She’d played me for the fool.
And I’d been so blinded by my growing fondness for her that I’d believed every bit of it.
I don’t mean to be overly dramatic, but it must be stated: Charlize betrayed my trust.
And for that, she would pay.
All in the fullness of time.
For now, I had a job to do.
I had to punch my timecard and start the day anew.
My name is Zara Riddle, and I’m proud to be a librarian.
Zara tries to be a good librarian!
Zara does not roll her eyes when a patron states that a two-dollar overdue-materials fine is akin to being picked up by one’s feet and shaken for loose change. Zara must remember that not everyone has been gifted with the life-altering, perspective-gaining experience of having literally been picked up and whipped around like a Rumba shaker then smothered by a plant’s digestive enzymes before having their heart turned to granite by a snake-haired demon and then back again.
* * *
All of Wednesday, I tried to act “normal.” But as my daughter frequently complained, I’d never been good at playing normal. The head librarian cornered me in the staff lounge during my midmorning break. She closed and locked the door behind her, which she’d never done before.
I’m being fired.
“You’ve got to tell me your secret,” Kathy said, pushing her round glasses up her owlish nose.
“No,” I said, quite seriously. “I don’t have to.”
“Zara, your skin is positively glowing today. Your hair is brighter, and even your posture is incredible. Are you on a juice cleanse? Is it makeup?” She closed the distance between us and sniffed the air audibly. “You smell good. Like raw vegetable juice.”
I self-consciously stroked my jaw. Kathy did have a point about my appearance. Thanks to the exfoliation I’d received in the plant’s acidic bath, my skin was softer than new rose petals. Was that all Kathy wanted from me? Beauty tips? It seemed a bit gratuitous for her to lock the door to the staff lounge for girl talk, but Kathy could be strange.
She asked, “What is that scent? Is it a skin lotion?”
“Sort of. Are you familiar with the Droseraceae family of tropical plants?”
Kathy blinked twice. “Venus flytrap plants?”
“Yes, that’s the idea. Last night, I took a bath in an experimental all-over exfoliation lotion extracted from one of the larger plants. I was... a volunteer. Sort of. I’m afraid the product’s not ready for the market yet.”
“Whooo knew,” she hooted. “An extract from carnivorous plants.” She gave her head a shake and smiled. “Let me know if they want more volunteers for testing. I’m willing and able.”
“I’m not sure you would be so eager if you were aware of the side effects.”
She frowned. “Fine. If you don’t want to share your beauty secrets with me, just say so.” With a half shrug of dismissal, she walked past me to get something from the refrigerator. She opened a rectangular plastic container with a blue lid and began spooning up brown goo. The gelatinous treat was dotori-muk, an acorn jelly made for her by her Korean neighbor. On my first day of work, I’d made the mistake of throwing an earlier batch out of the fridge. I could see from Kathy’s expression that she was also accessing the memory of that interaction. And regretting her decision to hire me.
I had to make things right.
“Kathy, I’ll get you a jar of something better,” I promised. “My aunt makes a zero-calorie salad dressing that’s terrible for the digestive system but works miracles dissolving dry calluses on the feet.”
Her expression brightened, and she hooted softly. “Ooh, ooh, that would be something.” She went back to eating her acorn jelly with a smile.
What now? I looked over at the locked door and back at Kathy. She wanted something else, but what?
I asked in a friendly tone, “How are you doing? I haven’t seen any leaves or sticks in your hair recently.”
“Oh, that.” She rolled her eyes. “Have I ever told you about my father? He can be challenging.”
“Sounds about right for fathers.” I leaned back against the lounge’s kitchenette counter and looked into my mug of microwaved coffee. Last night, my own father had left me to be eaten by a carnivorous plant. I didn’t know what Kathy’s father had done to upset her, but I had a feeling it wasn’t quite as bad.
