“It’s out front,” another voice said. “You’d better hurry.”
Of course it was. Now I was torn between continuing to enjoy the feel of Lucas’s strong arms or the capture of my white waffle whale. Life was so ridiculously unfair.
I looked up at Lucas and got momentarily lost in those bright blue eyes…until someone walked by with a liege Belgian waffle.
“Would you excuse me for a second?” I said. As hard as it was to tear myself away, I had to make a run for the Waffle Wagon. I couldn’t let a man come between me and my goal, even one as staggeringly handsome as Lucas Holmes.
I made a beeline for the front of Coconuts and began swearing like a vampire pirate as I watched darkness swallow the red wagon at the end of the street.
“Kenna?”
I spun around to see Lucas. “Sorry about that. I don’t usually talk like that.” Only after several rum runners and a filthy witch.
He laughed. “It doesn’t offend me.” He moved closer. “In fact, I kinda like it.” He peered into he darkness. “What made you run out here?”
I sighed. No point in hiding the truth. “I was making a run for the Waffle Wagon.”
“You were craving a Belgian waffle?”
I explained my endless pursuit of the Wagon Waffle.
“It’s like Charlie Brown and the football,” he said.
“Sort of.” I preferred my Moby Dick comparison, but who was I to quibble over cultural references?
He placed an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “You’re a fighter, Kenna. I have no doubt that one day soon you’ll triumph over the Waffle Wagon.”
“I’m glad you have that kind of faith in me.”
“How could I not? You’re a force of nature, Kenna Byrne.”
Oh, he had no idea.
Chapter Fourteen
I awoke to the sound of knocking. I rolled over and pulled a pillow over my head to muffle the noise. My head pounded from too many drinks at Coconuts and all I wanted to do was sleep. After all, it was Saturday, and I deserved a couple extra hours of rest.
Someone’s here, miss, Gerald announced, fluttering beside the bed.
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” I mumbled.
Do you want me to see who it is? he asked.
“That would be nice.” I kept the pillow pressed over my face. As long as I could still breathe, that was the important thing.
Gerald returned twenty seconds later. It’s Dottie.
Dottie? At my house on a Saturday? That didn’t bode well. I forced myself out of bed and padded down the hall to the stairs. There was no time to make myself presentable. Bed hair and a Wonder Woman T-shirt with leggings would have to do.
Dottie pursed her lips at my appearance. “Was there a home invasion last night?”
“More like a head invasion,” I said. “Too much alcohol in one sitting.” I drew back to let her pass.
“That’s the reason I’m here.”
“You’re here because I drank too much?” Dottie was motherly, but she wasn’t that motherly.
“No, because a few of the band members drank too much and apparently sang themselves hoarse after one too many Debbie Gibson songs.”
“Hoarse?” My stomach knotted. “Are you telling me we’re losing participants in the competition?”
“Not yet,” Dottie said. “But they want you to rework the schedule so their voices have more time to recover.”
I closed my eyes and prayed to the Goddess for strength. “How many are we talking about?” I’d slaved over that schedule and now I’d have to undo all my hard work. I inhaled deeply and tried to calm my nerves. I had no one to blame but myself. After all, I cast the spell on Keith and kicked off a trend. The response to his performance was so positive that every other band member felt the need to follow suit.
“Tell me which bands,” I said. I went to the small antique secretary against the wall and grabbed a notepad and a pen.
Dottie reeled off a few names. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” she said, once she’d finished. “I know how hard you work and how little Buddy appreciates it.”
“Good thing I don’t do it for Buddy,” I said. I forced a smile. “Can I offer you a drink? I have that mixed berry tea you like.”
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m off to beach yoga. I only wanted to swing by and give you the heads up as soon as possible. I know how you like to plan.”
“That I do.” I walked Dottie to the door and waved goodbye, already reconfiguring the competition schedule in my head. It was like reworking the pieces of a mental puzzle.
Dottie was barely out of view when I noticed a familiar set of broad shoulders jogging my way.
“Skywalker, incoming!” Stuart yelled.
My jaw clenched as my headache worsened. It was like Athena was threatening to spring from my head in a suit of armor.
“Thank you, Stuart. You can go now.”
“What if you need my assistance?” the albino raven asked.
“I feel comfortable letting you go.”
“There’s something else…” Stuart began, but I cut him off with a stern look. Lucas was nearly here and I couldn’t risk him catching me deep in conversation with a bird. He already thought I was a waffle-chasing lunatic.
“You’re up,” Lucas said cheerfully. “I wasn’t sure what to expect.” He slowed when he saw my appearance. “I guess that is what I expected.”
“Hey!” I objected. “Where’s Leia and why are you wearing a shirt?”
He smirked. “Is that a complaint? Because I can take this one off. It did get a little sweaty on the walk over.”
“No, no.” I waved my hands. “I just wondered if you were out for a jog.”
“Not right now. I came straight from the airfield.”
“Straight here? Why?”
He gestured to the door. “Can I come in or do you require gentleman callers to remain on the front porch?”
