A thumb-sized chunk of ulexite went quickly to powder in the unforgiving spot between mortar and pestle. To that, she added a dash of mercury, a few flakes of silver, several herbs, and enough of Mag’s high-octane moonshine to thin the mixture out. Three drops of pigment ink swirled into the shining liquid, and then she swung the cauldron into the Balefire where it came to a bubble in a matter of seconds.
“Here we go.” She ladled a shimmering puddle onto a sheet of paper. For a second or two, nothing happened, and Clara forgot to breathe, but then the blob spread out, and the paper sucked it in with an audible pop. This she repeated six more times.
“And now, for step two.” Craning her head sharply, Clara simply looked at each window to turn them an inky black, and soon there was no other light in the room, save for the fire crackling on the hearth. She selected a strip of negatives and blessed whoever had organized them with date, time, and subject matter.
“Why did you make it dark? The paper’s already been exposed to light.” Curiosity drove Mag’s question, not criticism. Despite herself, she’d done a fair amount of peeking over Clara’s shoulder during the research phase, and the process carried enough alchemy to interest her.
“Reducing the chance of phantom images showing up. This next part is going to take both of us. Can you hold the negative perfectly steady above the papers? I’m going to try to print the whole strip at once.”
With a snort to indicate the request was child’s play, Mag sent a solid flow of magic to the strip of negatives. They rose and froze into place.
“Perfect, and now for the light.” Because it was both the closest and the most controllable source, Clara scooped up a handful of magical Balefire.
“I think white will work best.” With a little concentration, yellow and orange tongues of flame went white as the purest driven snow.
“Hold steady now.” The power banked inside of Clara flared to life, and so did the ball of fire she held. She tipped her hand over to beam magical light through the negative and onto the paper.
“Didn’t work,” Mag announced and wafted the negatives back onto the table next to the blank pieces of paper. “There’s bound to be a one-hour photo place left somewhere in the northern hemisphere. Get me a landmark to target, and I’ll get there and back without being seen.”
“Your faith in me is simply astounding.” Clara’s tone was so dry it could suck the moisture out of the air. With a sharp series of motions, she scooped up the sheets, flicked a bobbing ball of red witchfire to hang over the sink, and twisted the taps.
After adjusting and testing the water temperature for long enough to elicit an impatient sound from Mag, Clara slid the first sheet of paper gently into the clear stream and watched the image appear as if rinsed onto the paper.
“Hah! Vindicated.” Clara sent the newly-formed image toward the fireplace for drying and started working her way through the stack. When the final sheet hung in midair near the heat, she released her spell on the windows to let a flood of light into the room, then began to inspect the pictures with a critical eye.
“Out of focus. Wrong angle. Is that Penelope? Not a good look for her. Wait, this one’s better. And we have a winner.” Snagging the dry photo, Clara sent the rest into the fireplace. “It’s crisp—I added some ginkgo to the brew for clarity.” Still, she squinted as she scanned for clues.
“Let me see that,” Mag made a grab for the photo. “Let’s do this right.” Laying her thumb and index finger close together against the paper, she made a flicking motion and slid them apart. The photo blew up to the size of a bed sheet and hovered in the center of the room.
“You’ve seen me do that with my phone, copycat.”
“Just imagine how nice it would be if you could do that with other things.”
“Ew, are you trying to put dirty thoughts in my head? Because if you are, it worked. And now I need at least a gallon of brain bleach.”
“Gutterbrain, I was talking about ice cream.”
“Forget about that! I found Blossom and Dylan,” Clara pointed. “Doesn’t look like there was any friction there at all—see her posture? Straight spine, a little flirt in her shoulders and the tilt of her head. And they’re leaning into each other.”
“Mmpf,” Mag acknowledged. “There’s Leanne draped all over some young fellow. Looks like a cat in heat. Could be trying to make Dylan jealous? Maybe she had a thing for him all along. We’ve ruled her out for Marsha, but she could have done Blossom.”
