by Bailey Cates
Mungo bristled beside me.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, only one person has seen them.”
“There are pictures.”
He gave me a wry look.
“Okay, what do you know about the landowner, Gart Fagen?” I asked.
“Only what Father mentioned. He’s a backwoods kind of guy who inherited the land, but he’s not much of a nature nut. Couldn’t care less about flying mammals. He’s racked up a few gambling debts, not too bad but enough to make him highly motivated to sell. And not that many people want to buy a swatch of soggy swamp.”
“Sounds like they’re taking advantage of him.”
“Hardly. He wants the money, and he’s getting it. And the investors are getting a good deal. It’s the way business is done, Katie.”
“Not so great for the plants and animals that live there, though—whether there are maroon bats or not. You’re a druid, Steve. Aren’t you supposed to respect and love nature? Isn’t the rest of your clan supposed to as well?”
His lips pressed together. “I understand what you’re saying, of course. But we are modern druids, and nature takes many forms. They aren’t turning the swamp into a concrete parking lot. It will be a beautiful golf course full of natural elements. Not wild, mind you, but it will still be nature.”
Whatever you have to tell yourself so you can sleep at night, Steve.
“What else?” he asked.
“Who are the other investors?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“But you said—”
“I said I would answer your questions if I could. I only know about Father and Logan.”
I pointed to the office next door. “Your lawyerly ‘colleague,’ huh? So is there some famous golfer behind all this nonsense?”
“Not yet—but there will be.”
“Who?”
“From what I know, the investors haven’t decided yet. They’ll select some up-and-comer who will jump at the chance to design a course and whose name will add cachet to the project.”
It sounded like a backward way of going at things. What if they couldn’t convince their chosen designer to become involved? Then I remembered how persuasive Heinrich could be—and how he wouldn’t be shy about using magic to get what he wanted. It would be interesting to see what the Rule of Three bounced back at him.
“Okay.” I stroked Mungo’s head and thought about what else Steve might be able to tell me. “Do you know of anyone who would, no, wait . . . anyone who could possibly have a reason to want Autumn dead?”
He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his desk chair. His shirt stretched taut over his chest, and I had a sudden vision of running my hands over his bare torso. Tearing my gaze away, I met his dark knowing eyes. For a split second I wondered if he could read my mind, but I quickly pushed the thought away.
“That’s a rather subjective question, Katie. Never mind the fact that I’d never met her.” But there was something in his voice.
I suppressed a smile. “No, it’s not. You either know of someone who has a possible motive—just possible motive is all I’m asking about—or you don’t.”
Without taking his eyes from my face, he reached for a pen on the desk in front of him and began tapping it against the blotter.
“You do, don’t you?” I urged.
He looked toward the ceiling as if weighing his answer. “Possible motive, I suppose. And I’m only telling you this because . . . well, because you might be able to do something with the information. I’m not sure what, though.”
“You are a tease. Plain and simple.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
Steve said, “I heard that Skip Thorsen wanted to join the investment group, but he didn’t have enough money.”
Skip. Did I know that name? “Who is Skip Thorsen, and why would that give him a motive to kill Autumn Boles?”
“He’s her ex-husband.”
I gaped.
“And he still has a nice big life insurance policy on her.”
I tucked that choice bit of information into my mental pocket and plunged on. “What about Logan Seward?”
Steve shrugged.
“You must know something about him.”
“Nothing that has any relevance here.”
I glared at him.
He ignored me. “So, how are you and your new boyfriend doing?”
I stood and slung the tote onto my shoulder. “Steve, I understand your dislike of Declan. I know what happened when he and Arnie went into that burning building. I’m so sorry for the loss of your brother, but it wasn’t Declan’s fault. I’m simply not going to sit here and listen to you run down my boyfriend.”
He stood, too. “Oh, stop it. How is asking how you two are doing running down your boyfriend?”
“It . . . I could hear it in your tone.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Was it? Was I manufacturing difficulty where there wasn’t any?
He came around the desk until he was standing next to me, his elbow brushing my arm. I tensed but held my ground.
“I said I had a proposal for you,” he murmured. “It’s nothing terrible, nothing weird. But back at the bakery, you said you didn’t want me out of your life. And I most definitely don’t want to be out of your life.”
“Steve . . .”
“We can’t be involved, as you put it, romantically. At least not . . . well, I respect your decision, Katie, because I respect you. But we can be friends, can’t we?”
I was silent.
His voice was tender. “You chose Declan, not me. I should be the one who is upset, not you. I’m over it. I’d rather have you in my life in whatever way I can than push you away because I’m too pigheaded to understand your problems with my druid clan. Because I do understand.”
I felt dizzy, and I knew darn well it wasn’t because Steve was trying any magical tricks.
Cripes.
“Or would it be too difficult for you to be my friend?” he asked. His breath moved a strand of my hair. “Because you’re still attracted to me?”
Mungo growled.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Even I could tell there was a little too much fervor in my response.