I cringed. I was the director of tourism for an entire island and I didn’t know how to be polite to the only guy I was attracted to. “I’m sorry. Come in. Can I get you a drink? I’m going to make myself a cup of tea.”
“Iced tea, maybe? The weather’s warmer than I expected.”
“Yeah, you make me hot just looking at you.” My whole body tensed when I realized what I said. There wasn’t enough magic in the world to lessen my horror. I tried again—“Because you look so hot.” Goddess have mercy, what was wrong with me?
Lucas chuckled. “I get the idea. I look like a sweaty mess.” He promptly removed his shirt. “Is that better?”
Wow! So much better. “Let me get that drink for you.” I hurried to the fridge before I said anything stupid and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. I brought two glasses back to the living room.
“I thought you were making yourself hot tea,” Lucas said.
“I needed to cool down.” I took a long sip. “So why did you need to come here from the airfield?”
“You’ll never guess who flew in from the mainland this morning,” he said.
“Bruce Springsteen?”
He gave me an amused look. “Someone more relevant to the current situation.”
“Sherlock Holmes?”
“Let me help you out because your brain function is clearly compromised. Barb Simpson, Pete’s mother.” He gulped down the rest of his iced tea.
“She’s here for the funeral, I guess.”
Lucas nodded. “And Lizzie was at the airfield to pick her up with all three kids in tow.”
“Poor Lizzie. She looked drunk as a skunk by the end of the night.”
“And she looked worse than you this morning,” Lucas said. “One night of drinking must’ve hit her pretty hard.”
“Gee, thanks. Where was Mike?”
“Working,” Lucas said. “Apparently, he was supposed to pick her up, but got called to a job. Lizzie did not look pleased about it. I’m pretty sure I saw steam coming out of her ears.”
“I gu
ess so with a hangover and three kids to care for,” I replied.
“I could hear complaining the whole way to the golf cart with Pete’s mom. The poor woman just flew in for her son’s funeral.”
“I can only imagine how Lizzie would have handled Pete’s decision to tour with Fat Gandalf.” I paused, the gears of my mind clicking away. Maybe Pete’s death was how Lizzie chose to handle his decision.
“I feel horrible for the whole family,” Lucas said. “It has to be a sad and confusing time for them.”
I studied Lucas’s expression. He was much more compassionate than I’d ever been. I was accustomed to the tough love of Skye and the other witches. Lucas didn’t seem to have a snarky bone in his sculpted body.
“Lucas,” I said slowly. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Go away, creeper?”
“Not quite.” Definitely not. I sucked in a breath. “In high school, do you remember the Darth Vader pranks?”
He frowned. “You mean the photos of Darth Vader that had ‘I am your father’ written on them?”
“Yes, those.”
“How could I forget? They were in my locker, on my book covers, even in the toilet stall. They popped everywhere I went, as if by magic.”
I pressed my lips together. It was now or never. “I hate to tell you this, but my friends and I—the ones you met last night—were responsible and I’m really sorry. It was only meant as a harmless prank.”
Lucas gaped at me in disbelief. “You did that?”
I nodded. “We’d seen you in the forest one day, practicing with your lightsaber…” I couldn’t finish. There was no justification for our behavior. We were mean girls, plain and simple.
Lucas flinched as though I’d hit him. “The other kids mocked me mercilessly. That’s why they started calling me Skywalker.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. You have no idea.”
He set the empty glass down on the coffee table and I resisted the urge to grab a coaster. Now didn’t seem the right time.
“I thought you were special, Kenna,” he said quietly. “I think I might have been mistaken.”
He pulled his shirt back over his head and stalked out of the house without another word. I stared after him, unable to speak.
Confession is good for the soul, miss, Gerald said.
“I sure hope so,” I said, “because it sucks for my love life.”
Two power ballads and a shower later, Gerald and I sat in the secret room, considering options for dealing with the flying monkeys. I wanted a permanent solution, not the itching spell that probably only served to aggravate them. I also needed a spell that wouldn’t attract too much attention. I’d been lucky so far that they’d managed to stay out of sight of the local population and away from innocent puppies. That luck was bound to run out soon if I didn’t act.
“You need to be mindful of the spell’s requirements,” I said, when Gerald suggested a spell involving cages made of lava. He wanted to use them to transport the monkeys back to their hellhole.
But lava is one of your specialties, miss.
“That doesn’t mean I have to use it.”
Gerald paused, his gaze riveted to the spell book. Need I point out that the Incident That Shall Not Be Named took place thirteen years ago, miss? You’ve grown up quite a bit since then.
“What are you trying to say, Gerald?”
I think you may be avoiding certain options out of fear.
“I’m not afraid of my own powers,” I objected.
I don’t simply mean your powers, miss. I’ve noticed other instances—Lucas, flying, your need for order, your drive to succeed. They’re all coping mechanisms driven by fear.
“Since when did you take on the role of therapist?” I snapped.
I read more than spell books and cookbooks in my spare time, Gerald said.
“I’m not using any major magic and that’s final,” I said. “I can’t risk burning down the entire forest to get rid of three flying monkeys.”
As you wish, miss, Gerald said.
