by Willow Mason
Barnaby jumped onto the man’s head, digging his claws into the smooth forehead and dragging them back until the skin sported crimson lines. The man shrieked and staggered to his feet, hitting at the animal perched atop him.
I turned over, now able to pull myself forward with both arms. The massive shock of the initial pain was finally lessening, receding into a monstrous ache.
“Get off!” he screamed, tossing Barnaby away like a rag doll. The cat twisted in midair, landing on his feet. He shook himself, then ducked away as a flailing arm tried to catch him around the middle.
“You think your cute little friends are going to help you now?” the man said in a low voice, coming over to deliver a kick to my upper thigh. “I don’t think—”
Beezley bit the man’s ankle, shaking his head to work his incisors deeper into the wound.
Another shriek and the stranger stumbled back, hopping on one foot, trying to dislodge the small dog.
Barnaby took his chance, and darted up the man’s back, mounting him like he was a cat tree and Barnaby was ready for bed. Again, he grabbed hold of the stranger’s face and dug his claws in, this time dangerously close to his eyes.
As Beezley took a knock, losing his grip, I fought to stand and staggered down the slope of the front lawn to the waiting car. Wilson had the engine running and was gesticulating wildly through the front window.
I fell against the side of the car and rested there while opening the back door. “Time to go!”
Beezley hesitated, staring at the stranger’s legs like they were fresh sirloin, then raced for the car. Barnaby, sitting in pride of place on the man’s head, took a moment longer, carving a claw track from chin to cheekbone.
As the man roared with pain and grabbed for him, the cat sprang away, landing elegantly and strolling to the car with sanguine movements.
I slammed the door shut, all three of us inside, a split second before the stranger reached the car and jerked at the doorhandle.
“Drive!” I shouted to Wilson, who already had his foot down. The man ran alongside us for three skipping, awkward steps, then fell away.
“Who was that?”
I peered out the rear window, making sure the man wasn’t jumping into his own car to follow. “I neither know nor care to find out.” Eyes facing front again, I scooped Beezley and Barnaby into a large, grateful hug. “If these guys don’t like him, he’s not worth knowing.”
We sat down in a pet-friendly café to talk over our options. My body continued to shake. Once it recovered from the eye-watering pain it moved onto shock from the man’s attempt to intimidate and threaten me. I couldn’t believe he was a friend of the family or a concerned neighbour. As soon as the fright of the actual events subsided, I realised he’d probably had no more right to be in the house than me.
“It’s a cute cat and all, but I don’t see how Barnaby’s going to help you prove Fenella was a witch.” Wilson sipped at a coffee while I nibbled on a biscuit, sharing half with the two animals, one seated either side. “It’s not like he can tell you anything.”
“Not in my current state.” I’d grown so used to being able to speak to familiars that not hearing a word Barnaby said felt strange. Add to that my disconnect from Beezley, and it was a silent party all around.
“I need a friendly witch to translate,” I mused, finishing up the last of the cookie and signalling the waiter for another. “But I’m not sure where I’d find one of those nowadays.”
With my eyes closed, I wished for all the world my mother was here right now. Not just for her calm presence but also for the skills she’d always had in more abundance than me.
You could always try to raise her from the graveyard.
I shuddered at the random thought, pushing it out of my mind. Necromancy wasn’t a skill encouraged by my old coven, a fact I’d belatedly found out. Not even on a small scale.
“What about witches in another city?” Wilson suggested. “Would other covens know your history?”
“Oh, yes. You can bet my story’s been circulated far and wide by now. No”—I shook my head—“I’d have better luck convincing the local witches than I would a stranger and I don’t have a shot in hell with them.”
My new biscuit arrived, and it disappeared in record time, not just because I was sharing. Barnaby nuzzled into my arm and my heart fluttered. Even if it was just his recognition of the new feeder in his life, it felt good. I stroked Beezley’s head, bringing him into the lovefest.
