The Viking Horn Spell

by Amanda Hartford

  Daisy poured each of them a little more lemonade, and they settled back into their chairs. “So, do you have a dollar in your pocket?” she asked.

  Barry retrieved an ancient leather wallet from his back pocket and fished out a dollar bill. He handed it to Daisy.

  She tucked it into her pinafore, then snapped open the trombone case. A crumpled dollar bill lay on the velvet lining next to the drinking horn.

  She handed the bill to Barry. “Don’t lose this,” she said firmly. “Think of it as the registration papers for Ajax, just like you have for your truck.”

  “I’ll guard it with my life,” Barry said solemnly.

  Daisy was afraid that might turn out to be true, but she let it pass. “So, what will you do now?” she asked gently.

  “Ma’am, I’ve been a rodeo bum all my life. I’ve never had a proper home, but last year I bought a little place, just a few hundred acres up on the Canadian border. It’s God’s country, ma’am. Right now there’s not much on the land, just a raggedy old cabin. But there’s buffalo up on the high plateau behind us, and the antelope come right down to the house. I’m gonna start building up my breeding stock this year. It’s a wild place up there, and I figure Ajax will be right at home.”

  It was the first time Daisy had ever heard Barry string more than two sentences together, and his passion touched her. “You be sure to send me some pictures, won’t you?”

  “I surely will, ma’am. I surely will.” Barry leaned over and softly kissed Daisy’s hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me, ma’am.”

  “Young man, this is purely a business transaction,” Daisy said, but her eyes were moist. “I believe you’re an excellent investment.”

  ♦

  Daisy dropped by Pentacle Pawn on the first day of May, saying she needed to do a little shopping.

  She picked up a pretty little pine box, tramp art from the 1920s. The edges were carved in an intricate diamond pattern, probably whittled with a pocket knife in the hobo camps beside the railroad tracks while they sat around a scrap-wood bonfire. The anonymous artist had carved the image of a massive bull into the lid.

  “What does it do?” Daisy asked.

  “It has a light protective spell,” I told her. “It’s not very strong. I don’t expect that the carver owned much of value to put in it. Most of these got traded for food or liquor pretty quick.”

  “I got a letter from Barry today,” Daisy said. “He should be sending one every month. I wanted something nice to keep them in.” Daisy ran her fingers across the carved bull. “This is perfect.”

  She reached into her needlepoint bag for the envelope. Inside was a brand-new dollar bill and a photograph taken with an old-school film camera. She handed the picture to me as she opened the tramp art box and dropped in the dollar bill, the first of many to come.

  The background of the shot was filled with majestic snow-covered peaks, but it was springtime where Barry stood in a high mountain meadow, up to his knees in grass and wildflowers. Behind Barry, hanging his enormous head over the diminutive cowboy’s right shoulder, was Ajax. Barry’s right hand was reaching back, scratching the great auroch’s chin under his hand-tooled halter.

  “You’re right,” I said, hugging my aunt. “It’s perfect.”

  – The End –

  Your next read

  The Dragon Puzzle Spell is the fourth book in Amanda Hartford’s Pentacle Pawn series of paranormal cozy mysteries, and the finale of the trilogy set in Scottsdale, Arizona. Pentacle Pawn books are available on Amazon.com. Here’s a sneak peek:

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Prologue

  It was shaping up to be the hottest day of the summer — and in Scottsdale, that was really saying something. With no humidity in the air, the water from the spray misters mounted on the eaves of many buildings evaporated before it reached the pedestrians below. Fistfights broke out over covered parking spaces. Everybody was dashing from house to car, car to work, work to car, questing for that bubble of air conditioning.

  Everybody, that is, except the tourists in the resorts at the foot of the mountains. They had come to Arizona for the sun, and they were determined to get what they’d paid for. They slathered on SPF 200 sunscreen from their favorite perfumers ($250 a jar), their faces grim behind designer sunglasses.

  Antiquities dealer Pedro Ruiz Gallardo, Pete to his American clients, sheltered behind the linen drapes of his cabana at one of the priciest hotels tucked up beside Camelback Mountain. The cabana was more like a sideless hotel room, one of a dozen permanent structures spaced around the enormous pool in which nobody ever actually swam.

