I know some people would find it depressing continuing to live in the family home after their parents died, but I love this room, with Beatrix’s paintings on the walls, the shelves full of books on witchcraft that Mum and I collected over the years, the bowls of crystals and bottles of essentials oils, and all the other witch paraphernalia scattered around.
I go into the kitchen, which is my next favourite room. In the centre is a large pine table that belonged to my grandmother, on which she, my mum, and I have all kneaded dough over the years. Bundles of dried herbs hang from the ceiling, and the shelves are filled with hundreds of tiny jars of spices that I use in both my cooking and my spells, all blessed for different purposes—protection, love, wealth, happiness, health.
I tip Merlin’s dog food into his bowl, roll my eyes at his sigh, then prepare my own dinner while he eats, filling the house with the smell of the warmed steak pie. I cook and mash some potatoes, heat up some green beans, and prepare a little gravy. When dinner’s ready, I pour myself a glass of red wine, take it into the living room with my meal, and eat while I attempt to watch TV.
After a while, though, I put my plate aside and turn the TV off. Holding a second glass of red wine, I turn and lift my feet onto the sofa, dangling my free hand over the edge and burying it in Merlin’s fleecy coat.
I think of Luke, who would know by now that his wife has been murdered, and wipe away the tears that run down my cheeks. I didn’t like Liza; she wasn’t a very nice person. But I didn’t wish her ill.
My eyelids droop a little, and I finish off the last mouthful of wine. Unbidden, the memory of the pair of blue eyes rises in my mind. I think about the Japanese word—what was it? Tsukumogami, that’s it. An object taking on a life of its own. Is that what’s happened? The suit is so old that it’s come alive? I slide down on the sofa a bit more. Something deep within me tells me that’s not the case here. I think about Beatrix’s explanation of the soulstone. Is it possible that someone’s soul is captured in the suit?
I think of the genie in the lamp, and my joke to Beatrix and Max, I think I need to give him a polish, and my lips curve up in a smile.
For a moment, I worry about having bad dreams and reliving the moment when I found Liza. But I fall asleep quickly, and when I dream, it’s about meeting a knight with startling blue eyes.
Chapter Four
“You’re a Virgo, right?”
The question comes from Cooper, my chirpy, eighteen-year-old barista. He looks like a young Ryan Gosling, and I like having him in the café because I’m guaranteed to have a regular flow of young women coming in to order coffee, whether they actually drink it or not. He’s in the middle of training at the local culinary college, and he works at The Avalon Café part time, gaining practical experience for his course. At the moment, there’s a brief respite in the busy morning, and he’s leaning on the counter, reading out our horoscopes on his phone.
“I’m on the cusp,” I tell him as I collect the cups from a nearby table, smiling as I watch a child petting Merlin, who’s sitting outside. “I was born at sunrise, when the Sun was moving from Virgo into Libra.”
“All right.” He consults his phone. “So for Virgo it says, ‘This week you are liable to experience surprising events that upset your usual balanced equilibrium.’” He snorts. “They got that right.”
“Just a bit.” I bring the cups to the counter.
“It also says, ‘Sexy Libra is super-hot right now, so if you’re young, free, and single, you probably won’t be for long!’” He looks up at me. “So you’re going to witness a murder and fall in love. Sounds like quite a week.”
“It certainly does.” My hesitant smile covers the unease that has been there all morning. The Adventure, the library, and the field unit have been closed all morning while the police question everyone who works there and collect samples of everyone’s DNA. SOCO—scene of crime officers—are coming and going, and we’ve been busy making coffees and muffins for the police. Imogen has been in a few times checking up on me and letting us know what’s going on, as well as taking a statement. It’s unsettling, and I miss the quiet normalcy of our daily lives.
The bell above the door sounds, and in comes Duncan, one of the archaeologists from the field unit, who also happens to be Cooper’s dad. “Morning. Large mocha please, Coop. Two sugars.”
“Coming right up.” Cooper slides his phone into his back pocket and starts making the coffee.
