Abracastabra (Hex Falls Paranormal Cozy Mystery # 4) (Hex Falls Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series)

by Rachel Rivers

  “You’re sure?” I insist. “Neither of you smells anything that’s off? Anything at all? Anywhere in this vicinity?” I wave my arms in a large circle. “Like something magical, I mean?”

  “No. Nothing.” The two blink at me.

  Perhaps I’m going insane.

  “Why? What do you smell?” Aunt Kat asks.

  “I don’t know...” I sniff again, then frown. The scent seems to be dissipating. “I just— briefly sensed something,” I say. “I was sure of it.” I turn, checking all the air around us. “Something that wasn’t right. Here. A moment ago.” I push my finger toward the dirt. “But I guess it’s now passed,” I say slowly, still not really believing that. My gaze darts around the midway, searching, but come up with nothing.

  I let the breath I’ve been holding go.

  “You’re absolutely sure you didn’t smell anything?” I allow my gaze to return to my aunts.

  “No.” They look vacantly at one another and shake their heads. “Perhaps you’re just tired, dear.” Aunt Kat sweeps forward, gingerly patting my hand, concern creasing both their uneasy faces. “You know, exhaustion can wreak havoc on the magical senses.”

  I hesitate, still sniffing. “Yeah, perhaps you’re right. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately, what with everything on my plate.”

  “There, you see.” Aunt Kat tips back on her heels. “A simple solution.” She smiles at me.

  “But what about the performers, the man in the hat?” I ask.

  “Well, that is disconcerting,” Aunt Kat rolls her hands, looking sideways at her sister. “Though, neither of us smelled anything wrong up there, while we were watching.” She looks to Aunt Kit, who hastily agrees.

  “Well, there is that,” I say, still looking around. I guess. Why can’t I let this go?

  “I know what’ll fix this.” Aunt Kat smiles warmly and links her arm through mine. “Why don’t you come along with us to get a taffy apple.” Her warm, plump hand strokes my arm. “It’s almost sure to make you feel better.”

  “Yes, we insist.” Aunt Kit grins.

  “I’d love to, but I really feel like I need to stay here,” I say. “You know, just in case something comes of it.” Which I hope does not. “Besides, I really did want to watch the knife-thrower.” I point back at the tent. “It’s about to start any minute.” I glance again, spying Mrs. Dumfries in the crowd, sitting tall.

  “Oh, so did we.” Aunt Kat’s eyes brighten. “We nearly forgot, didn’t we, Kit?”

  Aunt Kit nods enthusiastically.

  “All right then, why don’t you two run along and get yourself some seats, and I’ll be right there?”

  “You’re sure, now?”

  “Absolutely.” I pat Aunt Kat’s hand before dropping it from my arm.

  “All right then, we’ll meet you in there,” Aunt Kat agrees, and the two of them scurry off, tittering their way into the tent.

  Okay, so maybe it is all just lack of sleep on my part.

  I look around again.

  Only, I doubt it.

  What you need, Violet, is a good shot of caffeine before the show. In the form of a grande Frankenstein’s pumpkin spice latte. I start across the midway toward The Bottom of The Cauldron’s little tent kiosk when—

  —there’s a scream.

  Chapter 14

  I throw up the flap and rush into the tent, only to hear laughter.

  “Great practice round! You are very good at this!” the female performer on the stage shouts to the crowd, throwing up her hands. She struts the floorboards, dressed scantily in a red lace-up corset, bloomers, and long red gloves, with red fishnet stockings, and a red velvet floor-length bustle which hangs down in a skirt over her butt, but with no front or side skirts. On her head, a huge red paper heart sits atop a tall red colonial-looking wig. Her face is powered white, with red hearts drawn on her cheeks. Long black feather eyelashes float above her large vibrant red eyes. She blinks, and I’m sure she’s wearing contacts. No one has eyes that color.

  She is, without a doubt, dressed to resemble the proverbial Queen of Hearts.

  Funny, I could have sworn Cherry hired a man. Perhaps it’s a man in drag?

  In the opposite corner of the stage rests an enormous pair of scissors.

