by Bailey Cates
There would be no help from emergency services.
Fight back, Katie. Fight back now.
It was the voice that had saved me from the falling pumpkins.
“Nonna?” I felt my mouth forming the word, but no sound came out.
Find the trigger. Push the trigger. I’ll help you.
Trigger? What the…?
I smelled gardenia. It was my grandmother’s favorite flower, and she always wore gardenia perfume. Then I felt the mental nudge, and knew it was her. I opened to it, grasping it and holding on to its intention. I opened my eyes, concentrating around the pain so I could follow where it led.
A dog was barking somewhere.
A great darkness rose in my vision, boiling like the clouds in the night sky. I forced myself to crawl toward it. My approach, halting as it was, seemed to make the dark pause. The gardenia scent grew stronger. Something feral and lupine flashed through my consciousness, the impression of cool white eyes and fangs. It was so familiar. With a shock, something deep inside me realized it was my familiar, that Mungo had joined the fray.
I struggled forward, breath rasping in my throat, accompanied by gardenia and wolf. The dark grew infinitesimally smaller.
Shrinking. And emanating surprise.
Closer and closer I crawled, inch by aching inch.
With a determined gasp, I reached out and touched it. For a moment the texture of the black ran across my fingers, jagged and brittle like flakes of rusting metal.
I pushed.
A flash ripped across my vision.
A scream lashed the air.
And I fell to the floor again.
The scent of gardenia enveloped me. The soft touch of a warm pink tongue was the last thing I felt before I lost consciousness.
Chapter 21
I awoke to the acrid smell of burning hair and Mungo frantically licking my face. I looked up at the high ceiling of the carriage house. Turning my head to the side, I saw the peach walls and the built-in bookcase. On the floor in front of it, jagged shards of Lucy’s milk glass spell bottle lay among a scattering of dried herbs.
But the room was steady as a rock.
“I’m okay, buddy. I’m okay. How about you?” Gingerly, I sat up and gathered the little dog into my arms. He radiated relief. I ran my hands all over him, looked into his eyes. He appeared completely unharmed.
Sniffing the air again, I winced at the horrible smell. With trepidation, I reached up to feel my own short locks.
Everything seemed fine.
I held on to the fainting couch, as wobbly as baby Bart had been in his playpen earlier. Except for the broken spell bottle, the room looked exactly as it had when I’d walked in from Margie’s. My cell phone still sat on the Civil War trunk, right in front of me.
I clutched at my dragonfly amulet. It was still there, but something had changed. I held it away from my neck to see it better. My breath hitched in my throat.
The Dragohs’ ring had fused to the back, as if it had originated from the same piece of metal. I ran my thumbnail over the ridge it formed. But the other change was what made it hard to breathe. No more did tiny etched dragonflies follow each other around the circle in perpetual chase. All the embossing was gone. Only smooth, slightly warped metal remained.
I ripped off the necklace.
After all my precautions—the amulet, the ring, the double smudging and protection spells, the rune on the mailbox post, rosemary by the front door, nasturtiums in the front yard, and potted basil in the kitchen—I had been attacked in my own home.
And not in a small way.
Hedgewitchery was a gentle magic, Lucy always said. She was right. No doubt there were layers and layers of the Craft for me to learn, and at some point in the future perhaps I could have fought off the attack by myself.
You did it yourself, something whispered. I only guided you.
Nonna? I called mentally.
But there was no answer.
“Nonna!” This time out loud. Mungo watched me with wise eyes.
Again no response.
“Okay, I get it,” I called. “But I want to say thank you. So, you know: Thank you.”
I’d have felt silly if I didn’t think she could really hear me.
I eyed the phone. I could still call Lucy. In fact, should still call Lucy, if only to tell her what happened.
I picked up the phone and dialed Steve’s number.