“How are you doing?” Duncan asks me, looking over the top of his glasses. Everyone knows it was me who found Liza’s body. They’ve all been keeping an eye on me throughout the day.
“Better now the sun’s come out,” I say truthfully. The storm has passed, and although it’s not exactly warm, everything always seems better when the sun’s shining.
“She’s been baking,” Delia tells him. “She always feels better when she bakes.”
“We all feel better when Gwen bakes,” Duncan says. “I’ll have an apricot and cream cheese muffin with my coffee, please.”
Delia bags it for him, and I smile as he pays. Apricots are packed with Vitamin A and Beta Carotene, which are great for eye disorders. I pop a little clear vision spell on them, and they’re always popular with people with bad eyesight or eye problems, as well as helping them to think clearly when they’ve something important to do.
I do feel better when I’m cooking, if only because baking is the way I do magic, and doing spells invariably has an uplifting effect on the soul. Today I did what Beatrix suggested. Raisins are great at preventing many ailments and are perfect for a protection spell. I soaked some in a small amount of rum from a bottle that I’d left out under the light of a full moon, then used them in an oatmeal cookie mix, making sure I used the cinnamon I’d previously blessed for protection. Once the ingredients were all mixed in, I did the spell, asking the Goddess to surround whoever was eating the cookie with light, to keep them safe and protect them from harm. Once they were baked, I kept a few in an airtight box under the counter, and I’ve been breaking off pieces and nibbling them throughout the morning.
“Weather’s definitely looking much better,” Duncan says. He looks at his son, conscious, I think, that everyone’s subdued today after Liza’s death. “Want to drown a few maggots in the Brue later?”
Cooper nods. The two of them often go fishing together. “Friend of mine caught a twelve-pound pike yesterday.”
“Cool. There’s definitely a twenty-pound perch in there with my name on it. I’ll pick you up at three?” He takes his coffee, waves, and goes out.
My buzzer sounds, so I go through to the kitchen and take out a new batch of feta and spinach muffins, put them aside to cool, and slide in some large sausage rolls. Allison and Joss, my two kitchen staff, are busy making sandwiches and filled rolls for the lunchtime rush. Everything is as it should be, and yet I still feel uneasy, with butterflies fluttering around in my tummy.
“Is Gwen around?” A man’s voice sounds from the café. “I’d like to ask her some questions about how she found the murder victim.”
I stop in the middle of lifting some cheese and bacon muffins out of their tin—cheese helps build healthy bones and teeth, and I throw a little happy spell on these to encourage people to smile. I know that voice. It’s Matthew Hopkins. A local journalist, he’s very proud of the fact that he’s descended from the Witchfinder General who was responsible for the deaths of over three hundred witches in the seventeenth century. Channelling his ancestor’s passion, he’s writing a book about witchcraft in Somerset. He discovered that, in 1646, two witches were hanged near Glastonbury, and on reading that witchcraft passes down through the generations, he began researching the family trees of those two witches. And that’s how he discovered that I’m descended from one of them, Alice Young. Apparently, I’m Alice’s great, great, great… insert several more greats here… granddaughter. It doesn’t help that my mother’s name was also Alice, and her married name—my surname—was Young. That just happen
s to be a coincidence; it’s a fairly common surname, after all, but Matthew sees it as a sign.
Then, when he put his back out playing golf and was in a lot of pain, Delia jokingly told him my cherry chocolate muffins always made her arthritis feel better. Matthew bought one and returned the next day insisting I’d done some kind of spell because all his pain had gone. I denied it, but he was right, and he somehow knew it, and he’s now determined to prove I’m a witch.
I could stay here in the kitchen and let Delia and Cooper deal with him; neither of them like him, and they will happily evict him if the need arises. But I don’t like letting other people fight my battles for me. I wipe my hands on a cloth and go out into the café.
“He was just leaving,” Cooper says icily.
“I don’t have my coffee yet,” Matthew points out.
