by Willow Mason
“And is Silla coping with the changes?”
As punishment for her wrongdoing over the years, Glynda had stripped Silla of all her powers with no hope of them ever being returned. Although I didn’t want to punish her more harshly, considering the blackmail Wilson had hung over her head, I couldn’t help but feel annoyed.
Silla had been complicit in four deaths—with four souls stripped from their owners—and she’d lost her powers. The same fate I’d faced when trying to stop the witch’s library from being robbed.
Just because the impending theft was a trick pulled by Wilson to get me into trouble and stop me finding out the truth, didn’t stop it grating.
“Hey, Barnaby,” I said as the cat slunk around the side of the house. “Do you want a ride?”
“Oh,” Glynda said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a phone. “I almost forgot. Harriet’s got a bit of good news for you on one front.”
She showed me the screen, and I frowned at it, then smiled. “TreatieWise new and improved app for dogs,” I read aloud, then hooked an eyebrow up. “Does it really work?”
“Give it a try.”
I signalled for Beezley to wind down the window. “Speak something into the mic here,” I said, handing the phone across. “As clearly as you can.”
“Can’t we get a move on? I’m hungry.”
The app showed a whirling circle on screen for so long I thought it had stalled. Then it turned into a happy dog’s face with a big tick beside it. “Move. I’m hungry,” the app recited.
“Pretty close,” Glynda said, taking the phone back out of my hand. “Get it installed in case of emergencies.”
“Will do,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “And you know what this means, don’t you Beezley?”
“I’ll be able to give you instructions even if you lose all your powers again?”
“You’ll be able to use the voice control on the computer to look up everything you need. No more waking me up in the middle of the night in order to check an old case file.”
“Mm. Good point.” Beezley stuck his head out the window, enjoying the increasing speed as I pulled into the road. “In fact, I won’t need you at all.”
“Until an evil warlock comes along to stuff caffeine pills down your throat,” I reminded him.
“Fair enough. Next thing, you’ll be wanting hazard pay.”
I smiled. “Just a little pay increase will suit me nicely.”
He made a humph sound, and I turned my full attention to the road. The turn to the left would take us to Beezley’s house. I turned to the right.
“Hey, what’re you doing?”
I ignored him and spoke to the reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Barnaby, I thought you’d like to meet an old friend of mine. She’d a bit lonely at the moment.”
“What about me did you think would appeal to a lonely old woman?”
“Well, she’s not old, and I thought since you’re without a mistress…”
Barnaby jumped onto my seat back, sticking his claws into my hair. “You thought you’d dump me with a stranger?” I felt the first threat of pinpricks on my scalp.
“Not a stranger. A member of my coven and a very powerful witch. She practically has Glynda in her pocket.”
“Hm.” Barnaby slid down into the seat beside me, giving my head a reprieve. “I haven’t been very impressed by your head witch so far. I don’t know why I should like any of her friends.”
“You probably won’t,” I said in a regretful tone, pulling the car over to the side of the road. “It’s a bad idea and you’ll probably hate each other. I should take you home to Fenn’s parents or you can bed down with Beezley instead.”
Barnaby stared at me through narrowed eyes, then flicked his head. “Since we’ve come all this way already, I might as well meet the witch.”
I kept my smile to the inside as I pulled back into the road and drove to Prissy’s house.
“Now, remember,” I said as I carried Barnaby up the side path to the front door. “She’s a very powerful witch. Please don’t do anything to get me into her bad books.”
“I’m not a canine,” Barnaby said in a horrified tone. “I’m not about to act without any decorum or piddle on her carpet.”
We’d left Beezley in the car, but I tucked away that opinion of his species as a titbit to feed him later.
“What do you want?” Prissy said. She’d obviously decided to abandon politeness in favour of expediency, so I replied similarly.
“Here’s a cat. He’s a very experienced familiar but his mistress was one of Wilson’s victims so he’s interviewing for a new home.”
“Interviewing?” Prissy wrinkled her nose. “Who do you think I am? If I wanted a new familiar, I’d find one for myself.”
“Sure. But since you’re next on the list, I’ll just leave him here for a few days and you can see if you’ll suit each other.” I thrust Barnaby into her arms and let go so she had to take him or let him fall. She cradled him protectively, hunching her shoulder over as though I might try to steal him away.
“I definitely won’t change my home to suit him,” Prissy said, tipping her exquisitely small nose into the air. “So this will be a waste of both of our times.” She ran her hand down Barnaby’s side, her fingers nestling into the soft fur.
“Right. See you later.” I closed the door before I could regret the decision. The last view I saw was Prissy sticking her nose into Barnaby’s fur and smiling.
“They’ll never last,” Beezley said as I jumped into the car again. “We should’ve taken him back to the Wainwright’s.”
“I’m not sure that would be safe for him. You know, we never found out who it was visiting Fenella’s house the day we picked him up. It would be neglectful to return him there.”
“Probably an old uncle, getting to the wake early so he could score the best scotch,” Beezley said, scratching behind his ear. “Or a friendly neighbour, hoping to get a nosey while he knew they were out and instead getting the scare of his life.”
