Beezley and the Witch series Box Set

by Willow Mason

  “They’re already processing it?”

  “Looks like.” Wilson continued to manipulate the contents close to the surface, then painstakingly record the labels in his notebook.

  “Come on. If they’ve already got it sorted, we don’t need to be in here at all,” I said, tugging on Wilson’s arm. My magic was pulling at me so hard, I wanted to fall into a coma and stay there for a week.

  Wilson nodded in agreement, then tried to slot the bag back into the unit where I’d found it. Just as he closed the door to the refrigeration unit, another door opened—just like the proverb.

  I cast the spell out over Wilson, feeling the magic twist away, trying to fight its way back to me. The consequences for being out of the coven’s power network struck home as I struggled to keep the invisibility in place.

  A man walked in, heading for a shelf near the door. As if he knew we were there and wanted to draw out the horror as long as possible, he examined one bag after another while the minutes ticked by.

  The magic fought hard, tiring me to the point of exhaustion. I strained and struggled, wanting to weep with the difficulty. Wilson stood completely still, but it didn’t help.

  If I didn’t get out of the room in another minute, the magic would fight itself into non-existence, leaving the two of us exposed.

  The man moved to the main walkway, then chose another row of shelving to investigate.

  I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t hold the spell in place much longer.

  With a hand on Wilson’s shoulder, I pushed him into motion. We crept towards the door, silent as possible.

  One step. Two steps. Three. Four. Five.

  I reached a hand to the door, then Wilson shuffled to the side and slipped over. Clumsy fool. He fell out of the reach of the spell and I couldn’t summon the energy to make it travel any further.

  His foot became visible. Then his calf.

  The officer walked out to investigate, and I whipped the spell back into just my body. If the policeman saw just a portion of Wilson’s leg lying on the ground, it would be far worse than seeing the whole man.

  During the shouts of horror and Wilson’s cries as he was manhandled into cuffs, I escaped. Just the police station, that was. Not the cloud of guilt and shame at not being able to protect my teammate.

  No. That attached itself to me like a limpet, following along for the ride.

  “Can’t you go back in there and magic him out of custody?” Beezley asked as I picked him up from the waiting area—visible once again—and led him outside.

  “It doesn’t matter if I do or not, Wilson’s been arrested. Just because he escapes because of magic instead of brute force or something, doesn’t make the crime any different. On top of trespass and whatever else he’s facing, he’d end up with an unlawful escape charge as well.”

  “Only if they catch him again.”

  I glanced at Beezley, not bothering to say anything, and he nodded in agreement. Wilson was just the type of man to be caught again. Probably before we made it all the way off police grounds.

  “We’re better off just forgetting Wilson ever existed,” I said, only half joking. “I’ll scratch his name from my mind, and I’ve completely forgotten what he looked like.”

  Beezley wagged his tail. “I’m missing the weekly catch-ups already.”

  “You know better than me what’ll happen to him next. How long do you think they’ll keep him locked away?” As we neared a bench mounted next to the footpath, I sat, giving a sigh of relief at the chance to rest.

  “They’ll keep him in there for a few hours while they decide what laws he has or hasn’t broken. Once they’re confident of what he’s done and what he’s got into, they’ll either press charges or release him, perhaps with a formal warning.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “It’s not. But if they charge him, he could be in a lot of trouble. Tampering with evidence carries a stiff penalty. Like anything that interferes in the course of justice, it’ll be a custodial sentence.”

  “You’re kidding.” I sat back, folding my arms and rocking. “I mean, I knew if we were caught in there, we’d be in trouble. It never occurred to me it’d be going-to-jail-level offending.”

  “It probably won’t. Nothing was tampered with from what you say. As long as he can keep his wits about him, and either say nothing or lie convincingly, he’ll be fine.”

  Both our faces grew forlorn as we calculated Wilson’s chances and came out close to nil.

  “Still, at least it was all for nothing.”

