by Bailey Cates
“Andersen Lane should go back to whatever rock he was under before he crawled out to bother you and the book club.” My uncle’s tone was acerbic.
I kissed him on the cheek. Ben was protective, and no matter how head over heels in love he was with my aunt or how readily he accepted her magical practices, he didn’t have personal experience with magic. To him it was more of an eccentric hobby than actually working with the forces of nature.
Lucy stood by the stove, stirring a pot of butternut squash soup fragrant with the scent of smoky bacon. She greeted me by waving me into the room. “Would you mind scooping out the bread bowls?”
“Sure.” I donned one of her aprons, sliced the top off a small sourdough boule from the Honeybee, and set about removing the soft interior crumb. I inhaled the smells of fresh bread and smoked pork that rode above the usual pungency of Lucy’s herbal kitchen. Like me, she had a pot of basil on the counter, as well as one of parsley for easy snipping—and a little extra protection around the house.
Protection. What if my attacker came for me here?
I put the thought out of my mind. I had Mungo, and my aunt was no slouch when it came to spell casting. I refused to live every minute in fear.
Lucy ladled the soup into the bread bowls and garnished each with a generous sprinkle of freshly chopped chives. Leaving the formal dining room dark, we settled around the ancient wooden table in the kitchen. On the floor, Mungo licked delicately at the edges of his soup as it cooled. Honeybee the cat watched with an expression of amused disgust from across the room.
Winking at Honeybee, I popped a couple of antihistamines to battle my allergies and dug in. “This is delicious. What else is in it? Chicken stock? Cream?”
“Lucy tells me you had an attack last night,” Ben interrupted.
My spoon paused halfway to my mouth. “Something like that.”
“But you didn’t go see a doctor.” He sounded pretty upset.
I put my spoon down. “Why would I?”
He leaned forward. “Katie, you need to get a CAT scan as soon as possible.” He looked at Lucy. “I can’t believe you didn’t suggest that.”
“A CAT scan? What for?”
The skin tightened across Ben’s face. “Honey, you smelled something funny, right? That can be a sign of something…serious.”
“Ben,” Lucy said.
“Serious,” I said in a flat voice.
He took a deep breath. “I’ve heard it can be a sign of a brain tumor.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I turned to my aunt. She looked away.
“I know you think it had something to do with some kind of magic, but it would make me feel a lot better if you went to a specialist,” he said.
Stunned, I looked down at my soup. Brain tumor? But that was…Could he be right? What if what had happened last night was all in my head?
No. It had been in my head. But so had Mungo. And Nonna. The spell bottle had broken. And then I remembered the fused amulet. Steve had seen it. It had really happened.
Oddly enough, that made me feel better. “Okay,” I said easily.
Lucy’s shoulders seemed to relax a bit. As long as everybody got along she was happy.
Ben smiled his approval. “Good. Now finish up, because someone’s coming over for dessert.”
The doorbell rang.
“Come in!” Ben called.
I raised my eyebrows at Lucy, and she shrugged as if in apology. Before I had a chance to wonder what was going on, Declan walked into the kitchen.
He saw me and paused. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you,” Ben said.
I gaped at my uncle. For a guy who seemed to sail happily through life since he’d retired as fire chief, he sure could stick his nose into things when he got the notion to.
“I understand you and Katie had a disagreement this morning. Some kind of misunderstanding. And we both know the best way to get over a misunderstanding is to come to an understanding. Talk it out. So I want you two to eat your ice cream sundaes and then go talk.”
“But—,” I said.
“No,” Declan said.
“Yes,” Ben said. “Go on. You’ll figure it out.”
Declan wouldn’t meet my eyes. If it hadn’t been for his close relationship with my uncle, I was sure he would have walked right out. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the roof garden.” I heard the sound of his receding footsteps on the floor and then the stairs.
“So much for ice cream sundaes,” Lucy said. Ben frowned.
