1 Scared Witchless

by Amy Boyles

  So I smacked my lips. "Are you going to the solstice banquet tomorrow?"

  "If Em's the killer and you prove it tonight, I'll be gone by then."

  My heart battered my ribs. "You'll be gone? Why?"

  "My job here will be over, remember? I was only hired to guard you until the killer was caught."

  "But what about others?" I sputtered. "You've said so yourself, that the witches will be coming out of the woodwork to kill us." Way to play it cool, Dylan. I should've jumped in his arms and told him I couldn't live without him. Which I could. I didn't need to date any men. I didn't need to date anyone. I was perfectly happy all by myself, with my sisters and Grandma for company.

  Maybe I should jump in his arms.

  "I think you'll find a way to stay safe, Dylan. You strike me as the type of woman who knows how to protect herself."

  Speaking of, I needed to do that protection spell again. I'd forgotten all about that, what with Milly being in the hospital, and the sting on Em coming up.

  The front door slammed open. Grandma stood in the center of the room, her arms spread wide. "I'm here to have you make my dress for the banquet." Her eyes swept Roman from head to foot. "You here for that, too?"

  Roman chuckled. "No, ma'am. I'm on my way out the door." He nodded toward me. "See you later."

  Before I had a chance to ask him a gazillion questions, he left. Dang it. I turned to Grandma. "How'd you get here?"

  "You think I can't get a ride from Nan to come into town? Ha. That woman's ready to get out of the cottage every chance she gets."

  I crossed to the window and peered through the blinds. "Where is she?"

  "Next door having some hot chocolate and a brownie. Says it's delicious. I say it sounds like suicide by chocolate."

  "Of course it does."

  "Listen, girlie, I need a dress for the banquet tomorrow."

  "Only if you show me the file on Roman. The one you had the other night at dinner."

  "Who?"

  My chest deflated with an exhale. "The bodyguard."

  "Oh." She shook her head. "No. I don't know. Maybe."

  "That's definitive."

  She sauntered toward the racks. "Help me with the dress and I might change my tune."

  I gestured toward the mass of gowns. "Let me show you some."

  Now I've yet to have a client who didn't agree with my selection for them, but when I showed my grandmother a cream-colored suit dress, she shook her head. The same thing happened when I presented an aqua pantsuit and even a pale blue chiffon gown.

  "I don't see anything I like. I guess you'll have to make me something."

  Okay, since I had nothing to do—no killers to catch and no baking to help Sera with. Since my plate was completely clean for the next twenty-four hours, I could definitely sit down and sew Grandma a dress.

  "Grandma, I don't have time to make you a banquet gown."

  She threw her hands up. "Of course you do! You're a witch, aren't you?"

  "That's still up for debate."

  She rubbed her spotted hands together and, with weepy eyes, took in my shop. "This is where we can get a little Mary Poppins."

  "I don't follow."

  She grasped me by the shoulders and said, "Let your magic make the dress. Think Cinderella and the mice."

  That cleared up any confusion. I'd just conjure some Disney cartoon characters and get them to make the outfit. "You might have to guide me on this one."

  "Dim the shades," she commanded.

  I turned my blinds so no one could see in.

  "Put up the CLOSED sign."

  I frowned. "How about the BE RIGHT BACK one?"

  She fluffed the ends of her silver curls. "That will do."

  It would have to. I didn't need to lose any more business than I already had since the murder.

  "Now," she said. "For the banquet, I want a shimmering black tunic dress with silver thread."

  I arched my eyebrow. "Black? For a summer dress?"

  "It will be made of linen."

  I rolled my eyes. "Much better."

  She stared at me as if expecting me to do something. "Well? Get started."

  I laughed at the absurdity. "I don't know how."

  Grandma rolled up the sleeves of her orange linen jacket. Yes, the woman was a sucker for linen, and orange, apparently, since she always seemed to be wearing it. "First thing's first. Pull the fabric and the thread from storage. Do you have both the black and silver?"

  I shrugged. "I guess so."

  She thrust out her hands, palms up and open. "Then command them to come!"

