“You romantic beast,” I said. “No wonder I wasn't getting anywhere with you. You're hopelessly in love with someone else. Some blonde named Chessa.”
At the sound of her name, he wrapped his free arm around my back and yanked me toward him.
“Chessa,” he said.
Thanks to the strength of his bicep, I was crushed against his chest like a cable-knit sweater. I ducked my face down against his neck so he couldn't kiss me. His throat smelled of aftershave and something else. Wolf.
With a playful tone, he said, “Stop your squirming.”
The baritone rumbles of his voice passed through his chest and into mine.
“Chet, can you do me a favor?” I asked sweetly. “Pretty please?”
“Anything.”
“Do you have that clicker thing on you? The one that pops spells?”
He pulled away from me, took the pen out of a jacket pocket, and gave me a quizzical look.
I asked him, “Do you know what's happening right now?”
He looked at me, then the pen, then me, then the pen again.
After a moment of brow-furrowing, he said thickly, “If I click this, you'll go away again.”
I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. I reached out and wrapped my hand around his hand and the pen. I poised my thumb over the button.
The device was a multi-pulse generator that sent out a shockwave of power to disrupt magical spells. I'd seen Chet use it at a restaurant to dispel my sound-dampening spell. If I clicked the button, it would shut down my botched convincing spell abruptly. In theory. The truth was, I knew very little about the gadget and how it worked, other than it contained a limited number of charges.
He stared at me with hurt in his gleaming green eyes. And beneath the hurt, rage.
“I'm sorry,” I said, and I clicked the button.
Chapter 4
The pen went CLICK, and my spell went POP. The twinkling lights floating around us guttered and faded away.
The light that had been shining in Chet's eyes also disappeared. The green of his irises turned dark, like wet pebbles on a desolate shore.
“You put a spell on me,” Chet said coldly. He clutched the pen possessively as he shook off my hand.
I rubbed my hands together and glanced around the cottage's living room. The ceiling seemed lower than when we'd entered. My stomach hurt. I didn't like this new guilty feeling I was getting—the sensation of Chet being disappointed in me.
“We're even now,” I said breezily. “Last week, you punched me in the jaw and gave me a wicked concussion.” I tugged on one earlobe. “My ears are still ringing.”
It wasn't true. My ears were fine, and I'd recovered completely, but he had punched me hard enough to knock my lights out.
The hollows in his cheeks darkened as he clenched his jaw.
“You cast a spell to deceive me,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Sort of,” I squeaked. “The spell was only supposed to enhance my believability. I cast it first when we were in the van, to make you feel comfortable talking to me about top-secret DWM stuff.” I grimaced self-consciously. “That sounds bad now that I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but seeing as how I nearly died twice because of the whole Pressman thing, you could say I'm entitled to information about matters that concern me, personally, and my ability to, uh”—I tugged my ear—“remain alive.”
He narrowed his eyes and continued to clench his jaw. He crossed his arms.
Was that ceiling even lower now? The tension in the room was unbearable. I ducked by him and passed through an arched doorway leading into a formal dining room. I circled the lacquered white table and went to the sideboard, which was a carved wood vintage piece, also painted a bright, glossy white to match the table. The long, low sideboard was topped with a slab of white marble and decorated with silver candlestick holders, white candles, and a bowl of ceramic fruit, also white. I picked up a glossy pear and felt its heft.
Chet followed me into the room. He'd removed his boots. He padded in on socked feet, as quiet as a stalking wolf.
His gaze went to the ceramic pear in my hand. “Zara, don't touch that. Put it down.”
I hefted it to feel its weight. It was heavier than I expected.
“Is she dead?” I asked. “And by she, I mean the woman who lived in this immaculate white cottage. The woman with hair the color of honey wheat.” I nestled the ceramic pear back into the bowl. “The woman you miss so much that when one of my spells backfired, you actually thought I was her. She's dead, right?”
He hesitated.
I ran my finger along the marble top of the sideboard. No dust. And the fiddle-leaf fig plant in the corner was green and thriving.
