Wisteria Witches Mysteries Box Set 2

by Angela Pepper

  The pain in Zinnia's chest was unbearable. She let out a low, continuous moan that didn't help at all except to make her feel even more pathetic.

  She propped herself up using her hands, then collapsed on her other side. Ah, the tile was so cool on her hot cheek. And there was so much new information to digest.

  The shadowy people in town were more organized than she'd ever imagined. They were operating in plain sight, under the Department of Water. And those people—the DWM—were working on Annette's case, which was back to being considered a homicide, not the animal attack the public believed it to be.

  Zinnia placed her cool fingertips against her hot eyelids. In less than a week, her whole world had changed. She didn't even know the people she worked with.

  Carrot Greyson had mage powers, whether she knew it or not. She also had a brother who was working for the DWM. That had to be Ishmael Greyson, since he was the only sibling of Carrot's who lived in Wisteria. Zinnia hadn't thought much of the young man. What powers did he have, she wondered. And was the other friend Carrot had in high places her boyfriend, Steve? He was a lawyer, according to Carrot. But was he, really?

  And then there was Annette. She'd been like Zinnia, like Margaret. A witch. Three of them had worked side by side for a year and not even known they were a triad. How could Zinnia have been so blind?

  Zinnia stopped rubbing her eyes. She'd been pressing too hard, making herself see patches of unreal light behind her eyelids. She was harming herself.

  Just like she'd been harming herself by drinking that tea every day.

  She moved her hands down to her chest. Her heart continued to beat despite the pain.

  Charlize had used her powers to peel away months and months of potion. Now Zinnia's heart was bare, with no magical stone around it. No protection. She could feel all of her feelings, and they were agony.

  Aiden.

  Now that her heart was raw and open, she thought of the sweet child. Aiden. How he'd been so hopeful, and how she'd let him down. The pain knocked the wind out of her lungs. How could she breathe when Aiden did not?

  Zinnia Riddle hadn't died, but it sure felt like it.

  * * *

  There was something purple at the edge of her vision.

  Zinnia blinked to refocus her eyes. Purple? A little spark of curiosity pushed through the curtain of pain.

  What was that purple thing? Annette's pen? How had it gotten into the bathroom? She blinked again. It wasn't the pen. It was an old purple toothbrush that had fallen behind the laundry basket. Just a toothbrush.

  But now she was thinking about the pen, and the more she thought about the pen, the less she thought about Carrot Greyson, or Annette's body, or all the times Zinnia had let people down.

  The pen?

  She unrolled from her ball, stretched, and got to her feet.

  The pen!

  The pen was the answer. As long as she stayed on mission, stayed focused on something concrete, the pain in her raw, meaty heart stayed in the background.

  She went to her bedroom and retrieved the box containing Annette's pen. She stared at the simple plastic thing. It was no less ordinary than the fallen toothbrush. And yet, this was what Gavin had been searching for on Annette's body.

  But why? Gnomes were naturally drawn to objects of value, but the pen was worthless. Zinnia had already checked it for enchantments. It didn't have never-ending ink, tidy handwriting, or even spell check.

  She stared at the room's pretty wallpaper and searched her mental database for other explanations.

  Movement in the room pulled her from her thoughts. Something was moving. Something right in front of her. It was... her own hand. Zinnia's hand was gripping the pen and moving. Writing. Guided by Annette's simple plastic pen. She was writing, but she didn't have any paper, so she was writing on the leg of her green pants. The pen was too eager to bother waiting for paper. Why now? Why not when she'd tried to figure out the pen the first time?

  She used her other hand to catch herself by the wrist and lift her scribbling hand. The pen resisted, but not very much. Just a little tug.

  Zinnia smoothed out the fabric ripples on her slacks and examined the markings. Were the scribbles a spell? Runes? Secret messages from the dead?

  She squinted, and the lines became letters and then words. Words she could read. Zinnia stopped breathing. She had written on her pants leg the title of the memoir she and Margaret used to privately joke about her writing: The Life and Times of Zinnia Riddle, A Not-too-Witchy Witch.