  I gave her a questioning look.

  "Command them!"

  Afraid I'd be cursed to the depths of hell—or at least some sort of unicorn purgatory—I imagined the black linen and said, "Come forth," unsure of what the heck would happen. Two seconds later, no lie, a bolt of ebony fabric floated in from the storage room.

  I reached behind me, gripping for the armrest of the chair.

  "Ha," Grandma said. "Witchcraft still scare you?"

  "No," I lied.

  "This is nothing, chick. You need to get with the program. If this scares you, there's no telling what a herd of talking humpback baboons will do to you."

  "No telling," I murmured.

  She instructed me to call the thread, which I did. And then she said, "Now, make the tunic with your mind. Cut the fabric, sew it together."

  "Don't I need measurements?"

  She raised her arms over her head. "If you must."

  I took a few quick measurements and thought, what the heck? I focused on every dressmaking scene from Disney cartoons I could remember, and told the objects what to do. And you know what? They did.

  Scissors cut wedges of fabric. Silver thread unwound, and the shears cut several strips. Slips of thread poked through the eyes of several needles, and faster than I could even push the fabric through a sewing machine, each needle and thread created a hem, lining, even drew an embellished design on the front of the tunic. It was a better oiled machine than I was. I stood back, orchestrating the entire thing with my mind like a conductor on the opening night of Carnegie Hall's season.

  "Keep going," Grandma hummed. "You've got it."

  I told this thread to sew the arms, told that thread to finish the sides and brought forth rhinestones and sequins to add shimmer and shine. I pushed myself to do more, juggle harder, add another layer until one entire wall of the room was a mass of thread and fabric, needles and scissors, cutting and constructing. This was my symphony. I harnessed all my energy to keep everything going, to continue the steady pace. A melody sounded in my head as I gathered each and every working cog and moved them to finish Grandma's gown.

  "It's working," she said. "You're doing it. Focus."

  Someone knocked on the door. I panicked, dropping concentration. Thread I didn't need unwound from the spool. Scissors cut it. The silvery strip floated to the floor as more thread unwound.

  "Rein it in," Grandma said.

  I tried. I pushed my focus on the thread to make it stop, but now the knocking came harder.

  "Stop the dress," Grandma hissed.

  I told everything to stop. Saw the image in my mind, but nothing happened. In fact, cutting increased, sewing sped up. The knocking came harder, more aggressive. The doorknob jiggled. I panicked. I could not let anyone see this. I'd be stripped of my power, boiled by the council, or by the Queen Witch herself in a bloody, horrible death.

  The door pushed open.

  "Stop!" I cried.

  I hunched down, not wanting to see the catastrophe of cloth and thread before me. I imagined silver shears still cutting, silver thread still unspooling.

  Silence.

  I glanced at the door. Detective Blount stood there, a worried expression etched on his face. "Stop what? Is everything okay?"

  Think quick. "Yes. Grandma kept pinching me, so I yelled at her?" My heart shattered against my ribs. I held my breath, knowing my face must have turned
a deep shade of crimson.

  He nodded as if everything was fine.

  In the slowest of slo-mo, I pivoted back to the dress. Everything lay perfectly on a back table I used for construction. There wasn't one shred of evidence that, only moments before, the entire contents had been suspended in the air, moving about as if God himself had breathed life in them.

  His gaze swept the room. "Thought I heard a commotion in here."

  "No," I tittered. "Nothing in here but us chickens. Right, Grandma?" He threw me a confused look. Come on. "You know, that's that old-time joke."

  Grandma glared at me as if I had three heads. "It was originally a song. But that's neither here nor there. What sort of commotion are you talking about, Detective? You're not suggesting some sort of drug-infused party, are you?"

  Blount's face reddened. "No. Of course not. I was walking by, heard a noise and wanted to make sure Miss Apel was all right. You are, aren't you?"

  "Of course. Fine." I coiled the tip of my ponytail around my index finger. Nothing to see here. "How's the investigation going?"