“She's been gone a year,” he answered.
A year.
“You've been maintaining this place as some sort of shrine,” I said. “She must have been a remarkable woman.”
He didn't respond. With a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, he watched me closely, as though he was waiting for something to happen. Something like... a ghost popping out of a closet and shooting up my nostril and into my head.
He wasn't crazy for expecting such a thing.
Because I am a Spirit Charmed witch, my specialty is—whether I like it or not—attracting spirits. So far, I'd been visited and possessed by three entities—or only two entities, if Chet's theory about what happened in the Pressman attic was correct.
There were a few benefits to a Spirit Charmed possession. I did retain some knowledge and skills from the spirits who passed through me, plus their antics kept life interesting. On the con side, I'd been electrocuted twice—once while sleep toasting in my own home.
Now I was wandering around inside the former home of a woman who'd been dead for a year. I was touching her treasured objects, basking in whatever energy of her remained. My heart fluttered in my chest. Her spirit could fly into me at any moment. I took a step back from the sideboard and clasped my hands together. Had I walked into a trap?
Chet continued to watch me vigilantly.
I shook my head at him as I crossed my arms. “Chet, you can drop the act that you're angry at me for the spell.”
He quirked his eyebrow but said nothing.
“Stop pretending that bringing me here was something you did against your will,” I said. “My convincing spell isn't that strong. It simply adds a dash of charisma. It's like hypnotism. It doesn't make people do or believe something they don't want to.” He didn't deny it, so I continued. “You brought me here because, deep down, you wanted me to be inside this house. You know that if her spirit's still around, it will be attracted to me. You tell me to stop touching her things, but underneath your words, your body speaks another language.” Now I quirked my eyebrow at him. “Plus, dude, you took off your boots.” We both looked down at his gray wool socks, and then back at each other's eyes. “You want to stay here a while, and you want me to touch her things.”
He shrugged.
I took a breath and added gently, “You want me to say her name.”
His nostrils flared.
“Chessa,” I said softly.
He nodded.
I made my way around the dining room table, giving him a wide berth as I walked past him, and then down the short hallway, into her bedroom. Like the other rooms, the decorating theme was white and silver. The dresser was a deluxe design with mirrored surfaces. As I approached the mirrored dresser, I watched my many reflections for signs of a ghost sneaking up behind me.
No ghost yet.
I picked up her silver hairbrush and ran it through my hair with one long stroke. The room was so quiet, the bristles on my wavy red hair sounded like a roar. Chet stood in the doorway, watching.
I formed her name in my mind and in my mouth for the second time. “Chessa.”
My body felt light, my head floating. Was I being pushed out of myself? Not yet. The lightness was probably anxiety response to Chet's intense staring, and not a ghost enterin
g my consciousness. Not yet.
The cottage's stylish owner had an assortment of delicate, handmade jewelry on the mirrored dresser. The pieces were fashioned of silver wire, with beads of sea glass acting as gems. I picked up a bracelet and tried to fasten it around my wrist. The bracelet was loose, a bit too big for me. I couldn't get the tiny clasp shut with one hand.
Chet padded up silently, took the bracelet, and gently clicked it closed around my wrist.
I turned to him. His eyebrows rose expectantly. His expression was warm and open. His lips parted.
Together, we said her name. “Chessa.”
And... nothing.
I said her name a fourth time. “Chessa?”
No ghost. I didn't see her or feel her.
Chet looked away, down at the hairbrush I'd left bristles-side-up on the dresser. He plucked one of my red hairs from the bristles and cast it aside. His shoulders shifted their shape, managing to look both slumped with exhaustion and tight with anxiety at the same time.
“So, saying her name three times didn't work,” I said lightly. “Note to self. The Beetlejuice method of spirit summoning is not effective in the real world.”
Still avoiding eye contact, he retrieved his multi-pulse click generator from his pocket and clicked it again. Nothing popped, because I hadn't cast any spells.
