by Bailey Cates
He grinned at my sarcasm. Then suddenly his smile faltered, and something flickered behind his eyes. His gaze became assessing, and I realized that he could probably sense the power—or lack of power—in other people just as I’d always been able to do. His eyes flashed as he scooted over and patted the seat beside him.
“Right? Listen, I want you to meet my friend Dante Bundy. Dante, this is Katie Lightfoot. Her family owns the Honeybee Bakery over on Broughton.”
The blood drained from my face, but I managed to paste what I hoped was a pleasant look onto my face as I numbly sat down.
What’s Steve up to?
Then I got it. He thought he was doing me a favor. He might get a scoop on a murder story, but he was also trying to help me out by introducing me to Dante. He probably had no idea that Dante had an alibi for the time Mr. Bosworth was killed.
If he really did. A coworker had seen him go into his office? Could he have slipped out again without being seen? Because Quinn had seemed awfully vague.
“Pleased to meet you,” Dante Bundy said. He sounded anything but pleased, though. Clearly, I was interrupting.
“Likewise,” I murmured, and looked him over.
Dante was solidly built, meaty, one might even say, but tall enough to carry it. His hair was the white-blond of a California surfer dude, and he sported the deep tan to match. The orange tone of the tan made me think it had been sprayed on, though, and the hair color was a bit too flat to be natural. He was dressed in black jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. I wondered whether it was how he dressed for work or if he had the day off.
“Dante.” Sophie King called out the name on the receipt in her hand, and our companion immediately slid out of the booth to retrieve his order from the bar.
Quickly, I whispered to Steve, “Hey, thanks for thinking of me, but I should go. He’s never going to talk to you while I’m here.”
He grimaced. “Actually, he probably won’t talk to me anyway. Turns out he’s still holding a grudge from our school days.”
“You invited him here?”
A nod.
“Then why did he come if he’s still upset with you?”
A shrug.
Dante came back with a tray loaded with two Guinness stouts and a basket of sweet potato fries. “Did you want something?” he asked me in a flat tone, still standing. He couldn’t have been more unwelcoming.
Instinctively, I tried to reach out with my intuition to see what kind of hit I’d get off the guy. But of course, there was nothing.
I met his eyes. They were gray and cold.
Are you the one who did this to me? Did you kill your uncle and take my magic?
I stood up. “No, thanks.” Looking back at Steve, I said, “We’ll have to catch up sometime.” Meaning: “Call me when you’re done here.”
He looked startled. “Oh, hey. Are you sure?”
Normally, I would have figured out a way to question Dante, bring up his mother, or make like I knew his uncle better than I did. But I didn’t have the stomach for it right then. Maybe after I had my magic back, I would.
“Positive. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m just going to run back to the restroom and then pick up my order from Sophie over there.” If I was lucky, I could slip out without Dante realizing I hadn’t ordered any food.
I nodded to Dante and went past him toward the back of the bar. In the restroom, I splashed cold water on my face and dried it on a paper towel. Then I paused in front of the mirror. I looked like the same old Katie Lightfoot, at least on the outside. Dark auburn hair, green eyes, freckles. But the old Katie would still have been trying to find a murderer if the clairvoyance spell hadn’t worked. The old Katie wouldn’t have given up. Deep down, I knew that—warning or no warning from Connell.
I blinked and looked away. I wasn’t the old Katie anymore.
For a second, I wondered whether Declan would still love the new-and-not-so-improved version.
Stop it. You can’t afford to think things like that. Stay positive and wait to see what happens this evening.
I pushed the thought into a dark recess of my mind as best I could but still felt the weight of it there. Sighing, I turned and pushed through the door.
Steve and Dante were talking. My friend looked very earnest. Though I could see Dante only from the back, he was leaning forward, and there was an intensity to his body language. Steve’s eyes flicked up at me for a split second, then returned to his companion.
I slowed, not wanting to interrupt them if Steve had finally managed to get his old college buddy to talk to him. The booth behind them was empty, so I silently slipped into the seat facing away from Dante. The high back of the seat would hide me if he were to turn around, but even in the busy bar, I could hear him over the backdrop of conversation.
“No sirree,” he was saying in a rough voice. “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you Dragohs let outsiders into your clan. Couldn’t care less.”
“You know that wasn’t my call,” Steve said.
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I have my own group now.” He gave a little laugh. “And you druids might be hearing from us pretty soon.”
There were a few seconds of heavy silence, then Steve’s voice, low but harsh. “Are you actually threatening me, Bundy?”
Dante laughed, and I felt him get out of his seat. Not wanting to draw his attention, I ducked my head away and busied myself with my tote bag, which I’d crammed into the corner of the booth.
“Thanks for giving me a call, Steve. Real good to see you. Maybe we’ll run into each other again soon. Oh, and thanks for the drink. I’d offer to pay, but we both know you’re the rich one.”
“Not the only one, not from what I’ve heard,” Steve said. “Not since your uncle was murdered and you get the bulk of his estate.”
“How did you know that?” Dante sounded angry.
