by Willow Mason
But it didn’t take long to realise he wouldn’t be able to fill in his grave when he was lying inside it. I grabbed hold of the shovel and moved a few sods about, then decided to try something quicker.
Although I’d sworn not to use my black magic until I had a better handle on what it could do, I needed to get out of the cemetery before dark. I closed my eyes and gathered up the melody of powers resting in my chest. Without a spell or incantation to follow, I’d have to wing it.
Opening my eyes again, I concentrated on the piles of dirt sitting beside Weldon and Miranda’s open graves. I raised my hand and sent a small pulse of magic towards the mounds. Crimson light flowed from my fingers.
Dirt flew straight up into the air and danced in a circle. As I watched, wondering how to get it down again, the muddy earth spun faster and faster. Clods and sods broke off, whizzing through the air to punch into the ground, the gravestones, and the surrounding poplar trees.
“Get back into the graves,” I yelled, whipping my hands to my sides as I issued the command.
The dirt pounded into the open graves, smashing the lids of the coffins into splinters before obscuring them from view. Not the tidiest magic I’d ever produced but at least it had done what was needed.
I walked over, checking the edges of the plots. One corner of Weldon’s casket stuck up, an inch above ground level, and I jumped on the edge until it sank out of sight.
Phew. One zombie couple back underground. Job done. They might need marriage counselling in the afterlife, but I couldn’t help there.
Now I just needed to get to the bank and hope they’d let me back through the doors.
When I turned away from the twin graves, Glynda strode up to me, her face mottled with anger. A large mud pie sat on top of her head, ruining the magnificent back-combed beehive she habitually wore.
“What did we agree about your magic?” she asked in a hoarse croak.
Oh, dear.
Chapter Two
I’d made a promise to the coven and myself—I would only ever use my black magic for good. The supernatural council might deem anyone with my powers to be a bad witch, but I was determined to prove them wrong.
Okay, it was unlikely I’d ever be lily white, but I might manage a nice shade of dark cream or a silvery grey.
Unfortunately, although my first experiences with the occult spells nestling inside me had turned out well, I hadn’t been able to recreate anything close to those results since. Soon after the terrifying confrontation that turned an evil warlock into dust, I’d practised a few spells out in the back yard.
One of Beezley’s well-nurtured pot plants had overgrown its container and needed a new home. One shout of Kazam! and a beam of crimson light later, and I discovered my powers needed fine-tuning.
Sure, it wasn’t entirely bad. The rest of the plants would enjoy the thin layer of mulch raining down upon them, but it didn’t come close to what I’d intended.
Water seemed a safer bet since I couldn’t kill it. When I attempted to manoeuvre it from the hose to the parched garden beds, it sprayed across the fence onto our neighbour’s washing line.
Strike two.
I thought maybe I’d set my sights too low. The forest had a large blow-down with trees uprooted in the previous winter’s nasty gale. Since it didn’t bother anyone—the forest being pretty much unused except for coven business—they remained where they’d fallen.
A good witch might expend some energy and chop it up into neat piles, ready for the coming winter. If she had time to spare afterwards, a good witch might even drop it into a few houses where the gift would be appreciated.
I desperately wanted to be that good witch.
The groans from the living trees should have been a warning. As I sent out the first crimson rays, the indignant cries from a circling hawk should have given me pause.
I didn’t heed either omen, too intent on performing my good deed.
Well. I hope the living trees in the forest recover soon from witnessing what I did to their deceased companions. Those that survived the carnage resulting from my pitiful attempt to please.
No magic for me, I’d decided. Not until I was fully trained.
Yet, here I was, staring at the coven leader with a mud pie from my spell clinging to her fabulous hair. Glynda’s white magic soon repaired the damage to her person, but it didn’t stop her from chastising me on the walk back into town.
“It’s hard enough to run a coven when everyone knows a bad witch is amongst the members. I’d appreciate you keeping your word and not using your black magic until you learn how to do it safely.”
“Sorry,” I repeated for the tenth time in as many minutes. “I just wanted to get some money out. Besides, shouldn’t you blame the person who raised the dead to start with? I was just trying to clean up their mess.”
“There’s plenty of blame to go around,” she asserted. “And if you want to apologise, then you can start making it up to me by finding out who did it.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
Oops. Foot in mouth disease strikes again. I received such a hot glare I’m surprised I didn’t melt into the asphalt footpath, never to be seen again.
“My job is keeping our coven operating without incident, and to remain in good standing with the supernatural council,” Glynda said with a sniff. “None of which you’re helping with.”
“Well, I can look into the zombie business if you like, but my business partner will insist on our standard private investigator fees.” Beezley was a stickler for the rules despite having his world turned topsy-turvy. Being transformed into a dog had, if anything, made him less flexible than when he was a detective sergeant.
“How about I sort out a teacher for you and you investigate for free?”
“Deal.” I held out my hand and shook on it before she could change her mind. “But who do you know that teaches black magic?”
It was a problem I’d run into already. With the darker practices frowned upon where it wasn’t outright banned, I hadn’t found anyone advertising in the yellow pages.