“It’s the makeup, right?” Presenting a raised eyebrow, Clara assessed Mag’s willingness to doubt Leanne even now.
“She wears it like a mask, and you only wear a mask if you’re trying to hide something. What do you think that is?”
“Didn’t you ever fall in love, Maggie? I know this falls into the realm of things we never talk about, but that realm is worlds too big. It feels like I hardly know anything about you at all. Every time I ask you anything, you throw up a wall and—don’t you dare shake your head at me! You’re doing it right now when all I want to know is if you were ever happy like that. Was there ever anyone special?”
“There’s more to life than putting on war paint and shaking your—” Hagatha’s no-cursing charm slapped into effect. “Argh!” Mag pointed to her breasts and her behind with an exaggerated motion. “Around for the attention of someone who will tell you pretty lies and then leave because you don’t look like a teenager anymore.”
“So there was someone, and you do understand why Leanne feels like she’s always been measured and found wanting. She trowels on the makeup in an attempt to retain youth while you went the other way and elevated personal crankiness to an art form.”
“Whatever.” Deflecting was another of Mag’s strong suits. “I still think there could be something there.”
“Look where they are, though. There’s no possible line of sight between Leanne and Blossom or Dylan from that spot. No way she’s trying to make him jealous by hiding behind the rose bushes where he can’t see her rubbing up against someone else. If that’s what you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“Fine. Then who does that leave? In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve run out of suspects unless you think her old man shoved Blossom off that balcony.”
Clara didn’t, but the mention of Blossom’s father clicked a switch in her head, and the light of understanding came on bright.
“The father sent us to Dylan, but what exactly was it he said? Do you remember?”
“Go talk to her fiancé.”
“Boyfriend. He said boyfriend, not fiancé.”
“Whoop-de-doo,” Mag deadpanned. “Same difference.”
“Oh, no it isn’t. He was talking about someone else entirely—he was talking about Bryer Mack.” Clara began scanning the enormous photograph to see if she could pick out another familiar face.
The dominoes fell, but Mag shrugged it off. “Bryer wasn’t in town the day Blossom died. Leanne said he was out of—” she cut off abruptly when her sister let out a whoop and did a happy dance that included a lot of jiggling flesh and a beaming smile.
“I found it. Look, do you notice anything familiar?”
“What? Hold still long enough so I can see where you’re pointing.”
“There. Right there.” Clara pointed to something partially hidden on the shadowed side of the building. “Look familiar?”
The 1977 Kawasaki KZ1000, partially covered by hydrangeas, carried a familiar license plate.
BRYGUY
Chapter Nineteen
“Looks like we found the missing link. Bryer killed Blossom and let everyone think it was an accident until Marsha sent those photos out for digital enhancing and they revealed the evidence. Do you think she knew what she was seeing?” Mag tapped the license plate on the photo. “And confronted Bryer with the information?”
“The only person who can say for certain is Bryer, and he’d be an idiot to admit to any wrongdoing since he seems to be getting away with it. The man must
be made out of four-leaf clovers because he doesn’t strike me as having criminal mastermind potential.”
Mimicking Mag’s enlarging motion in reverse, Clara returned the photo to its normal size and set it aside. “If we’re going to bring him to justice, we need a plan, and we need to act fast before he tries to finish what he started with Leanne.”
“She’s safe enough in the hospital for tonight, and I do my best thinking on a full stomach.” With a wink, Mag made for the kitchen, leaving Clara with no other option but to follow.
Realizing she was hungry now herself, Clara raided the refrigerator for leftover chicken and salad ingredients. Meanwhile, Mag grabbed the first thing that came to hand, tossed a loaf of bread on the table, and selected a jar from the pantry.
Halfway through dicing a tomato, Clara looked up, saw the combination of things her sister had spread on slices of pumpernickel, and shuddered.
“That is disgusting,” she said, “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to eat that.”
