by Bailey Cates
Chastened, I said in a small voice, “Thanks.”
“Call me if you want. Either way, I’ll check in with you later.”
I sat at my kitchen table and listened to the rumble of his truck engine fade. Mungo jumped up on my lap. The chili called from the containers on the counter. Holding Mungo, I got up and dished out a bowl, one-handed.
“You want some?”
His yip was subdued.
I heated his a little in the microwave and put it on his place mat on the floor, and he tucked in. I heated mine to blazing and took it to my own place mat on the table. It was awesome chili: spicy and exotic, deepened with the flavor of, Declan had once confessed, a splash of Jack Daniel’s.
Still, my stomach topsy-turvy from the day’s events, I managed only four bites before I had to dump it back into the container.
• • •
Scottish bannock cakes were traditional fare for Celtic Imbolc celebrations, and having a chance to make them for the spellbook club had thrilled me. After all, baking was a huge part of my life, and now so was magic. I loved how they often overlapped. The old recipes I’d found were for a kind of unleavened fried or baked patty, almost like a thick, oat-laden pancake. More recent recipes included yeast, which would make for a lighter, fluffier interior. I could easily see how the older version could turn out like hockey pucks, but I really wanted to stay as traditional as possible and avoid using yeast.
So I decided to do one of my favorite things when it came to making a recipe (or a spell, I was learning) my own: I used elements from very different recipes to come up with something totally new. That something, it turned out, was sweet and savory and substantial without resembling a dry, flat rock.
I melted bacon fat to begin. After all, when in doubt, bacon is a good place to start with any recipe. Then I added oatmeal, baking soda, and a little salt. In another bowl I mixed together beaten egg, milk, barely melted butter, and a bit of maple syrup, then added it all to the oatmeal. When it was the consistency I wanted—still sticky, but workable with floured hands—I dumped in white raisins, candied orange peel, and some finely chopped bacon. A bit of chewiness and a bit of crunch.
My breath deepened as I worked, the acts of mixing and tasting and testing calming both body and mind. In the kitchen I understood how flavors interacted and how ingredients reacted with other ingredients, heat, agitation, and time. With Lucy’s continued instruction, I also knew how to add a little magical oomph here and there. I felt sure, able to trust my instincts.
However, when it came to fulfilling some kind of magical destiny, I didn’t feel sure at all. Which I hated because I’d really come to enjoy the burst of confidence I’d developed since living in Savannah. The horrible way that paper bat had felt had thrown me. Ugh.
Pausing for an elaborate shoulder roll, I pushed the thought away. Tonight was for me, for my friends, for Brigit and her promise of spring. Hope and forward motion.
Except for Autumn Boles, of course.
After kneading the rough dough together with a bit more oatmeal, I formed it into three rounds and then cut the rounds into quarters—also called farls—as I did when making scones. The triangular shapes went onto a buttered cookie sheet to bake up crispy on the edges and tender in the middle.
I could hardly wait to hear the spellbook club’s verdict.
While they baked, I changed into warm slacks and a thick sweater, tidied the kitchen, and double-checked the preparations I’d made in the dark of morning. Everything looked fine, so when the bannocks were done, I set them out to cool on racks on the counter and shoved aside the pile of seed catalogs on my tiny kitchen table so I could open my laptop.
Mungo whined softly in the back of his throat. Without taking my eyes off the screen, I scooped him up and deposited him on my lap where he promptly lay down so I could type.
Quickly, I searched the online archive of the Savannah Morning News for any mention of the swampland deal or the promise of a new golf course being built on the outskirts of the city. I knew from past experience that the paper was often the first place to get basic information, but I typed my search request with trepidation.
Heinrich Dawes described himself as a venture capitalist, and I’d heard Steve was trying his hand at the family business since reconciling with his father and joining his druidic “social club.” However, Steve was also a former crime reporter turned columnist for the News. Most of his columns focused on Savannah business, and I didn’t remember seeing any about the land deal. Still, I couldn’t be sure.