If only I had something over one of the witches, I’d be able to blackmail me into helping. My moral code would take yet another hit, but if it was to aid the side of righteousness in the long run, I was sure it would survive.
I sat bolt upright as I realised that I did. There was a witch on the edge of town who held occult ink and had poisoned me with it.
Well, technically I’d poisoned myself while she vehemently protested but I wasn’t one to let a small fact stand in my way.
“We need to get to the library,” I told Wilson, standing up and collecting an animal under each arm. “It’s time we investigated some old tunnels.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Can you move a little faster?” Wilson called out. He insisted the voice he’d been using since we entered the underground maze was a whisper. Although his posture and lower octaves let me know he was trying, the volume control was a different story.
“Shh,” I said for the dozenth time. “Keep quiet or everybody down here will know we’re coming. We’re in tunnels, remember? Sound carries straight along these things.”
“I’m being quiet,” Wilson shouted while I rolled my eyes. When I looked to my side, Barnaby was making the same gesture. I was fast warming to that cat. “And I wouldn’t have to open my mouth at all if you’d just move a bit faster.”
“I’m trying,” I said, trying not to sound as though I was panting. “I’m injured from earlier, remember? It’s not easy to crawl when your lower body is a dull throb.”
My hand went into a sticky pile of goop to one side and I tried to remember why I’d been adamant we crawl through the back way to meet Silla rather than just walking in through the tent.
I vaguely remembered thinking she must be up to no good to spend her time living subterraneously, but there was no sign of anyone else being foolish enough to travel along the same paths.
Wilson had also thought it was a good idea. In which case, he deserved whatever grumbling came his way.
And he deserved to discover the pile of sticky goop for himself.
Beezley had trotted ahead, his small frame perfect for the low ceilings. If being trapped in the body of a dog hadn’t been such a dire fate, I’d have been jealous.
Barnaby was also finding it easy going. So easy, he happily wound himself in and out of my arms and legs. I’d have been worried about tripping if I wasn’t on all fours already.
“It’ll open up ahead if we ever get there,” Wilson yelled at my wriggling behind.
With a grunt of frustration, I turned around, scooted as far into the side of the tunnel as I could squeeze, and waved for him to go on ahead of me. “There you go. Have at it.”
“The slowest person should be in the front.”
My blood boiled. “The loudest person should be. You’re the one tipping everyone off that we’re headed their way. The least you can do is take the fall for it.”
Wilson gave me a long, inscrutable stare from behind his coke bottle lenses. Then with a sniff, he crawled past me, easily moving along at twice my speed.
He was right about the change in the size of the tunnel. On the old planning map sourced from the library, the layout of feeding tubes all culminated in an enormous gullet. At least, that’s what it looked like to me. Being inside the clammy dampness of the real thing didn’t alter my perception one iota.
Wilson halted, then turned in a half-circle to face me. “There’s an intersection just ahead,” he hollered, and I exchanged another exasperated expression with the cat.<
br />
The new tunnel allowed me to walk, albeit stooped over like I’d aged a hundred years. It didn’t take long before the extreme angle caused an ache to set into my spine. Soon, I wished to be back on my hands and knees.
Then we turned the corner into the same tunnel I’d visited with Beezley once before. My eyes strained into the darkness but couldn’t make out any shapes. Ahead of me, Wilson jumped, then steadied himself.
“What is it? Did you see her?”
“Nothing. Just nerves.”
Beezley ran ahead of us, barking, and I followed. “Silla, if you’re here, could you turn off your spider costume? I won’t be able to see you without it and I don’t intend to spend all day down here, feeling around for an overweight witch.”
“Who’re you calling overweight?” Silla sniffed, appearing a metre away. “And it serves you right. Poor Harriet was distraught over what you did.”
“All I did was try to save the library from being robbed. Not that you lot seem to care about that at all. It was a selfless act, and I got punished for it!”
