A Maze of Murder

by Kate Krake

  I had to force myself to stop spitting tea all over the counter. “Pardon me?”

  Lila put down her knitting. “I know. That’s all. I’m not trying to pry into your private life. I get not wanting to talk about it. But I just thought, after yesterday, you might want someone to talk about it with. You keep saying you’re okay, but you’re obviously not really. Is it because of Kenny, the way he was killed?”

  “You know?” I was flabbergasted. “How?”

  Lila nodded and smiled sweetly. A dark thought crossed my mind. Was Lila a witch? Could she be responsible for the death curse?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Belinda, I thought. Lila might be a bit odd sometimes, but she’s not a murderer.

  “I don’t know much about medicine or science or anything, but I’m sure whatever killed Kenny had more to do with spells and curses than plain old heart failure or whatever else they’re going to say it was.”

  I nodded, still waiting for my mind to catch up with what Lila was saying.

  “How did you know about me? I’ve never told…”

  “I’ve noticed you do a couple of spells here and there when you thought I couldn’t see. Plus”—she gave the sleeping cat an affectionate nudge with her shoe—“Hemlock told me.”

  “He spoke?” I gasped. Was I really jealous at the thought that the little familiar I had owned since he was a kitten had chosen to have a chat with Lila and not me? Yes.

  “Not exactly, but I can read him. We talk all the time, through our thoughts.”

  I was astounded. “You’re a w—”

  “I’m a fairy,” Lila said.

  I looked at her blankly.

  “Fairy,” Lila repeated. “Well, not fully. But I have fae blood, and it lets me see things about people’s minds. And some cats’ too, apparently. Maybe that’s normal for all fairies, I’m not sure, but I do seem to be getting better at it these last few months.”

  “Fairy,” I said slowly as if I was trying to taste the word.

  I placed my mug on the counter. Yes, I knew fairies were real. No, I had never met one and didn’t know the first thing about them except that they were nothing like Tinkerbell.

  “I actually thought you knew,” Lila continued casually, as if she’d just told me she was a Gemini or something equally weightless. “I thought that’s why you let me keep working here when you obviously don’t need an assistant. Brian and Susan, they were witches too. You knew that, right?”

  I shook my head, rubbing my neck, dumbfounded.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “that was what I think it was, wasn’t it? With Kenny? A hex?”

  “I think so.” I suddenly needed to lie down.

  I had started yesterday morning regular as anything. Too much coffee, my usual debates with myself about the amount of chocolate I was eating, fluking a simple little secret spell to keep a customer satisfied. A day later, here I was talking about Bloodfire death curses and getting messages from Rowan Jackfort. Not to mention finding out one of the few friends I had was actually a fairy and had known my secret for who knew how long. Plus she had a psychic link to my cat. My head had every right to spin at this point.

  “They can’t get away with it, can they?” Lila continued. “I mean, the sheriff isn’t going to do anything about it. The law never does when anything magical is involved. But something needs to happen.”

  “Anything magical is involved?” I said. “You mean other stuff like this happens here?”

  “Well, no one has ever been killed by magic here before. Not that I know of, at least. But stuff happens, and when it does, the sheriff’s department and a lot of other folk in town are always conveniently looking the other way.”

  I nodded. I filled Lila in on my brief meeting with Deputy Margie the day before.

  “Figures. I like Margie well enough, but when it comes to us supernaturals, she’s as bad as the rest of them.”

  “How many other witches are there here?” I said, still amazed, but starting to understand why this town felt like it did.

  “A few,” Lila said. “And there are others too. Not all supernaturals are witches, obviously.” She pointed to herself.

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t know them all, and I’m sure some are keeping their supernatural side a secret—some people in town aren’t exactly accepting of alternative lifestyles of any kind. But I do know Phil Yarrow, the guy who sells the honey at the markets on Sundays. He and his wife, Molly, are witches.”

