I should be glad the pumpkin exploded in my back yard and not near the palace steps. One witness was better than hundreds. Not to mention, the slippery mess would have incurred fines. Lots of fines, ending most likely in debtors’ prison.
Breathing deeply, I sank the shovel into the ground and leaned against the handle. A wave of dizziness caused the remaining chunks lying in the grass to tilt and spin. I massaged the symbols on my palm and let the feeling pass. The mark should have faded already, but the imprint remained on my skin. It worried me. Illusions lasted minutes or hours at most. Like everything else when it came to magic, this was further proof I wasn’t normal.
“Yoo-hoo!”
I tensed at the warbled call. My neighbor, Sylvia Trager, stood near the gate, resting her weight on her cane. Maybe if I stayed still, her aging eyesight might fool her into thinking I was a garden statue or a scarecrow—an exhausted, not up for visitors sort of scarecrow. It didn’t work. Sylvia motioned toward the pumpkin debacle and wrinkled her nose, setting off a chain reaction of flutters around her lips that looked suspiciously like she was trying not to laugh.
“Rough night, dear? Did you drink your potions again?”
My shoulders slumped. Why hadn’t I locked the gate? This amount of humiliation required seclusion.
“No, Sylvia. I didn’t drink my potions.”
“Ah, must be booze then.” She clucked her tongue and shook her wrinkled chin. “You’re too young to be addicted to the devil’s brew. Though, given your difficulties, I’m not surprised.”
Sylvia was a fine one to talk. She frequently slipped the devil’s brew into her tea when she thought no one was looking. I bit the inside of my cheek, keeping a sarcastic remark at bay.
“Did you need something?”
The old woman’s eyes lit up with the spark of unshared gossip, which was never a good sign. “I heard the most horrific news at the market this morning. You must join me for breakfast.” She stabbed her cane into the dirt and trudged back toward her house. That was my cue to follow.
Since I’d been on my own, Sylvia had taken it upon herself to make sure I stayed well-fed, but her food came with a non-negotiable price: gossip. Endless, soul-sucking gossip. Still, the promise of a free meal remained in charge of my feet even if the prospect of infinite chatter caused my mind to rebel.
I followed her into the house and entered the living room, where a fire crackled in the hearth and ruffled powder-blue curtains let in swaths of muted light. The cream-colored walls hosted long shelves lined with porcelain figurines. They stared at me from their paralyzed positions with fixed smiles that seemed to say, “Get me out of here.” The room might appear to be a cozy haven, but looks were deceiving. I made sure to check the thick-woven carpet for signs of Sylvia’s cat, Fuzzlebottoms, before taking a hesitant step toward the sofa. The sly animal with the ridiculous name lived to bite my ankles and take swipes at me from under chairs. It was completely unfair. I loved cats. They did not love me. Somewhere, my ancestors were cackling at my inability to befriend the one animal that was supposed to be my familiar.
“Here you are.” Sylvia trundled into the room carrying a tray loaded with muffins and a pot of tea. The heavenly scent of baked goods made my stomach growl. Sitting on the sofa, I selected a muffin while Sylvia took her usual seat by the window. I was tasting my first bite, savoring the tart flavor of fresh blueberries, when razor-tipped claws sank into my calf. Stifling a yelp, I jerked my leg. The cat hissed and ducked under the sofa.
“Sylvia, your cat—”
“Isn’t she the sweetest thing? Light of my life.” Sylvia busied herself with the pot of tea.
The monster’s claws found their target again, and pain stabbed through my leg. Magic built in my palms, and before I could stop it, sparks shot from my fingertips, striking the carpet near Fuzzlebottoms’ furry tail. The cat screeched and bolted, unharmed, but the magic left a burn in the rug. I moved my foot over the still-smoking hole.
Sylvia missed her cup and spilled tea into the saucer. “Good heavens, child. What has gotten into that cat?”
I stuffed both hands into the folds of my skirt, cutting off any residual magic. “You said you had news?”