  He glanced back toward the street. "Just fine." The detective coughed into his fist. "Following up on some leads. I'll be gone week after next. I'm taking a vacation."

  "Oh? To where?" Grandma asked.

  "Atlanta," he said.

  "Isn't that where you came from?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  I had the distinct feeling it wasn't a vacation the detective was after, but I said nothing. "We'll, we're fine in here."

  He pressed his lips into a thin line. "That man you're always with is outside in a black SUV keeping an eye on the place."

  I gulped. "Is he?" Perhaps playing dumb would help me in this situation.

  He thumbed his hand toward the street. "I'm aware you know he's out there. Is there some reason why you feel the need to have him around?"

  "The mafia," Grandma said.

  Both of us snapped our necks in her direction. "The mafia," Blount repeated.

  "There's a little known sect of them that steal dresses." She leaned forward, lowered her voice to a whisper. "From what I hear, there's a mafia queen who likes a five-finger discount on designer clothing."

  "You don't say," he said.

  "Yes, I do. Detective, you carry an awful lot of tension in your shoulders." Grandma placed a hand on his bicep and tiptoed behind him. She grasped both his shoulders and started kneading. "Yes, a lot of tension. In fact, I haven't seen this much since my husband was dealing with our daughter's teenage years." Her head appeared beside his neck. "Do you have one?"

  "What's that?"

  "A teenager."

  He chuckled. "No. My kids are grown." He moaned. "Does that feel good."

  "It does. I know it does."

  He closed his eyes and smiled. "Boy, this is heaven."

  "No, it's not," she said. "There aren't enough angels."

  I groaned. Sheesh. Could the woman have one conversation that was normal?

  "If you keep this up, I'll fall asleep."

  She rubbed her hands down his arms and clapped them against his shirt. "We don't need that, do we? There are enough police officers in doughnut shops. No reason to add one more."

  He squinted at me through a slit in one eye. "Um, sure." The detective straightened his back and adjusted his tie as if embarrassed that he'd let an old woman massage him. "Thank you. I needed that."

  Grandma gave him a whimsical smile. Was she flirting? Gross. "You're welcome."

  He placed his hands on his hips and tapped his fingers. "If you come across anything that might aid the investigation, let me know."

  "You'll be the first I call, Detective," I said.

  He perused the shop one more time before reaching for the door. "Ladies. Have a pleasant afternoon."

  I waved. "You too, Detective."

  Once he was gone, Grandma turned to me. "About time you got rid of him. I thought he'd never leave."

  "What? You were the one massaging him. If you'd wanted him to go, you probably shouldn't have started in with the whole do-you-have-a-teenager bit."

  She walked over to the tunic dress and lifted one arm. "What was I supposed to do? Kick him out? He's the police, Dylan. They matter in this part of the world."

  "This part of the world?"

  She pressed a finger to the middle of her lips. "As opposed to the other part of the world—that of witches and creatures."

  "Right. The winged monkeys and unicorns," I said with zero enthusiasm.

  "I know none of you believe me, but they exist. Now”—she lifted the dress to the light—“let's see what we have here." After several seconds she said, "It's absolutely gorgeous, Dylan. One of your finest pieces. All I need is a belt and it'll be perfect for tomorrow night." She folded it and set it inside a canvas bag that had appeared on the table. "You know, it's funny how inanimate objects sometimes have minds of their own."

  What was this craziness? "Pardon?"

  "That's why they wouldn't stop when you commanded them. They didn't want to." She clenched her fist and shook it. "Had a little taste of freedom and wanted more."

  "Huh?"

  "That's why I had to erase their memories. That's how I stopped them before that tense detective walked in."

  I cocked my head so far over, my cheek nearly touched my shoulder. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

  She zipped the bag shut. "That depends. If what you think I'm saying is that a group of scissors and such didn't want to stop creating because they enjoyed it, and the only way to stop them was to wipe their memories, then yes, that's what I'm saying?"

  I closed my eyes and squeezed the bridge of my nose. "I can't. I just can't. Grandma, objects don't have memories."