He stepped back and held up his palms. “Well, then? Friends?”
I pasted a smile on my face and nodded once. “Sure. Why not?” I turned and walked toward the office doorway.
“See you around, Katie.”
“Okeydoke.” I kept my tone light. As I walked back down the hallway, I muttered to Mungo, “He’s right. There’s no reason we can’t be friends. He’s a good guy.”
My familiar made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat.
“Not a good guy like Declan is a good guy, of course,” I assured him.
As we made our way down the last flight of steps, the outside door opened and a man entered the stairwell. In the brief flash of light, I had a good view from above of silvery brown hair surrounding a circular bald spot like a monk’s tonsure. Then the door closed, and the man started up in the dim light. The newcomer spotted me and stopped, his hand gripping the railing.
My heart began pounding, and Mungo popped up out of the tote.
Hello,” he said. His dark eyes ran up and down my body.
Yuck.
“Hi.” I hurried past him, alert for any sudden moves. There was no magical instinct driving my actions, no intuitive hit; there was only the practical motivation that any woman has when she finds herself in a dark stairwell with a man she doesn’t know—especially a man who has the bad manners to so blatantly check her out.
“Hey, can I help you?” he asked as I went by.
“No, thanks.” I reached for the door.
He started back down t
he stairs toward me.
“No, thanks,” I repeated, holding out my hand and willing him to keep his distance.
He slowed. Mungo growled low in his throat, a small sound that wouldn’t have turned a head on the street, but I felt his enormous will join mine in snarling, feral protection.
The air in the stairwell shifted. The man paled. Stepped back.
I yanked the door open and strode into the welcome daylight. Still, I didn’t breathe easy until we were out on the street. In Reynolds Square I sank onto a wooden bench and hugged Mungo to my chest.
“My little wolf. Thank you.”
He lapped at my chin with his bright pink tongue.
Yip!
Chapter 9
Instead of turning toward the Honeybee, I headed toward the Savannah River. The tantalizing aromas of frying garlic, onion, and roasting pork swirled in the air outside the Olde Pink House as we went by. Mungo’s nose twitched, and my stomach grumbled. I ignored it. We crossed Bay and soon wended down to the uneven bricks of River Street. As soon as we were away from traffic, I defied the leash law and put Mungo down. He happily trotted along beside me.
A horn sounded from a boat on the river, low and mournful. The calming water energy washed over me. I paused and lifted my face to the warm sunlight for a few moments, closing my eyes.
“You’re it!”
I opened my eyes to see three young girls playing tag. They ran toward the river, squealing, and I couldn’t help smiling. As we continued along the wide redbrick walkway, thoughts of Autumn, fate, and magic swirled through my mind.
The only reason I became involved in another homicide investigation was because I volunteered at Georgia Wild. I began volunteering at the nonprofit because Mimsey had introduced me to her granddaughter who just happened to work there. Just happened to. I’d liked what Georgia Wild stood for and I’d liked Autumn, but Lucy was right: I’d been trying to orchestrate how I could do something positive and at the same time be in control of my own destiny. In doing so, I’d put myself smack-dab in the middle of a murder case.
Again.
Since Lucy had first told me I was a hereditary hedgewitch—actually since I’d first accepted it, which came a bit later—I’d come to understand that I was a kind of magical catalyst. Sometimes my presence augmented magical workings. Coincidences overlapped, things fell into line, and serendipity was my friend. Also, sometimes things happened when I was around. I’d come to accept that, too, though somewhat unwillingly.
Last Halloween, Franklin Taite had told me I was a lightwitch. It was frustrating not knowing what that really meant. I couldn’t practice dark magic? Fine by me. But what was it, really?
“Is black magic really black magic if it’s for the right cause?” I muttered to Mungo. “After all, hardly anything in this world is really black or white. Most things fall someplace on a continuum of gray. Lucy has often talked about gray magic, and so have the other members of the spellbook club. Is there even such a thing as pure white magic?”
Such a thing as pure white magic?
The amplified words drifted back to me through the early-afternoon air. Stunned, I froze. Mungo sat down, looking up at me. Then I laughed, realizing what had happened.
I hadn’t been paying attention as I walked, thinking out loud, and had wandered into the circular patch of pavement in Rousakis Plaza that was known as the echo chamber. One day when I’d picked Bianca up from her wineshop, Moon Grapes, to have lunch, she’d suggested we get something and eat by the water. On the way she’d pointed to a man in plaid Bermuda shorts standing by himself in the middle of the pavement and apparently moving his lips silently. A woman stood nearby, watching him with a smile. Bianca had explained that something about the construction of the area ramped up even the smallest whisper and returned it to the person who had uttered it. However, this was the first time I’d actually experienced it myself.
I laughed again, waiting for the echo, but this time another laugh joined my own. I looked around to see who it was. There wasn’t a soul nearby. Puzzled, I looked down at Mungo. His nose quivered as he sniffed the air. He wagged his tail, and a split second later I smelled the sweet scent, too.
