Dead Witch on a Bridge

by Gretchen Galway

“I thought you were raised by your dad.” She spun around and said quickly, “I only ask because I used to think we had that in common, being raised by one parent. But then you just mentioned your parents, plural, and I wondered… Do you have two?”

  “Kind of like you do,” I said.

  “You don’t know your mom?”

  I needed to know what she knew about my world. “I don’t like to talk about that.”

  “That’s so funny.”

  “Not usually,” I said.

  “I only meant that’s what I used to say. When people asked about my dad. People don’t ask very much about a missing father, though, do they? Because they might never know you exist. But it’s kind of hard for the mom not to know you exist.”

  “I’ll tell you about it if you answer my earlier question,” I said.

  “About weird?”

  “Yeah.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “I’m afraid to say it. He kind of swore me to secrecy.”

  “Tristan? I thought you never spoke.”

  “We didn’t. He… he wrote me a letter. At least I think it was him. He mentioned the photograph and then said we could meet if… if I accepted something about him. He said what it was and asked me to burn the letter while I thought about it, so I did.”

  I got to my feet and looked at her steadily, without magic but intently. “You burned it because you thought he was crazy.”

  “I burned it because he told me to.” Her voice fell. “And I was afraid.”

  “But you didn’t actually swear anything? You just burned the letter?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  I let out my breath. If she’d truly sworn to Tristan and then had broken the promise, she could’ve been in some danger, like how I’d felt after telling Jasper about the wellspring or how the gargoyle on the cabinet had knocked me out. Not all spells expired at death.

  “You did as he asked, so you’re fine,” I said.

  “You’re like him,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Holy moly,” she said.

  “You never…,” I began. “Did your mother—”

  “She only said he was weird.”

  “Did she ever think she could do magic?” I asked. “You know, play around with herbs?”

  “She chopped cilantro for guacamole, rosemary for chicken, maybe basil if the snails didn’t get it first.”

  I tried not to laugh. “Right. More than that. Burning plants, sprinkling leaves around, that sort of thing. Weird things.”

  “No, Mom wasn’t into weird. She worked for a medical billing service.”

  Tristan had played a dangerous game, mixing with so many women who weren’t aware of the magical world. It was interesting to think he’d kept the photo booth snapshots of himself with Birdie’s mother, as if she’d been important to him.

  “Your turn,” Birdie said. “You said you’d tell me about your mother.”

  “No, I said I’d tell you if I had two parents.” I went back to the couch and sat next to Random for fur therapy while I talked about my least favorite subject. “I assume I do, because as powerful as my father is, he can’t create life from thin air. Distort it, sure. But create it? No.”

  She sat across from me again. “So you don’t know why your mother left?”

  “I don’t know if she did. He may have stolen me in the middle of the night, the same way he gets everything else he wants.” I crossed my legs and leaned back in the sofa, determined not to get upset about ancient history.

  Birdie’s eyes widened. “You don’t know?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know anything.” I smiled. “Maybe she owns a winery somewhere.”

  “Maybe she— Maybe she’s looking for you.”

  “If so, she’s not looking very hard,” I said. “My father is kind of famous. In a bad way.”

  “To magic people, maybe—”

  “Witches. Might as well call us what we are.”

  She frowned, not from anger but from concentration. “Right. Witches. Maybe she’s not a witch, just somebody norm… Uh, not a witch.”

  “Nonmag, we say. Nonmagical,” I said. “But she has to be a witch. I know she is.”

  “How can you know? Did he tell you? Or is it…” Her eyes widened. “It’s a genetic thing, is that it? And because you have powers, she must have powers. But then why don’t I— Ah. Is it only on the maternal line?”

  I reminded myself not to underestimate Birdie. “A daughter inherits her mother’s powers. And also, sometimes, her father’s. But not always.”

  “How about sons?”

  “Same story in reverse. Sons get the father’s powers and possibly the mother’s. Mixed marriages have unpredictable results.”

  “But how do you know you don’t just have your father’s powers, and your mother is nonmagical?”

  “It’s the kind of powers that I have.” We were getting into the gray area that had shadowed my entire life. “I don’t want to get into specifics, but I have too many for them only to have come from my father.” And different ones he didn’t have.

  Birdie stared at me without blinking. “Wow. What— I mean, what—”

  “You’re Tristan’s daughter,” I said. She might not tell the truth, but I had to try. “He was a powerful witch. Do you have any power of your own?” I prepared my magic to gauge the truth of her answer.

  She laughed, clapping her hands together. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this so seriously.”

  “I know, right?” I tried to smile.

  “I would love to be a witch with amazing powers,” she said.

  So far she’d said nothing I could determine to be false. Her statements were either sincere or carefully evasive.

  “Have you ever done something you thought was impossible?” I asked.

  “Well, sure, but…” She leaned closer, hugging a pillow to her chest. “Can you teach me? Is it like learning spells and waving things the right way?”

  “Sometimes. But it won’t work if you don’t have any power.”

  “Can you tell if I have any power?”

  I’d been trying to figure that out for the past hour. Innate ability couldn’t be determined, only the act itself. Should I admit I couldn’t tell? If she was playing me, that might give her too much ammunition.