“We know a lot of things,” Steve said. “Like about the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon.”
Dante muttered an expletive, then there was the sound of rapid footsteps.
“You can show yourself now, Katie. He stormed out.”
I popped my head over the top of the booth to see Steve was sitting by himself. Sure enough, Dante had left the building. I got up and slid into the seat across from Steve.
“You heard?” he asked.
I nodded. “Quinn says he has an alibi. Someone saw him at work during the time window Bosworth was killed. I don’t know if I believe it, but Quinn seems to.”
Steve’s lips pulled back in a wry grimace. “It might not matter if he has an alibi. He has friends now.”
“You mean the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon druids?”
He nodded. “I checked with Father, and there have been some quiet and unsubstantiated rumors that they’ve gotten the band back together, so to speak. Dante might not have killed his uncle, but I have to wonder if he knows who did.”
“Maybe.” I nodded, thinking it through. “Maybe Quinn can do something with that.”
And maybe the old Katie Lightfoot wasn’t gone altogether.
Steve sat back. “Hmm. Sure. Tell Detective Quinn all about the Dragohs, Katie. No problem.”
“I think I can avoid going that far.”
He sighed.
I noticed the dark circles under his eyes for the first time. “What’s going on with you?”
A shrug.
Then I remembered his awkwardness in front of Mr. Bosworth’s house when I asked about his girlfriend. “Are you and Angie doing okay?”
His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “I’m doing okay, and she’s doing okay. We’re just not doing okay together anymore.”
“You broke up?”
A quick nod, and he cleared his throat. “It’s for the best. What about you? I mean, that’s quite the shielding spell you’ve got going
there. I’d almost think you weren’t a witch.”
Stricken, I blinked away the tears that suddenly threatened.
The skin tightened across his face, and his eyes widened. “Katie-girl?” He leaned forward and scanned my face. “What’s up?”
I looked away. Forced myself to look back.
He waited.
“I, uh, I tried a spell last night. Apparently at the same time that someone was casting a spell on me. Or at me, I guess I should say. Have you ever heard of an anti-magic hex?”
He stared at me. “You’re kidding.”
I held his gaze. “Nope. Not kidding.”
Sympathy infused his eyes. Or was it pity? “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”
“You know what I’m talking about, then?” I asked. “You’ve heard of that spell? Because I have to wonder whether it came from the Silver Moon druids. Mimsey says one of the ingredients is the blood of a fearful man. Given the protection spell around Mr. Bosworth’s house, I’m thinking it was him.”
His forehead wrinkled, and he stared toward the back of the bar as if his memories somehow lived over my left shoulder. “I seem to remember something about it. From way back, but now I’m wondering . . .”
“Wondering what?”
“Father said Anderson Lane called him this morning. He said his magic wasn’t working.”
“Oh, no,” I breathed. I hadn’t warned the Dragohs in time. “Did he say he was magically attacked?”
Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. Honestly, I didn’t take it terribly seriously. Anderson can be a little . . . you know.”
“He still drinks?”
“Like a fish. And though it gives me no pleasure to say it, of all the Dragohs, he’s the least powerful and the most unstable.”
“Maybe that’s why he was chosen for the next attack. Will you ask your dad?”
“Right away. He’ll want to know if we need to take Anderson’s claims seriously—and if the rest of us are in danger.”
I stood. “Let me know what you find out. Like I said, I’m pretty sure whoever did this to me—and maybe Anderson—also killed Kensington Bosworth, and Quinn needs to know that. In the meantime, my dad is going to take me on a little trip to see if we can find my magic again.”
“Trip? Where are you going?” Steve rose to his feet and tossed a couple of bills on the table.
“I’ll let you know when I find out.”
Chapter 18
That evening, I arrived at the carriage house before Dad. Unlocking the front door, I flipped on the bare bulb overhead, walked across to the French doors, and opened them to let Mungo into the backyard. All day, whenever I’d looked at him, I’d found him watching me. I couldn’t know like I used to, but it seemed as if he were watching a car wreck more than offering the loving gaze he usually reserved for me.
Well, me and bacon.
He stopped at the threshold and didn’t venture farther.
“No?” I asked. “Okeydoke.”
Together, we explored the house with no one else there for the first time in months. Without furniture, the space reminded me of the first time I’d seen it, back when I’d been figuring out how to relocate to Savannah from Akron. I’d fallen in love with the small, tidy rooms immediately, imagining how it would feel to own my own home, to have it be mine, all mine.
Now it would be mine and Declan’s, and as I walked from room to room with Mungo on my heels, I visualized us living in the updated and larger space together. Of course, we’d spent enough time there that it wasn’t much of an imaginative stretch, but things like the expanded loft upstairs where Declan liked to watch baseball and football games, the big bathroom with two sinks, the walk-in closet and doubled kitchen area would make a big difference.
Never mind the tiny doubt flickering in the background of my thoughts, the one that wondered whether everything in my life was going to change from the happiness I’d found since moving to Savannah to . . . something else.
I was standing in the bathroom admiring the new tiles in the shower when I heard the front door open.
“Katie?”