  Below the title was an unfinished sentence. Once upon a ti—. If she hadn't stopped the pen, it would have kept on writing. Writing... her story?

  Zinnia remembered to breathe.

  The magic imbued in Annette's pen was very powerful indeed. She could have gathered some of her printer paper, settled at a flat writing surface, and had a complete tell-all memoir written in a matter of days. How... wonderful? Her battered heart throbbed. It was not wonderful. More like terrifying! All her secrets, exposed on paper.

  She carefully removed the pen from her hand. She didn't dare set it down, so she held it in her non-dominant hand. The pen felt surprisingly heavy all of a sudden. She dropped her hand to her leg, and the pen immediately began writing. Zinnia gasped and lifted her hand again, but not before it completed the sentence: Once upon a time there was a girl named Zinnia.

  Annette's book had also started with the phrase “Once upon a time.” Was the pen charmed to begin all stories that way? It was not the most original of openings, but you could only ask so much of a pen.

  Zinnia used her magic to twirl the pen through the air while she pondered what to do next. After a moment, she leaned forward and caught it between her teeth. She kept it there and waited. The pen did not attempt to use her head as a writing appendage. Not yet, anyway.

  Still holding the pen between her teeth, she went to her concealed cupboard and withdrew a single magical book. She cast a basic page-finding spell, and the pages riffled open to the chapter she needed.

  The page read: Animata Energy. A witch may, at times, unknowingly enchant or encurse the objects that she comes into contact with regularly. This phenomenon of Animata Transference is more likely to occur when the witch has not been keeping up her magical practice. In extreme cases, the objects may become dangerous, but the phenomenon is largely benign. However, as with all enchantments or encursements, there is the potential for great danger should the objects fall into the wrong hands.

  Zinnia read on with the pen gripped safely between her teeth.

  When she finished the chapter, she understood. The pen had become enchanted—or encursed—due to Annette's frequent use of it. The only reason Zinnia's or Margaret's pens didn't take on Animata Transference was because they knew they were witches and dispersed their magical energy regularly. Even during Zinnia's period of trying to “go straight,” she still used her magic weekly at minimum.

  Zinnia looked down at the pen, still held between her teeth. Once the Animata from Annette had been transferred, the pen had developed the ability to tell the writer's most heartfelt story.

  Zinnia touched her chest. Now she understood why her tests with the pen on Wednesday morning had yielded no results. While her heart had been magically cursed with its stone coating, the pen couldn't have worked in her hands. Even with its powerful Animata magic, it was still just a pen. It couldn't reach her heart through its protective coating.

  She turned her head and carefully dropped the pen on her bed next to her. It still appeared to be nothing more than a simple plastic pen. And to think she hadn't realized what she had, until now.

  Could Charlize have known? Was that why the gorgon had been so eager to “help” Zinnia's heart break free of its granite box?

  Her mind reeled. Were Zinnia's choices even her own, or had she been directed to this point in time by design? Was she simply a pawn in a game controlled by powerful players?

  Zinnia's paranoid mind churned with conspiracy theories
that were so convoluted, they would make Margaret's rants seem tame by comparison.

  The redheaded witch sat on her bed with the pen next to her for several minutes while she gathered her thoughts.

  When her head finally cleared, it was crystal clear. She jumped up. She knew what she had to do. It was time to put some pressure on Gavin Gorman. First, she would change into a fresh pair of slacks, and then she would go press on the gnome. She would press until one of them broke.

  Chapter 24

  The Candy Factory Apartments

  1:25 pm

  Zinnia stood near the front door of the Candy Factory Apartments, cupping her hand over her eyes to block the sunshine as she tried to read the digital intercom screen. She couldn't complain about the nice weather that was rare for January, but the sunshine did make reading the screen difficult. For the third time, she scrolled through the Candy Factory's tenant listing looking for Gavin's apartment number. She'd probably resort to jinxing the front door open, but not yet. It was best to avoid using magic when regular means would suffice.