“I have ways and means,” Glynda said in her mysterious voice. Since I didn’t care where she sourced an instructor from, I didn’t pry any further.
“Who around town has raised the dead before?” I asked instead. “Apart from me.”
“If I knew who was responsible for the mess back at the graveyard, I’d hardly have hired you to investigate it for me.”
A good point.
Unfortunately, my reception at the bank was on a par with the one Welly’s dead wife had shown me. No matter how hard I knocked, the teller refused to open the door.
“No good deed goes unpunished,” I muttered, turning away. “Next time, I’ll just let true love run its course and leave Amber to sort old Weldon out.”
“Chin up,” Glynda said. “Why don’t you use your credit card?”
A simple answer if only I hadn’t long ago cut it up into tiny pieces. Right in front of the gigantic bill detailing what I owed, to teach it a lesson. “I know you said you’d pay me in lessons but is there a chance I could get a cash advance on that?”
Glynda rolled her eyes and pulled out her wallet, shoving a few twenties my way. “But this isn’t part of the deal, understood? You’re paying me back.”
“Sure. I’m good for it if only the bank would stay open long enough to let me take it out.”
As she waved goodbye, I considered going home but turned and duty saw me heading back to the graveyard instead. If I needed to find out who was behind the zombification of Welly and later Miranda, scouring the crime scene was the obvious start.
Unfortunately, my ill-advised method of refilling the graves had obscured any footprints, tossed cigarette butts, or dropped nametags under a layer of fine silt and larger sods of clay. Although most of the dirt had made it back into the holes, covering the coffins, enough had missed to make quite a mess.
The shovel I’d offered to Welly lay to one side, and I picke
d it up, trying to scrape some deposits away.
“Are you trying to do me out of a job, lassie?” a Scottish brogue inquired. “Move over and let me deal with that.”
I gladly handed the shovel to a tall, ginger-bearded and grey-haired man who looked to be aged in his seventies. The cemetery sign was emblazoned on his shirt pocket, marking him as an employee.
“Do you maintain the grounds here?”
“Why? You think they hire me to look pretty?” The man stalked away, dumping the shovel on top of a wheelbarrow already laden with tools. “Did you make this mess?”
“No. Well, some of it.” I squinted against the low sun and put a hand up to shade my eyes. From the twinkle in the man’s eye, I detected the presence of another supernatural. If he wasn’t, what I said next would get me kicked out in about ten seconds flat. “Weldon Sloan turned into a zombie and walked into town. I was just returning him.”
“Welly?” The man straightened, his eyebrows chasing halfway up his forehead. “He got free of the grave?”
“Sure did. Did you see anybody around here earlier?” When the man hesitated, I stepped forward with my hand out. “I’m a private investigator hired to look into this business. What’s your name?”
“Stanley McIvers,” he replied, shaking my hand. “And we get people through here all day long, paying their respects. It comes with the territory.”
He scratched his beard, surveying the damage that surrounded the Sloan’s graves. “There were a couple of kids over here earlier though. I suppose that’s unusual.”
“Kids?”
From his expression, I guessed he meant teenagers, so it was a surprise when he answered, “Two of them, aged maybe eight or nine.”
“During the day?”
“Yeah, the ratbags. Must’ve been ditching school.” He trod over the top of Weldon’s plot and stared at the inscription. “I’d have said they were just hiding from the truancy officer but look at this mess.”
I blushed as I took in the scene. “Do you know their names?”
“You’d have them already if I did.” He fished a large handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his brow. “You’re that bad witch, right?”
“No.” I shuffled half a step away, giving a sniff. “I’m a good witch who uses black magic.” I waited for a beat, then added, “I’m not really into labels.”
Stanley burst into uproarious laughter. “Yeah, I can see that. Anyone stuck with a bad ‘un won’t be fond of them.”
I crossed my arms and stared intently at the gravestones as though I hadn’t memorised them a dozen times over already.
“Don’t worry.” He leant over and slapped me on the shoulder. “I won’t think any the worse of you for all that. I was just checking before I clear this travesty away.”
“You’re in safe hands.”
As he got to work, spinning out white magic in helpful bubbles that picked out the scattered earth and reseated the coffins before returning everything back where it should be inside the graves. By the time he’d finished, I had an eyebrow hooked up in admiration. “You’ve got some mad skills there.”
Stanley blew on his fingers and rubbed them against his chest. “I’ve got it when I need it. Luckily, at my age, I don’t need to call on the old powers too much.”
The only thing out of place was a scrap of hessian near Miranda’s headstone. As a token gesture of assistance, I plucked it up, surprised at the resistance.
It was a doll or something that might once have resembled it. Between the dirt and the torn fabric spilling out a stuffing of kidney beans, it could well have started out as something else. Only the felt circles and red felt pen smile lent it a sense of humanity.
“What’s that?”
“Just some rubbish,” I said, putting it into my pocket. Beezley’s first law of investigation was to never tell someone something they didn’t absolutely have to know.