The enmity between Steve and Declan was almost palpable when they were in the same room. Not only had Steve and I once been on the verge of getting seriously involved, but Declan and Steve had their own issues centering around the death of Steve’s brother—who had been Declan’s best friend.
When the results popped onto the screen, I frowned. There was a brief mention of Fagen Swamp, but it was from five years before in relation to a strange but irrelevant story about an H-bomb landing someplace in the area in the late 1950s. Apparently the investment group had managed to keep the upcoming deal out of the papers. That didn’t surprise me since I knew Heinrich Dawes was a man used to secrets and used to getting his way.
Weeks before, when I’d asked Autumn if getting the word out about the maroon bats in Fagen Swamp wouldn’t be a good way to garner public support, she’d agreed but said she wanted some definitive proof of the bats’ existence first. Otherwise she thought Georgia Wild would look foolish and lose some of its hard-won reputation. I couldn’t disagree with her logic.
So I wasn’t surprised when nothing surfaced on the Internet about a maroon bat sighting, and the only two references to Georgia Wild were regarding other projects the conservation agency had been involved with. Then, right before I shut down the computer, I saw an article about the increasing development of natural areas in the state.
Gart Fagen was quoted in the piece as saying that the swamp that carried his family’s name was a nasty, fetid place that he’d sell in a heartbeat. The article was dated over two years previously and stated that Fagen lived in Sedona, Arizona. If he liked the desert that much, then it was no wonder he had little interest in keeping his inherited marshland. Now it looked like he was about to get his wish.
Snapping the laptop shut, I said to Mungo, “Come on, little guy. We’ve got enough time for a quick walk around the block.”
Yip!
After slipping on my jacket, I jammed a wooly hat over my ears and opened the front door. Mungo bounded out to the postage-stamp lawn, the whole back half of his body wagging as I caught up. The night air had crisped, and I sucked in a deep, appreciative breath as we set off.
Since the houses on my side of the street backed up to an open space, we set off to circle the block across the way. I kept a brisk pace, but Mungo ran circles around me, getting twice as much exercise as I did. Good. He could be a bit of a lazybones, lolling around in the Honeybee office while I worked and rarely accompanying me on my runs.
As I walked, I thought about Declan’s repeated request that we go to Boston so I could meet his mother and stepfather. I was fine with meeting whatever family he wanted to introduce me to; that wasn’t the issue. But the proposed trip was just one more symptom of Declan pushing me to get serious, and instinctively I resisted. It wasn’t that I didn’t care deeply about Declan. It was just that it had been only a little over a year since my broken engagement, and I didn’t want to jump the gun. Declan was in his early thirties, and I knew he wanted to settle down sooner than later. Still, I wasn’t ready to think about marriage again, and I certainly wasn’t ready to think about having a family.
Would my children carry the same hereditary affinity for magic that had passed down to me? If I had a child with Declan, would he dilute the gift, or would it matter at all? After all, some said magic passed through the mother’s bloodline.
I co
uld imagine what my father, who came from a long line of Shawnee medicine men, would have to say about that.
At least he’d say something. Mama and I had barely managed a few awkward conversations ever since Lucy—her younger sister—had had the temerity to ask me to move to Savannah and open the bakery with her and Ben. Well, that and telling me I was a witch. Mama had worked pretty hard my whole life to keep that information from me, and was none too happy when I’d embraced the Craft so thoroughly.
We’d circled the block, and rounding the final corner revealed Margie Coopersmith hadn’t drawn her front curtains against the night yet. I could see straight into her living room. The coffee table had been shoved aside to make space for a blanket fort. Her five-year-old twins, Jonathan and Julia, had on cowboy hats, and Julia ran around brandishing a toy bow and arrow. Margie’s golden ponytail swung forward as she plopped Baby Bart onto the sofa. He turned and slid to the floor, hanging on to the cushions as he watched his mother drop down on all fours to give Jonathan a ride. Bart opened his mouth, and I could hear his delighted squeal all the way out on the street.
Laughing, I asked my canine companion, “Can you imagine my mother doing that when I was little?”