  Beezley nodded. “It’s a pity the person who sent everything off for testing didn’t bother to update the computer system as well.”

  After a few minutes more, I stood up and continued walking. The temptation to stay seated was strong but if I didn’t get moving, I’d stay there the whole day.

  “I’ll check the file to see if they’ve got anything new noted,” I said as we got inside Beezley’s home.

  “It’s too soon for any results. The truck to collect them for the lab won’t even have arrived yet.”

  “I know. I just need something to do. Unless you have any other grand ideas…?”

  Beezley took himself to the bathroom, and I tried not to picture him overbalancing and falling into the bowl. I’d found it annoying enough just to lose the magic support of the coven. I didn’t want to think about how dreadful being changed into an animal would be.

  The police file had nothing new in it, but I stared at the image of the stamp on Fenella’s hand for a while, trying to prod loose the memory of where I’d seen the pentagram before. With it being so common among witches, it could be anywhere—a bag design, a picture on a notebook. A nightclub.

  Maybe it was even a logo from another coven. Despite the fact supernaturals were meant to keep their powers hidden, there were some groups in the country who felt the need to brand themselves. Egotists, I guessed.

  I googled a few random terms on the internet, striking out. Finally, I snipped out the shape from the police photographs and loaded it into a reverse image search.

  Bingo.

  The Riverhead fairgrounds had a fortune teller booth with the exact same image on the top of the tent. Not only that, the grounds were just a kilometre or so from where Fenella Wainwright had battled a car and lost.

  “I’m a genius,” I called out to Beezley, who took his sweet time trotting back into the room. “Come on short stuff, it’s time you did some real police work.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” he growled with his snub nose wrinkling.

  “No, you’ve been ordering other people around all day. Well, now it’s time to have an interview with a suspect. I’m not sure what that entails but if you think I should bring along a baton for beating them around the head, I’m game.”

  Chapter Eight

  The fairgrounds were old and rustic, just the kind of place hippies had drifted toward in the seventies. Between the crystal sellers and organic food market, it seemed most of them had stayed.

  Beezley and I wandered through the haphazard stands, searching for our destination while trying not to make it obvious. A man thrust a chick into my hands, and I threw it back at him, earning a tiny squawk. From the man, not the chick.

  “Over there,” I said, jabbing my chin out at the top of the fortune teller’s tent, two stalls across. The striped top made it look like a piece of the circus had run away to join the organic farming crowd.

  A sign out the front read, “Free Readings: Donations Welcome.” Given the generous smiles and bounteous welcomes of the folks wandering around the area, I bet they did well.

  When I pulled the flap back, I had to stand inside the entrance blinking. The change in light left me blind and when a hand touched my shoulder out of the darkness, I jumped.

  “Come for a reading, pretty lady? Why don’t you take a seat at the table?”

  Beezley pulled me towards the centre of the room until I could see well enough to find a seat. I st
ared at the overdressed man opposite me, in awe at how much gold could fit onto one costume.

  “Hold your hand out,” Beezley prompted. “He’s a palm reader, not a psychic.”

  Like there was a difference between the two. He was a charlatan, more like. Still, I stuck my hand out and waited for my reading.

  “Oh, you’re such a naughty girl,” the man said in a breathy whisper. “Look at all those trouble lines crossing your palm.”

  Three seconds in and the fortune teller was already testing my gag reflex. I regretted Beezley talking me out of beating information out of the suspect. This guy gave me the creeps.

  “Where?” I jerked my hand back to stare at its lines, not enjoying the scrutiny or the feel of his clammy fingers gripping hold of me. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “You’re not a seer,” he said, winking. “If everybody could read these things clear as day, I wouldn’t be able to make a living.”

  I expected someone who performed his job to have warmer hands. Along with the dim lighting of the tent and the way its entrance flap pointed straight into the cool southerly breeze, I shivered. It was summer, for goodness’ sake, and here I was dreaming of a building with central heating.

