Wisteria Witches Mysteries Box Set 2

by Angela Pepper

  “I was looking for a blue jay,” I said. “He’s really friendly. Have you seen him around?”

  Arden gave me a confused look. “It’s Friday today, so you won’t see a blue jay.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “According to my grandmother, blue jays are never around on Fridays because they’re busy fetching sticks down to hell.”

  “I didn’t know there was a particular day of the week just for fetching sticks down to hell.”

  Arden shrugged. “It’s just a thing she used to say. My grandmother was obsessed with devils and monsters. She used to tell me stories about the olden days. Our family comes from a long line of monster hunters.”

  “That explains why I’ve seen you boating with that pointy-looking trident of yours, looking for sea monsters.”

  Arden chuckled and rubbed his shiny bald head. “The truth is, it’s just an excuse to get out on the boat.”

  “So’s fishing.”

  “But I don’t eat fish.”

  “Do you eat sea monsters?”

  He chuckled again. “Zara, you do bring something fresh to this ol’ neighborhood.” He turned and started walking away.

  “You shouldn’t eat sea monsters,” I called after him in a joking tone. “I hear they cause terrible indigestion.” And also because some of them might be people.

  He gave me a wave of acknowledgment without looking back.

  I took one last look in the tree for the blue jay. He wasn’t visible, but I sensed something hiding behind a clump of leaves. I used my telekinetic magic to gently swish some branches aside. This revealed the hiding spot of a red squirrel, who gave me a single chirp of surprise.

  I demanded of the squirrel, “Who are you working for?”

  The squirrel darted along the branch in a zigzag pattern and then scaled up the trunk toward better cover.

  “Come back down here,” I said. “Get your furry butt down here and face me like a... squirrel.”

  A woman walking by with a baby stroller gave me a wide berth.

  The squirrel disappeared. Even using magic to swish the leaves from side to side, I couldn’t spot it again.

  I looked down the street for my father’s car. The pumpkin-hued Nissan 300ZX was nowhere in sight. He’d had plans to get pizza for Zoey’s school friends and take them all out to a movie. The adoration of teenagers was relatively inexpensive.

  I wasn’t too happy about him getting all the glory of being the fun grownup. I would have gladly taken Zoey and her new friends for pizza.

  But at least Zoey was making friends. It had all happened suddenly, during the last week. And not a moment too soon. The school year was drawing to a close, and I’d feared she’d spend a long summer vacation without any friends.

  I ran up the steps of the house and then raced up the stairs toward my bedroom door. No family inside my house meant I could jump right into my DWM Monster Manual undisturbed.

  First, I stopped in the kitchen for provisions. With an assortment of leftover takeout food in hand, I raced upstairs to my room.

  I noted bitterly that the door had shrunk even more. It was now smaller than a cupboard door.

  If I went through, would my room take away the door entirely and trap me inside? My stomach growled, which gave me a funny idea. Could my house flood the room with juices and digest me? I laughed out loud and shook my head. Don’t be silly. Houses don’t eat people. It was just making some sort of point about my family relationships. Or maybe it needed the wood for something better, like an addition for the bathroom. I’d always liked the idea of having a cedar-lined sauna.

  I stretched and rubbed my eyes. It had been a long week. Having my father show up on Wednesday had complicated my life and thrown off my routine. Thanks to my one outing with a fox on my shoulders, I’d attracted more attention from Bentley. I’d always considered him basically harmless, but perhaps I’d underestimated the man. When handling a gun, you should always treat it as though it’s loaded. Bentley was a square, but he was still a detective.

  I got down on the floor and opened the cupboard-sized door to my room.

  More worries flitted through my thoughts. Was my sweet neighbor Arden really descended from monster hunters? Were witches considered monsters? What about shifters? And was a talking blue jay spying on me?

  Maybe the DWM Monster Manual had some answers.

  I pushed my plate of food through the door in front of me and then waited.

  My bedroom appeared to be smaller than before, but it didn’t do anything suspicious, such as eat my plate of food.

