Witch Chocolate Bites (BEWITCHED BY CHOCOLATE Mysteries ~ Book 4)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “N-nothing,” stammered Caitlyn. “I wasn’t doing anything. I mean—he was attacking Bran so I was just trying to stop him—”

  “Nonsense! Rocco would never attack anything… would you, darling?” The woman picked up the terrier in her arms. The little dog glared at Caitlyn and lifted his lip, showing a row of sharp teeth.

  The woman gave Bran a dirty look. “More likely than not, it was that great big brute of a dog who tried to bully him and Rocco was just defending himself.”

  Caitlyn started to protest, then she glanced at Bran. The mastiff was unharmed and didn’t seem that bothered by what had happened. With an inward sigh, she decided it would be easier to let things go. She’d met dog owners like this before and they were always convinced that their little darlings could do no wrong, no matter what evidence to the contrary. So she bit her lip and said nothing as the woman gave Bran another dirty look, then turned and stalked off with the terrier still in her arms.

  “It’s not true, what she said,” piped up a small voice next to Caitlyn. “That mean doggie did attack Bran!”

  Caitlyn glanced down to see Molly’s indignant little face. She dropped to her knees next to the girl. “I know, sweetie, but sometimes… well, sometimes people see what they want to see and it’s hard to change their minds.” She reached out to pat Bran’s big head again. “Anyway, the important thing is—Bran’s all right, isn’t he?”

  The child placed the kitten back on the ground and looked at the mastiff, who was panting amiably. “Bran’s hot,” she said.

  “Yes, it’s quite warm, isn’t it?” agreed Caitlyn.

  Molly extended her right hand and uncurled her pudgy fingers to show a sticky brown blob in her palm. “Look. My chocolate’s melted,” she said forlornly.

  “Aww… I’m sorry,” said Caitlyn, reaching out to touch the piece gently with her forefinger. There was a tingle in her fingertip and the brown blob shimmered, then rippled out into a smooth, glossy bar of milk chocolate.

  “Oh!” cried Molly in delight, staring down at the chocolate bar in her hand. “You did magic!”

  Caitlyn drew her hand back hastily. She wasn’t sure what had happened. This was one aspect of her new-found witch powers which still frightened her sometimes: the way she couldn’t control the magic inside her.

  “How did you make it do that?” asked Molly, as the other children gathered around her and stared at the perfectly smooth chocolate bar.

  “I… I don’t know… I mean, I didn’t do anything,” said Caitlyn. She glanced furtively at the other children, wondering if they would recoil in fear. She knew that there was a lot of prejudice in the village against witchcraft, and the children must have heard negative comments from their parents. But to her relief, they were all Molly’s age and still young enough to happily believe in magic. In fact, instead of fear, there was wistful envy on their faces as they looked at the chocolate in Molly’s hand.

  “Can I have one too?” asked another little girl, extending her palm towards Caitlyn.

  Caitlyn hesitated. She really shouldn’t have been practising magic in public, but with the little girl looking at her so hopefully, she didn’t have the heart to say no. Before she realised what she was doing, she had stretched out a finger and touched the little girl’s palm. A second later, a perfectly formed chocolate bar appeared.

  “Ooh! Thank you!” squealed the little girl.

  A little boy thrust his hand towards her. “Me too, miss! I want a chocolate bar too!”

  “And me!”

  “Yes, me too, please!”

  In a flash, Caitlyn was surrounded by eager little faces and a circle of open palms. Swallowing her misgivings, she glanced around to make sure no adults were watching, then quickly tapped each hand in turn. As the last child thanked her and turned away, happily clutching a piece of chocolate, Caitlyn hoped that they wouldn’t tell their parents how they’d got the sweets. Maybe the adults would put it down to the children’s vivid imagination, anyway, Caitlyn thought. If she was accused of anything, she could always say that she had produced the chocolates from her pocket, using a sleight-of-hand magic trick.

  Feeling a little bit better, she grabbed the beanbags again and turned to go. But she had forgotten about the kitten who was now demanding some attention.

  “Mew!” cried Nibs, clambering up on one of the beanbags.