  He held his hand out and I reluctantly gave mine back to him. My nose wrinkled as he stroked the skin of my palm. “Oh, yes. I can see here you offended a large group of people. Important folks in Riverhead, if what I read is correct.”

  “I thought you were meant to tell the future. If I wanted a rundown on my life so far, I’d sit at home with a photo album.”

  “Your family album is missing someone out, isn’t it?”

  I glanced at Beezley, who seemed amused, and tried to calculate how much more of this I could stand before the man ended up with a fist in his face. “My dad took off before I was born. Again, not the future.”

  “He might be.”

  The teller pulled my hand closer, so I had to lean over the table. He gripped it on both sides, tilting it back and forth under the dim light.

  “You need LCDs, mate.”

  With an annoyed click of his tongue, the fortune teller met my gaze. “What?”

  “It looks to me like you’re having trouble seeing everything on my palm. This dim lighting won’t help. You need to get some of those new-fangled LCDs that light up a room. Otherwise, you might see into the future, but you can forget seeing in the present. You’ll end up with eyestrain.”

  “D’you mind keeping quiet for a few minutes? Divining the future isn’t as easy as it might appear.”

  “Right. My palm speaks in a whisper, does it?”

  His eyes widened before ducking down to stare at my hand again. I glanced to Beezley and tried to jerk my head at the man in a way that communicated the dog should check out his ears.

  “Are you epileptic?” Beezley asked, staring in confusion. “Is this a seizure?”

  The Great Fortini gave him a wary look. “Keep your dog quiet, too, or he can wait outside.”

  With my free hand, I tugged on my earlobe, then pointed into the canal. The dog just continued to stare at me, puzzled. How hard was it to pick up on the mime of a hearing aid? Sometimes I felt Beezley wasn’t even trying.

  “You’ve broken away from a sisterhood, for something entirely your fault,” the fortune teller intoned. “An apology wouldn’t go astray.”

  “Is that my future?” My upper lip twisted. “Apologising to a group of old biddies who should learn how to take a joke?”

  “An apology isn’t enough. You should make more of an effort than that.”

  “Right.” I shifted in my seat, receiving a sharp tug on my hand when I moved too far away. “Careful, I’ll need that back later.”

  “Your palm indicates you should turn over all your worldly possessions to the chief treasurer of your former organisation. It mightn’t be enough to restore your former position—the group are very angry—but they’ll appreciate the gesture of goodwill.”

  “That’s your advice? Some people would appreciate all my money?” My lip pulled back in a sneer. “Because it sounds like a hard sell, doesn’t it? Here’s everything I own, no strings attached.”

  “Keeping your mouth shut would also be a step in the right direction.”

  The fortune teller tilted his head to one side, partially closing his eyes.

  “Does that help?” I asked. “Keeping your eyes shut when you’re meant to be reading my palm?”

  “I see trouble ahead if you don’t make things right with your sisters. Dark forces are converging on the path you’re travelling. If you can’t gather allies, you’ll be swayed into black magic. It’s part of your birthright on your father’s side. You too could become a bad witch.”

  My stomach lurched, and I ripped my hand away, standing so abruptly my stool toppled over. The fortune teller’s eyes opened and he half-rose in alarm. I clenched his chin between fingers and thumb, turning his head to stare at the earpiece nestled inside his right ear.

  “You fraud,” I said, flicking it out with a magic swish, then wiping my fingers against my skirt as I let him go and the gadget dropped to the ground. “Where’s your accomplice?”

  “Get out!” The man bent over, swiping his hand over the floor to locate the receiver. “I’m deaf, okay? Not everybody was born with the same gifts you have.”

  Beezley nosed at a patch of floor and I snatched up the earpiece, realising a second after my hand closed in a fist around it that the shiny coating was likely earwax. Ugh. I deserved hazard pay for this.

