Midlife Curses: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Mystery (Witching Hour Book 1)

by Christine Zane Thomas

  “Not from me.” My heart raced. Did the sheriff think I was lying about Mr. Caulfield?

  “No, no. Not from you. And probably not about the M-U-R-D-E-R either.”

  “We know that spells murder, Dad,” Elsie said scornfully. She just didn’t know what it meant.

  He grinned, then shrugged. “We’ll talk about it later—without these acute ears.”

  “My ears aren’t cute,” Kacie grumbled. “He won’t let me get earrings.”

  “I have earrings.” Elsie shook the blonde curls around her ears to show me. “So does Allie. Our mom took us.”

  Her father’s face fell. “I’m just not ready yet. Mom did that kind of thing. And I can’t stand to see you girls cry.”

  “It doesn’t hurt.” Allie was the first off her swing—the good one. She jumped at the high end of the arc and landed gracefully on her feet.

  Elsie did the same, less gracefully. “Yeah, Dad, it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Y’all just don’t remember. Trust me. It hurts. I got one when I was seventeen.” He pointed to his left ear, which was currently earringless. There was the slightest of indentions where the hole had been.

  “Did you cry, Daddy?” Kacie asked.

  “No, but I wanted to.”

  Dave dropped the soccer ball and kicked it Allie’s way. The girls went off to a grassy spot beneath the trees, close to where I’d found Brad.

  I wondered where he’d gotten off to. I scanned the trees again and saw a few more squirrels but no raccoon.

  “Do you mind pushing Kacie for a few minutes?” the sheriff asked. “I’m going to kick the ball around, then we’ll take you home.”

  “Sure.” Pushing Kacie was a lot easier than pushing her older sister.

  “Are you going to the carnival?” she asked when she was moving again.

  “What carnival?”

  “The summer carnival, silly. It’s fun. We eat candy and stay up all night.”

  “She means the Midsummer Festival,” Dave called. “It’s in a couple weeks.”

  “Oh. I don’t know,” I told her.

  “Okay.” She shrugged, already over it.

  After about ten minutes, she was ready to join her sisters. They included both of us in their little soccer match, but we were out of our element. And my legs weren’t having it.

  The sun was burning through the morning layer of fog. It was hot, and my shirt was sticky with sweat. We all climbed in the van, and they drove me to Gran’s house. I didn’t see a raccoon anywhere.

  The second their van was out of sight, his bandit face appeared over the edge of the front porch, and he climbed up after it.

  I opened the door, and he barged in ahead of me. “I’m home,” Brad boomed for the whole house to hear.

  14

  Daylight

  My familiar made it to the kitchen where he was greeted by a yelp from Gran. She was expecting a cat. Gran seemed about as ready to see Brad as I’d been to hear Stevie talk.

  “You weren’t kidding about the trash panda thing,” Brad said to me.

  Recovered from her momentary fright, Gran pursed her lips and said, “This should go without saying, but just in case, you won’t be digging through my garbage.”

  “I won’t,” he agreed. “But I am starving. It was a struggle last night. These bodies come with a whole host of quirks. Luckily, I found the cat food your neighbor leaves out. Then someone chased me away.”

  Stevie strolled into the kitchen and looked the raccoon over, pleased not to see a rat or bird. “That was you? I thought you were a real raccoon, hanging around in my territory.”

  Brad said something unintelligible.

  Stevie replied, a greeting of sorts. Not in our language—not in any language spoken on Earth. Indecipherable, it had the grinding discord of metal on metal. Some of it sounded like Latin. Some had the fluidity of French, and some had the twang of most Asian dialects. But on the whole, it sounded like a NASCAR race in Gran’s kitchen.

  “That’s about enough of that nonsense,” Gran said sternly, waving her caution flag.

  She really was a nice old woman. She didn’t look like anything fierce. It was only in the last few days my perspective had changed. I could sense the power behind those pale blue eyes.

  “When you’re in my house,” she lectured, “you’ll speak our language. And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “He’s my familiar,” I said.