  Caitlyn gave the kitten a hurried pat, then lifted him off the beanbag and set him on the ground. “Sorry, Nibs—I haven’t got time to play with you now. I’ve got to get these beanbags back to Pomona.”

  But the kitten wasn’t taking no for an answer. He darted between her legs as she began walking again, causing her to trip and stumble. Caitlyn gasped and fell, collapsing onto Bran, who was still lying on the grass next to them.

  “Oomph!”

  Luckily, the mastiff’s furry bulk had cushioned her fall. He turned his head and looked at her quizzically, as she lay flopped across his back, then gave the side of her face a hearty lick.

  “Eeuuw!” Caitlyn recoiled from his huge wet tongue.

  She started trying to roll off his back but Bran decided at the same moment to heave himself to his feet. Caitlyn flailed around as the mastiff’s huge body lurched up. His rump swung against her, knocking her over once more, and she pitched forwards, face down in the grass, bum in the air.

  “Are you all right?” a male voice asked and she felt a gentle hand on her elbow.

  For a moment, she thought that it was James Fitzroy and she was mortified, imagining how she must look. But as she rose, flushing, she realised that it was another man. He was just as tall and just as handsome as James—but in a very different way. His dark eyes were midnight blue, fringed by ridiculously long lashes, and his black hair was slicked back to leave a slight widow’s peak on his forehead. He had a full, sensual mouth and a shadow of stubble across his chiselled jawline, giving him the sexy look of a man who had just got out of bed. His muscled torso was outlined by the navy T-shirt he wore and she could see dark chest hairs curling over edges of the V neckline.

  “Mademoiselle, are you all right?” he asked again, and this time Caitlyn realised that he spoke with a French accent.

  “Er… yes, thank you,” said Caitlyn, brushing her hair out of her face. She was trying hard not to stare. She had never met a man quite so… well, so beautiful.

  “These bags of bean are too cumbersome for one so dainty as you, n’est-ce pas?” He tilted his head, smiling at her.

  Dainty? Caitlyn had never thought of her pear-shaped figure as dainty. She had always been self-conscious about her wide hips and thighs—and yet this man was looking at her in a way that made her feel like the slim, petite women she had always envied.

  She returned his smile. “They… they are a bit bulky. But I suppose they need to be, to provide the support, otherwise they’d sag, you know, in the middle when you sit down. But maybe that depends on how heavy you are too—not that I know, really, as I haven’t tried them…” She realised that she was blabbing like an idiot and trailed off awkwardly.

  The stranger’s eyes twinkled. “Moi aussi. This is not the first time I have encountered such bags of bean for seating but it shall certainly be my first experience watching a film on them. My tastes tend to be more traditional; in my chateau in France, the chairs for the outdoors are in wrought iron—or perhaps solid wood—but alors, my friend, James, he is a great one for new ideas and new ways of doing things.”

  “James? I mean, Lord Fitzroy? You’re his friend?”

  The stranger made a slight bow which would have looked silly and theatrical on any other man. “Mais oui. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Antoine de Villiers.” He raised a teasing eyebrow, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “And may I be so bold as to ask for mademoiselle’s name in return?”

  “It’s… it’s Caitlyn,” she said, giving him another smile. “Caitlyn Le Fey.”

  He took her hand, raising it to his lips. “Caitlyn.” He said the na
me slowly, like someone savouring a fine wine. “A beautiful name. For a beautiful woman.”

  Caitlyn realised suddenly that he was flirting with her. She felt herself blushing as his lips pressed the back of her hand. Hastily, she drew it away.

  Clearing her throat, she asked, “Um… are you visiting James?”

  He inclined his head. “I have not seen him since our days at Oxford together. Alors, I decided a visit was long overdue.” His eyes lingered over her again and he gave her a suggestive smile. “Of course, had I known what pleasures lay in wait here in Tillyhenge, I might have come much sooner.”

  Caitlyn blushed again. His flirting was outrageous—and yet she couldn’t help feeling flattered. No one had ever looked at her in this way. Even when James Fitzroy paid her a compliment, he was so restrained and polite—whereas there was something thrilling about this Frenchman’s bold admiration.

  The sound of the voice from the loudspeaker brought her out of her thoughts.