“What’s wrong with it? I like peanut butter and liverwurst.” She waved the completed sandwich toward her sister, then took a seat at the table. “Now, what are we going to do about Bryer Mack? It’s in his best interests to keep his big mouth shut, so the only way I can see of getting a confession out of him is by force.”
“Force? So you're advocating what? Casting a truth spell on him? Torture? That’s more than a step over the line.”
“Of course I don’t want to torture the jerk. Not much. Maybe a little. He’s killed twice; don’t you think we should rough him up a bit?”
“Tempting as that sounds,” she said, waggling her finger, “you know that’s not our way. Harm none.”
Mag crinkled her forehead and heaved a put-upon sigh. “You won't let me torture him, and I’m not allowed to put a truth spell on the man. What other options do we have? I know we’re supposed to be laying low while we’re in Harmony, but this is an unusual circumstance. Besides, getting him to confess to us won’t solve anything. We need to get him to admit what he’s done to the authorities.”
“No spells.”
Mag took a big bite of her sandwich and Clara’s appetite evaporated like raindrops on the hood of a hot car.
She shuddered, her salad all but forgotten. “But I agree we have to do something. Try as I might, I can’t get rid of the image of that poor girl falling to her death.”
“I know, it’s—” Mag fell silent.
“It’s what? What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Alarm sent Clara’s stomach fluttering.
“You just gave me an idea.”
Clara replayed the conversation in her head to try to figure out how. “Well, tell me already,” she ordered.
Mag did, and when she was done, Clara had to admit the plan was a stroke of genius.
***
Purple twilight faded into the silver-tipped night under a pregnant moon by the time all the pieces and players were assembled. Adrenaline sent a delicious tingle through Mag’s veins, fed the base of power coiled in her belly, sharpened her senses to a fine point. She’d missed this. The thrill of the hunt, scenting the wind for the telltale sign of prey.
Clara wanted to know why and if and how her sister had chosen to spend so many years in solitary pursuit of that which was a stain on the name of witch. How could she explain the hunt was like food and water? A necessary thing.
Bryer Mack was no Raythe, the fragmented magic of a half-born witch, but he carried the seeds of death with his choices. It was long past time he paid his debt and Mag wanted to be the one to hand him the bill. Compassion for the dead drove Clara, but it was the hard edge of justice Mag craved. And Bryer Mack was about to get his.
Hidden in the moon-cast shadow of the clock face, Mag’s eyes glittered at the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk below.
“Get ready.” She warned in a low tone. “Stick to the plan, and don’t try anything fancy.”
“This is going to be fun,” Hagatha’s voice creaked in the darkness, but she made no promise to reign herself in.
“Bryer! I'm so glad to see you.” Trying to sound helpless, Mag called down from the height of the clock tower. “I came up here to look at the town by moonlight, and I must have bumped the lock because the door won’t open. Can you help?” The hint of panic elicited a quiet snort from Hagatha.
“I’ll be right up.” Mag leaned over to watch him disappear through the side door. When it slammed behind him, she whistled the agreed-upon signal to Clara and heard the answering whistle in return. The stage was set, the audience moving into place. Curtain time.
The door handle rattled once, then again, and a third time even harder. “It’s stuck. I’ll just give it a shove.” The next sounds she heard were a thud, and a groan of pain as Bryer slammed his shoulder trying to pop the door open.
If it was mean-spirited for Mag to hold her jamming spell those few extra seconds, she felt no regret at all.
“Can you double check it’s not locked from that side?” Bryer called through the door.
“Where’s the light switch? I’m working blind in here.”
“Left of the door, about midway along the wall. Stand back. I’m going to try again.”
Clara gave the all clear, and Mag dropped the spell and let Bryer burst through the door.
“Thanks! I thought I might be stuck here all night.” An artfully shaking hand grasped Bryer’s as Mag led him to the spot where he needed to be.