I remembered the way the man had rubbed his thumb along his lower lip, and I shuddered. There was no way that was the face of a scared man.
Well, never mind. Everything had turned out okay in the end so I shouldn’t create worry just for the sake of it.
“What’s he doing here?” Beezley asked as we turned into his street to find Detective Inspector Jonson standing on the front stoop, knocking.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I said, getting out of the car and picking up a box from the rear seat. “Good morning, officer.”
“Is this sign for real?” the DI asked, pointing at the ‘PI for Hire’ sign in the window.
“Sure is. Do you need help with something?”
While he pursed his lips, I shoved the box into his arms and fished out the front door key. Beezley and I had composed a long email message explaining there was no killer and nothing to be investigated, filled with bits of private language so he knew it was the genuine article.
We’d already found out from reading the police chat boards online that Wilson had concocted a plausible story about Beezley’s sudden absence. I’d hoped the extra email would ensure the end of the officer prying around the house, but no luck.
I should feel safer with a detective watching over me, but when I considered Wilson had kept in touch with Beezley for a decade for the sole purpose of monitoring police interest in his crimes, without a single ounce of suspicion, I didn’t. The police, including Beezley, would have to up their game in order for me to stop taking my own precautions.
Finding out Wilson was an evil genius made me feel appalled at how much I’d underestimated him. Although it was sad Beezley hadn’t been able to reverse the dog spell, I was glad the man had perished into dust.
Jonson didn’t seem any closer to revealing his purpose as I set the box down in the living room, so I continued to unpack the car while Beezley trotted inside and settled down in a patch of sun.
“Yo
u know,” Jonson said as I beeped the car locked and raised my eyebrows at him. “If you don’t mind drop-ins, I’d like to come inside and talk about a potential case.”
With a smile at Beezley, I ushered the DI into the house, waving him into a slightly-covered-in-dog-hair seat.
“What is it you want help with?” I asked, pulling out a notebook and turning it to the first, crisp page.
Beezley and the Witch – Case One, I wrote along the top as Jonson continued to gather his thoughts. After a second of hesitation, I crossed the last bit out. Considering the snooping, peril, witchcraft, and subterfuge, Wilson’s reign of terror should be worth at least a notation in my pad.
Case Two, I wrote and looked to the DI to begin explaining.
Chapter One
Maude and Jack Connor were the reason I was stuck in the bank at a quarter to five on a weekday afternoon. The long queue meandered from side to side, going nowhere.
The twins, aged eight, had woken early on Friday morning, consumed with the daft idea their golden retriever was so smart he could drive.
Maxie was a great dog, no doubt. Not up to Beezley’s level but able to follow simple commands hoping a dog treat would follow. When the children loaded him into their father’s spare utility vehicle, complete with a brick on the accelerator pedal since his hind legs couldn’t reach, Maxie tried his best.
His best took him out the back paddock, through the wire fence, across the road, into the carpark of the supermarket, then smack-dab into the sole ATM in Riverhead.
When the police first turned up, they thought for sure some criminal ram-raiders were on the loose. Maude and Jack arrived a minute after, out of breath from the run. Their response was surprise that Maxie hadn’t known how to steer.
I heard the news and felt grateful the terrible twins weren’t blessed with stronger magical powers. Then I was miffed that to withdraw money, I either had to make a purchase at a shop before asking for cash out or actually line up at the bank.
As I stood there, I was sorely tempted to put my magic to use. I shoved the thought back out of my mind. Until I had training on my new powers, they were off-limits.
Even if a bank employee was inching towards the door to flip the sign to closed.
Just before he reached it, the door opened one more time, and a man clomped inside the bank.
No. Not a man.
A zombie.
Judging from the neat clothing and lack of decay, I guessed he was recently deceased. A scent of rot wafted inside the bank with him, but not gut-clenching. Just a bit whiffy.
His shoes tracked graveyard dirt all over the sensible charcoal carpet tiles and I smiled at the panicked expression on the teller who’d shut the door. The witches of Riverhead kept a spell over the town that stopped humans noticing most supernatural activity. It meant this poor man could see the dirt on the floor but not the creature creating it.
Oh, no. I could’ve slapped a hand to my forehead as I scanned the line of waiting customers. Not a single witch amongst them.
That left me as the only one in the bank who could see the problem and deal with it. For a moment I considered ignoring him. I could pretend to be human, and get out my cash for the weekend as I’d planned.
The zombie reached a closed teller station and banged his hands on the counter. When he didn’t receive any response, he moved across to the next teller window.
Our window. The line instinctively took a step back, allowing the unseen dead man to shuffle into the front of the queue.
The utter gall. To crawl out of your fresh grave was one thing. To queue jump? Unforgivable.
I cleared my throat and stepped to the side of the line, studying what I had to deal with. The zombie waved his hand at the teller, a woman who looked on the verge of retirement with neat grey curls styled as nature had never intended.
She stared straight ahead through horn-rimmed glasses, a slight furrow the only visible sign of distress. As the zombie reached out a hand to touch her, the teller stepped back and to the side.