“Yeah, selfless. Honey, nobody in the coven will ever believe that about you. Besides, nobody’s stolen anything.”
Barnaby sauntered up to the witch and sat back on his haunches, staring with his hypnotic eyes.
“Who’s your little kitty friend?” Silla asked, snapping her fingers under his nose. She looked up at Wilson, eyebrows scurrying up her forehead. “Why d'you bring him down here?”
“We need a translator. Neither of us can communicate with these animals and it’s important we know what they’re saying. I believe this guy”—I patted Barnaby—“belonged to a hidden witch but until I get confirmation, we’re stuck.”
“A hidden witch?” Again, Silla stared hard at Wilson before she turned to me with a sneer. “Have you been reading too many fairytales? There’s barely one percent of a one percent chance of a witch being born outside the known coven.”
“But it happens,” I pointed out. “And at that rate, we’re talking about one in every ten thousand people being affected. Higher, probably, given the size of the coven in Riverhead. We could easily have another half dozen, and nobody would know.”
“Well, who is this witch, then? Why not ask her?”
I began to give the answer, then snapped my mouth closed. Silla might have been involved in Fenella’s death, after all. It wouldn’t do to just hand the information over, free and clear.
“It doesn’t matter if I can’t understand what her familiar’s saying,” I hedged. “Can you just translate for Barnaby and Beezley? I don’t want to leave it any longer if they’ve important information to say.”
Beezley trotted closer to Silla, putting a paw on her shoe. She stared down at him with a frown, her lips twisting.
“The police are anxious to know where the stamp on my hand came from,” I lied. “I’ve kept your name out of it, so far, out of loyalty to the coven. If you’re not going to help me, I’ve no reason to keep it to myself.”
“You stamped yourself.”
“And you think the police will care?”
I crossed my mental fingers, hoping the same officer who Wilson had overheard plotting to steal the occult spells wasn’t in league with Silla already. But if she had friends in the force, it appeared she didn’t place much trust in them.
“Okay.” She bent down, grabbing Beezley by the chin and staring intently at him. “What do you have to say for yourself, little fella?”
The dog erupted in a flurry of barking, the echoes so loud in the tunnel I was tempted to cover my ears.
“Oh. You’re sure you want me to tell her that?”
I felt my stomach drop. “Tell me what?”
Silla let go of Beezley and faced me with a pitying smile. “Without your powers, you’re useless to him.” Her eyes flicked across to Wilson, then back to me. “He’s withdrawing the offer of free accommodation and the job. If you could get out of his house today, that’ll be good.”
Beezley began another bout of yapping as I stumbled back a step, feeling like I’d been physically assaulted. How could he chuck me out just because I’d lost my powers? I’d done plenty for him.
“And if you could replace the notice in the community centre, it would be much appreciated. He does need someone in the role, just not you.”
I swallowed but the reflexive motion got stuck halfway through, leaving me with a painful knot in my throat. When I tried to clear it, the muscles protested. Tears of self-pity rose in my eyes and I tilted my head back, sniffing angrily.
Don’t cry. You only met the dog a few days ago, and he’s been nothing but trouble.
“What about Barnaby?”
The cat had withdrawn, now snuggling back against my legs. Silla stared down at him, snapping her fingers before trying to give him a pat. Barnaby reared up, batting away her hand.
“He’s a cat. There’s nothing to translate because he’s not and never has been anyone’s familiar. It’s nice that you’ve found yourself a pet, but I can’t translate for a creature who doesn’t communicate.” Silla straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Unless you want me to stand here mewing.”
“But…” I turned to Wilson, who shrugged. “There must be something more.” I took a step forward, waggling my finger in Silla’s face. “You’re lying to me. I know it! Tell me the truth at once or you’ll be in a boatload of trouble.”