  I got down on my elbows and wriggled through the doorway like a snake.

  Chapter 16

  My hot date for that Friday night, the DWM Monster Manual, was a bit of a tease. There was information on a number of subjects, but each answer led to more questions.

  The section about blue jays read as follows:

  Blue jays are occasionally used as remote eyes for creatures of the grave. When sent to watch a human subject, the individual blue jay may eventually become fascinated by the human subject and break its grave bond. The blue jay is more fortunate than humans, who are rarely able to break the grave bond. Little is known of the mechanism for enchanting a blue jay, as creatures of the grave are unhelpfully secretive, perhaps due to their unholy, abhorrent nature. Several creatures of the grave were asked to contribute to this index, yet as of the press deadline, none have acquiesced. Unhelpful as always!

  “Speaking of unhelpful, Jorg Ebola, you are one unhelpful editor,” I said to the book. “Grave bond? And what the heck is a creature of the grave? Is it a zombie? Ghost? Blood sucker? Mummy? Walking skeleton? Worms? All of the above?”

  The book didn’t respond, which was probably for the best. I didn’t want a reply if it came in the judgmental tone of Jorg Ebola.

  But I had my own ways of finding information. I twirled my finger and used the same page-finding spell I’d invoked multiple times over the last two days to find Wakeful family information for Detective Bentley.

  “Find me a definition for creatures of the grave,” I commanded, weaving in Witch Tongue.

  The book grew hot in my hands, gave off an acrid smell, and abruptly slammed shut.

  “Easy now,” I said, as though calming a spooked horse. “I guess you don’t like other spells, huh?” The book already had one spell running for the glamour on the pages. Mixing spells is like mixing two kinds of prescription medication—you could be fine, or you could turn purple.

  The book let out a squeal like a balloon losing air and flew out of my hands. It flapped through the air, flying like a frightened bat. It didn’t have far to go, since my tiny bedroom was barely large enough to contain my bed. With a panicked flapping sound, the book disappeared into the middle of my closet.

  “Come back,” I said soothingly. “I promise not to cast any more spells. Nobody warned me, okay?”

  From the depths of the closet, the book made a sound not unlike that of a pouting toddler.

  I went to the closet and tried parting my clothes, but my reduced-size closet was packed too tight for me to wedge more than my fingertips in.

  I made the smooch-smooch sound people use to call animals. “Here bookie, bookie. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  Nothing.

  I sat on the bed and made a phone call to Zinnia. For a change, she picked up on the first ring.

  After I’d explained the situation to her, she said, “You should ask Chet for help. I’ve never had the good fortune to see that particular book.” She sniffed. “Perhaps one day, I’ll be invited to look at it myself. I might be of more help after getting first-hand experience.”

  “Aunt Zinnia, why can’t you just say what you want? Does it always have to be a complicated song and dance with your hints and your guilt trips?” I sighed. “You’re just like my mother.”

  “I am not,” she retorted.

  There was silence on the call for a full minute. Was I in the wrong? Probably. I’
d been annoyed about the book and my shrinking room, but since I couldn’t take it out on either of them, I’d snapped at my aunt.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That wasn’t fair of me to say. You don’t deserve that.”

  “No, no,” she said thinly. “I probably do. I appreciate your honesty, Zara. I truly do. We ought to always speak the truth to each other, and help each other.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Well then,” she started but didn’t follow it up with anything else. The ball was in my court, so to speak with a sports metaphor. It was my serve, or volley, or whatever.

  “Zinnia Riddle, I officially invite you to come over to my house and have a good, long look at my new book. You can hold it and read it as much as you like... provided you extract it from my closet first.”

  “Tonight? Right now?”

  I glanced over at my tiny door. It was a good thing my aunt was the same size as me.

  “Sure, come on over now,” I said.

  “I’m afraid I have other engagements. How about tomorrow morning? I could bring bagels for brunch. Plus cream cheese and lox. Oh, and I can prepare a nice fruit platter. I’ve got a spell for making perfectly round melon balls that I’d like to practice.”