Gardenia.
My eyes went wide. “Nonna?” I asked quietly. Now Mungo’s tail was wagging so enthusiastically that the whole back half of his body wiggled.
This time, instead of an echo of my own words, I heard the voice of my grandmother—my grandmother who had died when I was nine years old.
Katie . . . magic is always about intention. Make sure your intention is for good, and you don’t have to worry.
This was the third time she’d come to me, but only the second time she’d spoken. I was thrilled to hear from her again.
“Oh, Nonna,” I whispered. “What if I mess up? No one seems to understand. What if I need to cast gray or even black magic for some reason, but I can’t because I’m a lightwitch who can only cast white magic? What if the good of the many depends on the sacrifice of one? What if my intentions are good, but I still make the wrong choice?”
There are no easy answers. And remember that every group for the good has their warriors—the Jesuits, warrior monks, the yamabushi. You must trust that you have whom you need in your life.
Voices behind me warned of an approaching group of tourists. Quickly, I asked, “Whom do you mean?”
The words returned as a normal echo. My nonna’s spirit was gone.
Smiling absently at the family walking by, I picked up Mungo and put him back in the tote bag. Slowly, we returned to the Honeybee. As I walked back to Broughton, I mulled over the brief advice my grandmother had offered. What did she mean that I had to trust that I had whom I needed in my life? Someone I already knew? Someone I would meet? More than one person?
At least I understood what she meant by keeping my intentions toward the good. I tried to do that anyway.
Was it possible I was worrying about nothing? That I was already on the right track?
And what the heck was a yamabushi?
• • •
Even with the walk along the riverfront I got back to the bakery before we closed. The door of the Honeybee opened when I was a few steps away. Cookie came out but didn’t notice me. She propped it open with the ironwork cat we used as a doorstop and turned to wave to someone inside. The spicy, sweet, and savory scents that were the Honeybee’s best advertisement rolled out to entice passersby from the sidewalk. I glanced at my watch. Half an hour until closing. Maybe all those good smells would pull in a few last-minute customers from the Sunday strollers spending some of this beautiful day in Savannah’s historic district.
“Hi,” I said.
Cookie whirled. “Oh! Katie, you startled me.” She wore a black ribbed turtleneck over a black and green plaid skirt. Her long legs were encased in tights, and soft leather boots reached to her knees.
“Sorry. How did the job interview go?”
She shrugged. “Hard to tell.”
I laughed. “Usually you can tell right away. In fact, usually you don’t actually interview for jobs.”
Another shrug. “Things change.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Cookie? Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” she said, and pushed past me. “See you later.” The heels of her boots clicked down the sidewalk with purpose.
Bewildered, I went inside. Lucy stood on a stepstool and wrote on the menu blackboard. Two women sat in the library, chatting over crumb-filled plates, and a man sat at a table in the far corner, pounding on his laptop as if it were trying to escape.
“You’re back!” Lucy called when she saw me. She’d donned a hemp apron in a muted orange that matched her blouse.
I smiled and approached. “Good heavens. Everything is positively gleaming.”
“It gave me something to do while you were gone. How did things go?” Lucy a
sked, climbing down.
“It was . . . interesting. Mildly informative.”
Lucy looked amused. “And how is Steven?”
“Interesting as well. But not as interesting as Declan.”
She raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment.
Looking at where she’d been writing on the menu, I saw that she’d lowered the price on the Healthwise Breakfast Muffins we’d recently added to the menu. They were chock-full of carrots, bananas, oats, nuts, honey, and coconut, not to mention a plethora of spices.
She followed my gaze. “I thought if we charged less, more people might try them. Or maybe change the name? They’re so delicious, but sometimes people have to be convinced to eat things that are good for them.”
“Good idea. Let’s see how the price change works, and if you think of a better name, I’m all for it,” I said, then nodded toward the kitchen.
She followed me as I put Mungo in the office.
“What the heck is going on with Cookie?” I asked over my shoulder. “She barely spoke to me on her way out. I know she’s upset about her love life, but she’s been acting kind of weird for a while.”
Lucy nodded. “I don’t even know that she’s that upset about Brandon. You know how well she takes moving on to someone new. Practically insists on it. But she skipped the last spellbook club meeting. I think it’s the first one she’s missed.”
“And didn’t she seem kind of prickly at the Imbolc celebration last night?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes Cookie can be a little sensitive.”
“Meaning?”
A few moments of hesitation, then my aunt looked me in the eye. “Sometimes she feels like the rest of us judge her. Jaida, mostly, because she thinks Cookie is willing to ignore the Rule of Three, but the rest of us as well. And now you.”
“Me? Did I say something that sounded judgmental?”
“Not that I know of. But you’re . . . Well, she might feel like a lightwitch would be a little . . . holier than thou.”
My lips parted in surprise. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it is. And perhaps I’m wrong. But I’ve watched how she looks at you since Samhain.”