“I’m not.” Silla’s voice cracked as she yelled out her protest. “I swear.” Tears began to fall down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I’ve told you what the animals are saying, and it’s not fair to renege on our deal. I can’t make the cat magic if he’s not and I can’t restore your powers to you so you’re employable. This isn’t my fault!”
She began crying in earnest then, real sobs that tore out of her one by one, painful to watch. Silla buried her face in her hands, snivelling and weeping. My hand crept up to my chest, afraid I’d gone too far.
“I just need to be sure.” Her tears coaxed companions from my eyes, and I began to weep silently. All my efforts over the past days had been for nothing. The detective sergeant who I’d begun to think of as my friend believed I was useless.
And I was. I’d endangered everyone’s safety chasing after a common house cat.
“Please, leave me alone. I’ve done what you asked.” It was hard to understand Silla’s sentences between gasps for air and renewed sobbing, but I slipped around the side of her, suddenly desperate to get out of the tunnel.
Not caring if anyone followed me, I ran along the path, threw open the trapdoor, and breathed in the fresh air with a gasp. The Great Fortini gave a startled yelp, then ran out of the tent.
By the time Wilson emerged, holding a yapping dog under one arm and a struggling cat under another, I’d managed to get the worst of my emotions back under control.
If the uppity French bulldog thought he was too good for me, so be it. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing how upset that made me.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” I told Wilson, hanging back as another wave of self-pity and exhaustion swept through me. When he’d moved away, I collapsed against the wall of a crystal store.
“Hey, little lady. Are you in the market for a stone to brighten up your day? We’ve got everything you need right here.”
The thought of a stone healing my problems was so ridiculous, I laughed.
“That’s better. Get a smile on your face.” The trader leaned over his counter, beckoning me closer with his forefinger. “I wouldn’t put much stock in a bad reading from the likes of him,” he said, jerking his head back to the tent of the Great Fortini. “The lady who used to do readings was okay but this new guy…?” The man sucked air in between his teeth, shuddering.
“I heard his real name’s Bob,” I said, recalling the amusing tidbit from my first encounter.
“Well, then. That’s all you need to know whatever he told you ain’t coming true. My old mam said never
to trust someone whose Christian name has the same first and last letter.”
“Your mam sounds like she knew a thing or two about the world,” I said, waving as I walked away from his stall. For the second time that day, I wished my own mother was still around. A nice hot cup of cocoa and a chat would go down well right around now.
Chapter Seventeen
I rode back to town in the front passenger seat, not wanting to share my lap with the ungrateful pets in the back. With my lips buttoned and Wilson not in his usual chatty mood, the trip passed in silence. By the time we reached Beezley’s house, it had grown oppressive.
“I’ll just collect a few things I left here,” I said, scooting over to the pavement-side door, then stopped. A man in a dark suit stood at the side of the house, his hands cupped as he peered in a window. Everything about him screamed police. “Is that the detective you overheard?”
Wilson squinted out the window. “I’m not sure. I only heard him, remember? Apart from knowing he was male, I don’t have a clue.”
We stayed seated as the detective moved to another window. He gently pushed at the base of the frame, trying to get it open, then walked back to the front porch, kicking aside the mat to look underneath.
“He’s trying to break in,” I said, wrenching open the door with a surge of indignation. “Can I help you?” I yelled out, headed straight up the path towards the man, almost jogging.
“J-just trying to g-get in contact with a friend,” the detective stuttered, taking a step backwards. His posture and attitude were so different from my previous encounters with the members of the constabulary, I tipped my head to one side and reassessed.
“You’re a friend of DS Beezley?” I asked and the man’s face relaxed.
He gave an eager nod. “Do you know where he’s got to? I’ve been trying to get in touch with him all week, but he hasn’t answered his phone or email.” He waved a hand at the door. “This is the last resort.”
I folded my arms and scrutinised him through narrowed lids. “If he’s not returning your messages, perhaps you should take it as a hint he doesn’t want to keep in touch with you.”