  “You had me at bagels,” I said.

  * * *

  SATURDAY

  Saturday morning, I was sitting in the living room, quietly reading the obituaries segment of the local newspaper, when the doorbell rang.

  I yelled over my shoulder, “Doorbell!”

  My father, who was reading the business section of a national newspaper on the chair across from me, also relayed the signal. “Doorbell!”

  Zoey came running down the stairs. “Doorbell!”

  “Doorbell,” Rhys replied, smiling at me.

  “Doorbell,” I said with a raised eyebrow.

  Zoey paused in the living room. “Doorbell,” she said, with the casual freshness of someone making an observation for the first time.

  “Doorbell,” I agreed.

  She pointed at the front door and moved toward it. “Doorbell,” she said by way of explanation.

  Rhys chuckled in an amused, grandfatherly way.

  I nodded and went back to my obituaries. If I sped up, I could finish my task by the time Zoey and her great-aunt finished greeting each other.

  For the last couple of weekends, I’d made it my routine to read every obituary and death notice in the local newspaper. Being Spirit Charmed—or Spirit Cursed, depending on how you looked at it—meant that a stray ghost could invade my head at any moment. No notice, no takebacksies. Zinnia had been the one to suggest I keep tabs on the local dead people in order to help me identify new spirits more easily. And so I’d started the curious habit of reading the obituaries, several decades before a person naturally gets interested in such things.

  To my surprise, the obituaries weren’t depressing at all. If anything, reading about the wonderful lives of others, and how deeply one person could affect other people and communities, made my heart feel buoyant. What we do with our lives matters. No single act of kindness and grace is ever wasted. Seize the day and all that!

  I folded up the newspaper with a happy flourish and jumped up to greet my aunt.

  Rhys was already hugging her. Zinnia’s arms flopped limply at her sides while he gave her what looked like an exuberant squeeze.

  “Little Ziti Noodles, it’s been too long!” he exclaimed. He stepped back and looked her over. “And you’re not so little anymore. I’ll have to call you Zirconia!”

  Her hazel eyes flew open wide. “You mean Zinnia. I’m not Zirconia.”

  “Slip of the tongue,” he said.

  She huffed. “Rhys Quarry, I’m not like my sister. Not at all.” She crossed her arms over her chest protectively. She wore one of her usual eclectic ensembles: flower-dotted leggings with a paisley-and-floral tunic. The tunic was cinched at the waist with a braided cord that might have once been a tieback for velvet drapes. Her red hair was tied back in a loose braid.

  Rhys kept chuckling over my aunt’s reaction to being called her older sister’s name. He didn’t know I’d already insulted her the night before by comparing her to my mother. I couldn’t blame him for getting us mixed up. We Riddles all look so similar to each other, and the Z names don’t help.

  Rhys turned to Zoey. “Zozo, did you know that your aunt was about your age when we first met? She was such a shy little thing, compared to you. I wonder if it’s a generational thing?”

  “I wasn’t shy,” Zinnia said crisply. “I was younger than Zoey, and I was raised to have manners. I knew better than to—” She cut herself off and said simply, “It’s lovely to see you again, Rhys.”

  “And under better circumstances,” he agreed. “A brunch beats a funeral every time.” He sniffed the air. “Bagels?”

  “Yes!” She picked up the canvas tote bags she’d set on the floor a moment earlier. “I’ve brought a dozen fresh bagels, along with a selection of cream cheese flavors, as well as the world’s most perfectly round melon balls. They’re like marbles.”

  Zoey grabbed the bags with a happy whoop. “You had me at bagels,” she called over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen.

  Zinnia looked at me. “Like mother, like daughter.”

  Rhys chimed in, “I’ll say. Isn’t Zara the embodiment of all Zirconia’s best features?”

  They both stared at me. I felt like a bug under a glass.

  “Zara does embody many fine Riddle traits,” Zinnia said. “But she is her own person.”