“It’s all right, Cooper. Make his coffee. What can I do for you?” I ask Matthew calmly.
Matthew is tall, dark, and good looking, and he knows it. He’s older than me, late thirties, and I believe he’s panicking at the thought of turning forty. He’s recently bought a sports car, he’s out with a different girl every few weeks, and I’m guessing it’s more difficult for him to stay in shape than it used to be five years ago, because he’s always limping from sprained ankles. He’s captain of the local football team and cricket team, but I’m convinced his tan is fake, and his teeth are far too white to be natural.
His shrewd brown eyes narrow, and his gaze slips down me, assessing my figure in my jeans and navy shirt. I bear his scrutiny with a lifted chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’s making me uncomfortable.
Even though he’s never short of a date, and he’s determined to prove I’m a witch, he frequently asks me out. I always decline as politely as I can, and he always looks surprised, as if he can’t believe I’ve been able to resist his charms.
“You look good today,” he says.
From the suit of armour over by the door, there’s a slight squeak. Delia hears it and glances over, but Matthew doesn’t react, so I’m guessing he thought it was someone’s chair.
“What do you want?” I ask tiredly. “I’m busy.”
“Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs said you witnessed the murder of Liza Banks,” he says. “I wonder if you’d like to give me an account of last evening.”
“No thank you.”
“I’ll pay you,” he says.
For some reason, that comment brings heat to my cheeks. “I’m not talking to the press,” I snap. “And I’m busy, so I’d like you to leave, please.” I walk across the café to the door, open it, and turn to him pointedly.
He picks up his coffee, walks slowly over to me and stands in the doorway, then turns to face me.
“It’s the spring equinox on Saturday,” he says softly. “The pagan festival of Ostara. Will you be celebrating it?”
I stiffen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He moves a little closer to me. “I don’t believe you. I know you’re a witch. Making all your muffins with magic. You’d have been hanged by now if you’d lived in the seventeenth century.”
Unfortunately, he’s probably right, and I have to still a shudder. “Please leave,” I state clearly. “I’m busy.”
He tips his head to study me, and his eyes take on a lewd glow. “Are you going to do a few spells, dance skyclad in the forest?” He’s mocking me, and his use of the word skyclad, which means ritual nakedness, makes my face burn. “Can I watch?” he asks silkily.
There’s another squeak from behind him. He hears this one and turns, right as the knight’s arm swings forward with the sword. Matthew leaps out of the way with a yell, and the tip of the sword lands on the tiles with a clang.
He swears, loud and colourful, prompting a glare from one of the elderly customers sitting at a nearby table in the window.
“That nearly hit me!” he exclaims.
“Sorry about that,” I tell him, not in the least bit truthfully.
“It’s dangerous,” he says. “I’m going to call the Council and get the Health and Safety Department to check it out.”
“You do that.” I gesture out of the door. “Goodbye.”
His chest heaving, he pauses, and for a moment I think I’m going to have trouble getting him out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cooper twitch, and I have a vision of him leaping over the counter to come and rescue me. In the doorway, Merlin barks and then snarls, something he does very rarely.
Matthew obviously decides he’s not going to win this time, and he walks out, avoiding Merlin, and strides off down the road.
I blow out a long breath and look at the suit of armour. I’m going to have to do something about that sword. I’ll get some rope and tie it so his arm can’t fall again.
I look up at the helm, and inhale sharply. The blue eyes are back. They stare unblinkingly into mine, the colour of a beautiful summer sky.
I stare at them, then move forward and lift the visor. It’s empty.
“Shame it missed,” Delia says, coming to stand beside me.
“Mm.” My heart is hammering. I lower the visor and look down at the knight’s arm. The sword lies across the doorway, blocking the entrance.
“Cooper,” I call out, “can you bring me some rope from the break room?”
“Sure thing.” He runs out, then reappears with a length of rope and comes over.
Together, we lift the knight’s arm back into place, then loop the rope over it and secure it around his neck. Cooper ties it tightly. There’s no chance now that the arm can fall.