  As the fortune teller grabbed for me, I danced back a step, out of his reach. “This isn’t a hearing aid. It’s a receiving device. Where’s your mic? How are you talking to the person on the other end?”

  He clapped a hand to his chest. “Give it back and get out! Those things are expensive.”

  I waggled the earpiece under his nose, then snatched my hand away. When he lurched forward, I searched for the glint of plastic on his shirtfront. One flick of my finger and the microphone sailed into my hand.

  He grasped at his shirt to rebutton it, eyes darting in all directions at once. “What are you doing? How are you—?”

  “I’ll give these back to you if you answer my questions. Who’s feeding you information?”

  The fear that crossed his face told me he wasn’t giving that answer up, not for nobody. Beezley meanwhile was sniffing over the floor.

  “Over here! There’s a trapdoor.”

  “Get your dog and get out of here.” The man stood with his back pressed against the side of his tent, his arms curled in front of him. “Otherwise, I’m calling the police.”

  “You’re running a scam operation in the centre of town. Do you really think I believe you’d do that?”

  My dare backfired as he pulled a phone out of his pocket. “Nobody actually expects me to be able to tell the future, you weirdo. Now give my stuff back and get out, or you’ll end the day in a jail cell.”

  The Great Fortini had a good point. Anyone except a witch would automatically assume he was a con-artist, there to give them a good time. The ones who didn’t suppose that were just waiting for nature to take care of them.

  “Fine. Here.” I threw the tiny device back and tried not to gag as I felt the residue of it on my skin. “But you’ve had a couple of people through here lately who died soon after. What do you know about that?”

  His face told me nothing. He knew nothing. The expression went from shock, to sorrow, to fear.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your stamp.” I tapped the covering of the table, where the image of the pentagram was on proud display. “It’s been found on at least two people who ended up in the local morgue. Are you saying you didn’t have anything to do with their passing?”

  “Who were they? I don’t know anything.”

  “Your accomplice does. If you don’t want to end up in a load of trouble, you’ll tell us all about them.”

  Beezley nosed at the trapd
oor again, this time grabbing the rope handled between his teeth and pulling it upward. It didn’t rise very far—his short stature wasn’t conducive to lifting things.

  “Are they down there?” I jerked my head at the hole in the floor and the fortune teller nodded. I pointed a warning finger in his face. “Don’t follow us and forget about calling the police.”

  I gave the command a push, adding oomph with my remaining magic power, but the past few days of use had diminished it. If the man wanted to leave or call, it wouldn’t hold.

  “Be quick,” I ordered Beezley as I held the door wide open for him to jump down. He didn’t move, just looked up at me with his watery eyes.

  “Oh, great. I get to go first, do I?”

  “Stairs are a bit hard,” he snapped back, and I took his point.

  “Danger pay, that’s all I’m saying.” I let myself down into the darkness, giving a huff of relief as I reached the solid ground under the ladder. With my arms stretched up at full length, I could just reach Beezley to lift him down into the hole with me.

  “Whoever’s down there'll be long gone,” he muttered. “If you’d told me your plan before we got in there, I could’ve disabled his chest mic before you started hurling accusations around.”

  “I didn’t know my plan before we got in there,” I muttered back, my thoughts darkening. “It was a spur-of-the-moment revelation and I tried to communicate with you.”

  “Is that what all the head jerking was about? I thought you’d suffered a nerve gas attack.”

  “How about you keep quiet, hey? If there is someone still down here, they don’t need to listen to us bickering while we creep all the way along this shaft.”

  The ladder had led into an underground corridor rather than a basement. Its walls were only a metre and a half from side to side and my mind conjured up images of pit collapses as we crept along.

  After a minute, the light from the trapdoor was too far behind us to lend any illumination. I flicked on the torch app on my mobile, noting with a gulp the battery level was only eighteen percent.

  “Great idea. Now if there’s anyone down here, they can see us coming.”