“He’s got some issues with hoarding,” she said. “He’s always complaining to me about how he would be happy to clean up his back yard if only he had some help. So, I went over there last week before work to give him a hand, and we pushed our way through the back bushes to where he’s got an old car graveyard. I was taking photos of the cars with collectible value, so we could list them for sale, and suddenly he had one of his mood swings. Everything had been just fine, until a fox came running through the yard, chased by the neighbor’s dogs.”
“A red fox?”
“Yes. A red fox. It ripped between us and then disappeared into a hole in the ground. I told my father that the fox was probably headed toward the underground cave system that runs under the edge of the city on that end. You know about the caves, right? They pop out under Pacific Spirit Park.”
“They do?”
“It’s a secret,” she said, flashing her eyes mischievously. “Well, my father went into one of his rants, about how the whole town’s going to hell these days, thanks to the ungodly supernatural beings that keep flocking to Wisteria. Then he got onto a huge diatribe about the DWM, and how they’re not doing anything right under the current leadership, and they haven’t done anything right since Don Moore was forced to take early retirement. I told him, ‘Dad, we’re all doing the best we can to battle the forces of ignorance and evil,’ and I even told him there were some new witches in town who’ve been fighting the good fight, but he’s just one of those guys, you know? He thinks his generation is the only one that can keep the peace. And by his generation, I mean specifically just the men. You know what I mean, don’t you, Zara?”
She raised a jiggly cube of acorn gelatin toward her mouth and paused.
“Sure,” I said. “I know the type.”
And that was the day I learned that all three of the full-time librarians at the Wisteria Public Library knew about magic, and spells, and things that go bump in the night.
Chapter 39
Zoey’s summer moping was worse now that she could turn into a fox at will. She could do a melodramatic full-body drape over furniture even better in fox form.
My education-loving daughter had always been touchy during the first week of summer holidays. In the past, this had been expressed through loud sighing and limp body posture. After a few days, she would get into the summer routine and be fine. She usually babysat for other families in the building where we used to live, or did odd jobs, including her plant-watering service. The days would pass easily enough. And then most of August was about preparing for the September return to school, which made her giddy.
Sometimes I worried about her love of school. Was she the picture of health, or had I failed somehow in raising her? My “free range” method of parenting might have caused her to crave the comfort and security of a set routine, with bells ringing regularly to signal movement from one task to another. The summer she was thirteen, I’d experimented with our own schedule of activities, right down to an electronic timer that buzzed every hour. She gamely went along with the schedule the first few days, but then as soon as I left for work, she removed the batteries from the timer because a neighbor “needed them” for her remote control.
This year, now that everything was different, I’d hoped to skip the summer slump.
For one thing, she had her learner’s license for driving, as well as access to a fun car.
Rhys Quarry left town with the heart of the Droserakops, as well as my last bit of goodwill for him, but he didn’t take Foxy Pumpkin. When we returned home after the incident at Tansy Wick’s property, we found ownership trans
fer papers on the kitchen counter, along with the keys. No note.
Zoey showed little interest in the car. She avoided talking about Foxy Pumpkin or riding in it. She was dealing with the confusing aftermath of what my father had done to us. It didn’t help that whenever I brought up the subject, my face would make the I-told-you-so expression.
I swore to her that it gave me no pleasure to have been proven right about the man she called Pawpaw, but we both knew I was lying. Of course I was happy to be proven right. Even if it meant breaking Zoey’s heart, it was better now than later. Better to rip off the bandage quickly than to pick at it once a year.
My father had shown himself to be the kind of man who would leave when I needed him the most. He’d let me down just as much as my so-called friend, Charlize, who lied to me to further her career. Most days it was a tie for which one of them made me angrier. The bitterness in vegetables is caused by alkaloids and sulfamides. The bitterness in adults is caused by life, and all the ways other people disappoint you. At last, I understood why Tansy Wick preferred her solitary life in the country with only her dogs and her plants.