  “Hon, I know that. I was asking for a name.”

  The raccoon answered with more metal on metal sound.

  “I meant your other name,” Gran said. “I’ll never be able to pronounce that one.”

  “His name’s Brad,” I offered, but no one was paying any attention to me.

  Stevie was focused on the raccoon. He repeated the unpronounceable name, saying, “When we were both upstairs, I never thought you’d be one to defect.”

  Brad shrugged, his paws palm side up. “We all change—humans and celestial beings alike. And as for my Earthly name, I think we decided on Brad—right before that wolf and his cubs showed up.”

  “Wolf?” Gran asked. “What wolf? Constance, where have you been all morning?”

  I looked at my sweaty clothes pointedly, as if sweaty in ratty clothes would mean anything to Gran.

  “I went for a run,” I said. “You know there’s a park at the edge of town? That’s where I met Brad. And Sheriff Marsters was there with his daughters.”

  “That’s nice,” Gran said.

  “He dropped me off. He said he’s going to come by later—in, uh, more professional capacity.”

  “When?” Gran flushed.

  I shrugged.

  “This house is a mess. Did he happen to say if it’d be lunch time? I could cook him something. I don’t know if he likes—”

  “Gran,” I interrupted, to slow her down, “he didn’t say. And I doubt he wants a Stouffer’s. Here, I’ll help you clean up a bit.”

  I’d never seen her get spun up so fast. The way she lived I’d never have imagined she cared what the house looked like to anyone else.

  “I’ll have to do my hair,” she said. “And I’d hate if he saw me without my face on. I only hope I can help with the case.”

  So far, she’d ignored the fact it was a professional visit from the police, getting flustered over trivialities like her face instead. Sure, he was cute. And seeing the way he interacted with his girls was charming. But Gran was more than twice his age. If anyone needed to put on a face, it was me.

  Then I wondered how she thought she was going to help.

  “I thought you said the spirits were useless.”

  “Yes, yes.” She shook her head at me like I was stupid. “But there are other ways I can help—just like I did when that Miller boy went missing three years ago. It was horrible, but that’s a story for another time.”

  “How horrible?” My brain didn’t trust I’d remember to ask her. After all, it had taken me a day to follow up about Mom.

  “Oh, we found him, if that’s what you’re worried about. He was fine and dandy. And he still is as far as I know. It was everything else that was horrible. Now, let’s see about this mess.”

  Gran clasped her hands together at her chest and chanted,

  “Spick and span, dust every fan,

  tend to the clutter and rot.

  Make this house gleam when I say clean,

  now, clean and don’t miss a spot.”

  I expected Fantasia. I expected the brooms and the mops to go to work and get unruly—because don’t they always get unruly?

  I was disappointed.

  The dust and grime vanished as if it’d never been there. Over the past few weeks, I’d mopped and scrubbed and put away. I’d spent hours toiling on the mess when it was no trouble for Gran’s magic at all.

  What the heck?

  “Now, hair,” she said.

  I waited for her to cast another spell, but she headed for the bathroom. I followed.

  The cat and t
he raccoon disappeared, either to be out of the way for the sheriff’s visit, or more likely, to get reacquainted.

  “Well,” I said when we reached the bathroom, “what do you do for hair? I might need to know when I get my powers.”

  “Oh, there’s no spell for hair, my girl. Just a whole lot of hairspray.”

  Gran did her hair and put on her face—which meant some blush and a touch of lipstick.

  I showered and did the same.

  The sheriff showed up in the early afternoon in the police SUV, wearing his uniform.

  I managed to talk Gran out of making him lunch. She baked cookies instead. I made tea.

  “I’m actually watching my weight,” he told us regretfully. “Or I’ve been watching it... go up and up. If you can pack them to go, the girls would devour some homemade cookies.”

  I smiled at his lame joke and the thought of his daughters. I could only imagine what it was like to raise three. My dad had his hands full with just the one.