  “Oh! I’ve got to go. My cousin is waiting for me…”

  “You will permit me to assist you?” Antoine gestured to the beanbags.

  “Oh… thanks. That’s really kind of you.” Caitlyn surrendered the unwieldy lumps gratefully.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When they returned to Pomona’s spot on the lawn, they found her engrossed in conversation with an elderly gentleman.

  “Caitlyn! Where have you been? I was just gonna come and look for y—” Pomona broke off as she caught sight of Antoine de Villiers. Her eyebrows climbed so high that they almost disappeared into her hairline.

  “Er… this is my cousin, Pomona Sinclair,” said Caitlyn. “And this is Antoine—Antoine de Villiers. He’s a friend of James.”

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” said Antoine, clasping Pomona’s hand and raising it to his lips. His eyes flickered to the elderly gentleman.

  Pomona took the hint and gestured towards the other man. “This is Mr Rochat," she said, giving it the French pronunciation of “Ro-shah”.

  Antoine paused slightly, then extended his hand. The old man grasped it briefly. Caitlyn was surprised at their offhand reactions—she would have thought that two Frenchmen meeting each other would respond more warmly. But then, maybe that was a silly thought. After all, two Americans meeting each other in a foreign country wouldn’t be instant best friends just because they were both Americans. In any case, she had a feeling that a man like Antoine de Villiers wasted no charm on other males—his attention was focused solely on the ladies.

  “Alors, I must go,” he said, turning back to Caitlyn with a smile. “James will be looking for me. But I hope we will meet again soon. À bientôt, mademoiselle.” He made a slight bow, then turned and strode away.

  “Jeez, you’ve been gone forever,” complained Pomona.

  “Sorry, I got a bit sidetracked,” said Caitlyn.

  Pomona rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I can see that…”

  “Oh, no… I didn’t mean Antoine…” Caitlyn stammered. “There was some trouble with Bran and another dog… and the children… Anyway…” She smiled at the gentleman next to them. “You looked like you were having a good time with Mr Rochat.”

  “Please, call me Pierre,” said the old man.

  Caitlyn looked at him curiously. His English was fluent and, unlike Antoine de Villiers, he hardly had a hint of a French accent. He was dressed very formally for a casual outdoor event, in an old-fashioned tweed jacket, waistcoat, and pressed trousers, with a scarlet silk kerchief tucked jauntily into the lapel pocket.

  His eyes were shrewd behind his spectacles as he smiled at Caitlyn and said, “Your cousin has been telling me much about you and the interesting experiences you have been having in the last few months.”

  Caitlyn glanced at Pomona, wondering what she had told him. Pomona had the typical American confidence and ease in conversing with total strangers—something that Caitlyn usually envied—but sometimes Pomona’s bubbly personality also meant that she shared far more than she should have about her private life. Caitlyn hoped her cousin hadn’t divulged too much.

  “I understand that you recently discovered that you were adopted?” Pierre Rochat asked. “Your mother was Barbara Le Fey, the celebrated singer?”

  Caitlyn nodded cautiously. “Yes, she was my adoptive mother. She died a few months ago in a car crash and I learned after the funeral that she adopted me as a baby.”

  “And your real family? They are here in England?”

  “Yeah, they’re right here in Tillyhenge!” beamed Pomona. “Can you believe the coincidence? Caitlyn wandered into the village chocolate shop as soon as she arrived and guess what? Turns out that the owner is her grandmother! And she’s also got an aunt and cousin who—”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure Mr Rochat doesn’t want to be bored by my family history,” cut in Caitlyn. She gave the man a bright smile. “So, are you just visiting Tillyhenge or do you live in the area?”

  “Please, call me Pierre,” he said again with old-fashioned courtesy. “I am a dealer in antique jewellery. I happened to be visiting a colleague in Gloucester and heard about the new Open-Air Cinema being held in the grounds of Huntingdon Manor. It sounded like a delightful way to spend an evening and the film sounded most interesting, so… here I am.” He smiled at her.

  “Oh, right,” said Caitlyn. She wouldn’t have expected someone like Pierre Rochat to be into vampire movies. He seemed more the type to enjoy art-house films or war biopics. But maybe appearances were deceptive. After all, there were probably tattooed bikers who enjoyed romantic comedies and white-haired old grannies who liked horror movies.