  I didn’t know who she was referring to, but that wasn’t surprising since I hardly knew anyone. I thought back to the encounter I’d had with Henry the day before.

  “What about Henry Walton?” I said.

  Lila shrugged. “No idea. He’s odd, so maybe.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “There’s Becca White and the women on the school PTA. I don’t know them personally, but you hear things about those awesome bake sales they pull together so quickly. And then there’s Adela Kristos, the librarian,” Lila continued.

  I knew the librarian by sight, though we had never spoken. “She’s a witch?”

  “Naarin,” Lila said as if it explained everything.

  I shook my head and shrugged.

  “You’ve never heard of a Naarin before?”

  I hadn’t.

  “When I say demon, don’t freak out. Not all demons are fire and brimstone. But you probably knew that already.”

  I knew as much about demons as I did about fairies. And, if I was honest, witches too.

  “I should totally introduce you to Adela,” Lila said. “You’ll love her.”

  Prospective supernatural friends, random boyfriends—was there anyone in town Lila wasn’t trying to set me up with on some level?

  “Anyone you know capable of murder?” I said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  Lila shook her head. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? I mean, death curses don’t just happen by accident. Do they?”

  I had asked myself that same question on so many long nights, haunted by the memory of Quentin, standing above that body in that park. I was never even sure who the victim was. Quentin had left before he’d given me any real explanation, breaking my heart into a thousand irreparable fragments in the process.

  I had been sure Quentin was under a puppet spell—his body and soul in Jackfort’s complete control. I’d researched puppet spells, trying to learn as much as possible to prove my brother’s innocence, but found very little, or at least very little I could understand.

  “And is there only one death curse?” Lila continued. “Or can different curses kill people in different ways?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, totally lying. After I’d tried and failed to piece together exactly what had happened with Quentin, death curses were the only spell I did have any kind of good knowledge about. There were different kinds with different physical effects depending on who put it all together. The bleeding eyes of the Mortis Curse seemed to be a Bloodfire signature.

  “I don’t know much about spells,” I said. “I’ve never really studied, just made stuff up as I went along.” That last part was the truth.

  Lila nodded. “That explains a lot.”

  I flushed, instantly embarrassed at my novice status, which was weird since I really didn’t want to get any more powerful than I was.

  I was about to ask the fairy if she knew any spells and start fishing for local links to the Bloodfire coven, but something in Lila’s expression stopped me. She put down her knitting and stared down at Hemlock.

  “I don’t think your cat is very well,” Lila said.

  He looked perfectly normal to me, sleeping belly-sprawled and quiet.

  “He’s trying to tell me something,” Lila said. She hopped off her stool and knelt beside the cat, stroking his side. I noticed then that he was breathing very fast.

  “Hemlock? Darling, what’s wrong?” I said.

  Lila looked up at me, her eyes wide. “He says he’s dying.” />
  5

  The waiting room of the new Blackthorn Springs Veterinary Clinic was empty save for a cranky-looking receptionist—Maureen, according to the nameplate in front of her—and a young guy holding a shoe box with holes poked through the lid and something scratching around inside. I sat, my knees bouncing, my fingers twisting over one another.

  Hemlock lay in the cat crate at my feet, looking at me with one eye open and panting quick, shallow breaths. I knew what that glare meant. A vet. How degrading. Hemlock might have liked to think he was a person, and he had even told me on more than one occasion of his elaborate theory of being a Plantagenet reincarnate, but there was little choice to take him anywhere else. I couldn’t exactly carry him into the hospital emergency room, even if that’s what he would have thought he deserved.

  Guilt knotted my insides. How had I not noticed he was so sick? I knew he hadn’t been his old self in a while, but he was an old cat, and with everything that had happened, it was little wonder he was out of sorts. But dying? I hoped this was him being his usual melodramatic self, or maybe Lila hadn’t understood him correctly.