  “I’m sure I have some Tupperware here somewhere,” Gran said.

  I knew the closest thing in her cabinets were old Cool Whip containers.

  “Here we go.” It took some whispered words and a whirl of her finger, but she produced Tupperware.

  “And you’ll have tea, won’t you, Sheriff?” she asked him.

  “Tea’s fine,” he agreed. “And it’s Dave. Both of you, please call me Dave.”

  We all took a seat at the kitchen table. I couldn’t help but be reminded of Gran and Stevie breaking the news to me. Just a couple of days later and I was sitting here beside a werewolf. Not that there was currently anything wolfish about him aside from the stubble on his cheeks.

  Are all werewolves so hairy?

  “So,” Gran said, “how can we help you?”

  “Daylight,” Dave replied. “I don’t know much about it—just some things my mom told me. And what I heard on the street growing up. But I doubt much of that’s true.”

  Gran bobbed her head knowingly.

  “I’ve been wondering about it too,” I said. “I saw Mr. Caulfield in the daytime. Was he—I mean are vampires really vulnerable to the sun?”

  “Not the sun,” Gran explained. “Daylight is a drug of sorts—a potion, usually brewed by a witch.”

  “That much, I knew,” Dave acknowledged.

  “What kind of potion? What does it do?”

  “Well,” Gran said, “it’s a drug for werewolves. It counters the effects of moonlight, so they don’t change into a wolf during the full moon. Hence the name, daylight.”

  “That sounds convenient.”

  “It is, but it’s not,” Dave cut in. “From what I understand—what I was warned about in my youth—is that there are some bad side effects. My mom never said much more.”

  “Your mom, she was a—”

  He nodded. “A werewolf, yes. So was Dad, but he didn’t like to talk about it much. He was one of those who believe it’s a curse. He blamed witches. And he hated vampires. Not really a nice man, my dad.”

  “Understatement of the century,” Gran chortled. “But he was right to give some witches a wide berth.”

  “Okay, what are the side effects?” I wanted to move things along. It felt like all I’d gotten was history lessons—lectures, when I wanted answers to the quiz.

  Gran scowled at me. “They still need to turn into the wolf. You see, it’s not really the moon that causes the transformation, it’s the cycle. And missing a cycle, well, you’re a woman, I’m sure you can understand.”

  The sheriff didn’t want to touch that remark.

  “And daylight,” he said, “it’s addictive. I heard of someone who took the stuff for years, then when they went off it—they ran out—they were in wolf form for months, terrorizing the town they lived in. There’s no coming back from that.”

  “Then why take it?” I asked. I wasn’t getting the full picture. What was the point of this drug?

  “You know how during the witch trials women got dunked under water?” Dave asked. “If they sank, and drowned, they were innocent. If they floated, they were a witch.”

  “Totally irrelevant by the way,” Gran said. “Everyone sinks—witches and men and women alike.”

  “Right. Werewolves too,” Dave agreed. “Anyway, the same kind of thing happens to werewolves every now and again. We have to prove our innocence by staying human during the full moon.”

  “Which proved difficult.”

  “It did,” Gran agreed. “So, a friendly neighborhood witch decided to help. She concocted the daylight potion.”

  “So friendly.” I listed the side effects in my head. It was like one of those pharmaceutical commercials. The last thirty seconds is devoted to the harmful things the drug can do.

  “Hey—it’s not our fault,” Gran retorted. “That’s nature for you.”

  “And it’s lethal to vampires?”

  “It seems so,” Dave said. “The, uh, forensic folks found a trace of something in Mr. Caulfield’s morning coffee. And not just blood—because there was some of that too.”

  Gran’s mind was moving faster than mine. “Given what Trish found—the word daylight—you suspect that’s what it was?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you came here to ask me to brew you some.” It wasn’t a question. Gran knew why Dave was here. “You want me to brew it, so you can make sure you’re correct.”