I was so tired I wanted to drop. The antihistamines made me even sleepier. But I wanted to make up with Declan, and this might be the only chance he gave me. He was my friend. I had to try.
“You two go on ahead,” I said. “I’m going to grab some coffee.”
* * *
Though the sun had been down for a couple of hours, the sky still glowed a lighter blue in the west. The moon hadn’t risen yet, and the stars glimmered brightly against the cloudless cobalt above. Two candles flickered on the wrought-iron table, barely illuminating Declan on the far side. He still wore the FIRST IN, FIRST OUT T-shirt he’d had on that morning. His muscular arms were folded across his chest.
“I brought you a beer,” I said.
He took it in silence. I sat down across from him and took a sip of coffee.
The edge of the moon peeked over the horizon. Around us, Lucy’s moon garden began to come to life. When the rest of the rooftop was dark, white petunias dripped from pots, moonflowers glowed like white saucers on their vine twining up a trellis, and tiny white jasmine flowers and night-blooming nicotiana lent their sweet aromas to the humid evening air. The sound of car tires on the pavement below drifted up to us.
It felt very peaceful. Except, of course, that in the last three days I’d found two bodies, someone had tried to kill me, and now a man I adored was so mad at me that he couldn’t even meet my eyes.
I wished I knew how to start.
“That coffee will keep you up tonight,” he said.
“Fat chance. Not after the twenty-four hours I’ve had.”
He gave me a look. Even in the dim light I could see the disapproval.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He was quiet for a minute. I lit another candle on the table.
“What, exactly, are you sorry for?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, I’m sorry that you’re mad at me. I’m sorry you worried about me being sick and now you think I lied. I’m sorry you came to my house to help me and instead ran into Steve Dawes. I’m sorry you think I’ve been playing games with you when I haven’t, and I’m sorry Ben tricked you into coming here tonight.” My words were coming faster now, and louder.
He held up a hand, “Whoa.”
I rubbed my tired eyes.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, okay.” He sipped his beer, watching me over the candle flames. “So why did Steve Dawes spend the night?”
Oh, boy. My guilt must have shown on my face, because he shifted in his chair and said, “Don’t lie. That’s all I ask.”
Suddenly I was overcome with weariness. I didn’t have any fight left. “You really want to know? You really want to know me?”
His eyes shone blue in the flickering yellow light. “That’s what I’ve always wanted. Since the day I met you.”
Never mind that when I’d met Declan, Detective Quinn had been questioning Uncle Ben as a murder suspect.
“But you’ve always sidestepped, always changed the subject. What are you so afraid of?” He took another sip and licked his lips. “What is it about Dawes that draws you to him?”
I couldn’t look at him. He’d told me intimate details about his life, yet I’d skimmed along on the surface details of mine. It felt safe. Good. He felt normal, when the rest of my life might not be. I liked Declan McCarthy more than I could say.
I liked him well enough to tell him the truth.
“Decl
an, I’m a witch.”
He looked at me, his face a mask. I’d bet he was great at poker. “And?” he said.
“And? Isn’t that enough?”
He shrugged. “So, you’re a witch. Like one of those Wiccans? Or just a run-of-the-mill pagan?”
“Somewhere in between. I’m a hedgewitch. It runs in the family.”
His laugh was deep and rich and ran over me like caramel. “Hedgewitch. I don’t know what that is, but I like the term.”
“It’s a green witch. Some people call us natural witches. We use nature, the four elements, plants—things like that—in our magic.”
“Wow.” Declan shook his head and took a swig of beer. “Magic. I always knew there was something a little different about Lucy. She’s kind of, I don’t know. Airy. Guess it makes sense. And you actually, like, cast spells and things?”
I nodded once, watching for the skepticism, the eye rolling. But Declan’s grin seemed perfectly honest. Curious, even, if mildly amused. Was he taking me seriously?
“And you’ve been trying to keep this part of your life from me because you thought I’d disapprove? Or think it was silly?”