  The giant screen in front of them flickered suddenly to life. Caitlyn glanced across the lawn and realised that twilight had fallen while they were talking. The sky was now a deep indigo blue and silhouetted against it, looming up behind them, was Huntingdon Manor. The windows were all lit—shimmering squares of gold arranged in perfect symmetry—and it looked beautiful and slightly unreal, like an English country manor in a historical romance novel.

  A hush fell over the crowd as music began blaring from the speakers and a series of advertisements played across the screen. Pomona leaned across and said to Pierre Rochat:

  “Hey, do you wanna share a beanbag? I feel kinda bad that you’re sitting on the ground—”

  “No, no… do not worry on my account. In fact, I think I will go and get a drink. I believe I saw a booth selling refreshments.” He rose to his feet.

  Pomona looked at him in surprise. “But the movie’s starting,” she protested.

  The old man didn’t appear to hear her. He gave them a perfunctory wave and hurried away, his figure soon swallowed by the darkness. Pomona watched him go for a moment, then shrugged and leaned back to watch the movie. Caitlyn settled down in her own beanbag as the opening credits rolled across the screen. The camera panned over a dark forest landscape, zooming in at last on a Gothic castle perched on the edge of the cliff. A flock of bats swerved past the castle spires and mist swirled around the turrets.

  Caitlyn rolled her eyes at the clichés and rolled them even more when the scene cut to the interior of the castle. In a large hall with a gaudy chandelier, a man lay sleeping in an open coffin. He was very pale, with black hair smoothed back from a high forehead, and a haughty expression, which would have made him look frightening—except that he was snoring loudly. The audience laughed. Then a full moon came into view in the open window and the man woke up. He rose gracefully from the coffin—and smacked his head on the low-hanging chandelier.

  “OWWW!” He hopped around in fury, rubbing his head.

  The crowd roared with laughter again and Caitlyn gave a wry smile. This looked like it was going to be a very silly movie. Still, it was a lovely summer evening and it was nice to be spending time with Pomona. She relaxed against the beanbag, chuckling as the vampire stalked down the staircase of his castle, his black cape billowing dramatically behind him—only to catch on a rusty nail, making him trip and nearly
fall down the stairs. Regaining his balance and his dignity, he morphed into a bat and flew to the nearby village, straight into the bedroom window of an unlucky maiden. In a flash, he was perched on the edge of her bed, ready to sink his teeth into her lily-white neck. There was an appreciative gasp from the audience as he opened his mouth, revealing long white fangs, and then the heroine opened her eyes and screamed shrilly.

  A second later, there was another scream. A bloodcurdling scream of fear and horror. For a moment, Caitlyn thought it had come from the movie as well, then she noticed various people next to her sitting up and looking around. A murmur of anxiety passed through crowd. Caitlyn realised suddenly that the second scream had been real.

  “What’s going on?” asked Pomona.

  “I don’t know,” murmured Caitlyn.

  She stood up and craned her neck. She could see a crowd forming at the opposite edge of the lawn. Curious, she hurried across and pushed her way through the circle of people gathered around something on the ground. Then she stopped short as she saw what they were staring at. It was the body of a man. A farmer crouched down and felt for a pulse, then shook his head. Several torches played over the body, which was twisted awkwardly so that the head was tilted back and the neck was showing. There was a gasp from the crowd as a beam of light fell on the side of his throat. Two deep puncture wounds were clearly visible—puncture wounds that looked like fang marks.

  “It’s a vampire! He’s been killed by a vampire!” somebody screamed.

  “Yes, look! See the bite on his neck!”

  “Oh my God…”

  “No!”

  “But… it can’t be… Vampires aren’t real!”

  Caitlyn stared at the body, barely hearing the hysterical cries around her. She had just recognised the man lying there. It was Pierre Rochat. She felt a sense of disbelief. She had only been talking to him a few minutes ago! He had been sitting next to her, alive and healthy. Now his skin was deathly pale, his eyes empty and staring.

  Then there came another cry: “Over there! In the bushes! Who’s that?”