I feel a twinge of regret. It’s clear there is something unusual about the suit of armour, whether it’s taken on its own life because it’s so old, or if it’s something else. I’d say it was cursed, but cursed objects don’t rescue their owners! I’m convinced the sword falling was no accident, and he’s saved me twice now. But I can’t risk the sword falling on a customer.
“There.” Cooper steps back. “That’s one of my knots. He won’t get free anytime soon.”
“I think we need a cup of tea,” Delia says, and we all nod, so she goes off to make a pot.
I walk to a nearby table and pick up some cups, then glance over at the knight. I can just see a glimmer of his blue eyes. He’s watching me.
My lips curve up in a small smile, and I walk out to the kitchen.
Chapter Five
“How’s your afternoon been?” Imogen asks. She’s refused a coffee and the last lemon muffin, so I suspect she’s here on business. Lemon aids weight loss, and with a spell that encourages a person to enjoy the benefits of a walk outdoors, these muffins are one treat people can eat without feeling guilty, and she usually loves them.
It’s now five-thirty, and the light is fading, even though there’s nearly an hour until sunset. The temperature has dropped since the storm, and there’s a spring coolness to the air. Moths flutter around the café windows, making Merlin sneeze and snap at them in mid-air.
“Busy,” I tell her. “Having all your police officers around has put us in overdrive.”
“We do like our coffee and muffins,” she admits.
She glances around the café. It’s quieter now. Cooper’s gone fishing with Duncan, and Delia is wiping down the tables. We close at six p.m., because by then the restaurants are opening, and everyone’s looking for dinner rather than coffee and a snack.
“Can I steal Gwen for a while?” Imogen asks the older woman.
“Of course.” Delia picks up some plates. “I’ll stack the dishwasher.”
“You can head out then,” I tell her. “I’ll close up. Thank you for your hard work today.”
She smiles, and I tug on my coat and head out of the café, Merlin at my side.
“What can I do for you?” I ask Imogen.
“SOCO has cleared the library,” Imogen explains. “We can go in now. I wonder whether you could walk me through what happened?”
I swallow hard at the thoug
ht of returning to the scene of the crime. But I say, “Of course.”
“It won’t take long,” she promises. “I just want to make sure I have the events right in my mind.”
“I understand.”
It’s a cool, clear evening. The sun is setting, turning the stones of Glastonbury Abbey to a warm amber. I grew up listening to my parents telling me stories about this place, and I learned to love both the history and the legend. Founded in the seventh century, the Abbey was destroyed by fire in 1184, then rebuilt, and eventually it became one of the richest monasteries in England. The myths that surround the area are even more rich and varied, linking it to the Isle of Avalon, and claiming connections to the Holy Grail and, of course, King Arthur, who is supposedly buried here with his queen, Guinevere.
Tonight, though, the stones bring me no comfort, as I think about the terrible event of the night before.
“How’s Luke doing?” I ask Imogen.
“As you’d expect.” She kicks at a stone with her toe. “Telling someone their wife has been murdered isn’t one of the highlights of the job.” Her voice is a little sharp.
I look across at her. Her dark brown hair is in her usual tight bun at the nape of her neck. As a detective chief inspector, she doesn’t have to wear uniform, but she always dresses smartly, and today she’s in a grey trouser suit with a crisp white shirt. She’s a good soul, and my best friend. Although she didn’t have the complication of dating Luke, she knew both he and Liza from school, so this must be upsetting for her, too.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her softly. “I hope you don’t think I was being gleeful.”
“Gwen! Of course not.” She frowns at me. “You’re the nicest person in the universe. I’d never think that. It was awful, that’s all. Luke cried when I told him. I’ve been angry with him for so long, for your sake, but right then all I felt was pity.” She clears her throat. “I spoke to him this morning, and he said something really weird. He’d been to the library, to see where Liza died. And he said on the way out, he looked along the bookstacks, and he was convinced he saw her, just for a moment.”
One Dark and Stormy Knight Page 3