“Yes!” Sylvia took a dainty sip and settled deeper into the chair. Her hand shook as she lowered the cup into the saucer. “When I was in the market earlier, everyone was talking about the prince’s ball.”
“How fascinating.” I chewed another mouthful of muffin and prepared for a lengthy list of who wore what and who danced with who. Torture, all in the name of baked goods.
Sylvia dotted her lips with a napkin. “It is fascinating, what with the party ending in murder.”
“What?” I coughed, inhaling a blueberry. “Who?”
“Lady Lockwood’s stepdaughter, Ella.”
“Ella Lockwood?” The muffin turned to dust in my mouth, and I struggled to swallow. Ella couldn’t be dead. There had to be a mistake. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. They found her submerged in the palace fountain. Drowned.” She pursed her lips and placed a wrinkled hand over her heart. “According to my sources, the killer staged her body. She had a rose tucked between her fingers. Can you believe it?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Do they know who killed her?”
Sylvia leaned back and lifted her teacup to her lips. She took her time, enjoying the fact she had a captive audience. My fingers itched to snatch the cup out of her hand and hurry her along.
“Unfortunately, no. The family is shattered. Her stepmother and stepsister are demanding answers. The poor things. They lost Sir Lockwood last year after a dreadful illness, and now this.”
Guilt made the muffin I’d ingested churn in my gut. I thought of the ring Ella had given me as payment. What should I do with it now? Return it to her family, or try to sell it as quickly as possible?
Return it, whispered my conscience.
Sell it, whispered the witch inside me drowning in debt.
And then, a soft current of air tickled my ear. “Help me,” the voice pleaded.
Gooseflesh prickled my arms. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what, dear?” Sylvia didn’t seem fazed at all.
I searched the room, positive the voice was real and alarmingly close. My palm itched around the tender skin where the ring had left its mark. Had the symbols grown darker? Closing my fist, I pushed the unsettling thought away.
Sylvia continued, “Apparently, Ella caused quite a stir. She danced with the prince shortly before midnight. She may have even caught his eye. The royal family is beside themselves after what happened. All talk of the prince’s hunt for a wife is on hold, and the king assigned a detective from the Royal Agency to handle the case. Let’s see, I believe his name is Detective Chambers. They’re questioning everyone Ella came into contact with. Rumors are the detective is especially interested in someone she visited before the ball.”
Me. A slow breath escaped my lips. The detective was interested in me.
“Do the authorities know who she visited?”‘
“I’m sure they do. Ah, to be young again. I hear the detective is incredibly handsome and moving up the ranks quickly for his age. Now, there’s a prospect.” Sylvia jabbed her bony finger in my direction. “You would do well with someone like him. A stable man, respected in the community. I said nothing when you refused to attend the ball, but your magic, it’s…” She sipped her tea. “It’s just terrible.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” I muttered.
“What’s that, dear?”
I spoke louder, “I don’t need a husband. I need a—”
“Miracle,” Sylvia finished.
A miracle. For once, we agreed. But a miracle wouldn’t appear in the form of a detective on a white horse. The man was more likely to arrest me as an accomplice to murder than make me his wife. No, I had gotten myself into this mess, and I would get myself out of it.
Another wave of guilt speared my insides. I shoul
d have sent Ella away. Maybe if I had, she wouldn’t have made it to the ball, and she’d still be alive. There had been something off about our encounter. I’d sensed it and ignored my instincts until it was too late. Now, Ella was dead, and a detective—handsome or not—would soon be sniffing around my shop.
“I have to go.”
“But you haven’t finished your breakfast,” Sylvia sputtered. “I still have to tell you about the costumes and the buffet.”
“Another time, Sylvia.”
The mention of food made my stomach revolt. Ignoring her protests, I scrambled for the door and near-ran back to the shop, my mind racing through the inventory on display and the stock I had hidden. A tight feeling constricted my chest. The law and witches rarely mixed. It didn’t help that this particular witch owed a debt to one of the kingdom’s most notorious crime syndicates. Borrowing money wasn’t illegal, but shady dealings with the leader of a gang? It didn’t look good even without a meeting before a murder and a basement full of dodgy potions. If anyone found out about those, I’d have some explaining to do.