  The door of the vet’s consulting room burst open, and a large woman rushed out, red in the face and snorting like an angry bull. She held an obese pug dog under her arm. “I cannot believe a professional, a man who is supposed to be in the business of caring for life, could be so cruel, so callous,” the woman blustered.

  I recognized the man that followed her out. He was the chestnut-haired man with the intense eyes I had seen in front of Kenny’s cafe the day before. His white coat and the stethoscope around his neck suggested this was Blackthorn Springs’s new vet. He looked equally agitated and furious.

  “I’m sorry you feel this way, Mrs. Calloway, I really am,” he said. His tone didn’t make him sound sorry at all. “But like I said, if you continue to feed a dog red velvet cake, or for that matter any cake, or any kind of food you can’t imagine a wolf in the wild might eat, then I stand by what I said—you are not responsible or probably even smart enough to own a dog. Even a useless one like Mr. Chubby here.”

  “How dare you!” she said. “I am going to report you to the proper authorities. And if you think I’m going to pay for this so-called consultation, you’re sorely mistaken. Come on, Mr. Chubby. We’re going to a different vet.”

  “Enjoy the three-hour drive to the closest vet that isn’t me,” he yelled. “And I can only hope they’re a decent enough veterinarian to tell you the same thing I did. Maybe when Chubby kicks the bucket, you’ll learn your lesson.”

  Mrs. Calloway marched out of the office, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, her enormous bosom heaving in stress.

  “Idiot woman!” the vet spat. He spun on his heel and swiped out at a display of pamphlets on the countertop, knocking them to the floor. He stormed off into the consulting room, slamming the door behind him.

  I exchanged a surprised glance with the shoe box guy.

  “Ms. Drake?” the receptionist intoned in a monotonous drawl. “Doctor O’Farrell will see you now.”

  Conri O’Farrell paced the length of the small consulting room as I brought Hemlock through. I was nervous, now not only for the health of my cat. I understood anyone wanting to stand up for animal well-being, but yelling like that, lashing out like he had done? That was seriously over the top.

  “What is it? And what’s wrong with it?” he said as I set Hemlock’s crate on the bench. From what I had seen, I shouldn’t be surprised he would be so rude, but even so, I was taken aback. I had never felt such a strong instant dislike for anyone in my life.

  “My cat, Hemlock. He’s twelve and hasn’t been himself for a while, and he seems really sick today,” I said.

  Conri opened the crate and slowly reached inside. Hemlock hissed and retreated as far as he could. The vet lifted him out and laid him down with a gentleness I would never have expected from a man who had acted the way he just had. He smoothed his large calloused hands across the cat’s fur, and Hemlock visibly relaxed. He was such a sucker for the right kinds of pats. Some cats have no standards.

  The vet listened to the cat’s heart and, for the sake of Hemlock’s dignity, I looked away while he took his temperature. When the examination was done, he hung his stethoscope around his neck.

  “He’s sick. Could be a lot of things,” he said.

  Gee, that was helpful.

  “Anything in particular stand out to you?” I said, really trying not to snap.

  “Without blood work, it’s impossible to narrow it down, but my first guess would be his kidneys. What do you feed him?”

  “Cat food,” I said. He wouldn’t be able to attack me for feeding my cat anything like what Mrs. Calloway and Mr. Chubby had been ejected for.

  “Canned stuff. Figures,” he snorted.

  “Well, I used to feed him fish and scraps of meat, but…” I trailed off. How could I tell a vet, especially this vet, that my cat had given me a long diatribe on why he preferred the cheapest generic canned cat food from the supermarket and refused to suffer one more bite of chopped liver. He said it was a texture thing. “But he only ever eats canned food.”

  “He’s probably addicted to the additives,” the vet said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, well, when we get home, I’ll be sure to fillet a halibut and watch the flies swarm all over it since he won’t touch anything that doesn’t come out of a Mr. Snappy can.”