* * *
It was just after midnight. The witching hour. I sat on the velveteen fainting couch with my legs tucked under me, Mungo on my lap. He still seemed okay, though I kept running my hands over him, looking for missing fur, bruises, anything that hurt. He did the canine equivalent, sniffing me all over. We were both utterly unscathed, at least physically. I couldn’t speak for Mungo, but I was still pretty shaky inside. And scared nearly out of my wits.
“You were very brave,” I said to him. “Thank you.”
He blinked and nosed my hand, then licked it. It’s what I do, he seemed to be saying. I ruffled the fur along his back and tried to think.
Someone had breached all my protections and entered my mind. My mind. It was a terrifying realization. Under the tutelage of the spellbook club I’d come to think of magic as primarily beneficial, and at worst benign. It was, indeed, both of those things. It just turned out that it could be a whole lot more, too.
Maybe Mama had been right to be frightened for me, I finally admitted.
Mungo sighed, at last relaxing enough to lean against my chest.
Tires screeched on the street outside. I got up and peeked through the slats in the window shutter. The black Land Rover sat at an awkward angle in the driveway behind my Bug. For a moment I wished Steve could have been a little more subtle about his arrival, but truthfully I couldn’t have cared less. As long as he’d come. He doused the headlights, jumped out, and ran toward the house.
I had the door open by the time he reached it.
His honeyed hair hung loose against the shoulders of a black T-shirt. His dark eyes, wide with worry, searched mine.
“Katie.” He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight while he kicked the door shut behind him.
I clung to him, burying my face in his shoulder. The tears I’d been holding back stung my eyelids.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.” He held me away from him, looking me over, stopping at my eyes and holding my gaze. “Aren’t you?”
My lip trembled.
He pulled me back against him. “Oh, Katie-girl.”
Swallowing convulsively, I fought back the tears still. I hadn’t called Steve in order to cry on his shoulder. Despite our sometimes confusing relationship, I trusted him. And he knew the Dragohs. I was sure Lawrence Eastmore’s murderer had been my attacker. There was simply no other explanation—no other motive. I needed Steve to help me figure out what had happened, and how to fight back.
Standing straighter, I dropped my hands from his shoulders and stepped away. “Thanks.”
But he stepped with me, his lips seeking mine. His palms pressed into my back and the room went dark as I closed my eyes into the kiss. This was not the light, teasing way we’d flirted before, but intense and urgent. I felt the tears threaten again as my resolve—to resist, to be strong, to fight the evil that had found me—wavered. His lips moved to my earlobe, then descended in tiny kisses down my neck. He slipped his finger under the strap of my tank and tugged it aside to access my bare shoulder.
I didn’t have a logical thought in my head by then, only the desire to know I was still alive, and to be alive with this man. I plunged my fingers into his long, smooth hair, savoring the crackle of energy between us.
Without warning, Steve pushed me away. A gasp escaped my throat as I stumbled. I turned and our eyes locked. “No,” he croaked. “Not like this.”
Confusion and desire rooted me in place for a long moment. Then I buried my face in my hands, struggling to tame the myriad emotions crowding my tired mind.
/>
His fingers touched my arm. “I’m sorry. But you’re so vulnerable right now. You don’t need me pawing you.”
Yes, I do!
I took a deep breath and dropped my hands. “You’re right.”
“You do need something to eat. So does Mungo, I expect. Come on.” He tugged at my arm.
Silent, I followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he rattled open the refrigerator door.
“Bah,” he said, dumping the limp leftover Greek salad from the Soho in the garbage. He assembled eggs and cheese, green pepper and onion on the counter, followed by bread and butter.
“Where can I find a skillet?”
I gestured wearily toward a lower cabinet. He got out a pan, set it on the burner, and plopped a pat of butter in it. As it began to melt, he left the kitchen and returned moments later with my robe. Only when he placed it around my shoulders did I realize my skin was ice cold.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Why is there a wedding dress on your bed?”
I rubbed my eyes. “I was thinking of wearing it for Halloween.” It seemed like I’d opened that box on my bed eons ago.