Back at the magic shop, I took the porch steps two at a time and fumbled inside my apron for the key. My fingers ran along the seam, and I groaned as my pinky slipped through a hole in the fabric. The key was missing, lost somewhere between my door and Sylvia’s house.
I cursed and peered through the front window, then dropped my head against the glass. A laugh bubbled in my throat as I tried to think of another way inside. An unlocking spell would do the trick. Thankfully, the road leading into town was still empty, not a detective in sight. Whispering the incantation, I lifted my palms toward the lock. A current of magic crackled in the air. It felt controlled, accurate. What a relief.
Thwack!
The door’s deadbolt slammed into place. Damn it! My shoe beat a rhythm against the porch while I considered my dwindling options. A locksmith would take too long, which left me with only the terra-cotta flowerpot at my feet. Well, when a door is double-locked, open a window…
I hefted the pot into the air and swung it over my shoulder.
“Is there a problem?”
The planter slipped from my fingers and smashed against the wooden beams, sending dirt and clay fragments flying. The glass, much to my dismay, remained unbroken. I pivoted toward the end of the porch, where a man lounged against the railing. His boot-clad feet were crossed at the ankles, and his arms were folded over a broad chest, encased in a charcoal gray well-tailored coat.
Amusement sparked in his gaze as I stared, unable to move, with dirt covering my shoes. He pushed away from the rail and walked closer. No, make that stalked. The hint of a smile softened the motion, but he still moved with authority. His eyes commanded attention. Blue, like the deep end of a pond where it’s easy to lose your footing and drown. He had short copper-brown hair, and a shadow of coarse stubble covered his chiseled jawline. It gave off a formidable impression, and I found myself mesmerized by the hard planes of his face, strong nose, and firm mouth.
He stopped in front of me. Anticipation hummed through my body as I tilted my head back and held his gaze. Up close, his irises appeared darker, and I sensed the intelligence lurking in their depths. I suddenly had the feeling that anyone drowning in them had probably had their feet kicked out from under them first.
“Did you have to startle me like that? Why were you hiding in the corner?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I’m waiting for the owner. Are you the witch?”
I hated that question. It only led to trouble.
“No. I’m not.”
His brows arched in surprise, and he gestured toward the door. “If you’re not the witch then you must be a thief. You were about to break into this shop. I could have you arrested.”
My cheeks warmed in embarrassment. It figured I’d have an officer waiting on my porch. Pulling myself together, I lifted my shoulders in an easy shrug and flashed him a smile.
“You caught me.” I held out my hand. “I’m Tessa Daniels, the witch.”
He closed his fingers over mine. “Detective Derrick Chambers. It’s what I do.”
“Catch witches?” I choked.
“If they need catching or have something to hide.” He angled his head and pinned me with an inquiring look. “How about it, Miss Daniels? Do you have something to hide?”
Chapter 3
His question caught me off-guard. Heat transferred between our palms along with a jolt of awareness I saw reflected in his eyes. So, maybe I wasn’t the only one who felt off-balance. Keeping my features calm, I stepped back and felt the smallest tug, as if he was reluctant to relinquish my hand. He must have realized his mistake because he let go, flexing his fingers before stuffing them into his coat pocket. It was the only crack in his armor since he’d emerged from the shadows.
“Something to hide?” I laughed to cover my nerves. “Not unless you count the shame of a witch locking herself out of her shop.”
“I see.” Derrick removed his hand from his pocket and revealed a small brass key. “I found it on the walkway. You must have dropped it.”
I frowned. The man had watched me make a fool of myself trying to unlock the shop and hadn’t said a word? I plucked the key from his palm and mouthed the curse that sat ready on my tongue. Inserting the key into the lock, I twisted the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Cringing, I remembered the deadbolt. It was still engaged from my stupid spell. I ground my teeth together and murmured the incantation. The bolt slid back, and I opened the door with a flourish.
“After you, Detective.”
