes, gems, stones, liquids, powders. And lots of gold, lots of silver, some copper, old and new, all of it magically crafted into jewelry, buckles, buttons, and pins, all of it usable, buzzing with available power.

  He wasn’t a collector; he was a pirate. My father stole things but didn’t keep them, the ultimate explanation for his continuing freedom. Nobody ever caught him with the goods. The thrill of the hunt inspired him to sneak and steal, and he was quick to unload and run away from any traceable treasure.

  Unlike Tristan. Why would he be so crazy to keep all this stuff? It was dangerous to have one or two of these things in your possession, but to have all of it together was suicidal.

  And now he was dead.

  Angrier with each moment, I searched the cabinet for any corner or crevice I’d missed, but for all the loot I discovered, big and small, vegetable or mineral, visible and invisible, none of it could be the torc that Phoebe had described.

  Had Malcolm been trying to trick me into blaming Tristan for the theft? Or had Tristan had it when he was killed, and my father knew about it because he’d taken it from him when he’d—

  No. My father could not be a murderer. I wouldn’t believe it.

  Not yet.

  The objects in the cabinet needed to be disarmed by Protectorate officials who did this sort of thing for a living. I neither had the skills nor the inclination to spend any more time breathing in the lingering odor of barbecued me.

  The doors relocked themselves, as I’d hoped, and I slid my hands over the cabinet to make sure I hadn’t left anything ajar. Nick’s face flashed before my eyes for a moment, the residue of his soul in the handiwork. Nice face, although I was tempted to laugh in it, gloat about not needing his help after all, maybe tease him about the necklace his ex had glued to his throat.

  I picked up my frying pan, no hint of the earlier fire, although the black pepper was still visible over the mound of old pennies, and brought it to the hallway, where I put it in my bag with the rest of my things. Before I left, I used my fingers to return the silver pins to the rowan threshold where I’d found them, fascinated to see how easily they slid into place. Herbs were nice, but metal… metal was gorgeous. Modern witches loved it for a reason.

  I turned back one last time to glance at the cabinet, fading behind the illusion of a guest bed, and caught the eye of a small but furious figure, green and ugly, as he pointed at me.

  It was the last thing I saw before everything went dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next thing I saw was Livia. She looked as if she’d just come from the salon; her hair was helmet-smooth and perfectly streaked with copper and gold. It hung down around her face, toward me, where I lay on the floor.

  “Nice haircut,” I said. “Did you get that done in Silverpool?”

  Livia scowled, which was a funny look from below. Very unflattering. “What happened to you?” she demanded.

  For several long, awkward seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was. To prevent myself from saying something incriminating or embarrassing, I closed my eyes. When in doubt, play dead.

  Without Livia’s face to distract me, I remembered Tristan, the cabinet, its contents, and the gargoyle’s parting shot.

  I was going to have to find a jade monster like that for my house. Impressive. I had totally underestimated it.

  “I must’ve fainted,” I said, pushing up onto my elbows. A quick glance told me my backpack was beside me in the hallway, safely zipped up. “Allergy meds. Or low blood sugar. I’m fine now.”

  “How did you get in? Did you still have your own key from when you were… when…” Livia shook her head. “You should’ve returned it. Somebody needs to get the locks changed on this place. God knows how many keys Tristan gave to… people.”

  “He did like”—I paused for emphasis—“people.”

  A man’s voice caught my attention. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  To my surprise, Jasper stood above me on my other side. “What are you doing here?”

  He glanced at Livia. “I’ve volunteered to help with the memorial.” The way he said it suggested he’d been drafted against his will. Tristan had been establishment Protectorate, with none of the cute damsel-in-distress charm that Phoebe had going for her, and Jasper hadn’t been a fan. Men didn’t have much use for Tristan, who seduced women so easily, so frequently.

  “I know you two are friends,” Livia said. “I got the impression you might need some help. I was in the tasting room yesterday, and they said you hadn’t even come by yet to ask about the easel.”

  That was so typical of Livia to imply I wouldn’t get my work done in time. Just because I didn’t even remember what work I was doing for her, what day it was, or why I would need an easel.

  “I was just headed there now,” I said. I’d remember eventually.

  “Before you fainted,” Jasper said, holding out a hand.

  I accepted his hand and pulled myself up to my feet. Gravity wavered for a second, but he held my arm and—nice of him—sent me a quick recovery spell, as welcome as that first sip of coffee on a cold, dark morning.

  More of my memories returned. “Donna let me in. I was going to look for another picture or two.” I pulled my phone out of my front pocket. “And get a few shots of the house and winery for the slideshow.”

  “I’ll help you,” Jasper said.

  I gave him a grateful smile. “That would be nice.” My strength was returning, but slowly. Over Livia’s shoulder, I could glimpse the gargoyle strutting back and forth on top of the cabinet, a green, angry sentry. It was time for me to get away from him and Tristan’s horde.

  “Livia thought we might want to get his portrait enlarged as soon as possible,” he said.

  “It’ll have to be a rush job if you haven’t already requested it,” Livia said.

  “I’ll ta
ke care of it,” I said, carefully picking up my backpack. If Livia noticed how heavy the bag was, she’d probably assume I’d nicked something. As if I would risk taking anything out of the house after what I’d seen in the cabinet and what the gargoyle had done to me. “After I look for the easel in the tasting room.”

  “I already found one,” Livia said, “but it’s broken. We need another one. As well as few poster boards and frames and a few smaller display stands.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I repeated, although I was less enthusiastic about memorializing Tristan after seeing evidence of his hypocrisy. “I’ll see what Birdie has at the store.”

  “A hardware store isn’t going to have anything nice enough. And you need the enlargements, so you should drive—”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Jasper said.

  Livia seemed to hear him in a way she hadn’t heard me. With a satisfied nod, she gestured down the hallway. “If you’re done in here, I’ll lock up. We don’t want anyone breaking in.”

  I looked at the small, ordinary key in her hand and thought how useless such a thing was when Tristan had booby-trapped the place with spells that survived his death. Who knows what else he’d left behind?

  Eager to get out of the house, I moved past Livia, Jasper at my side, and went out to my car. There I saw a familiar bike resting against a bench. “Birdie’s here too?” I asked.

  “She was going to help me plan the reception.” Livia stopped and tucked the key to Tristan’s house in her purse, shaking her head. “But there’s nobody here to talk to. Did you know Tristan didn’t run the kitchen himself? There’s no permanent cooking staff. Any event at the winery was catered.”

  “I never asked him how he ran the business,” I said.

  “I’m just so surprised,” she said. “He seemed so smart, but that was a serious waste of opportunity. The winery has so much potential. I was always telling him.”