“Well, mostly I figured you’d think I was a weirdo.”
That laugh came again, different tonight from other times I’d heard him laugh. It was easy, full, rich with…relief.
My own relief made my shoulders slump. I’d told him. He’d not only taken it well, he’d apparently accepted it.
I didn’t have to lie to Declan anymore.
My throat tightened and my eyes stung. Sheesh, what was with all my weepiness lately? Of course, it had been a crazy twenty-four hours. I blinked back the tears and managed to get out, “Oh, Declan. You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“No crazier than I did before.”
My laugh came out more like a snort.
“It explains all the time you spend with Dawes, too.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Remember, I went to school with his little brother, and we were roommates as well as working together until…the accident. You think I don’t know a little about what goes on in that family?”
“Uh…like what?” Did Declan already know about the Dragoh Society?
“Oh, Arnie didn’t talk about it much, and it was clear I wasn’t supposed to ask. But I knew his family had some rather unusual beliefs.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “I guess you and Steve have a lot more to talk about than you and me.”
“Not…more. But different. At least so far.”
He drained his beer. “And last night?”
I remembered how I’d taken the news that magic really existed. If Lucy had led with information about a magical attack I might never have believed her.
But I didn’t want to lie. Not now. I chose my words with care. “There was some kind of black magic directed at me,” I said. “I felt it.” Then I laughed. “Of course Ben wants me to go to a doctor. Thinks I have a brain tumor.” All true.
Declan’s eyes widened. The candle flame echoed within his wide pupils. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I called Steve afterward, and he came over. He fed me and Mungo, put us to bed, and then slept on the couch to make sure I’d be okay.”
“But you believe it was black magic,” he said.
I put my hand over my eyes and shook my head. What had I been thinking? This guy was a firefighter. Mr. Practical. Handy around the house. Able to work on car engines. Not even Uncle Ben fully believed me, and he’d been madly in love with a witch for years.
“So-o-o-o,” Declan said, drawing the word out, thinking. “Dawes wasn’t there for any romantic reasons.”
Now I laughed. “You have a one-track mind.” But I wasn’t going to mention my near capitulation. Things could have ended quite differently last night.
Declan pointed a finger at me. “Yes, ma’am. I sure do when it comes to you.”
I grinned at him. Things had just gotten complicated all over again, but I didn’t care. “I take it back,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m not at all sorry that Ben tricked you into coming tonight.”
Chapter 27
After Declan left I settled into Lucy and Ben’s guest bedroom with my laptop and the door closed to keep Honeybee out. In general, she respected my allergies and walked a wide berth around me, but she loved hanging out with Mungo and sometimes broke the rules. As for my familiar, he lay draped across my shins, lazily watching me work.
I felt almost transparent with weariness and giddy with relief that I no longer had to keep secrets from Declan. I mean, I hadn’t told him all about the Dragohs, or the spellbook club, but those weren’t just my secrets. Hopefully, the Dragohs wouldn’t be an issue for much longer, and in time I was sure I’d get permission to tell him about our coven.
Well. Maybe Dragohs wouldn’t be an issue, but a future member of the society might be.
Guilt stabbed through me. Steve had been so sweet and open lately. He’d taken care of me and stopped me from making a fool of myself during a moment of weakness.
Steve, Declan, Steve, Declan. I wanted them both in my life, I really did. But I wasn’t ready to settle down with either of them. Not yet. I still needed to find out more about who—and what—Katie Lightfoot was.
Additional guilt about neglecting my duties at the bakery lately impelled me to do a few things before calling it an early night and recharging for the next day. First, I pulled out the list of supplies we were running low on at the bakery. The local grocery warehouse allowed us to place orders online and then pick them up the next day. I added the items we needed, billed it to our account, and made a mental note to ask Ben to pick up the order the next morning. There were a few items I’d need for the special spread we were putting together for the Halloween party—a case of pumpkin puree for the pumpkin gingerbreads shaped like tiny squash, crispy apples to cover in salted caramel, extra eggs, and lots of sprinkles to decorate cookies and cupcakes.
