Moggies, Magic and Murder

by Pearl Goodfellow

  “I wonder how long it’ll take them to finish,” Gloom mused, sitting on the seat backwashing her ears.

  “And I wonder how long it’ll take you guys to get ready,” I quipped, shaking my shoe at my kitties. “Come on, I mean it. The ceremony will be starting soon, and I’m half naked here trying to herd you guys into action.”

  “Did I hear the words ‘half naked?’” David stepped behind me, and wrapped his arms around my middle, brushing his palms in a teasing dance across my stomach. He kissed my neck. “Personally, I think you should show up like this, Mrs. Trew.” My husband growled a low sultry sound.

  I laughed. “You’d have your wife show up at a wedding undressed?” I turned my head to meet David’s lips. He nibbled my lower lip playfully. “I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t want to spend all my time fending off your admirers,” he said. “It took long enough for me to make you mine.”

  Mine. As an independent, thinking woman, I’d have ordinarily contested such a claim. But to hear my husband call me ‘his,’ had me practically frothing at the mouth with happiness. I tell ya, six months in as Mrs. Trew, and my new life … well, let’s just say it never gets old, you know?

  “How’s your family tree coming along?” I jibed. “What does your research tell you?”

  David squeezed me harder. “Well, I’m back to the seventeen-hundreds now, and still no sign of dragons,” he confessed. “But, don’t worry, I’ll keep looking. Plenty of time.”

  I brushed my husband’s cheek with the back of my hand.

  A lot had happened since the final battle at Dilwyn’s farm. Of course, first, there was the governor’s rocket firing from the spires of Black Diamond Cathedral. As David’s men searched North Illwind’s dunes for the Warlock Chief’s space center, Shields had strapped himself in his missile and had taken to the skies through the towering ceiling of Cathedral’s cathedral.

  Who could have guessed? Well, not us, for one thing.

  So, yes, the governor got off his trail of destruction scott free, as it were. I could only hope that Gideon Shields was rattling around, cold and alone in the deep confines of space.

  Sweet Boy, as luck would have it for Dilwyn Werelamb, was now a rather stunning fountain piece in the middle of the farmer’s recently opened -- and, already highly successful -- merman pool. The volunteers who flocked to Cathedral to help with the church’s rebuild, invariably made a stop on Glessie just to see this famed merman reservoir, and its notorious fountain. Where the glittering, hardened black flame spewed from the creature’s mouth, a spout of water now pulsed, creating crystalline beads of moisture over the body of the formidable statue. Seriously, Dilwyn couldn’t have picked a better sculpture himself. It was Werelamb’s farmstead where the reception for today’s wedding would be held. A dance floor had already been set up in front of that grandiose pool and its dragon fountain.

  Typhon Jyldrar was sentenced to a one-year internment in Steeltrap. It turned out that the drifter was nothing more than a petty thief. The Nanker resident had a record as long as your arm for crimes such as smuggling, theft, and of course, arson. He had shown up at the cavern on the day we confronted Shields and his dragon by way of the smuggler's tunnel. He had arranged to meet the renegade grumlin there for a trade of the gems. Jyldrar had merely been in the right place at the wrong time.

  Talisman is still searching for Ankou. The Unseelie King had understandably moved the location of his enchanted isle, Mag Mell. We had tried, several times, to access the island, but had ended up in the middle of nowhere each time. Who knows where that fat, greedy fae ruler’s homeland now floated. But at least he wouldn’t be making trouble around these parts for the foreseeable future.

  I turned to my husband. “I have to get dressed,” I said, kissing his nose. “Think you can round up these animals yourself?” I straightened his tie.

  “I guess they’re kinda my kids now too, right?” He said, arching an uncertain brow.

  “You’re good at this marriage thing, eh?” David tapped my bum as I marched off to find my wedding clothes.

  “I know it’s her big day and everything,” Carbon said, fiddling with a bow tie at his neck. “But, do you think she’ll be carrying some salmon treats with her? I mean, I’m gonna have to wait for at least ten minutes while Reverend Peacefield does the wedding speech. I’ll need a snack, you know?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Carbon, Maude doesn’t have time to think about feeding you treats on her special day,” I said.