“It’s a pity they fooled with Welly’s grave,” Stanley said with a sad smile. “He was a good mate.”
I guessed the two men would have been around the same age. “Did you know him long?”
“From primary school. You never make a friend as good as the ones you do on your first day in class. That’s what my dad told me, and I reckon he was right.”
As Stanley executed a three-point turn on the wheelbarrow, I fell into step beside him, heading towards an old shed. “If you had to guess where he wandered today, where would you say?”
“He loved a pint at the pub. Especially after he lost Miranda early.” He pulled out his handkerchief again, this time to wipe at his eyes. “Or down at the bank, trying to flirt with the teller he fancied.”
“Amber Smithers?”
Stanley laughed again. “So that’s where he ended up? Poor bloke never had the guts to proposition her when he was alive, so I hope he didn’t scare her now he’s dead.”
“Only for a moment. She didn’t notice him, otherwise.”
“Murphy’s law, eh? You get one piece of magic working, another puts a roadblock in your way.”
He shoved his hand deep into his pocket, pulling out a large set of keys. It jangled like percussion while he sought the right one. “I’ve got to lock up around here,” Stanley said with a sideways glance. “Unless you’ve got any more questions…?”
“Not that I can think of.” I backed up a step as he opened the shed door. Inside, a stack of hessian sacks sat on top of an old lawnmower. Judging from the rusting state of it, I guessed Stanley used magic to keep the lawn cut short. “If I think of something more, d’you mind if I drop by?”
“I’d be glad of the company. You’ll find me here or wandering around the gardens.”
Somewhere in the cemetery, in other words. Not exactly narrowing it down.
I waved goodbye and gave a start as Beezley scampered towards me. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home for ages,” he shouted, then circled around my legs, panting. When he recovered, he nudged at the back of my calves, urging me forward. “Hurry up! We’ve got a new job on.”
Chapter Three
“I already have a job,” I announced to Beezley as we walked back home. “There was a zombie in the bank today and I need to track down whoever created him.”
“A paid job?”
It was like he could read my mind. “Not entirely. It’s in trade for lessons.”
“Well, I’ve got a real job with payment in money, so it’ll take priority. The woman sent through an enquiry today via email and I set up an appointment to meet with her tomorrow morning.”
“On a Saturday? She’s keen.”
“She is and I hope I can count on you to be professional.”
As I held the front door open for Beezley to walk through, I stared at the dog as though I didn’t know what he was talking about. When he glanced at my dirt covered fingers, I hid them behind my back.
“Wear the dress you bought for Fenella’s funeral,” he ordered. “Do you have a blazer?”
“Not on what you pay me. Besides, it’s summer. If I wear a jacket, it’ll just make me sweat.”
“They make summer blazers, too.”
He trotted out of the room like the discussion was over and I had to follow him into the kitchen. “Even if there’s such a thing, it’s too late for me to buy one. You’ll have to put up with my current wardrobe.”
“Then keep a smile on your face while we’re there. It might make up for the lack in other departments.”
“Yes, sir. And feel free to correct me in front of her if I forget.”
Okay. So there were a few kinks still to work out in our relationship. At the last meeting with a client, I’d been mortified when the one-foot-tall bulldog barked at me to sit up straight.
“Sorry,” Beezley said, staring at me through his adorable big eyes. “But it’s not like they can understand me.”
“I can. If I’m ever going to get the hang of handling meetings and interviews, it won’t help to receive a dressing down part wa
y through. How would you handle me if I was a recruit at the police station?”
“I’d send you back to the academy to retrain.” Beezley made a strange coughing sound, which I now knew equated to a laugh. The first time he’d made it, I thought he was throwing up a furball and nearly killed him with a Heimlich.
When I didn’t respond, at least he had the good grace to hang his head. “Okay, I’d give you the space to try to find your own way of doing things and only step in if the wheels were flying off.”
“That’s all I’m asking for. Space, respect, and flying wheel catching.”
“All of which will come easier if you wear a blazer and look like a professional.”
I flicked a few drops of water in his face. “Whoever Glynda lines up for my magic training better be a nicer coach than you.”
“Whereas I hope they’re happy to work outside of normal hours because if we’re going to earn a living at this endeavour, you’ll need to work nine to five.”
So far, our private investigator business had managed to eke out a small living by performing occasional tasks for the police department. It was difficult to tell if it was the DI throwing his old mate a bone or if they really did need someone to interview suspects about petty crimes.
The last call, I’d spent two days in a hotel room, trying to sort out whether a theft had been committed during a senior high school party. Hour after hour of sullen teenagers, all reluctant to say a word. By the end of the last session, I’d been the one wanting to commit a crime.
Still, it was money in the bank. I hoped we were going through a rite of passage and more interesting jobs would soon come our way. Once I’d been in the business a few more months, I could apply for official certification and take an exam to get my full license.
“I have a white chiffon blouse I can wear overtop the black dress. If I cinch in the waist with a belt, it’ll make me look like an office worker.” I pulled my mouth down at the corners. “I could even wear pantyhose.”