His head tipped to one side.
“Sorry. I forgot you haven’t met her.” Which made me think about meeting Declan’s mother again. Would he ever meet my mother? Did I want him to?
The image of Autumn Boles’ bloodless face rose in my mind. Did she have family? Parents and siblings who would miss her? And what about Hunter Normandy? What possible cause could her boyfriend have had to kill her? I’d met Hunter only a few times, but he and Autumn seemed to get along quite well, despite the icky feeling he gave me. The hit I got off him was hard to describe, but it was almost impersonal, as if he wasn’t the actual source of it. After all, Autumn had been no dummy. She was unlikely to choose—or stick with—a beau who was violent or otherwise unsavory.
Her ex-husband was another possible suspect, of course. The police always seemed to look at significant others and exes first. Autumn’s divorce had been final a few months before, and other than infrequent references to incidents from their past, she rarely spoke of him. I didn’t even know his name; she’d always referred to him as “the ex,” usually accompanied with a slight eye roll.
Then there was that darn bat she’d been holding. Was it actually related to her death, or had she just happened to be holding the origami when she’d been attacked? And what was wrong with it, in a metaphysical sense? I’d have to ask Wren if she’d felt it, too.
Sighing, I wished I could talk to my mother about the whole situation. Lucy was great, as were the other ladies in the spellbook club and my dad, but it wasn’t the same. What if there really was dark magic involved? I reminded myself that my mother wouldn’t have been the right one to talk to about Autumn’s murder anyway. Even if she’d been happy that I practiced magic, she’d still be the same overprotective Mama she’d always been.
Back home, I opened the door for Mungo and inhaled the spiced fragrance of the fresh-baked bannock cakes with appreciation.
And then it hit me. I wasn’t angry at my mother anymore. Not for keeping the family heritage of hedgewitchery a secret, and not for being such a pain in the patootie ever since I’d found out about it. I was simply tired of dealing with her stubbornness about magic.
And I missed her.
Chapter 5
By the time the doorbell rang at eight twenty, the apple cider was hot and infused with cloves, cardamom, clover honey, and a few black peppercorns. Jaida French stood on my porch, armed with a yellow candle, a bottle of wine, and a worried expression. An attorney by trade and tarot expert by training, she had been teaching me how to incorporate cards of the major arcana into my spell work. Tonight she wore designer jeans and a dark red sweater that glowed like fire against her deep mocha skin. She swept into the living room followed by her familiar, a Great Dane named Anubis.
Tail wagging so hard I thought he’d put his back out, Mungo launched himself off the couch. The two dogs touched noses. Mungo was about the size of the Great Dane’s head.
“God, Katie. How awful. How utterly, utterly awful.” Jaida set the bottle on the coffee table and threw her arms around me. Her soothing voice ran over me like caramel.
I returned her embrace, surprised to feel hot tears stinging my eyelids. “Mimsey called you, too,” I mumbled into her comforting shoulder. She smelled like cinnamon.
“Of course. She called all of us.” She stepped back and held me at arm’s length, looking me up and down. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”
I nodded, swallowing the sudden ache in my throat. “Thanks,” I finally managed. “Wren was much closer to Autumn than I was, though.” I thought of her stunned face as she’d careened out of Autumn’s office. “I’m really worried about her. Mimsey said she was going to try to get her to come tonight.”
“And Wren said she would.” Jaida laid her coat across the back of one of the wingbacks.
I started to close the door, then saw Lucy’s 1964 Thunderbird convertible pull into the driveway behind my Volkswagen. The top, of course, was up, but I could see Mimsey in the passenger seat, and the tall figure in the back had to be Wren.
“Grab yourself some cider,” I called to Jaida, and went out to the porch just as Margie opened her front door to take a look. I waved to her. She waved back and went inside. I’d already told her I was having a book club meeting at my house so she wouldn’t die from curiosity when the ladies arrived.
The three women got out of the Thunderbird and hurried toward me. Honeybee strolled leisurely behind them, the very picture of orange-striped feline nonchalance. Lucy wore a black cloak that reached nearly to the ground and had tamed her mop of hair into a thick braid that fell over one shoulder.