I gave him a dirty look. “Clearly, we have some trust issues,” I said.
“You're the one who put a spell on me,” he said icily.
“Oh, yeah? You're the one who manipulated me into resorting to that spell by being deliberately vague and clandestine.”
He nearly smiled. “Clandestine?”
“I call it how I see it.”
The trace of his smile disappeared. “But then you kept casting the spell repeatedly.”
“Just to keep it going. Like throwing another log on a fire.”
“You made me think you were her.”
“Not on purpose. I screwed it up the third time, and something went wacky. I swear I wasn't trying to make you see me as anyone I'm not.”
He blinked and looked across the room at something. I followed his gaze to the big white bed.
I put my hands on my hips. “You want to dig into these trust issues? Because I feel like I can't trust you, either. You brought me here hoping that I'd attract a specific spirit. And what if it had worked? What were you planning to do next? Were you going to throw me on that bed, rip off my clothes, and—”
He interrupted with a vehement “No!”
I had to finish my thought anyway, because that's just how I am. “And have sex with your dead girlfriend in my body.”
His face drained of color. He lurched forward and caught himself on the dresser.
I took a few steps back. He seemed to be on the verge of something. It could be changing into a wolf, smashing things, or projectile vomiting. I backed up all the way to the doorframe, where I had a clear escape route.
He kept his hunched back to me as he spoke. “Your hair was blond, I swear. I thought she was here with us.”
“Maybe she was,” I said, my tone softening. “Sometimes a ghost takes full control and pushes me out, but other times I'm still present, going along for the ride. My aunt says I'll get better control over the spirits with practice.” I looked over my shoulder, down the hallway at the bathroom. I hadn't seen that room yet, but the layout and decor were exactly how I expected, right down to the decorative seashells around the vanity mirror. Had I seen this woman's cottage featured in a magazine? Or was I experiencing the residual knowledge of her spirit?
“Chet, I can't say for certain that she is or isn't with us right now. Is there something you want to say to her?”
He still had his back to me. He was gripping the side edges of the dresser tightly, his knuckles white. “No.”
“Nothing? You don't want to let her know how much you miss her?”
He was quiet.
“Chet, she might be in the room with us right now. I'm basically catnip for spirits, remember? Let's assume she's here. Watching us. Listening to this conversation.” I was so convincing, I made myself shudder. “What do you want from her? A final good-bye? An answer to some burning question?”
“There's no point,” he growled. “She's gone.”
The room, despite being entirely white, seemed to get darker.
I sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “Work with me a little. Maybe I'll see her later tonight. It's been a hectic day, and my brain's probably full for now. If your girl Chessa shows up later, I could pass along a message.”
He lifted up one fist and pounded on the dresser with it. The mirror didn't break, but the hairbrush and jewelry rattled from the impact.
“There's no use,” he growled. “She's gone.” He pounded the dresser again. “Chessa is gone.” He hit the dresser a third time with his fist, and this time the mirrored surface did break, with a loud crack.
And then, in the silence that followed the sound of a mirror breaking, there was another voice. A woman's.
“Don't say that, Chet,” the woman said. “She can't be completely gone.”
I whipped around to find a woman standing in the hallway. She was blond, pretty, and dressed entirely in white.
Chapter 5
The blonde in white gave me a cheery wave. “Hello, Zinnia.” She shook her head, making her golden ringlets quiver. “I mean Zara. Gosh, you look so much like your aunt, and I mix up names that start with the first letter.”
She looked so familiar. I knew she wasn't Chessa, because she was solid looking, plus she was talking. From what I knew of ghosts, they couldn't speak in spectral form. This woman was about thirty, with an oval-shaped face, big blue eyes, and loose blond ringlets. Was she the snake-haired nurse from the secret hospital? Close but not quite. My mouth watered, and suddenly I knew. She was Chloe Taub, one of the owners of the Gingerbread House of Baking. I'd been buying pastries from Chloe and her husband, Jordan, for weeks. The white clothes she wore today were baker's whites.