  “It’s how she’s going to feed Horace, is what I’m wondering about,” Fraidy said, marching into the room with clean paws, and brushed hair. “That guy is three times Maude’s size. She’s gonna be eaten out of house and home.”

  “Irusan,” I said, reaching out for my brave kitty. I climbed into my sky blue silk dress and clipped a pair of fancy earrings to my ears. “Glad to see you’re wearing your flash with pride today, little man.” I nudged the patch of white fur visible on Fraidy’s chest. My sweet kitty had spent his entire life hiding this anomalous streak, for fear of being rejected by his wholly black brothers and sister. It had been Hinrika, Fraidy’s faerie cousin who had recognized the mark of the king of the cats. Irusan. Without even knowing it, my Fraidy boy had been born the king of all Cait Sidhe and bore the white mark to prove it. Through the years, however, my moggie had covered his unique marking with everything from mud to licorice juice, to Mother Night hair dye, in an attempt to ‘fit in.’ Legend had it that Irusan had been a brave and powerful cat king, and Fraidy had proved this lore by overcoming his more recent namesake by being the sole challenger to Shields’ dragon when the beast had tried to kill us with fire.

  Fraidy stuck out his chest. “Hinrika thinks it makes me look handsome,” he said, purring.

  “I think it makes you look like the dufus you are,” Gloom said, looking squarely at my king of cats.

  “Well, I’ll be wearing it for the next wedding too, dufus or not,” Fraidy told his sister with an air of indignation.

  “Well, if you guys don’t hop to it, you’ll be late for that one too,” David said, shooing the kitties from the chair.

  The ring bearer for the next wedding had something to say about that, however. “Nope, nope, nope,” Jet pounced around the room to show us how serious he was about the matter. “There ain’t nope way I’m gonna be late for Portia-Poo’s wedding, nope way, nope,” he explained. “Ol’ Fearwyn chose me as her ring bearer, yep, yep, so I’m gonna be early and beat Thaddeus and Portia to the altar, yep.” My zippy cat’s pride knew no bounds at this moment. That Portia Fearwyn had selected for her ring carrier, the cat that she had previously wanted to murder, was a testament to the fact that the old witch harbored a deep respect for my kitty.

  “Three weddings in one year,” Shade said, shaking his head. “Who’d have thunk it?”

  David and I looked at one another. My dragon-shifting husband gave me a radiant smile.

  “I don’t think anyone could have imagined how everything turned out, buddy. It’s like a dream.” And taking me in his arms, he said " And it’s the best dream ever.”

  Coming January 2019 …

  Here’s a sneak peek of the first two chapters of the Infiniti’s next adventure. Hope you enjoy the tease!