  The pain in her chest had dulled since she'd gotten herself off the bathroom floor, only to be replaced by a heavy ache that was in some ways worse because it fluctuated. Sadness would come in waves, making her eyes blur. She missed Annette Scholem. She missed the life she'd tried to have. Her eyes blurred. Zinnia didn't know what grief was good for, but it sure wasn't for helping her see names on the intercom's digital scroll.

  She had just found Gavin's apartment number when movement on the other side of the building's glass door caught her eye. A gentleman with pink hair was standing by the communal mailboxes, sorting a handful of mail. When he saw Zinnia looking at him, he came to the door to let her in.

  “Good afternoon to you, Zinnia Riddle!” He gave her a pearly smile that was nearly as bright as Gavin's. “We're not supposed to let random people into the building, but I'll vouch for you personally.”

  Zinnia forced a light laugh. “Thanks for that, Fred.”

  “Frank,” he said, correcting her. “Frank Wonder.”

  She touched her fingers to her forehead. “I knew that. Sorry, Frank. I haven't been feeling like myself today.”

  “Oh?” His voice and body language were playful, his skinny form undulating, noodle-like. “Who have you been feeling like?”

  “That's a good question. I shall get back to you on that when I see you at...” She trailed off, confused by her own words. The ache of her grief pulsed with each heartbeat.

  The older man cocked his head. With his bright pink hair, Frank Wonder reminded Zinnia of a tropical bird. Not everyone could pull off the flamingo-pink hair look, but Frank did so with wondrous panache. It was the perfect hairdo for his career. He worked as a children's librarian, and all the kids adored his fun style.

  He finished Zinnia's sentence for her. “When you see me at the next fundraiser?”

  “Yes,” she said, although she'd been thinking of something completely different. She'd had the strangest premonition she would be seeing Frank soon, at a dinner party. Perhaps this was a side effect of the gorgon pulsing Zinnia's heart back to life. Or she was truly going crazy. Either way, there was no time to dwell on it now. She had to apply some pressure to a certain gnome.

  Frank Wonder wished her a pleasant day and went back to his mail sorting.

  Zinnia headed for the stairwell and took the stairs two at a time. The old building was chock-a-block with ghosts and foul energy. Most of the bad juju pooled in the stairwells and common areas. The individual apartments had been treated by the magical equivalent of an exterminator, for the protection of residents. Most ghosts were harmless, but they could be provoked by the living. The Candy Factory was not Zinnia's favorite building, yet the owners always found long-term tenants with ease. It was particularly popular with divorced or single men who valued the building's top-of-the-line fitness room.

  Zinnia banged on Gavin's door until it opened.

  By the look of his shirtless, sweaty torso, Gavin Gorman had recently made use of the gym facilities. The apartment behind him was tidy and quiet; Dawna didn't appear to be there.

  “Zinnia Riddle,” he said with grim politeness. “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your frowning face and flowery attire on a Saturday afternoon?”

  “I'm here about the pen,” she said. The time for subtlety had long passed. “Annette's pen. The one you were groping her lifeless body for.”

  He didn't even blink. He'd been expecting this conversation.

  Zinnia tapped her toe. “We ought not conduct our business in the hallway.”

  He smirked. “We ought not? You're a funny bunny, Zinnia.” He blocked the doorway to his apartment with his body. “What's the magic password?”

  She raised her eyebrows. Was he serious?

  “You should be able to guess the password,” he said. “Or are you not much of a witch?”

  Not much of a witch? His words reverberated down the open hallway for anyone to hear. Zinnia bit back her fury. It was unforgivable for a person with supernatural powers to reveal another person's gifts in a public forum. Not to mention the height of rudeness.

  Tersely, she replied, “If you're a gnome, then I suppose that makes me equally special.” Louder, she said, “That is, if you, Gavin Gorman, truly are a gnome.”

  The skin on his bare chest contracted visibly, goose bumps forming across his pectorals. His nipples might have hardened, but Zinnia avoided seeing them do so. She had the good manners to not stare at a man's nipples, unlike Gavin, who didn't have the good manners to pull on a shirt before answering the door.

