by Tess Lake
“Yeah, that was weird,” Molly said. “When was the last time she gave us a compliment?”
“She told me my hair didn’t look as bad as it normally did,” Luce said.
Aunt Cass’s specialty: complinsults.
“She told me I was dressing well for ‘someone of my size,’” Molly added.
I pointed at my hair. “I’m looking less mannish now that my hair is growing out.”
“She told me I was a good fireworks guard—for a cat,” Adams said, wiping a paw over his ear.
Fireworks? Great. Whenever one of her business ventures was shut down, discovered or otherwise squelched, she always fell back on illegal fireworks sales. I was ninety percent certain she was running a subnetwork of teenage fireworks dealers in the town.
“I’m going to ask her about the photo and the body when I can get her alone,” I said.
“Maybe if you can get her interested in this, she’ll forget that we apparently ‘snitched’ on her,” Luce said.
“Yeah, good luck with that. I’m preparing anti-zit poultices and a balance potion and keeping my eyes open for anything strange happening to me,” Molly said.
We decided to adjourn on the topic of the meddling mothers and our love lives and reconvene tomorrow to come up with a plan to follow Ro. On the subject of Holt Everand and Aunt Cass telling us to get involved, we weren’t sure what else we could do right then. Finding out about the missing blood and the black aura had to wait until I could speak with Aunt Cass alone. What else did she expect us to do? Solve the crime ourselves?
I went to bed and Adams joined me, taking up his position at the end of the bed. He was still finishing his complete bath, licking the same spot on his shoulder he always licked multiple times before finally settling down.
I turned off the light and closed my eyes, a little apprehensive that I’d dream about being trapped in a cold warehouse with a dead body. But as I drifted off to sleep, I was transported back to Zero Bend’s ice carving. A handsome, scruffy stranger was watching me as flakes of ice drifted down on the crowd like snowflakes.
Chapter 11
After a very quick breakfast alone—Luce and Molly were still sleeping—I got myself ready and rushed down to the main part of the mansion. The mothers would be at the bakery already, having left at some ridiculous time in the morning, so I’d be able to talk to Aunt Cass alone.
I found her in the lounge, sitting in her recliner reading a book titled Starting Your Own Bed-and-Breakfast! There was a big pile of books next to her on the same topic, and also others on renovations and architecture.
“Are these your books?”
“They were just sitting here. I’m reading them if that’s okay. Or will I be caught reading now?”
She’s a little crotchety in the mornings . . . afternoons . . . nights . . .
I picked up one of the books. It was from the Harlot Bay Library.
The mothers were definitely meddling in our love lives. First the landscaper and now this?
Yes, I could see how it appeared that I was taking a completely innocent and absolutely justified trip to the library the wrong way, but I know my mom and her sisters. They were snooping on the librarian for sure.
But what to do about it? Tell Molly the mothers had her librarian in their sights? The resulting freak-out would only hamper her ability to help us spy on Ro tonight. I’d give it a day and then let her know. I put the book back and took the photo out of my bag.
“Can I get your advice on something?”
I handed the photo to Aunt Cass.
“That was supposed to be Holt Everand. He was tied to a chair in the warehouse.”
Aunt Cass put her book down. She got up and started pacing the room.
“Looks like some sort of soul sucker got to him. Drained the energy right out. What else do you know?”
“Most of his blood was gone and replaced with some liquid they haven’t identified yet. He had a bruise on the back of his neck in the shape of a hand.”
“That’s a soul sucker, alright.”
She passed the photo back to me.
“So you don’t know what it is?”
“I have a few ideas. It’s like finding someone mauled to death. Was it a dog, a cat, a crazed monkey with a vendetta because it was forced to wear a little red coat and dance for tourists? We need more evidence before we can know what we’re dealing with. Did it smell like cinnamon in the warehouse?”
A crazed monkey . . . ?
“Not that I remember.”
“Did you notice an excessive amount of butterflies in the area?”
“I don’t think I saw any butterflies.”
“Hmm . . . did the air feel slippery at any point? Like it was wearing thin on a doorway to another plane of existence?”
“Slippery air? No, nothing like that.”
Aunt Cass threw her arms up in the air. “Well, I’m out of ideas.” She flopped down in her recliner and turned on the TV.
“But what am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t get soul-sucked. Watch out for anyone trying to get you alone. Look for anyone who appears younger and fitter than they should be. Oh no, not this guy again.”
She was frowning at a fictional police detective.
“We can’t . . . use a finding spell or something? Is there any way to detect evil?”
Aunt Cass glanced sideways at me.
“Detect evil? A soul sucker isn’t evil any more than a leech or a mosquito is. They’re just doing what they were made to do.”
“Someone made them?”
“Made, evolved, designed, planted by aliens—whatever you want to believe. Now shush, I’m watching this. Oh, and don’t take a photo of me with that camera you have or you’re in big trouble.”
“I would never take a photo of you without permission,” I lied.
“I know. Just like I’d never sell illegal fireworks.”
I opened my mouth to say more, but Aunt Cass put up her finger in the universal shush now gesture. Fine, I’d shush. I left her there frowning at the police detective.