But I put a smile on my face, and I kept the bitterness from my daughter as best I could. She was sixteen, and it was summer, and unlike I’d been at that age, she wasn’t swelling with pregnancy.
On Saturday morning, I yanked the box of Eggo waffles from her hand before she could put another one in the toaster.
“The sun is shining, and it’s a beautiful day,” I said. “Let’s take Foxy Pumpkin out for a spin. You can drive there and back. I promise not to grab the wheel.”
She glowered at me. “It’s not the steering wheel that’s the problem,” she said. “You always use your magic to push the brake pedal, and the turn signal, too. How am I supposed to learn if you’re magically side-seat driving?”
“Drive better, and I won’t have to jump in,” I said. “You’ve got potential, but you’ve got to work at it. Driving isn’t a book you can memorize and get a hundred percent on the test.”
“But I did get a hundred percent on the written driving test.” She grabbed the box of Eggos from midair, where they’d been floating, and jammed one into the toaster.
I floated the waffle out of the toaster. “No more sadness eating,” I said. “We’re going out. Young lady, you’re going to get some fresh air and have fun, whether you like it or not.”
A mischievous grin twisted her lips. “Fine. But I’m going on my terms.”
She crouched down, jumped into the air, and twisted into her fox form instantaneously. She landed on the kitchen floor on four soft paws.
“You cheeky little vixen.” I shook my head. “You know you can’t reach the pedals in fox form, but I’d sure like to see you try.” I pictured the scene. An adorable red fox driving a bright-orange Nissan 300ZX, ears buffeting in the breeze from the open T-roof.
Fox-Zoey yipped.
“No, you’re not driving in fox form. But I’d sure love to see the look on Detective Bentley’s face when he pulls me over for letting a fox drive our car. If he hasn’t discovered magic by now, it won’t be long.”
Fox-Zoey cocked her head to the side. In her animal form, she had hazel eyes that were the same color as her human eyes, but with a vertical cat-like iris. She spoke to me in a chatty fox vocalization that sounded like mocking laughter.
Boa came in on silent white paws to see what the commotion was about. She was still missing half her whiskers. They had burned off during her brief swim in the plant’s digestive juices. Thanks to the quick thinking of DWM agents Knox and Rob, the cat hadn’t suffered any damage to her eyes or other organs. They’d given her a chilly bath at the scene, using a garden hose to get the acidic, numbing goo cleaned off all four of us. It was a clever gesture that was not appreciated by the feline.
Boa showed no signs of lingering damage, though sometimes when I looked into her green eyes, I sensed a special connection. We’d both survived something together. I wondered, what crazy adventures were awaiting us in the future? There are spells that witches can do with cats. They can serve as our spies, getting into places we can’t go and then sharing their memories with us.
I picked up Boa, who melted into my arms and started purring immediately. She rubbed her cheek on my chin while keeping one eye on Fox-Zoey. Boa had been wary of Zoey in fox form, thanks to all the barking and chasing done by my crazy father, but she’d been warming up to her. They chased each other around the house, but Zoey traded off, letting Boa do the chasing half the time. The cat seemed to enjoy the playtime, but she preferred her mistress in human form. Humans had hands to hold the blue brush that was Boa’s favorite. What was the appeal of the blue brush? I tried it out on Zoey in fox form once, and she reported later that she didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Perhaps it was just a cat thing.
Boa stretched down from my arms and swatted at the wriggly white fur at the tip of Zoey’s foxtail.
The tail twitched again, irresistibly.
Boa jumped down from my arms and chased the fox through the main floor of the house and then upstairs.
Five minutes later, when Boa came sauntering back into the kitchen as innocent as could be, I put out a fresh bowl of food for her.
Boa dug right in. A bit of “fox hunting” helped stimulate Boa’s appetite. She’d been a tad skinny when we adopted her, but she’d been gaining mass nicely.
Zoey-fox slunk into the kitchen, sniffing the air with interest.
“You want cat food?”