Maybe I should make Margie’s Coca-Cola cupcakes for the party.
I shook my head. This order was already late. Just stick with the plan. Tomorrow was going to be another really long, really busy day. Thank goodness we’d have the professional help of Nel Sandstrom to lighten the load.
Speaking of Nel, I fished her file out and got going on her W-2 paperwork and the tax forms we had to fill out for the Honeybee’s accountant. Glancing at her application, I saw her address was in a rather upscale neighborhood. Probably living in her father’s house after his death, as Greer had planned to do…
I grabbed the application and ran my finger down to the bottom. Mungo’s head snapped up. Nel had listed three references. I’d called only one of them—the bakery in Athens where she’d worked the last nine years. I’d used my cell to call David Talbot, owner of the Halcyon Bakery, so Nel wouldn’t inadvertently pick up the Honeybee phone and hear me checking with her old boss. That call was the only one I’d made in the last week to a number I wasn’t familiar with.
I picked up my phone and scrolled to my own recent calls. There it was. The number matched the one on the application. I began to dial it again.
Yip!
I ended the call before it rang. “Right. Thanks, Mungo.” If this was the number for the phone I’d found on Greer Eastmore’s dresser, the police would know if I called it now.
But was it Greer’s phone? Or was it David Talbot’s?
I thought about calling the number from a pay phone, or blocking the caller ID on my own phone. But I didn’t trust the latter, and I’d have to leave the town house to call from a public phone. A better idea came to mind.
The Halcyon Bakery’s Web site was fancier than ours, but they focused more on specialty breads and decorated cakes. The phone number was different, but the man I’d talked to had told me that I’d reached his cell phone. The site said the owner’s name was indeed David Talbot, the name Nel had listed on the application.
Was it even possible that Greer E
astmore was in possession of the phone of a guy who owned a bakery in Athens?
I scrolled down to the bottom of the homepage and caught my breath. Mungo padded up to look at the screen with me. I clicked over to the STAFF page.
“Oh, no,” I said.
Mungo made a questioning sound.
“It says here that David Talbot is originally from Ireland. The man I spoke with had a strong Southern accent. And not only that, but Nel isn’t in this group photo. She should be.”
He tipped his head to the side.
“It was taken two years ago, when she was supposedly employed there.”
Yip!
Sure enough, a little more digging revealed how much Nel had lied in order to get a job at the Honeybee. First, I called the other two numbers she’d listed as references, figuring that even if Emily Post would have disapproved of the late hour I’d probably just get voice mail anyway. I was wrong. One number was a pizza place, and the other was a very confused teenager in Seattle.
At least it was earlier there.
Giving two blatantly fake references was a rookie mistake. Though, come to think of it, as potential employers we’d be more interested in her most recent job, especially since that was supposed to cover nine whole years of her baking experience. The others were short-term positions. Perhaps Nel had thought it worth the gamble. And, in fact, it had worked for a while.
Then I searched online for “lily airbrush cake” and bingo!—the exact same photo of the cake Lucy had loved so much from Nel’s portfolio filled the screen. The name of the person credited with the cake was definitely not Nel Sandstrom. A few more minutes of searching netted me two more fake photos of award-winning cake decoration—also not Nel’s work.
I slumped against the pillows. Looked at Mungo, who waited expectantly.
“Yeah, yeah. I guess I have to go tell Lucy and Ben now.”
* * *
The door to their bedroom was open. Lucy was propped against a mountain of blue-paisley-patterned pillows on the bed, legs tucked under her as she read a section of the newspaper from that morning. She wore white pajamas and had woven her wavy gray-blond hair into a thick braid, which fell over one shoulder. Purple-framed half-glasses perched on her nose, and Honeybee the cat curled in the crook of her legs, orange tabby stripes vivid in the light from the bedside lamp.