  “If he’s hungry enough, he’ll eat it. Serve it raw and leave the skin on. There’s a lot of good oil in it,” Conri said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  The vet stopped, stood up straight and took a deep breath, his eyes closed.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude,” he said. His voice was a lot calmer now. “It’s been one of those days. A couple of those days, actually.”

  “Okay,” I said. I knew the vet had seen Kenny—a dead body in the street was enough to rattle anyone—so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I’ll keep him overnight, run blood tests. You can come back tomorrow afternoon.”

  Conri glanced at the door. After a few seconds, I realized it was his way of telling me to leave.

  I stroked Hemlock’s back and gave him one of his favorite ear scratches. “It will be okay, my love,” I cooed and kissed his head. I wanted to add, “And don’t take any crap from this guy,” but I hoped it was implied.

  As I moved away, Hemlock leaped off the bench to follow me. Conri dove just as fast to catch him in mid-leap. As he wrestled to get the cat back in the crate, his stethoscope slid from his neck, and the collar of his shirt pulled open.

  The vet wore a brown amulet tied with a worn leather thong. It was a twist of smoky quartz, marked with runes. I didn’t do a very good job of pretending not to look at it sitting against his muscular chest. Even with my little magic education, I knew this was a talisman.

  Conri shoved the yowling Hemlock back into his crate and hurried to rebutton the top of his shirt, trying too late to hide the necklace.

  “You can go now,” he barked, the calm he had forced himself into moments before dissolving.

  So, Conri O’Farrell was not only a rude, angry jerk, but he was also connected to magic. Did he have a connection to Kenny Langdel too?

  6

  Lila sat at the counter where I had left her. Her knitting set aside, she was reading a steamy romance novel.

  My shoulders were tense, and the beginnings of a headache pulled at the top of my neck. I needed to go upstairs, turn on some music and sink into a warm tub, maybe open that bottle of red wine I’d stashed days before, but there was still a while until the shop closed for the day. Plus I had the damned hedge maze committee meeting to go to, unless I could think of a last-minute excuse to give to Neville.

  I handed Lila the feather duster. “You can work at least for a minute,” I said.

  Lila took the duster without setting down her book but didn’t otherwise move. “Was it bad news with Hemlock?�
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  I snatched the duster back from her and started wiping it frantically over the top of the counter and the collection of bookmarks, little puzzles, and other odds and ends I kept up there for impulse purchases.

  “They’re running tests, so no one knows anything yet.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be okay. And he’s in good hands now.”

  “Is he? What do you know about Conri O’Farrell?”

  “The vet? Nothing, really. I overheard Camille Arden talking about how she was going to ask him out, so I guess he’s not married or anything. He moved here about the same time you did. Everyone was happy to have a vet in town. I guess that means he’s doing a killer business.”

  I gave a grim chuckle. “Interesting choice of words,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Lila asked, picking up her knitting once more.

  I told her about the man’s foul temper and the amulet he had moved so quickly to hide.

  “You think he’s a witch? Warlock?”

  Suggesting someone was a warlock was a big deal. While witches were natural magicians and came in on all sides of the good and evil spectrum, warlocks operated on borrowed power, usually from demonic forces, and could be guaranteed to deal in the darkest of dark magic. Being a warlock was not an accusation you threw around idly.

  “At the very least he has ties to magic. I need to know what that charm is used for, and if it’s connected to any black arts, before I add him to the suspect list.”

  “Suspects? You sound like you’re investigating this yourself,” Lila said.

  I looked to my feet. I didn’t want to get involved in dark magic, crimes, and murder. But knowing what I knew, and knowing no one else was going to give a damn about it, how could I not?

  But hadn’t I moved to Blackthorn to get away from this kind of danger? I wasn’t about to open the door and let that world back into my life. And now that Rowan Jackfort was sniffing around, it was best kept locked up as tightly as possible.

  “You’re right,” I said. “All this business about suspects and murder. We need to stop talking about it. It’s risky and stupid.”