He smiled. “Eggs’ll be done in a minute.”
“I had a big dinner,” I protested, slipping my arms into the warm sleeves.
“Just trust me.”
Turning back to the stove, he browned peppers and onions, then poured in beaten eggs and covered the whole shebang with grated cheese. It wasn’t complicated, but I had to admit it smelled like heaven. Soon the aroma of toasting bread drifted to my nose as well, and I found myself absolutely ravenous.
“Do you like peppers and onions?”
“Of course,” I answered before realizing he was talking to Mungo.
My familiar raised his head from where it rested on my bare foot.
Yip.
He was obviously as tired as I was.
“Mungo likes peppers and onions just fine,” I said. “He was a big help tonight, you know.”
Steve considered the dog, then gave him a slow nod of approval. “I’m glad to hear it.” He took the skillet off the burner and set it under the broiler to melt the cheese and finish cooking the frittata. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “You didn’t say much on the phone—I could only tell how frightened you were. That’s not something I’ve witnessed before, so it must have been pretty bad.”
My shoulders hunched as I remembered. “It was…I don’t know how to describe it. It was something, in here—the house, I mean—and in here.” I pointed to my head.
His eyes flared in alarm. “What did it feel like?”
I described it, or tried to: the inky blackness, the feel of decaying metal. “It’s hard to define, but it wanted to hurt me.”
Steve took the pan out of the oven. He sliced a hefty wedge of the frittata and put it on a plate. I saw his hand shaking as he set it in front of me. A smaller wedge went into a bowl for my little wolf.
I dug in and seconds later so did Mungo.
Sliding into the seat across from me, Steve asked, “Who did this to you?”
A shrug. “I don’t have the vaguest idea.”
“Well, they’d need something of yours—or you—in order to cast this kind of spell.”
“Like what?” I asked around a mouthful of frittata. “Can I have some juice?”
He got up and went to the fridge. “Like hair or fingernails.”
I stopped chewing and stared at him. Swallowed. “Really?”
“I can’t think of any other way they could get directly to you like this. But we need to know who it was.”
Okay, that was kind of gross, and furthermore I couldn’t think of anyone who had access to my personal…pieces.
“Maybe that explains that horrible smell,” I sniffed the air.
Yip!
“What smell?” Steve asked.
My lips parted in surprise. “You can’t smell it? It’s like burning hair. In fact, I was so sure it was burning hair I thought either Mungo or I must be half bald.”
“Damn. That’s not good. And no, I can’t smell it. But that’s probably what he used. We need to bind the caster, so they can’t touch you like that again.”
“I’d prefer they didn’t touch me at all again, thank you very much.”
“Me, too, Katie-girl. But we can’t bind someone unless we know who it is.”
“It’s whoever killed Lawrence Eastmore.”
“You’re sure?”
“Who else would it be? Or do you think your Dragohs were just protecting themselves from being exposed?”
“They aren’t my Dragohs.”
“Yes, they are.”
He sighed.
“Though the killer might still be one of them—alibis or no alibis. In fact, I can’t think who else it could be. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Well, Andersen Lane doesn’t have an alibi for the hours after the party broke up. There’s also Lawrence Eastmore’s son. Greer. I was planning to talk to him tomorrow.”
Steve grimaced. “Yeah, I heard he came back to town. You know, he had even less interest in taking on the Dragoh mantle than I do.”
“Is there an inheritance involved that’s perhaps a bit more secular?” I asked. “A bit more financial?”
“Well, sure. None of the Dragohs are exactly destitute, though Andersen is certainly the worst about managing his gains. But Greer would have inherited the money regardless.”
I remembered what Andersen had said about how persuasive the druids could be when it came to forcing the next in line to join their group. “Are you sure?” I took another bite.
One shoulder rose and fell. “Not positive. I could find out, though.”
“From Heinrich?” I used his first name because in my mind he was still as much of a suspect as any of the other Dragohs, and I hated thinking that he was also this man’s father. “Steve, when did you get home last Friday night?”