  Finally, Gavin stepped back and waved her into the apartment.

  Zinnia felt a sense of relief as she stepped into his ghost-free personal space and away from the haunted hallway.

  “Make yourself at home,” Gavin said. “Don't mind me. I just worked out, and if I don't power up with my smoothie right away, I'll crash.” He walked over to the open kitchen area and picked up smoothie preparations where he'd apparently left off. He didn't say anything about the pen. He was stalling for time, mentally preparing a cover story. Zinnia decided to let him try.

  Gavin used a pair of shiny scissors to snip greenery from a row of plants he had growing in pots on the windowsill.

  Zinnia looked around the apartment. Her gaze was drawn by a framed painting of a woman. A nude woman. She had red hair and creamy pale skin. Every inch of her was naked.

  “Nice painting,” Zinnia said.

  “Local artist,” Gavin said. He narrowed his eyes. “Any chance you've done a little figure modeling? I can't see much of her face, and I always thought my girl bore a resemblance to you.”

  Zinnia gave him a thin smile. “I am not your girl.”

  “If you say so.” He finished snipping greenery from the plants on the windowsill.

  Zinnia joined Gavin in the kitchen area, walking over to the window to inspect the plants. Herbs were one of Zinnia's specialties, so she recognized the plants instantly. All except for the basil were magical species.

  She pinched off a leaf and rolled it between her fingers. Potent magic released in a puff of colored crystals. An idea began forming in Zinnia's mind, and as it did, the weight in her chest grew lighter. Yes. Staying on track was the answer. Moving forward. She would keep moving. She would find Annette's killer, avenge her death, and then the pain would go away. Not all deaths could be avenged, but this one would. Annette Scholem would have justice.

  Zinnia turned to face her spray-tanned, bare-chested coworker. “Gavin, are you sure you know what you're doing with these herbs? Some of the combinations can have strong side effects.”

  He snorted and continued sprinkling the herbs into his blender. “Don't worry about me. Wick gave me very clear instructions.”

  “Which Wick was that? Only one of them can be trusted, and even then I'd be cautious.”

  “You worry about your smoothies, and I'll worry about mine.” He shot her a knowing look. “Or should I say...
your tea.”

  “Fair enough.” She washed the crushed herb from her hands. “Speaking of the Wicks, are you aware that their family operated a poison factory within these walls for twenty years?”

  An expression of shock registered on Gavin's face before he regained composure. “This building was a candy factory,” he said indignantly. “There are a bunch of old-timey photos of the factory in operation, down in the lobby.”

  “Yes, at some point it was a candy factory,” Zinnia agreed. “But it's a good, sturdy building. A fortress, really. These old stone walls have housed a great many operations over the years. Candy factory. Poison factory. Prison for the criminally insane. At one point it was even—”

  “Nope!” He cut her off with a waving hand, brandishing the flashing scissors. “That's more than enough. I still have to live here, thank you.” He set down the scissors and hit a button to fire up the blender. Over the noise, he yelled, “What do you want from me, anyway?”

  She waited until the blender was finished and said, “Answers. Why were you after Annette's pen?”

  His cheeks slackened and his eyes widened. “Do you have it with you? Give me the pen and I'll tell you everything.”

  “Tit for tat? Is that any way to treat a coworker? I thought we were a team. We're the Incredibowls. What happened to cooperation?”

  “You don't understand gnomes at all, do you?”

  She looked down at his socked foot. “I know that if you stamp your foot three times, you'll go away.”

  “That's just an urban legend,” he said.

  Zinnia knew he was lying, but let it go.

  He poured his green smoothie into a glass and started gulping it down. When he was done drinking, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced around the apartment as though looking for an excuse to end their visit.

  “Listen, Zinnia, it's not personal. I like you. And Margaret, too. I like everyone at the office. Even Karl.”

  “How about Annette? You liked her, but you killed her because she wouldn't give you her pen.”