  A RIGHT PROPER MURDER

  CHAPTER 1

  Clara Bennett placed her hands, palms down, on the black tablecloth, and wrapped her ankles around the chair legs. She had had no intention of joining this spooky little soiree, but her Aunt Gwen — whose little finger touched her own this very moment — had, in her convincing way, convinced her otherwise. They had just finished lunch; a rather lovely asparagus quiche, on the patio. The two of them had enjoyed the rays of the afternoon sunshine as it had muscled its way through the bloated thunderheads above them. It had been a wet September so far, and the two had remarked how nice it would be if the clouds would finally clear. It was September 22nd, after all, and wouldn’t it be delightful if Aunt Gwen and her guests for the evening, cou
ld gaze out on their closest satellite as it burned red at its rearing and then silver as it climbed to its zenith? “It would be so in-keeping with the theme of the evening, I believe,” Aunt Gwen had said. Clara had agreed by nodding, although she had been only half listening, she had been enjoying the autumn sun on her upturned face. Her aunt had then pushed back in her chair, her head darting from side to side like an inquisitive sparrow. She finished scanning the area for potential onlookers and earwiggers — of which there were none —and then leaned in like a conspirator, anyway. “Mrs. Lowry is unwell,” she had breathed from the corner of her mouth. “She and her companion, Miss Rossiter, cannot join us this evening.” And then with beseeching eyes: “Dear, it’s a known quantity. Even you know that. Madame Starling will not proceed if the numbers are incorrect. We need to bring the total count to eight, so we need two more bodies. I’m quite sure yourself and Emcee would find it most entertaining, Clara.” Aunt Gwen had looked out over the rolling avenue of masterfully trimmed topiary, her gaze softening. And then she had patted Clara’s knee. A gesture that confirmed her will was victorious. “We start at six-thirty p.m. Have Wrigley deliver Marie-Claire’s invitation right away, why don’t you?” She had stood then, and stretched, grasping at the sky above her head in lazy movements. Clara had stared at the woman. “But, Aunt Gwen,” she had tried. “What about father? He will surely find out —” “Lovely,” Gwen had concluded. “Six-thirty in the parlour? See you then, dear!” Clara had watched her aunt skip through the French doors that led from the patio into the cool indoors of Blaenau. She had thought of pursuing her too, of pleading her case that her father, despite living nearly five thousand miles from London, had ears and eyes on every continent. But as she had risen from her chair, she had begun to warm to the idea. With little to occupy herself that evening, and presented with the opportunity to spend time with her good friend, Marie-Claire Honfleur, Clara had ended up believing it was a splendid notion, indeed. So much so, in fact, that she now sat, along with seven other apprehensive ladies, in a circle of fidgeting hands, and shallow breathing.

  The young Miss. Bennett leaned forward, feeling the network of lace in the tablecloth ride silkily under her palms. She studied the face of the woman across from her, but before she could form a coherent string of mental commentary, the stern image of her father swam before her eyes. Fighting an absurd urge to laugh, Clara pressed her palms, hard, against the textured fabric of the cloth, hoping the tension would grab her attention more than the spectre of her angry father. If he could only see me now, she thought. But part of her mind told her he could see her. And from the looks of it, he didn’t like what he saw. The imaginary picture of Graham Bennett was about to combust from spitting anger, at the sight of his daughter entangled in such esoteric shenanigans. An act sure to rain down humiliation and derision on the family name. Again. Clara tensed against another wave of laughter, her father’s sallow face growing larger, and more livid, behind her eyelids. She could almost hear the seething, wet sound that scraped through his front teeth when he was incensed. A familiar hiss he fell back on when his outrage was such that he was rendered at a loss for words. Her head twitched to her left. A feeling of warmth washed over Graham Bennett’s unyielding edges, and she smiled at the woman before her. Aunt Gwen’s eyes were closed, but Clara could clearly see her aunt’s lips moving in silent prayer. To which Gods or Goddesses she communicated with, was anyone’s guess. It seemed to Clara that her aunt had a different deity for each day of the week; all of them outside the Judeo-Christian domain. Clara loved Gwen, dearly, of course, but she pondered her aunt’s blazé disregard of her brother-in-law’s strict guidelines for Clara’s residence at Blaenau. She had been more than a little surprised by the fact her aunt had had no qualms about Clara attending an evening with the spirits. Aunt Gwen, of all people, knew of Graham Bennett’s supernatural reach. On the physical level, they both knew Mr. Bennett, was, at this moment commanding a vast tea plantation in northern India. But still, Clara’s father, had a way of finding out any and all information he deemed pertinent. Especially wherever his galavanting daughter was concerned. If Clara drew attention to herself while she was in London, she knew the consequences would mean her already pinched-upon freedom would narrow further.