“Pretty early. Eightish.”
“After Victor Powers’ grandson’s party,” I said, thinking out loud.
Declan had always told me Steve was a player, a heart-slayer. And now he was going to kiddie parties and then staying home on a Friday night?
He pursed his lips. “Father mentioned he saw you at the fund-raiser this morning. He wasn’t very happy about it.”
My chin jerked up. “Do you think he’s the one who came after me tonight?”
He shook his head vigorously. “My father may be a lot of things, and some of them I don’t like, but he would never attack anyone like that. Never.”
“Okay.” I didn’t have it in me to argue.
“Do you want more frittata?”
“No thanks.” Forming words seemed to take all the energy I had.
“Come on, then.” He put one arm around my shoulder and another under my elbow, helping me to my feet.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting you to bed.”
Fear shot through me, and I shook him off. “No! I can’t go to sleep. What if it happens again?”
Chapter 22
Steve’s voice was calm. “Whoever did this is recovering, too. Working such magic takes great energy, and I can’t imagine they’ll be up to the same shenanigans for a while.”
It usually exhausted me to work magic, too, but in a really good way, like a long run through the woods blew the cobwebs out of my mind. It was a lovely feeling, but the defense I’d put up earlier had been something else. I felt utterly sapped.
“You know, I had protections all over this place,” I said. “Plus my amulet.”
“You’re not wearing it now.”
“It changed.”
“Changed?”
“Um. Yeah.”
Curious, he asked, “Where is it?”
“Someplace on the living room floor. I tore it off and threw it away from me when I saw what had happened to it.”
His eyebrows rose when he heard that.
Even breathing se
emed to take effort. I reached down and picked up Mungo. “Poor little guy looks about ready to drop.”
“Here. I’ll take him.”
Mungo didn’t seem to mind riding in Steve’s arms, and I was tired enough to allow him to carry my familiar into the bedroom and put him on the bed. I started to collapse beside him, but Steve stopped me, took off my robe, and then pulled back the covers. I snuggled underneath, and he tucked me in.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, oddly grateful to be taken care of even though it made me feel like a weakling at the same time.
“Go to sleep.”
The last thing I remembered was Mungo burrowing in next to me and beginning to snore softly.
* * *
I awoke to daylight streaming in through my bedroom window and the sound of male voices in my living room. It was so strange for me to wake up after dawn that for a long moment I simply stared at the sunshine splashing across the quilt. Then I looked over at the bedside clock. It was after nine o’clock.
I sat straight up and rubbed my eyes.
The events of the night before came flooding back. In the light of day I could hardly believe it had happened at all. I searched for Mungo, but he wasn’t in the bedroom.
Holy cow, was I ever late for work. Lucy must be frantic with worry.
“This isn’t about you,” I heard Steve say from the living room. “This is about Katie.”
“Like you know what’s good for her. Like you care what’s good for her.”
I recognized Declan’s voice, and my stomach sank.
Throwing off the covers, I leaped out of bed and ran into the living room. Mungo sat on the purple velvet couch watching the two men face off. Steve stood with his hand on one of the wingback chairs. His hair, so wild the night before, was smoothed into its usual sleek ponytail, but he wore the same clothes. Declan stood next to the other wingback, five feet away. His blue T-shirt read, FIRST IN, LAST OUT, and his jeans were faded and worn. His jaw slackened when he saw me.
“Katie? Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.”
His mouth clamped shut and his eyes turned hard. “I went to the Honeybee to pick you up, and Lucy told me you were sick. So I came by to see if there was anything I could do.” His hand struck the back of the chair, and I flinched. “Obviously you don’t need my help—not with that little favor you asked me for, and not with anything else, either.” He turned to glare at Steve. “You’ve been here all night.” It wasn’t a question. His attention transferred to me, and his eyes swept me up and down. “And obviously you’re feeling anything but under the weather.”