  My heart races as I look around for the man in the black cape and bowler hat. If she is here, where is he?

  “You were so good, in fact, I thought someone was actually getting bludgeoned right in front of me,” the queen fans her heart, “but we’ll save that for a little later.”

  She laughs and the crowd laughs with her. But I don’t.

  “And now, for the main attraction. What you’ve all come to see.” She tosses up a floaty hand, then tosses her foot up onto a stool. Reaching deep into her stocking, she produces a long silver machete-like blade in one startling swift movement.

  “Uuuh!” the crowd gasps and falls back in their seats.

  “Ooops, wrong one,” the queen declares, tossing the long machete-like blade around in her hand like a baton. “This blade is good for cutting one’s throat, but not so good for throwing,” she jests, smiling down at the crowd and tapping the blade on her palm.

  The crowd laughs again. They’re on to her dark sense of humor.

  Though, I don’t find it funny.

  Creepily, she then runs the blade along her tongue before stuffing it back in her stocking. The crowd bristles, and so do I.

  So, this is the Queen of Hearts on stilts that was performing at the gate? I look around in the hope of finding my aunts to confirm it, but I can’t find them.

  If so, perhaps it was intentional, to help to lure patrons down to the main knife-throwing show.

  “Now, where are my blades?” She pokes a painted finger into her heart cheek and looks around. In the background, a curtain swings slightly open. A bright-eyed assistant pushes a shiny silver surgical cart on wheels out onto the main stage.

  “Oh, there they are now,” the red queen rejoices, clapping her hands then clutching them under chin and running on the spot like a giddy child, as her assistant, dressed equally as scantily as her—only royal blue with a feather plumed hat—wheels the knives toward her. She parks the cart beside her and floats her hand over them like she works at a car show.

  Suddenly, ta-dah! the crazy knives rise up from the cloth and hover mid-air.

  I blink at them once, twice, thinking I’m imagining it.

  But it’s really happening. They’re really hanging there.

  “Come to me, my little darlings,” the red queen coos, then summons them with the curling motion of her index finger, and they float, one by one, directly into her hands.

  As each arrives, she tucks them down the front of her corset, blade tip first, and people gasp.

  I look from every angle but cannot see any wires.

  How is she mastering this?

  Unless she’s using...magic.

  “Now, for the real thing.” She clanks forward, knives down the front of her bosom, and bends over, addressing the crowd— to another round of stealthy gasps. “But first, I’ll need a volunteer.” Her voice rings high as she flips up a hand and stalks across the stage, boobs and blades bouncing. “Anyone? Anyone at all?” She stops and again hangs over the edge, blades sparkling. The spotlight illuminates first her face, then her chest, then moves on to the crowd, scanning for stunned-faced volunteers. “Come on now, don’t be shy. Who will be brave enough to don the stage with the Great Flingzeenie!” She throws up her arms.

  More comfortable, people begin waving their hands and shout out to be chosen. Others sit tall in their seats, like good little children.

  “Let me see.” She drags out the agony, taking her time to choose, and taps her pouting bottom lip. “How about...” She squints an eye. “...oh, yes...that one.” She points a long, red dagger-like fingernail at a man in the crowd, and the spotlight shifts onto his face, blinding him. “You look like a man who wants to die,” she jests, and the crowd roars with la
ughter.

  “Uncle Harold?” I inhale, realizing who her choice is.

  He sits, staring up at her and squinting, one hand unsuccessfully shielding his eyes, the other holding a stick of half-eaten cotton candy.

  “Yes, yes. You’ll do fine,” the entertainer coos, and Uncle Harold shakes his head. “Come now.” She curls her nail. “You can run, but you can’t hide!”

  The crowd laughs again.

  What did she just say? My spine straightens.

  “Hurry up, now. There’s no getting out of this. You’re as good as dead!” she trills.

  You’re as good as dead. You can run, but you can’t hide.

  Something is wrong here. Very wrong.

  “It’s all right! Someone will hold your cotton candy.” The red queen bends, addressing Uncle Harold almost face to face now. “You’re not about to turn me down again, are you?” she coos in a sexy, breathy voice.

  What?