“Back here, Dad,” I called.
Moments later, he joined me in the doorway. He was carrying a small, scarred leather bag that looked like it had been through a war zone.
I smiled up at him. “The tile looks great. Thanks for stepping in and taking over.”
“Sure,” he said. “I enjoy it, actually. Feels kind of Zen. Tomorrow I’ll start the grout.” He reached out and removed a plastic spacer from between two of the tiles on the backsplash behind the sinks. “Are you ready for tonight?”
Taking a deep breath, I nodded. “More than ready.”
“Let’s go out back, then.” He looked down at Mungo, who was gazing up at him with adoration. “You come, too, little one. Never hurts to have a descendent of wolves nearby when you go on a spirit journey.”
Yip!
Dad flipped the light off in the living room. We went outside, and across the cement patio. The moon was six days past full, waning but still bright enough to lend a silvery light. Two years before, Declan had helped me cut out and plant garden areas along the perimeter of the lawn, and now mature plants nudged against the back and side fences.
There were neighboring yards on each side, but the property backed up to a designated green space. One of my neighbors was an accountant, a nice man who never seemed to be home, but I was quite close to the Coopersmiths on the other side. Luckily, they were on vacation in Myrtle Beach. I adored Margie, mom to three munchkins and wife to a long-haul truck driver, but sometimes she wandered over to visit at the most inopportune times. This was one night I definitely didn’t want to be interrupted.
One garden was devoted to magical plants, including white bryony, blackthorn, the witch hazel from which I’d made my wand, and a rowan sapling with a powerful talisman buried among its roots. Eventually that tree would grow up to become the centerpiece of that area. Cutting diagonally across the right angle formed by the fence corners, a small stream merrily chattered over small rocks. I’d loved the sound of it the first time I’d heard it but at the time had no idea that having live water running constantly across my property would be so important to practicing the Craft.
Another plot was devoted to herbs, many of which also had magical properties, and yet another was where I grew vegetables for our table and sometimes for the bakery. Even in the dim light, I could see the tomato plants were heavy with heirloom fruit, and the peppers needed to be harvested. I made a mental note to pick the cornucopia within the next couple of days and share it with Ben and Lucy.
Shortly after moving in, I’d had a small gazebo built in the middle of the yard. It was constructed of unfinished redwood and furnished with a small round table in the middle. A hodgepodge of chairs I’d rescued from the thrift store provided seating around the table. Next to the gazebo, an outdoor fireplace awaited the chill of coming months, but in the heat of summer, there wasn’t yet any wood in the rack beside it.
Dad scanned the yard, nodded, then went up the steps of the gazebo. He grabbed a couple of chairs and brought them back out to the yard. “Let’s clear everything out.”
“Okay.” I went to help him. Soon we had the chairs and table out by the fireplace. I quickly used the hand-stitched besom, a traditional witch’s broom, to sweep the floor, then put it out by the fire ring as well.
Standing in the cleared gazebo, we gazed down at the ten-inch pentagram I’d painted in the center of the floor. The table usually disguised it, but now the white paint glowed in the moonlight against the darker purple background.
“Let’s sit outside and chat a little,” Dad said.
We went back down the steps and sat in two of the thrift store chairs.
I waited.
“What do you know about shamanic journeys?” he asked.
“Not much. That it’s a journey of the spirit, and that one’s spirit animal is usually involved.” I sighed. “I guess I should know more, since you’re a shaman and all.”
He smiled with his eyes. “Oh, I think you can be forgiven. After all, we didn’t practice in our household the whole time you were growing up. Well,” he amended, “your grandmother did, but your mother did everything she could to keep our practices discreet.”
“After the neighbors saw Nonna dancing naked in the backyard on Beltane. Mama told me.” Nonna had been performing a fertility spell for the garden, but she had old-school notions, especially about what a witch was supposed to do on the first of May.
He laughed. “Right. Anyway, there are many kinds of shamanic systems. Since I have Shawnee blood, I practice a version from that tradition.”
“Your talent is hereditary, just like Mama’s, right? Lucy says my power comes—” I grimaced. “Came from the double whammy of your two traditions.”
“Yes, that’s probably true. I’m descended from a long line of shamans, but my bloodline has been diluted through several generations, and as you know, I wasn’t trained by my father.”
“Because he passed when you were only four,” I said, repeating what I’d been told growing up. “Uncle Sosa trained you, right?” I vaguely remembered a cheerful man with kind eyes, but mostly I recalled how his long white braids had fascinated me as a toddler.
“Who’s not really my uncle, of course, but was my father’s best friend. Sosa was a Cree medicine man and shaman as well as an anthropologist. He studied not only shamanic rituals of different Native American tribes but also those of indigenous peoples of Australia, South America, Mexico, and the Celtic traditions of Britain. All of which are a little different in practice but aim toward the same result.”
“What’s the difference between a medicine man and a shaman?”
“Medicine men and women are healers that use more traditional techniques. Things like herbs and sweating. Shaman mediate between this world and the next. We’re still healers, but on a different level.”
“A supernatural level.”