  Pete was Spanish, and leaving his beloved Malaga was always painful. The Costa del Sol, with its lovely beach, its ancient cultural and artistic history — well, Picasso was born there, which said it all.

  Pete was simmering, and not just from the heat. Oh, he hated Scottsdale in the summer time, all right. To tell the truth, he hated Arizona pretty much any time of the year, but he had to follow his clients: the big-money collectors who patronized the exclusive shops and galleries in Old Town. He had no storefront; his transactions took place in the bars, restaurants, and homes of the rich and famous. His business was all about making the connections, go where they go. Thus, the cabana in July.

  But what really had Pete steamed was the presence of the smug middle-aged woman flaunting her tiny bikini on a chase lounge on the opposite side of the pool. He couldn’t quite figure out how she had bested him once again, but the little Egyptian ossuary apparently had slipped through his fingers. The piece was late Middle Kingdom, the bones of a noblewoman or maybe a priestess, and nicely preserved. It was a valuable find, and it was his to be exploited until that woman intercepted it in transit.

  He glared across at her, and she wiggled her fingers at him in the tiniest of waves.

  Well, there was nothing to be done for it. She had won this round. The cabana boy passed by with a fresh flute of champagne, and Pete burrowed deeper into the lush cushions of the white daybed.

  Across the pool, Penelope Silver smiled as she watched her quarry nod off. Get comfortable, Señor, she thought. It’s going to be a long, hot afternoon.

  ♦

  The cabana boys had been beautifully trained to cater to the wishes of their guests. A little more champagne? Certainly. Another pillow for the daybed? Of course. Perhaps a little companionship? I’ll be happy to arrange it — would you prefer male or female today?

  It was harder to teach them to anticipate when no service was required. The best of them could tell if a guest wanted to be left alone to snooze, play, or just drink in solitude. Often, the best tips came from guests who had simply been left alone.

  Much of the permanent staff fled the heat in May for their off-season jobs in cooler climes. The three attendants on duty this afternoon were second stringers, college kids who had signed on for summer jobs. They quickly learned that the service stand at the end of the bar was the coolest place to hang out.

  As the thermometer passed 108, Jason, Ryan, and Asher were regretting their summer career choices.

  “I’m gonna learn to tend bar,” Ryan announced. “At least I’ll be out of the sun.”

  “Are the tips better?” Asher asked, dabbing another layer of supermarket sunscreen on his nose.

  Ryan shrugged. “Dunno, but it’s more like a skilled job, and I’ll always have it to fall back on later. I can’t see being a pool boy when I’m 40.”

  “My dad wants me to learn to be a mechanic,” Jason said. It required no comment. Jason, Ryan, and Asher were going to be masters of the universe, and working in a greasy garage didn’t fit in with their plans. They had signed on as cabana boys in hopes of meeting some rich investor or mentor, but so far, all they had done is serve drinks and put suntan lotion on the backs of old ladies.

  Jason nodded to the cabana at the far end. “I guess I should go see if he needs something.”

  “Looks like he’s asleep,” Asher said.

&nbs
p; “Yeah,” Jason said, “he’s been out all afternoon.”

  Ryan craned his neck to get a better view. “He’s back in the shade, right? If he gets a sunburn, we’ll…”

  Jason shook his head. “He’s fine. He’s just out cold.”

  Jason was wrong. Pedro Ruiz Gallardo was dead.

  A note from Amanda

  If you enjoyed The Viking Horn Spell, please tell a friend – or two or three.

  I'd also appreciate it if you'd consider leaving a quick review. There’s nothing mystical about book reviewing. All you have to say is whether you liked the book, and why. Honest feedback is important, and I need it from all sorts of readers.

  Leaving a review is easy. The Pentacle Pawn series is published exclusively on Amazon, so just go to the book’s page. Under the title, you’ll see the number of reviews that have already been left (for some books, it might invite you to be the first reviewer). Click on that link, and it will take you to the reviews page, where you’ll find a button labeled “Write a customer review.” It’s that simple.

  The online book market is huge, and even the most famous writers sometimes get lost in the crowd. You'll be helping me a lot as I start on this new adventure.

  – Amanda Hartford

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  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Jim Fox for his help, counsel and high tolerance for fast food.

  Intellectual property

  The Viking Horn Spell, first electronic edition

  Copyright © 2019 by Amanda Hartford. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or in a review.

  First publication: July 13, 2019