  “It appears we need a little help from the crowd.” She pops up, blades bouncing, when Uncle Harold still does not budge. “Let’s have a round of encouragement applause for him, shall we?” She turns, extending a hand out over the heads of the crowd, who shout and cheer in response.

  “We want you! We want you!” she chants, the crowd still joining her. “We want you! We want you!” their voices rise. Then, the portly woman sitting next to him, snatches the cotton candy from his hand, while two others help him to his feet. Before he knows it, my uncle is being dragged to his feet, up the stairs, and onto the stage. The rest of the house is chanting so loudly now the tent appears to be trembling as all the spotlights are on him now, blinding him, under the red queen’s direction.

  My heart pumps wildly in my chest.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jeremy watching, the bandages fresh off his head.

  He’s got to stop this. We’ve got to stop this.

  “Now, for those of you watching, this is how the trick will go,” the queen announces, parading across the stage, coming very close to my uncle. “My lovely assistant here will lead Mr. what is your name?” She tips the microphone toward my uncle’s lips.

  “Harold,” he says.

  “Ah, of course, Harold,” she says, tossing her hand up and laughing. “My lovely assistant will lead Harold over to the spinning wheel of death!”

  She says the word like it’s cursed and throws up her arms to tremendous applause as a black sheet is then torn away from an object standing in the middle of the stage. Beneath it is revealed a giant spinning wheel, large enough to hold a human—not unlike ones used in games of roulette.

  Something sharp and cold shoots right through me. At the back of my eyes, I see a flash.

  “My assistant will then strap you to it, then give it a good spin,” she demonstrates, filling the room with the manic whirl and click, click, click sounds. “I will don my magic cape,” she shouts in a throaty whisper, stalking back across the floor. She stops, snaps her fingers, and a red velvet robe appears. A cape with a hood, like the one worn by Little Red Riding Hood. She flips it around her back, swaddling herself in it, letting out the most sardonic cackle.

  When it comes to rest on her shoulders, she seems to be lost inside it.

  Swallowed whole.

  It all happens so fast, it’s almost too quick for the eyes.

  “And now...” She slings the hood up over her head, and her face disappears completely from the crowd. Not even her red eyes can be seen. “I shall start throwing my little friends at you,” she shouts at my uncle, pulling a blade from her breasts. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”

  Uncle shudders, as again, she approaches him, stalking briskly across the stage where she drags the tip of the blade up under my uncle’s chin. The sound is completely audible. Whiskers against metal, grazing flesh. “The time has come.” She leans in, whispering, “Let the show begin!”

  The red queen flicks up her hand, and the blade with it, leaving my uncle flinching as the crowd applauds the antics of her escalating madness.

  I swear he is cut, bleeding in fact, as she whispers something to him. Then, I swear she licks his face before he is whisked off by the assistant to the middle of the stage, where the assistant straps him onto the spinning wheel. The room fills with the queen’s cackling laughter as she makes her way back across the stage, where she takes her place in the spotlight, standing on her mark—

  “A double X.” I gasp, shaking. No. No, no, no, no! My heart thunders in my chest, and I push my way toward the stage, just as the crowd begins to chant. “Spin him! Spin him!”

  “No! Don’t! Stop!” This has gone too far, whatever this is. I push my way through the chanting crowd, now on their feet, fists rolling in the air. “Please, look out, let me through!” I shoulder my way toward the front of the stage, and almost make it—

  —when I’m stopped by an explosion.

  I’m jolted backward, my hands over my ears as the large boom rocks the tent. People shriek and scatter as a plume of what looks to be dynamite powder envelops the stage, engulfing the performers in a big black cloud.

  The crowd falls back, shrieking in terror, as the cloud mushrooms up, painting everything black, making it impossible to see. The lights flicker, then go off. People scream. When they come back up again and the smoke settles, the crowd gives a spine-chilling shriek.

  There, in the center of the stage, strapped to the giant wheel, pulling to a slow ticking stop, hangs the body of knife-thrower’s assistant instead of my Uncle Harold. She’s been stabbed several times through the heart.

  But not by knives—by wooden stakes.