Mimsey, even shorter than my aunt and considerably rounder, wore a long, poufy down coat in vivid eye-pounding orange. Heckle, her parrot, rode on one shoulder. The septuagenarian was the unspoken leader of the spellbook club, as much as any group as democratic as ours needed a leader. She practiced flower and color magic as well as a bit of divination. Orange was, among other things, the color of movement and life force, apropos for this evening’s festivities, and the bow clinging to the side of her smooth white pageboy was the same traffic-cone hue as her coat. As they approached, I saw Mimsey’s usual twinkle had been ousted by worry. Lucy watched me with careful eyes as I greeted them, her face relaxing when I smiled at her.
Wren looked a little better, blinking at me from behind her dark-framed glasses. Her sheepskin coat hung loosely on her thin frame, and tight black leggings emphasized her long legs. “Hi, Katie. Thanks for letting me come tonight. I know covens aren’t traditionally open to outsiders, especially for Sabbat celebrations.”
I took her arm and led the way inside. “Don’t be silly. You’re not an outsider, Wren. You could be a member of the spellbook club if you wanted.”
“I keep telling her,” Mimsey said. Heckle squawked his agreement.
“I know, Gran.”
“Mimsey, do you think you’ll be warm enough in that coat?” I asked. She looked ready for an arctic expedition, and it was still in the low fifties outside.
Heckle, until now the perfect gentleman, suddenly squawked, “Sarcasm! Lowest form of humor!”
“Hush,” Mimsey admonished, but at least she was smiling.
Inside, Jaida called from the kitchen, “Who wants cider and who wants wine?”
We all exchanged glances and answered as one: “Wine!”
As everyone got their drinks, the doorbell rang again. Before I could get there, the door opened and Bianca Devereaux and Cookie Rios entered. The other ladies drifted back out of the kitchen, glasses in hand.
“Hi, guys,” I said.
“Hello,” Cookie said, the lilt of her Haitian accent evident even in the one word. She to
ok off her long leather coat to reveal a form-fitting dress the same jade as her eyes. These days her long dark hair was highlighted with subtle blue streaks. She was a few years younger than me, but I felt sure she possessed an old soul.
Tall and elegant, Bianca wore a long black cloak like Lucy’s. It was pretty traditional garb for workings, especially outside. As she was more traditional than any of us, Bianca looked the most like what the majority of people thought a traditional witch should look—long black hair, pale skin, penetrating green eyes, and a tendency to wear clothes that swirled and flowed around her. Funny that she was closest to Cookie, the one most likely to break the rules and ignore the Rule of Three.
Though the more I practiced, the more good and bad kept getting mixed up.
Now Bianca shook her head. “Oh, Wren. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She held out a basket that held a hefty bottle of champagne and seven carefully wrapped flutes.
Wren took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
As I reached to relieve her of the basket, I saw two bright eyes looking out from inside the collar of Bianca’s cloak. A tiny black nose quivered, then disappeared.
“I see you brought a friend,” I said.
Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “Puck,” she said softly, “come out and meet the spellbook club.”
The nose appeared again, then the head, snow-white except for a Zorro mask of black fur around the eyes. In a liquid flash he slithered around Bianca’s neck and down her arm to the cloak’s pocket where he resumed watching us with those dark, assessing eyes.
Puck was a ferret.
“Oh, he’s darling,” Lucy exclaimed. “How did he find you?” She asked because of course familiars find their witches, not the other way around. Mungo had shown up at the carriage house the first day I’d arrived there.
“He came into Moon Grapes this afternoon—from where, I have no idea. I was in my office working on the books when my assistant started shrieking like a madwoman. I ran out front and found her standing on a chair. She thought this little guy was a rat.” Bianca’s smile widened, and she stroked the sleek head. Puck leaned into her hand. “He came right up to me and has been riding on my shoulder or in my pocket ever since. He’s still a bit shy, but Colette adores him.” Colette was her six-year-old daughter.