“Where’s your daughter? I thought she was the one who called and asked me to come help unpack the boxes of commemorative papers. Just lucky Leanne managed to save the day and get them shipped in time.”
Another lie in a long list of them.
“No, it was me. Clara was busy tonight, and people say our voices sound similar on the phone. Must be a mother-daughter thing. Shall we go and get started?”
Rarely does the mouse think he’s the one toying with the cat, but Bryer never got the memo. When Mag made a move to go around him toward the stairs, he blocked her.
“How many are coming to help?”
“I’m afraid you’re the only person I called. Why? Is there a problem? You did say to call on you if we needed a strong back and you’ve always been so helpful, but I didn’t mean to take up too much of your time. I can manage now that you’ve gotten me out of a pickle.” Half of Bryer’s face fell in shadow, while the moonlight played off the grim set of his lips.
“No one knows you’re here, then?”
Mag let uncertainty show on her face, “No. Are you all right? You seem upset.”
“It’s this place. Bad memories and a decision I’m not happy about making. I really am sorry to have to do this because you seem like a nice lady.” With one long stride, Bryer loomed over Mag. She took one firm step back and banged her cane on the floor. Once and then again. As the second of the two sharp retorts echoed into silence, Hagatha sprang into action.
***
In the distance, Clara heard Mag’s signal and, pretending to be answering the call of a real night bird, responded in kind. She flashed a cheery smile at her startled companion. Then, gently using the arm wound through the crook of his elbow, Clara eased Norm McCreery toward the clock tower while he stared up at the night sky.
“You have an interest in astronomy?” She finally asked when he stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk.
“I was just counting my lucky stars for the chance to walk in the moonlight with you, Clara.”
A snort rose up to tempt Clara, but she clamped down to keep it from sneaking out.
“What a lovely thing to say. Do you mind if we sit for a minute?” Dropping her hand, she walked through a patch of grass silvered by moonlight and trusted the extra sway in her hips to pull the mayor with her. She moved toward a park bench situated in the one spot where they could sit and hear what would soon happen above them, but not see anything that might betray Hagatha’s magic. McCreery might have an inkling about the magical community in his town, but she wasn’t goin
g to be the one to give him irrefutable proof.
“I just love listening to the sounds of the night, don’t you?”
“Clara, I—” The sound of Mag’s cane against weathered wood cracked the night.
“Shh,” she touched a finger to his lips. “Just listen.”
***
With unpredictable grace, Hagatha Crow circled through the darkness and whipped a scrap of cloth off the silvery slice of ulexite positioned in the path of a moonbeam. Her voice swelled with a whispered harmony of echoes as she breathed an incantation into the air. As the last hissing sound died away, light speared out in both directions from the stone, arced to the next in line, and completed a circle inside the area behind the clock face.
“What’s that? What’s happening?” Forgetting about Mag for a moment, Bryer whirled to see if he could pinpoint the source of the sound. “I don’t—” A hiccuping intake of breath stole the rest of whatever he was going to say when the image of Blossom shivered into being.
Lithe and lean, she flipped up onto the balcony rail and danced along the dangerous edge with the perfect balance of a gymnast. Even knowing this was not the tragic moment of her demise, Mag felt the urge to leap forward and pull the ghostly figure back from danger.
From that distance, she could see Gertrude’s estimation of the young woman carried no exaggeration. Fair of face with lively eyes and a gentle smile, Blossom lived up to the sweetness of her name.
Until, at Hagatha’s unspoken command, the scene sped up.
“No! Please.” A low moan issued from Bryer as he watched Blossom turn wary as she greeted the ghostly image of a younger version of himself stepping out of the shadows.
“Tell me what happened on that night.” The order, gently given, carried not even a whisper of magic. Bryer wouldn’t need to be forced because his conscience was dying to tell the story. As part of him planned to kill her anyway, Mag let him unload in his own time.
Murder Above the Fold Page 14