  He sighed. “That’s right. I just need it to compare with the evidence we have. I mean, if it’s possible for you to—"

  “Oh, it’s possible,” Gran told him. “It will take about a week.”

  Dave thanked us for our time, and Gran for brewing the potion.

  I walked him to the door, my head still spinning over daylight and vampires. The way it just clicked. The way it made sense—almost the opposite of hearing the story about my mother.

  “What about other myths?” I asked. “Silver bullets? Stakes to the heart?”

  “I don’t care what it is.” Dave grinned. “It’s going to die when you put a stake through its heart. As for silver bullets, well, I’m hoping to never find out.”

  15

  In Witch I Go to the Top of the Hill

  A raccoon was curled against my hip. Like a dog, he opened one eye when I stirred but without really waking. I left him in bed and went down to the kitchen for much-needed coffee.

  The kitchen tables had turned. This time, Gran was there waiting for me with a cup already in hand.

  “Tonight’s the big night,” she said with glee. She took a sip and steam fogged her glasses, making her ratty old pink robe and bunny slippers look even more ridiculous. Her bedhead was dire—party on the left side, flattened on the right.

  “Tonight? What’s tonight?”

  “The ritual,” she said. “Your coming of age.”

  As if I needed the reminder. My joints were stiff and my back ached from letting a varmint sleep against it.

  “Party. Ritual. Same thing.”

  “Except my birthday is tomorrow.”

  “The funny thing about birthdays,” Gran said, “is they start at midnight and they last all day.”

  Obviously, that was true. But did she really expect me, or anyone else for that matter, to stay out so late?

  “Okay. I’m beginning to understand this place is some sort of hotbed for paranormal activity. Full of witches, werewolves, and vampires—”

  “It was just the one vampire actually,” Gran corrected.

  “Right. I get it. I do. There’s you and there’s Trish but, uh, who else is invited to this thing?”

  Gran counted off the names on her fingers. “Well, you know Trish. And you know our neighbor down the way, Agatha.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about her being a witch,” I said. I took my seat across from Gran.

  “She’s really good with simple spells, that one. Not a potion maker—hence the reason your crush came a knockin’ on my door.”

  “He’s not my�
�”

  Gran eyed me in a way that said don’t argue.

  “Okay, he’s interesting,” I admitted. “But I’m not a fan of that mustache. Those girls though… they were so cute.”

  “Moving on…” Gran smirked. “There’s Hilda Jeffries. She lives across town. I’m not a huge fan of Kalene Moone—I might’ve accidentally forgotten to send out her invitation. Although, I’m hoping Lauren Whittaker shows. Lord help us if Nell Baker does. She’s as stereotypical a witch as they come.”

  That was interesting. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t think she’s ever boiled any children. But let’s just say I wouldn’t be too surprised if her house was made of gingerbread or if she had a flying monkey or two.”

  I tried to picture such a woman, though I highly doubted my imagination lined up with the real thing. For one, most people don’t have green skin.

  Gran said, “All the local witches are invited. That doesn’t mean they’ll all show. We usually get half as many as I’d like, and of the ones we do get, I like less than half.”

  “Should we cook something?” I asked. Luckily, Gran had taken care of cleaning with a wiggle of her finger the day before.

  “Oh, no.” Gran shook her head. “We’ll be meeting them in the graveyard. Our magic is ten times more powerful in the witching hour—and almost fifty times more potent if done on hallowed ground.”

  “Really?” I wasn’t asking about the magic. I wanted to know if my fortieth birthday party was going to be in a graveyard.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Gran explained. “A full moon, a blood moon, a solstice—any pagan holiday—will have an effect on the amount of magic in the air. There are some spells, mostly curses, that can only be done inside the witching hour. That’s from the stroke of midnight to one in the morning.”

  “And things like cleaning can be done whenever.” I whirled my finger the way Gran had.

  “Yes,” Gran agreed. “But had I done it at midnight, we’d be looking at a whole new house. Spick and span.”

  “And that’s why Trish’s summoning charm only produced the one word.”