She shook her muzzle, no, but her eyes stayed locked on the stinky bowl of cat food.
“Let’s go for that drive up the coast,” I said. “Are you sure you want to wear your thick fur coat? It’s a hot one today.”
Zoey-fox swished one dark ear at me. Yes, she would be fine in the fur coat.
* * *
Foxy Pumpkin wouldn’t have sold for the price of a modern sports car, but it was just flashy enough to attract attention.
With the T-top roof open and pop tunes playing on the Pioneer stereo, we were a sight: A woman with red hair whipping in the breeze, driving an orange sports car, her companion a grinning red fox in the passenger seat. The fox had her glistening black snout hanging out of the side window like a dog.
When we reached the seaside ice cream shop at the edge of the next town, Westwyrd, my fox companion hunkered down on the floor in front of her seat. Out of sight of onlookers, she shifted back into her teenage girl form.
“How convenient,” I said. “You’ve suddenly got hands with opposable thumbs now that we’re at a place that sells cones.”
“Foxes don’t like ice cream,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s still tasty, but not in the same way. I had to think logically about how much I wanted ice cream right now and then manually override my impulses to go hunting for rats under the wharf.”
“You’re teasing, right? Like you were with the cat food? You didn’t really want to hunt and eat a rat, did you?”
She looked straight into my eyes. “Mom, don’t freak out or anything. I’m still myself when I shift. I’m still Zoey Riddle, but everything’s different.”
“How different?”
“Let’s just say that adopting a hamster or a gerbil for the house would be a bad idea.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She shrugged. “I might.”
I shuddered at the idea of my daughter eating a live rodent.
“There.” She pointed at me. “That look on your face. Judgment. That’s why I can’t talk to you about this stuff.”
“But Zoey...” I’d been about to deliver a motherly lecture about keeping up the lines of communication, no matter how gross or uncomfortable, or else we would be no better than people like Jorg Ebola, the editor whose prejudice made reading the DWM’s Monster Manual difficult. We Riddles were a mixed family, a blend of witch and shifter, and we couldn’t allow our differences to tear us apart.
I lost my train of thought. I was distracted by the fluttering of
blue wings directly overhead.
A blue jay.
Maybe it was the blue jay, the one who’d given me the warning in the woods.
We had solved the mystery of what happened to Tansy and why, including the revelation that Project Buttercup was a flesh-munching triple-headed monster plant, and that Reynard was one of my father’s pseudonyms. But we hadn’t uncovered the identity of the person who’d paid the vet bill and been talking to Bentley.
I reached for my purse and the bottle of sight-enhancement gel my aunt had prepared. The gloop smelled bad, but not as bad as the spirit-blocking stuff I’d put in my nostrils.
Zoey followed my eyes up to the bird and groaned. “Here we go again on another one of your wild goose chases.”
“More of a wild blue jay chase,” I corrected. “Would you say that blue jay is staring at us with beady eyes that are controlled remotely by a creature of the grave?”
Zoey turned her head and gazed longingly at the ocean-side ice cream shop. Happy families were laughing together on the patio. “All I can see is ice cream,” she said.
“One last try.” I gave the bottle of viscous fluid a shake. I had been chasing blue jays for days and was down to the dregs. I pulled out the special polarized sunglasses and squirted the last of the fluid onto the lenses. The bottle made a humorous sound, like a ketchup bottle giving up its final squirt. “Keep an eye on the bird while I get this set up.”
Zoey’s posture went dramatically limp. She rested her head on her hand and stared up through the open T-top roof. The blue jay didn’t budge from his branch.
“He’s up there, all right,” she said. “Just minding his own business.”
“What sort of business? Eating seeds and insects?”
My daughter suddenly jerked her head up. “I think he’s listening to us. His head turned toward you when you talked, and now it’s turned back to me.” She rubbed her forearms. “I just got chills. Maybe this one really is a seer for the dead.”
Wisteria Witches Mysteries Box Set 2 Page 29