  “I’ll leave you to figure that out for yourself,” I said, adding a smile in case she was as innocent as I hoped.

  I could be evasive too.

  She buried her face in the pillow, shaking her head. “So cool, so cool,” she said, her voice muffled.

  Although she had a motive and possibly the ability to give herself that alibi, I just couldn’t believe she would hurt anyone. Either I was a good friend and neighbor or the biggest fool in the witch world.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I left Birdie’s house before she could ask me more pointed questions about magic. Until I knew for sure who and what she was, I couldn’t risk teaching her anything.

  Across the street, a surprise visitor was waiting for me at the edge of my driveway, pacing and muttering to herself, obviously unable to get any closer and annoyed about it. Phoebe Day, alone this time, wearing a black dress, long black cardigan, pointy lace-up boots, and a purple scarf. Her BMW was parked at an odd angle, its front wheels in the drainage ditch to the left of the driveway—as if she’d been driving onto my property before something unexpected had shoved her car to one side.

  I indulged in a quick smile before approaching.

  “Phoebe,” I said.

  She held up a thick silver chain between us and began muttering under her breath. The spell was protective, surrounding her in a cocoon of white, fuzzy light. “I’m here to talk.” She sounded nervous.

  If she hadn’t intended me any harm, I doubted my house spells would have driven her car into the ditch. Whatever she wanted to talk about, her intentions weren’t good for me personally.

  While Random skittered out of si
ght, giving our visitor the widest berth possible, I approached Phoebe, only stopping when I was immediately outside the cocoon. Not hiding a yawn, I zipped up my sweatshirt. Autumn was just around the corner, and the fog was cold that morning.

  “Nice outfit,” I said. “Did you get that at the Junior Witch department at Macy’s?”

  Her lips tightened. “I apologize for Mage Lorne’s behavior. I didn’t realize he had a history with you and your father that made him incapable of objectivity or…” She swallowed. “Compromise.”

  “There’s nothing to compromise about,” I said. “I don’t know anything about—”

  “Of course not. But maybe you and I could come to a private arrangement that would trigger your memory.” She turned, waving the chain in a circle around her like a rotating sprinkler head. The white mist grew thicker, sealing her back inside her safety blanket. “Just between you and me. Lorne doesn’t have to know.”

  “I don’t have the torc,” I said, “and I don’t know who does. At this point, I probably wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t know. Lorne and the Protectorate believes you’re guilty, which will mean an end to the way you’ve been accepted in the ways your father is not.”

  “Just how am I accepted? I was fired.”

  “Honorably discharged with an Incurable Inability is quite different from being shunned,” she said, “or hunted as a common demon.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Her beautiful eyes narrowed. “But your father has. Listen carefully. If you give me the torc, I’ll make Lorne believe it came from another thief. Your father, and therefore you, won’t be implicated. Lorne isn’t willing to negotiate with Malcolm because of bad blood, but I’m more flexible.” She waved the chain again, rustling her purple scarf. “I won’t make this offer again and will deny it if asked. This is your only chance to clear your family’s name.”

  That chance had already faded before I was born, when Malcolm Bellrose had famously stolen the dragon-shaped door knocker from the main entrance of the Protectorate office in London. Its eyes had been rubies, which he’d told me—when I wasn’t yet tall enough to reach the knocker, had it still been on the door—had practically been an invitation to rescue it from its precarious location.

  “Anybody could’ve stolen it,” he’d said. “I’ve sold it to somebody who knows how to take better care of nice things.”

  I wondered if, with more time to search Tristan’s house, I’d find it among his other treasures.

  “When is Tristan’s funeral?” I asked Phoebe.

  “That was held the night after his death,” she said.

  I’d told Jasper how I hadn’t expected to be invited, but hearing that it had already happened, without a word to me, still hurt. As Phoebe had guessed, I didn’t enjoy living under the same infamy as my father.

  “And the new Protector?” I asked. “When should we expect one?”

  “That’s another reason you should accept my offer now. It’s not safe here until a new Protector is assigned, even with all this crude soft magic piled up around you.” She lifted her chin as if daring me to deny my methods. “Hearth witch,” she sneered.

  “Crude but effective,” I said, walking past her, making a point of staring at her car that was beautifully not in my driveway.

  “There are malevolent forces stirring up the fae,” she blurted. “Tristan told Lorne there was intentional harm occurring here in Silverpool.”

  “Other than murder, you mean?”

  “Harm to the fae. Even I’m not supposed to know.” She lowered her voice. “My telling you is a show of my good faith.”

  “What kind of harm?”

  A wave of verity spells broke out of her cocoon and surrounded my head. “Tristan reported poisoning near the winery. A potion of some kind. But since his death, we have discovered the deliberate contamination”—she paused, watching me carefully—“of the forest near the wellspring itself.”

  I thought of the mob of fairies in the forest that had kept me in a tree all night. “That makes no sense. Who would want to do that? Why harm fairies?”