  She clutched the bag to her chest in surprise. "Of course they do. Objects remember."

  I raised my hands in surrender. "Fine. They remember. So am I going to have to wipe their memories every time?"

  She relaxed the bag and puckered her lips in thought. "Maybe. I don't know. Did you like making a dress that way?"

  I had to admit I did. The surge of magic flowing through me had made my veins zing with life. I felt focused, on target, like I could create a thousand more the exact same way. "Yes."

  She shouldered the bag. "Aha! I knew it. When we get home, I'll teach you how to wipe a memory clean."

  I went to the windows and opened the blinds. "We can't do that tonight, Grandma."

  She stared at me. "Why ever not?"

  "Because," I sighed, "we have a witch to catch."

  "And do you know the best way to catch them?" she said.

  "No."

  "Set out a glue trap. They'll walk right into it."

  I rubbed my forehead. Was this going to be a long night. I glanced at my watch. Less than five hours before Em showed up for dinner.

  "All right," Grandma sneered. "Let's get this witch."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  "If you so much as sniff one of those petit fours, I will cut you," Sera said. She brandished the most lethal-looking icing spreader I'd ever seen. Light glimmered off one end—the cutting end, I assumed, or what Sera would make the cutting end. Reid, iced confection closing in on her mouth, inched back a step.

  She stared at Sera as if she'd never seen her before. To do the situation justice, this may have been the first time Sera had threatened her with the promise of bodily harm.

  Sera spoke through an iron hard jaw. "Put. It. Down."

  With a dainty touch Reid laid the miniature cake back in its plastic container. "I thought you said I could try one."

  "At the banquet. You can try one there. Right now we have five hundred to make, dinner to conjure, a witch to catch and beauty sleep to get. There isn't time to stand around and taste the wares."

  Reid's face fell. "Oh."

  Grandma swept into the room. "Don't worry about dinner. Nan and I will have it whisked up in no time. You just keep doing what you're doing."

  Something about the idea o
f Grandma cooking dinner made my stomach sour. We'd probably be eating bananas picked by bonobos in some sort of mango chutney sauce, or unicorn greens. You know, something random and embarrassing.

  Nan entered the kitchen and pulled an apron over her head. "So you and Grandma are making dinner?" I asked in my most cheerful voice.

  Nan's lips trembled as if she was about to laugh. She pinched them together, suppressing any hint of amusement. "Yes. Your grandmother wants to make parmesan-stuffed artichokes." She opened the refrigerator and pulled several of the green leafy vegetables from the bin.

  Okay, so it wasn't unicorn food or monkey meat. We were starting off in the right direction. But would we veer off course to crash and burn? "That sounds delicious. What else are you making?"

  "Bacon-wrapped green beans and strawberry salad," Grandma said. "Does that meet with your approval?"

  "In fact, yes it does." I glanced at my watch. It was nearly seven. Looking at the mountain of unwashed and uncooked vegetables, a knot of anxiety clumped in my throat. "Sera, didn't you tell Em to be here at seven?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Because it's almost time." I shot a look to Nan. "How long will dinner take?"

  Grandma pushed me out of the kitchen. "Five minutes. I'm a witch, remember? I know how to use magic."

  I gripped the sides of the door frame. She pressed her hands into my back, trying to force me out. I held fast and glanced over my shoulder. "That's what I'm afraid of."

  ***

  Five minutes later the doorbell rang. I twisted my fingers together. A tornado of butterflies whirled in my stomach. I wanted to back out. To hell with it. Who did I think I was, trying to capture a witch queen? She'd probably rip me to shreds before I even had a chance to hit the button in my pocket, a button that pressed lightly against my thigh, a constant reminder that this wasn't a game we were playing.

  I held my breath and opened the door. I smiled, ready to welcome Em, and for some reason was surprised when Milly slewed me out of the way with her cane. "Is everything ready?" she demanded.

  I scoped out the street and noticed Roman's SUV was nowhere in sight. Good. He didn't need to be nearby when I called the police. I didn't want him to wind up in jail, or worse, on my account.