  The crowd releases a curdling scream as her horror-stricken eyes peer out at them through the smoke, blood gushing from the wounds.

  “My gods,” I shriek and cover my mouth, my hands trembling.

  A second later, another spotlight hits the stage, revealing the whereabouts of the knife-thrower. She stalks forward, engulfed in her cape and throws back the hood, to reveal—

  She is no longer the suspected red queen but...

  “Uncle Harold?” I shriek.

  He glances down at me, then over at the dead assistant, and screams himself as people rush to leave the tent.

  “Be dammed!” someone cusses from the back of the tent, through all the commotion, and my eyes flick that way, just in time to catch sight of fleeing figure—someone tall and thin, and dressed all in black, with a bowler hat pulled down over the eyes. “Stop!” I shout and push my way through the crowd.

  “You killed her!” someone shouts up from the crowd. “You murderer, you!”

  They’ve turned on my uncle.

  “No, no, it wasn’t me.” He backs away, shaking his head. “It was the knife-thrower.”

  “Where is she?” someone else yells.

  “There!” I shout. “She’s getting away! Someone stop her!”

  A man drives to his feet right in front of me, blocking the view of the fleeing assailant as she bursts toward the exit flap. “Quickly, someone! Stop her!” I shout, trying to launch myself around the man. But Jeremy is already on his feet and running. He and another chap pursue the assailant out of the tent, into the crowded midway.

  “Oh my stars!” I race after then, pushing my way through the crowd, and out the front flap, just in time to see Jeremy draw his gun.

  “Stop!” he shouts. But it’s too late. She’s already wielded another exploding blast in his direction. Whatever it is hits the ground right in front of him. He’s knocked backward, blown off his feet and flung through the air, where he lands with a crash in the midway. Dust plumes all around his skidding body, until finally, he comes to a stop, and his head drops to the ground, his hand releasing his gun.

  “Jeremy!” I shout and run toward him, into the cloud of black smoke, which finally clears, and a man stands looking back at me, who looks exactly like—

  “Jeremy?”

  Chapter 15

  “Are you all right? Oh, gods!” I shriek, racing the
rest of the way toward him.

  Only to come upon a body lying flat on its back on the ground. “Jeremy!” I shout, falling to my knees beside it. “What’s going on here?” I look between the injured Jeremy on the ground and his exact likeness standing above, staring down at me.

  For a moment, I think he’s died and is now an angel, looking down upon his own death scene. And then I think better of it...as there are no wings.

  “What’s happening here? Jeremy? It that you?” I ask, not really knowing which one them to direct my inquiry to. Or both. I gulp.

  “No,” the upright version of Jeremy answers me. “I’m Jamie. Jeremy’s twin brother.”

  “Oh, of course.” I exhale, clutching my heart, then reach up. “So very nice to meet you.” I smile and shake his hand over top of his knocked-out brother, then feel terribly bad for doing so. “I’m so sorry.... I didn’t mean...” I look back down. “Is he okay? Have you checked yet?” I say, asking Jamie.

  “Oh, no. There hasn’t been time.” He quickly takes a knee and presses his finger to his brother’s jugular. Waits a moment, then exhales in relief.

  I exhale too.

  “Violet! Violet! Are you all right?” Someone else comes screaming through the smoke. “Someone claims Harold has killed someone.” The feet come to an abrupt stop, nearly tipping over. “Oh goodwitchness!” Cousin Viv gasps and grabs her middle. “Is he dead?”

  Her shocked face appears through the swirling smoke as she nearly trips over him.

  “No. But the assistant sure is.”

  “Assistant?” She frowns down at me, clutching her chest.

  “Yes. The knife-thrower’s assistant. From the magic act,” Jamie explains. “She’s dead. Staked through the heart, several times.”

  “Staked?” Cousin Viv gulps, then glares at me. “But I thought it was a knife-throwing show.”

  “So did we,” I say.

  “Is he all right?” She looks down.

  “He’s breathing,” I tell her.

  “And the knife-thrower?”

  “Has gotten away,” I tell her.

  “Which way did he go?” Cousin Viv asks, glancing around, ready to give chase.