  “If it weren’t for Tristan’s presence here, naturally we would blame demons. But his power fighting demons”—she gave me a contemptuous glance—“was unwavering and unmatched. None would approach while he was here. It must be a human.”

  “The nonmag are always careless with chemicals. Maybe somebody dumped—”

  “Only magic could touch fairies.” She brought out a second chain and drew a circle with it between us. “It had to be a witch.” Then she lowered her hands enough to stare at me over her trembling fingers.

  I realized she was accusing Malcolm of a worse crime than stealing a necklace from the Protectorate.

  “Do you know where the wellspring is?” she continued.

  “Yes.” I felt Phoebe’s verity spell tickle my cheeks.

  “Have you visited recently?”

  “I tried, but it’s dry this time of year.” I told a partial truth because it was possible she already knew I’d been in the area after the bramble spell was triggered and because her implication was too crazy to be insulting.

  “Of course it is,” she said, sighing as she lowered her arms completely. “And even if it was at its fullest, you obviously couldn’t be the one harming any fairies. After all, you ruined your life because you didn’t have the steel to hurt demons. Those monsters deserve whatever they get. Unlike the poor little spirits who share this earth with us.”

  That comment alone told me how sheltered she must’ve been in her short life. Nobody had ever let her wander alone in the woods all night or dance naked under a full moon on midsummer’s eve.

  “And after all, I’m harmless,” I said. The irony of her trembling behind her steam bath cocoon of protective magic wasn’t lost on me.

  “Because of the suspicions on your character and that of your father, it would be beneficial to both of you if someone understanding and forgiving was appointed here,” she said. “You might find it increasingly difficult to mingle in mainstream magic society now that Tristan is dead and the torc is missing and your father… well. We know about him.”

  Was she threatening or bargaining with me? “What do you care about the Protector appointment in Silverpool?”

  She frowned and looked away.

  Could she possibly believe she had a chance of being appointed Protector? That was impossible. No matter why he favored her, Lorne would never get away with giving such a coveted position to his niece, a low-level underling, still basically a Flint. Dozens of more experienced, more powerful witches, wanting the post for themselves, would destroy him if he tried.

  The magic cocoon around her had taken a tremendous amount of effort to create and was already beginning to fade around her feet.

  It was so easy to forget about the feet. Our instincts were to protect the vital organs and the face, and those poor toes, heels, arches, and ankles became vulnerable.

  Although she was an agent at the Protectorate, her training must’ve rushed some of the basics. I didn’t need to knock her off her feet to get what I wanted; my spell could slip under the boundary of her protection and measure her motives through any exposed body part. Before she could wave her silver chain again, I broke through the gap, coasted up both high-heeled boots, through the laces, the leather tongue, the delicate stocking, and encircled the bare skin of her ankles with a tendril of power.

  And listened to the weather of her thoughts.

  “Do you expect to be Protector of Silverpool?” I asked quietly, enhancing the question through the bond I’d tied around her feet.

  I saw the torc, a shining, open hoop of gold. I smelled Lorne’s cologne, the distinctive scent I remembered from my time at the Diamond Street office. I tasted a woman’s lust for power—a dark, sticky, hot craving that made my stomach clench.

  Tightening the bond, I had a stunning glimpse of how cold, Shadowed, and grasping Phoebe
was beneath her lovely face. Yes, she did think she would be Protector. Why did she—

  “Stop that!” Phoebe shouted, rushing me with the chain in her fist.

  More afraid of the fist than the chain—the idea of any part of her touching me was suddenly repulsive—I stumbled backward. Then she bent over, and as she began slapping the chain against her ankles (hitting hard enough to bruise), the spell I’d snaked under her feet broke away.

  “You need to be more careful,” she said, her voice high and loud. “Who do you think you are? You’re— You’re— You’re nothing! You— Is it your father? How do you—” Swinging the chain at me like a whip, she began moving away, slow then fast, toward her car.

  I didn’t try to follow. I’d seen more than I’d wanted to see, learned more than I wanted to know. The woman was ambitious and cruel with a lust for power I associated with nonmag tycoons and politicians.

  As I watched, she pulled off her scarf and threw it in the air between us, staring at it with the concentration of spell-casting. The thin fabric burst into lavender smoke, fluffy but opaque, completely shrouding her body and her car. A few moments later a car engine roared, its wheels spun in the ditch, the shoulder, and finally the asphalt. Her BMW burst out of the cloud and sped away down the street, trailing purple tendrils.

  “Holy smokes,” I muttered.

  A man coughed politely behind me. “Not very holy, actually,” he said. “But I suppose you already knew that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I didn’t need to turn around to identify Seth Dumont. I would always remember that voice, and I was familiar with his habit of sneaking up on people. Came with the demon job, I supposed.

  “Her name is Phoebe Day,” I said. “Or have you already met?”

  “I avoid witches as much as possible.”

  “If only,” I said.

  He grinned. “You’re different.”

  “Sometimes I wish I weren’t.”

  “Never say that.” He pointed down the road, still hazy with purple smoke. It was midday but still foggy, exaggerating the effect of Phoebe’s spell. “Given the alternative, I’d say the world got lucky with you getting so much power.”