I drove to work, sorting through everything I knew about soul suckers. They don’t literally suck your soul, more your life energy and/or blood until you die. Some are parasites that latch on and slowly consume their victims. Others are more like mosquitoes—they’ll drink a bit of your energy and move on.
Ever feel completely normal and suddenly you go flat or your mood crashes? That’s what a soul sucker feels like.
Okay, maybe you had a huge pasta lunch and it was a food coma. But sometimes—soul sucker.
I stopped briefly at work and saw that the Holt Everand story I had written yesterday was receiving a lot of visitors. More visitors equals more advertising dollars, which is a good thing. I squelched a tiny burst of guilt; someone was dead and I was indirectly profiting. If I could just report the news and be paid for that, I’d do it. But it’s not the world we live in.
I locked up and walked to the center of town. This morning the Butter Festival competitors were competing in a two-hour semifinal in the town hall. Only the top eight of sixteen would go through. Then tomorrow they’d cut to four, then two, and then they’d compete in the Grand Finale. I was early, hoping I could get an interview with Zero Bend directly.
I paid my entry fee—no press privileges for an online newspaper—and went inside.
The Harlot Bay town hall is a multipurpose building; they sometimes play basketball there. It has stadium seating all around it, good lights, and a large, polished wood floor. There were sixteen areas set up for each of the competitors. They had one large table stacked high with butter and a flat carving surface. It was cold inside the hall and I wished I’d worn a jacket.
Each of the competitor areas was roped off, giving the hall the appearance of a maze. Some people were already wandering around looking at the butter piles. The stands were slowly filling with spectators.
I looked around the hall hoping to see Zero Bend, but I only saw Fu
sion Swan waving his arms at some young, scared male assistant dressed in all black. After the assistant scurried away, Fusion caught my eye and whistled at me to come over.
Great, called like a dog. Classy. I approached him, and when he held out his hand I shook it for some reason.
“Ms. Torrent, I read your article last night about Holt Everand and noticed you didn’t use any of the material we sent you. Did you not want an exclusive interview?”
I glanced at his hand. Today the middle nail was painted blue. Urk.
“I’d like an interview with Zero Bend. Is he around?”
“He doesn’t see anyone before a carve. He’s meditating right now. Perhaps if we see a good article from you, we can arrange an interview, yes?”
The scared assistant returned with a glass of water. Fusion stared at it for a moment before sighing.
“Did I ask for ice?”
“Um . . . I . . . I thought—”
Fusion put up his hand.
“I asked for a glass of water. You brought me a glass of water with three ice cubes in it. What’s next? Some chocolate sprinkles? Perhaps a stick of celery in it? Do as I ask, please.”
He waved the assistant away and turned back to me.
“Big things are happening this week. A competitor murdered, his archrival in town, a significant amount of money up for grabs. I would think you’d do everything you could to snag an exclusive.”
Was he implying his own client was a murderer?
I spotted Preston Jacobs over at the back of the hall talking with the mayor. I was so done with this slippery agent.
“Enjoy your stay in Harlot Bay,” I rhymed to Fusion and walked away. Oops, still rhyming.
I didn’t look back, even though I was sure I’d see him standing there confused that someone had declined his offer.
The mayor smiled at me as I approached him and Preston.
“Ah, Preston, you must meet Harlow Torrent. She runs the Harlot Bay Reader, the first and finest in online news for our region.”
I shook Preston Jacobs’s hand, and he smiled at me with those perfect white teeth.
Up close, he was practically humming with good health. His eyes were blue and twinkling, his skin was smooth, and he looked like he was ready to run ten miles without breaking a sweat. He even smelled good. He had to be in his late fifties or even early sixties, but he looked like a health and fitness guru.
“Torrent? You live up the hill, then?”
The mayor excused himself, ducking away in a flash. I glanced at the door and saw Hattie Stern standing there looking around. She never missed an opportunity to put forth her Harlot Bay name-change case to the mayor.
I nodded.
“Yes, we’re those Torrents. The ones who run the Big Pie Bakery.”
“The secret to enjoying simple carbs is to only eat carbs that are amazing. Big Pie is definitely in that group.”
He grinned at me like we were in on the same secret.
“I’ll tell my mom and aunts. They’ll be very excited to hear that.”
Preston smiled back at me again, and then his face turned solemn.
“I understand you were the one to find poor Holt in the warehouse. It’s a tragedy. He was a champion sculptor. The world is less without him in it.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Of course. I’ve been sponsoring various carving championships for years. I first met Holt at a lard carve in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, if you can believe it. It was a million degrees, the cooling was failing, and this skinny kid turns in a perfect Dreaming Iolanthe version. He used his mother’s face. It was spectacular. I knew right then and there he’d be a contender for the world championship.”
I remembered Dreaming Iolanthe from my online research. Caroline Shawk Brooks had carved it in butter after reading a play and being inspired by the story’s heroine. It had toured, yes toured, fairs where thousands of people paid twenty-five cents to see it. Eventually it ended up at the 1876 Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia.
All this slipped through my mind in an instant. If I had a superpower, this would be it: I read really fast and remember a lot of what I read. Need facts about the Sunda Colugo (Malaysian flying lemur)? I did a project on them when I was ten.