A dance between the unseeing and the unknowable. Beautiful to witness. A spell hard at work doing the job it was created to do. A spell that broke apart the moment the zombie made another grab, and this time snatched the teller’s hand into his own.
No spell was strong enough to stop everything. I strode forward, jumping over the counter to pull the screaming lady back and out of the way. “Can I help you?” I asked the zombie, giving him a curt nod.
When he took his time answering, I pushed the startled teller to the next window and jerked my chin at the first human in line. “Move over. I’m about to close here.”
The line gave a collective gasp of relief, though I bet none of them could describe what stressed them out. I tapped my finger on the back of the zombie’s hand when his face turned to follow the grey-haired teller to her new station. Amber Smithers, according to her name tag.
“Eye’s on me, mate,” I told the dead fellow, though his eyes weren’t on anyone, seeing as how they were still closed. “You’re not meant to be here, are you?”
He shrugged and gave a ghastly grin. After a few moments of struggling, he coughed up a puff of cotton. Grabbing hold of the end, he pulled out a long tube of the stuff and his cheeks fell inwards. “I came here for Amber. Asking her out was on my bucket list and I’ve nearly run out of time.”
I rubbed my fingertips over a twitching eyebrow and snorted. “You’re on the wrong side of that equation, I’m afraid. What’s your name?”
“Weldon Sloan. My friends call me Welly.”
“Nice to meet you, Weldon. It’s nice to see an old codger get out and about but I think it’s time you moved on to your eternal rest, don’t you?”
“I just want—”
“To ask the nice young lady out. I got that. But you’ve left it too late, for this world anyway. Give her another few years to catch up with you, then try it again, eh?”
A slid another glance at Amber beside me. Make that another few decades.
The old zombie’s head was turning towards his sweetheart again and I gripped his wrist to get his attention. “Where’ve you come from today? Lakeview Cemetery?”
“What?”
If the poor man’s eyelids hadn’t been shut, I swear he would have been wide-eyed.
“Well, you’re not from Haversham Crematorium, are you?” I laughed at the feeble joke, feeling more uneasy with every passing second.
“Are you saying I’m dead?”
The zombie coughed again, another small puff of loose cotton flying out of his mouth. He pulled one eye open with his fingers, immediately fixing its gaze on Amber.
“It’s not just me saying it.” I tightened my hold on his wrist and steered him towards the door. “Most folks would agree with me. How do you feel about heading back to your resting place now and letting the bank go on with its business?”
“I feel bad about it, young lady. Very bad indeed. I came here to make a date with my darling and—”
He broke off into a fit of coughing, ending with another ball of cotton flying out of his mouth. Despite his protests, Welly let me lead him out of the building. The further we walked, the more his shoulders slumped, and his feet dragged.
It’d be just my luck to get stuck in Friday traffic with a corpse who’d decided reanimation wasn’t his style any longer. I pulled at the zombie’s arm with more force. Just enough to speed his feet, not tug off the entire limb.
“I love Amber with all my heart,” the man said as we walked through the Lakeview Cemetery gates. I still didn’t know if it was the right place, but it was closest. If he collapsed now, there’d be people and machinery equipped to deal with him. “It’s imperative she knows that.”
“What did you say?”
I turned in surprise, dropping my hand from the zombie’s and staring into an open grave on my right-hand side. An elderly woman sat upright, arms folded indignantly across her chest.
“I meant… After you, of course, my dar
ling.”
Ouch. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. If a corpse could be killed any deader, his wife would take care of that tonight.
I bent forward, peering at the gravestone and hoping my struggle to read had more to do with lichen than me needing glasses. “Miranda Sloan. Beloved wife of Weldon and mother of Sally and Philip.”
“And what of it?” The woman in the grave turned to me and I wished she hadn’t.
Unlike Weldon, she wasn’t a fresh corpse. The years had worked away at her, no matter how good the original embalming process had been. When she levered herself up on the side of the grave, my stomach tried to escape the situation. I held one hand over my mouth and slapped the other across my eyes.
A pity there wasn’t a third for my nose.
“You’re his new floozy, are you? You’re the one putting the spark into his step and getting all jiggy with it, or whatever the young ones are calling it now?”
“I’m not getting jiggy with anyone,” I said, pulling my hand away. A huge dose of umbrage completely subsumed my nausea. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? Your husband must be double my age and then some.”
“I’m not that old,” Weldon snapped at me. “And don’t give yourself airs. I wouldn’t look at you twice through someone else’s eyes.”
Holding my hands up, I took a few steps back in surrender. Although I had a good lip on me when it was warranted, I still needed to get some cash out of the bank. I couldn’t waste any more time here, arguing with a couple from beyond the grave.
“How about you direct your anger at each other and leave me out of it?”
“What’s that you’re saying?” Miranda held a cupped hand to her ear. “Don’t mumble girl.”
I rolled my eyes. Sure. I was mumbling. It was nothing to do with her missing half an ear.
“Have a lovely death,” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “I’m going now and hope to never see you again.”
“But how am I meant to get back in there?” Weldon asked, turning to me in despair. “Is there even a shovel?”
“Keep digging,” I said as I guided him towards the well-worn tool. “It seems you’re good at it.”