“And I’m not afraid of anything,” I said, “except mice.” Which is completely understandable because mice are disgusting.
You’re quite right, miss. I apologize for the suggestion.
I scanned the spell book for ideas that didn’t involve fire. It was one thing to perform little spells like warming stones and hot tubs—those didn’t have potential for mass destruction.
“Here’s one that freezes them,” I said, tapping the page. “If we stop them from moving, we can easily send them back to their dimension.”
A freeze spell seems better suited to Evian, does it not?
“You’re right.” I sighed and flipped to the next page.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to enlist the aid of your coven sisters.
“I said I would take care of it and I will,” I insisted.
I have no doubt, miss. Shall I prepare a pot of tea?
“That would be nice, thank you.”
Gerald fluttered out of the secret room, his back end smacking the floor the whole way to the kitchen. I decided to look through the index to see if something jumped out at me. The spell to send the monkeys back wasn’t the difficult part—the difficult part was capturing them first in order to cast the spell. I sat cross-legged on the floor with the book on my lap, immersing myself in the possibilities. They had two distinct advantages over me—there were three of them and they could fly. But I knew I had the biggest advantage of all.
I was Kenna Byrne, overachiever extraordinaire. No demonic monkey in the world could compete with that.
The Town Croaker isn’t far from my office, so I decided to pop in unannounced and make sure Skye wasn’t secretly planning to renege on our deal now that my karaoke end of the bargain had been fulfilled. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her…Okay, I totally didn’t trust her.
As I walked through the front door, I noticed a man setting up a water cooler in the reception area. I wasn’t sure why Skye bothered because she was the only one who worked there. Then I heard the distinct sound of flatulence. The water cooler man shot me a quizzical look, then immediately averted his gaze. There was only one witch with the power to move air that masqueraded as passing gas.
I cleared my throat and tried to regain my dignity. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Skye.”
She stepped out from behind her office door. The satisfied grin on her face told me what I needed to know.
“Very funny,” I muttered, as I steered her back into the office by the elbow.
“To what do I owe such an honor?” Skye asked. “It isn’t every day the esteemed director of island tourism comes to visit the lowly newspaper.”
“I’m blocking out all sarcasm,” I said.
She dropped into the chair behind her desk and spun around. “Then I don’t know how you’ll manage to understand a word I say.”
I fought the urge to pinch her arm the way I did when we were younger. We were adults now, and physical torture was beneath us. Most of the time.
“You’re sticking to your promise, right?” I asked pointedly.
Skye fluttered her eyelashes, all mock innocence. “Promise? What promise?”
I reached across the desk and squeezed the loose skin on the back of her bicep. Hard.
“Goddess of mercy, stop,” Skye said, her breath catching.
I released her and she rubbed the sore spot on her arm. “I warned you.”
“You’re evil when you want to be,” she grumbled.
My temper was much worse when we were younger. By all accounts, I’d chilled out significantly the past few years. My sister witches’ arms were thankful for the change. I used to threaten to brand them with my initials.
“I’m not exactly having an easy week, Skye,” I said. “So I need to make sure you’re not going to throw me under the broomstick.”
She held up her hands. “I won’t. Really. In
fact, I’ll even share information with you.”
I gave her a suspicious look. “Why would you do that?” Skye rarely shared intel. She hoarded it the way dragons hoarded treasure. I had been impressed that I’d managed to extract the information about Kyle Charney from her.
“Because I hate when you’re stressed,” she said. “It’s a danger to public safety.”
I folded my arms. “That’s not true and you know it. I’d never let my magic hurt anyone.” I’d never share with Skye the content of Gerald’s recent thoughts regarding my fears. My familiar displayed far more compassionate than Skye could ever demonstrate.
“Not on purpose,” Skye said.
When I lifted my hand to pinch her again, she rolled her chair out of reach.
“Don’t make me do something I’d regret,” I warned.
“Fine,” Skye huffed. “Not that I think for a second you’d actually regret it.” She adjusted her shirt. “There was an issue with the drummer’s toxicology report, so Buddy has ordered that there be no investigation until another report can be performed.”
“An issue?” I echoed. “What kind of issue?” It had already taken far longer than it should have to get the report. Then again, we all knew Abigail Marley was more interested in making money from plastic surgery than serving the public interest. In her mind, “beautifying” people by pumping them full of Botox was serving the public interest.
“Apparently, some clumsy idiot spilled Diet Coke on the initial results before anyone could review them.” Skye stifled a laugh. “Abigail thinks all musicians are alcohol and drug addicts, so she and Buddy are convinced that the death was an accidental overdose and that the guy hit his head on the toilet seat and died.”
Well, it was no surprise they agreed on that. “So Buddy still hasn’t ordered an investigation,” I said.
“Nope. Nor will he. He doesn’t want to spend the money unless someone forces his hand.”
I always knew Buddy was a tightwad, but this was ridiculous. I’d have to keep questioning people behind the scenes then.
“We can’t have a killer running around loose,” I said. “We have no idea why Pete was targeted. What if they attack someone else at the Battle of the Bands?”
Hotter Than Spell Page 13