He entered the shop, and his gaze roamed over the shelves and display racks loaded with jars and stoppered bottles. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, giving off a pungent, earthy smell. Derrick ducked, narrowly avoiding a cluster of sage, and wandered toward a cabinet full of books, running a finger through the grime and dust on their spines as he bent to read each title. I couldn’t tell if his lips flattened from the strange subjects or the dust he rubbed between his fingers, but his slow, silent perusal of my shop made me grind my teeth. He crossed to my workbench next and picked up a jar of orange paste, scrunching his nose in disgust when he sniffed its contents. Out came a small leather journal, and he scrawled a notation.
“Those are on sale.” I pointed to the jar he’d moved out of smelling distance.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He inspected a sprig of herbs resting on the counter with the tip of his pen. “Do you know why I’m here?”
“The kingdom’s introduced a new program whereby police drop in for friendly house calls?”
“No.” He gave me a dark look. “I’m here on official business. There’s been a murder at the palace.”
“A murder?” I feigned ignorance and tucked my nervous fingers behind my back. “That doesn’t explain why you’re in my shop.”
A moment of silence passed before he pulled a chair from the worktable and scraped it across the floor. “Have a seat.”
I must have looked like a woman walking toward the gallows as I closed the distance and lowered myself into the chair. The wooden spokes pressed into my back, but I refused to slouch, needing every ounce of confidence I could get. He towered over me, so close I could smell the faint woodsy scent of his cologne. I shifted, taking the spice in deeper. It was similar to something I sold, but whatever he’d purchased was better. Damn him.
Derrick placed an elbow on the workbench and leaned in. The move seemed casual, but the rigid way he held himself made me think otherwise. His voice was smooth and even when he spoke, a rich timbre that set off a flutter in my stomach.
“Last night, at the prince’s ball, a young woman named Ella Lockwood was murdered. A witness claims she visited you earlier in the evening. Why?”
The symbols on my palm had grown warm again, so I massaged the spot with my thumb. I didn’t know anything about Ella’s murder. Maybe it would be best if I distanced myself from the situation before I got involved any deeper. It wasn’t as if I could poi
nt out her killer or give the detective any worthwhile clues.
I tilted my chin and lied. “I had so many customers yesterday, I’m not sure I remember anyone specific.”
Derrick leaned closer. The cuff of his sleeve brushed against my shoulder blade. “I see. It must be difficult to keep track of the steady stream of people coming into your shop.” He lifted his gaze and stared pointedly at the empty doorway. A full torturous minute passed while he watched all the nonexistent customers. I squirmed in my seat, pleading for the bell suspended above the door to jingle. It stayed silent. Traitorous instrument.
“The mornings are slow. It picks up.” My optimism sounded hollow. I would have given anything for someone to enter the shop, even a green-haired Mrs. Anderson.
“You know what I think?” His tone dropped, breath warming my ear. I held still and barely contained a shiver.
“What, Detective?”
“I think you remember meeting Ella.” He straightened and reached across the counter, sliding a worn ledger over the surface. Flipping the booklet open to the marked page, he read the items. I knew what he’d find there, and I burned from humiliation, caught in my lie. He tapped the paper with his index finger. “Your sales record from yesterday has two entries. One in the morning, and one in the afternoon. That’s not a lot to remember.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “If you’d rather have this conversation in my office while I have my men conduct a thorough search of your shop, it’s up to you. Who knows what they’ll uncover? A witch must have secrets.”
A direct hit. I had plenty of secrets, not to mention an underground crawlspace containing what some might consider a morally gray area of potions. My gaze darted to the hatch in the floor. Derrick caught me in the act and smirked. He took a step toward the hatch, then another. Each thud of his boots sounded like a cell door slamming closed. Witches really weren’t suited for prison.
“All right, fine!” I grabbed his sleeve, pulling on the material until he stopped heading for the crawlspace. “Ella was here. It was late, and I tried to turn her away, but she was insistent I help her.”
Spellbound After Midnight (Ever Dark, Ever Deadly Book 1) Page 2