“Hi, Chloe.” I gave her a cheery wave back. “I almost didn't recognize you without a glass display case full of cookies between us.”
She walked over to where Chet stood, and leaned around to view the mirrored dresser's shattered surface.
She made a tsk-tsk sound. “Look what you've done,” she admonished. “She'll be coming back to us one day, and you're going to be in so much trouble for smashing up her dresser, you beast.” She playfully punched him on the shoulder before turning toward me. “Chessa loved this piece. It cost a fortune to get it shipped here.”
“It's a lovely piece,” I said. “Or at least it was.”
Chloe didn't seem surprised to see us there, let alone upset—other than chiding Chet about the broken mirror.
Chet put his hands in his pockets and looked recalcitrant. “I didn't hit it that hard,” he grumbled. “And glass is a terrible surface material for furniture.”
“Spoken like a true beast,” Chloe said with an eye roll.
I chimed in, “Now he'll have seven years of bad luck.”
Chloe's eyes widened. “Did you put a curse on him?”
“No, no, no,” I said defensively. “He's just getting the standard seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror.”
“But you are a witch,” Chloe said.
I crossed my arms and tried to look casual. “I've been called a lot of names over the years.”
Chloe looked at Chet expectantly. “You haven't told her everything, have you?”
He frowned. “I was going to.”
She playfully smacked him in the ribs.
He winced and growled in discomfort.
She went to poke him in the ribs again, but he jumped away, arms down to shield himself.
“I see you're still a busted-up wolf boy,” she said. “You haven't healed from your late-night cuddle session with the tentacle wall monster.”
He gave her a shut-up look and growled, “That's classified.”
&nb
sp; Chloe looked at me with raised eyebrows then back at Chet. “But Zara is one of us, and now you've finally brought her here, into our world. There's no need to keep secrets anymore. Plus now she can help with Chessa. I know she's not the person you expected, but it's still going to work.” She turned to me, her eyebrows knitting together in a pleading expression. “We need to reach my sister, Chessa. Can you see her or feel her inside the house? Has she spoken through you yet?”
I looked at the smiling, angel-faced blonde and the surly, frowning wolf shifter. Sweet and sour. They both knew about my magic abilities, and they wanted my help. Even as I considered what it would feel like to tell them both to go to hell, I knew I could never say those words. The same stubborn streak of altruism that had drawn me to my profession of being a librarian also meant that I wanted to say yes to this request. Even though it was stranger and more personal than the average library request.
Plus I liked Chloe. How could you not like someone who offered you free samples of pfeffernüsse?
“I'm not sure,” I said. “Nothing much has happened since we got here, but I feel something. Faintly. This cottage is very familiar.”
Chloe pursed her lips and thumbed her chin as she studied me. “If you really are the Soul Catcher, maybe proximity to her body will help.”
Soul Catcher? That was a new term for me. My aunt said I was Spirit Charmed. I hadn't gotten clarification on whether that meant I charmed the spirits or I was charmed by them. Recent events had led me to believe it was the latter.
Chloe asked plaintively, “Will you help us reach my sister?”
“I want to help,” I said. “But I can't make any promises. I'm only a novice.”
She made a disappointed tsk noise.
I explained, “So far, the spirits I've interacted with have come to me on their own.” I tilted my head thoughtfully. “I suppose we could go visit Chessa's grave.” My forearms prickled with goose bumps. “But it's dangerous for someone like me to walk through a cemetery. Hundreds of ghosts could rush at my face, treating my nostrils like the doorway to the hottest club in town. The polite ones would line up in an orderly fashion, but then the rude ghosts would line-jump, and when a few break the rules of social order, that always leads to chaos. I'm a lowly novice witch, so without the benefit of having a spiritual bouncer guarding the proverbial gates of my nostrils, the inside of my head would quickly become Grand Central Station with a live marching band and a disco ball.”
Wisteria Wonders (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance) (Wisteria Witches Book 3) Page 3