  Just think, Clara, a life of embroidery and scrapbooking, living as a soft-in-the-head spinster in some remote village in North Wales, surrounded by cats, no doubt. She shuddered. She’d do anything to avoid her father’s attention. If she could just stay out of trouble long enough, she’d be engaged to a rising star of the banking world. An arranged union, for sure, but Clara hoped, even if she didn’t end up loving her husband-to-be, maybe, by her being occupied with wifely duties, she’d slip away from her father’s exacting shadow, and his reproachful platitudes. A giggle played behind Clara’s lips again as she took in the scene around her. I wonder, should I be worried about my familial commitments and poor choices? She appraised the ghostly set up once more. Black tablecloth, medium in black-dress, navy turban; from which sprouted a peacock feather. Clara thought it looked like an iridescent eye, and was amused by the way it seemed to survey the room with its unfaltering glare. Her father’s voice muscled in on her observations for the second time, making her body twitch involuntarily. His voice sounded as strained as a tourniquet. ‘Hocus-pocus Hogwash.’ Not said with direct anger, as such, but, instead, heavy with threat. He spoke again. Sibilant, this time. ‘I will not hear reports of my daughter falling into flights of fancy. A lady does not embark on adventure, Clara, so do not think to compromise the family name any more than you already have with your carrying’s-on.’ And, lastly. ‘Always remember, Clara, I’m watching you.’ Just over a year had passed since her father had had her shipped, under a cloak of secrecy, from the sub-continent to London, England. She recalled how Graham Bennet’s warnings had ramped up as her passage to England had neared. Daily cautions, delivered in non-negotiable terms, mostly regarding the necessity of her compliance to the set of rules she was to follow once she landed on British soil. Clara drew in an even breath to clear her head of the inflexible patriarch, and looked across the table again. Through the halo of dim light cast by the solitary oil-lamp centrepiece, she caught the eye of her best friend. Marie-Claire Honfleur pursed her lips into humourless lines, straightened her back, and looked down her nose, affecting an exaggerated, indignant blink, all the while. Her ordinarily pretty features puckered into a tight parody of privileged irritation. Clara bit her lip. Marie-Claire’s imitation of the imperious young woman sitting to her left, was astonishingly accurate, if a little on the course side.

  Clara’s eyes flicked to Marie-Claire’s target. Miss Belinda Little. Or, as the brazen Emcee liked to call her: Be-little Little. Of course, the words that came out of the Mademoiselle’s mouth sounded more like: Beleetle Leetle. Clara thought it an entirely appropriate name, no matter how it was pronounced. Personally, Clara couldn’t stand the woman. In fact, she had never met anyone with such a thoroughly abandoned moral compass as Belinda Little. She couldn’t count how many times she’d heard Belinda’s name spat, so venomously, from the lips of well-heeled ladies at the best of the London tea houses. Almost with sympathy, she also suspected Lady Little found it challenging to keep friends. With friends like Belinda, one might opt, instead, for the proverbial enemy. Cynical, perhaps. But the circumstantial evidence for such a stance, was there. And although she had never been the subject of Belinda’s spiteful games herself, Clara knew full well, the scope of emotional catastrophe that Miss Little could bring to a previously happy girl’s heart. One of Belinda’s recent destruction stories sat quietly, and fairly diagonally, from the young Little, and to the right of Clara. Clara turned her head slightly to take in Belinda’s latest casualty: Louisa Hollander. Poor Louisa. She had had no idea that Belinda would be here tonight. Clara felt quite sure Miss Hollander wouldn’t be seated at this table now, blinking in disbelief at the cold-blooded beauty facing her. Aunt Gwen, Clara knew, hadn’t invited Louisa H
ollander personally. She could never be capable of such cruelty. No, Gwen Cadwaladyr-Rees had invited the woman to the right of Louisa, the slightly drunk, Lady Betsy Hollander, Louisa’s aunt. And so it was, that Louisa’s uncomfortable presence was precisely because Lady Hollander had desired a chaperone for the evening. And from the amount of alcohol the older Hollander had imbibed, Clara ascertained that a chaperone was a sensible idea. Betsy’s gloved hands may well have been obediently pressed to the table, but her eyes remained glued to her partially finished sherry, which she had placed with considerable care next to the oil lamp. Clara turned her gaze back to the younger Hollander, and felt her heart sink for the young woman. She had no doubt the current torture she was enduring would only increase as the evening progressed. How could it not, when she was face-to-face with such a relentlessly vicious, and barbed-tongued opponent? Louisa’s fingers jumped uncontrollably on the table. Clara slid her own hand across Louisa’s and gave it a brief squeeze. She felt the woman tense momentarily, but then heard Louisa’s sigh of relief. “Thank you, Miss. Bennet,” she whispered from the left side of her mouth. Her words set off an airy cascade of fragrant rose petals.