“Do you know if anyone might have wanted him dead?”
At this, Preston frowned, his perfect forehead creasing as though the very idea of someone wanting to harm Holt was causing him physical distress.
“This isn’t the first death we’ve had in the carving world, and it won’t be the last. There is a lot on the line—reputation and money—and some people will do anything to win. Cui bono? I’d look at who benefits. Someone will from this, and perhaps they should be closely examined.”
I had more questions, but the mayor reappeared and whisked Preston away to open the competition. I took a seat overlooking the hall and watched the one-two punch of the mayor and then Preston. They really were good. The two of them should tour.
Rock music played and the competitors emerged from the end of the hall. I recognized a few of them: Harmonious Twang, The Slice, Cold Rider. Zero Bend emerged last, carrying a silver metal suitcase. Across from me, an enormous roar came up from the crowd. It was the Ice Queens screaming and yelling like banshees. I saw with satisfaction that Hattie Stern was only sitting a few rows away from them. If they carved her face in butter it would be titled “Disapproval Extremis.”
Right about then, just as Zero Bend was opening his suitcase to reveal many shiny knives and sculpting tools, I felt a prickle of magic. The hall was cold, but within a few seconds I was sweating.
Oh no, not now.
I took a few deep breaths of the chilled air, but I swear all it did was make me hotter.
This wasn’t a spell someone was casting on me.
I was Slipping.
Slipping can be nothing—a tingle in the fingertips, a wash of goose bumps. Other times it’s like the flu, all aching bones and running nose. When I was a kid, I’d tasted parsley for an entire day before suddenly being hit with nature witch power in a big way—I’d accidentally exploded a tree on our property by walking near it.
The lights in the hall flickered, and that was the final straw. I had to get out of there before something bad happened. I rushed down the stairs and through the hall, feeling like I’d just run a marathon in the desert. My face was already wet from sweating and my clothes were sticking to my skin. I glanced up at the crowd and saw Jack watching me with a puzzled frown. I ignored him and kept moving.
Soon I was out of the main hall and then I was outside. It was much warmer than inside, but it felt good.
That tiny bit of good feeling vanished as Hattie Stern appeared in front of me.
“Who did you touch?” she asked me.
I didn’t have time for this. I tried to walk away, but she grabbed my arm and then let go as though she’d been burned.
“Didn’t Cassandra teach you anything? You’re having an immune response right now.”
I looked at her blankly, feeling my brain simmering inside my skull. Too hot, had to drink water. The fountain was nearby. I rushed over and splashed the cold water over my head.
Don’t drink fountain water—basic knowledge drummed into us since we were kids. I turned off my overheated brain and gulped down the refreshing water.
By the time I was finished splashing myself with water and drinking, Hattie Stern was gone. I leaned against the fountain, feeling my temperature dropping. With each degree I felt my mind pulling back together.
That was an immune response? To what?
I’d only touched two people—Fusion Swan and Preston Jacobs. How could they possibly cause me to almost cook alive?
Chapter 12
I decided I needed to talk with my cousins rather than return to my office alone. By the time I reached Traveler, my temperature was back to normal. My clothes were still damp from the fountain. I hoped I didn’t get sick from drinking all that fountain water, b
ut it couldn’t be helped.
“We figured out your photo thing!” Luce announced as soon as I walked in. Molly thudded a heavy book down on the counter.
“Kirlian Photography: Exploring Auras,” I read. “Is this some kind of mystical made-up pseudoscience thing?”
Molly flipped open the book to a picture of a kid surrounded by a gleaming blue aura.
“Dude, you’re a witch in case you have forgotten. Mystical is your life. Look at this here!”
She flipped through a few pages showing pictures of children and adults surrounded by auras. The book explained what the colors and patterns meant.
“I don’t know . . . ,” I said dubiously.
Auras are real . . . we think. Growing up, I’d seen glimmers of color surrounding people—the joys of being a Slip witch—but it’s not like we have a school that teaches you what it means. Aunt Cass says she sees auras, but she likes to brag about anything magical. If you told her you saw the moon, she’d say she walked on it. Always one-upping.
“Take a photo of me. See if you can get my aura,” Molly said. She posed in front of the sofa, her hands on her hips.
I trained the camera on her and hit the button. A moment later the digital image appeared in the viewfinder. Molly was surrounded by a warm golden glow, like molten honey. There were tiny yellow sparks floating in it.
“This is amazing,” Luce breathed. “Me next!”
She posed like a Japanese tourist on vacation—feet turned inward, big grin, peace sign.
Her aura was a rich purple streaked with lines of pale green.
I turned the camera on myself and took a picture.
“Wow, that’s red,” Molly said when the image appeared.
I was surrounded by a red aura as rough as a sea. The edge was curled up like waves, and there were floating red sparks that looked decidedly sharp.
“Okay, so I’m capturing auras now, until . . . whenever this goes away. What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Take a photo of Aunt Cass!” Molly said, rubbing her hands together deviously.
“Why?”
“Well, if it’s sneaky looking, then we can use that to take her down a few notches.”