  “She sure is,” Rhys said.

  They continued staring at me.

  “She can be a mystery,” Zinnia said.

  More staring.

  I took a few steps back cautiously. “You two look like you’re planning an intervention. I should have known better than to host a family reunion. Now there are enough people here to gang up on me.”

  Rhys said, “That’s what family’s for. We play-fight to prepare for the real world. Like fox pups tumbling around.”

  “Speaking of which,” Zinnia said. “I can’t believe I never knew of your particular gift. Looking back now, it’s all coming together, but I had no idea.”

  Rhys looked at me. “You told her?”

  Zinnia gave him a playful whack on the shoulder. “Of course she did, Rhys. I’m her mentor. You don’t keep secrets from your mentor.”

  He looked down at his shoulder where she’d whacked him and then directly at the redheaded witch. “Ziti Noodles, are you flirting with me?”

  Zinnia opened her mouth and made a choking sound, halfway between a laugh and sucking in a bug. Her cheeks turned pink. Rhys waggled his eyebrows at her, which produced more of the bug-sucking sound.

  “Gross,” I said, and I turned around quickly to find something else to do. Surely there was a bagel that needed slicing. I’d rather grate carrots than watch my father flirt with my dead mother’s younger sister.

  Chapter 17

  The four of us eventually made our way out to the back of the house, where we’d be having brunch alfresco. I hadn’t gotten around to buying patio furniture since the move, but Zoey had taken care of the seating earlier that morning. She’d set up a folding card table in the back yard, dressing it up with a colorful tablecloth and pairing it with chairs from the dining room.

  “Great job,” I said to Zoey as I took in the economical yet quaint setup. “All we need is the Mad Hatter, plus a mouse who lives in a teapot, and it’ll be a storybook brunch.”

  “The shrubbery does have a Wonderland feel,” she agreed.

  Indeed, the jungle in the back yard had become even more overgrown in the last few weeks of summer weather. At least the bushes were blossoming now, blue and white and pink. All the flowers made the overgrowth look intentional.

  “I made place cards with everyone’s names,” my daughter said, skipping around the table. “Pawpaw, you’re over here, at the head of the table.”

  I murmured to Zinnia, �
�There’s no head of the table if it’s a square card table.”

  “We ought to humor the girl,” Zinnia said. “These last playful vestiges of childhood will be gone before you know it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” I glared at my father pointedly.

  They’d gotten home late the night before and had spoken to each other downstairs with hushed tones I could only call conspiratorial.

  He was currently joking around with Zoey, rearranging the place cards on the table and juggling with the small granite creatures she’d set on a silver tray as the centerpiece.

  My aunt was staring at my father the way she looked at cakes. I didn’t like it one bit.

  I elbowed her. “Shake your head. Your eyes are stuck.”

  She turned and blinked at me. “No, they’re not.”

  “You were gawking at my father. I thought shifters were repugnant to witches?”

  “Yes and no.” She tilted her head nonchalantly. “He’s good with your daughter. I can see what my sister saw in him.”

  “Gross. You’re not going to hook up with my dad, are you?”

  She gasped. “Over my dead broomstick!”

  I pointed at her. “Where did you get that expression? I just said it the other day, and I can’t remember hearing it.”

  “Your mother used to say it,” Zinnia said. “Though it beats me how you picked it up. I certainly never heard it from her lips after she had you.”

  I gave her a hard look. “Was my mother a witch or not? You told me she wasn’t, but Rhys says she was.”

  Zinnia’s hazel eyes clouded over as she glanced around. She uttered the sound bubble spell to enclose the two of us. Rhys and Zoey were moving the table to a more level section of yard and weren’t paying us any attention. We stayed in the shadow cast by the back of the house.

  Zinnia spoke slowly and clearly. “Your mother chose to renounce witchcraft.”

  “She renounced witchcraft,” I repeated. Renounced, as in to formally declare one’s abandonment of a claim, a right, or a possession.

  “She didn’t want to be a witch.”