Étoile gave a short laugh. "I know..."
"Maybe things are finally coming together. Maybe everyone has finally learned that we need to work together for our own protection."
"Oh Stella... What died on your doorstep recently?"
"Yeah, okay. You got me. All the quiet is weird, but Gage found out who that werewolf was."
"Any surprises?"
"No, nothing that stands out. Gage told me he was Canadian and not ranked in his clan. He didn't seem to have any connection to Wilding, so there's no reason he came here other than to see me. We still don't know how he got here..." I paused, thinking about it. Gage hadn't told me all that much. "At least, Gage didn't tell me if he found out."
"Leave it to Gage. They're his people."
"This guy came to see me," I pointed out, musing over the purpose of the visit again as I thought of Gage's words. Was I really the linch pin that connected so much? "I need to find out what he wanted to give me. Maybe it was something to give to you."
"Now is not the time for you to interfere in anything to do with..."
"I'm not interfering!"
"We're at a delicate point in the High Council negotiations, Stella. Anything, I mean, anything could go against us. I can't risk that. I need you to focus on the task I assigned to you. That's important."
I pulled a face, glad we weren't on a video call. "Did you email the list?" I asked after a moment's silence.
"It's going to appear. Make a note of it."
Before I could ask what Étoile meant, the air in front of me, approximately the size of a sheet of paper, began to fizzle. Within seconds, I could make out several names floating in the air. I grabbed my pen and the fresh notepad on my desk and scrawled the names. Just as I added the last name, the names swooshed apart and the air was exactly as it was before. I couldn't resist poking my finger where they'd been. Nothing.
"Got them," I said before Étoile could check up on me. "I'll start now."
"Good and don't forget: stay out of... Who is it? Clare? Gotta go. Thanks, Stella." The phone hung up and I breathed a sigh of relief. If Étoile hadn't outright forbidden me to get involved with the werewolf business, she could hardly complain when I did. Taking a trip to find out more hardly counted as interfering, I decided, trying not to feel sneaky. So I couldn't help Evan. I could help Étoile; and my gut feeling told me that werewolf could have wanted me to pass on the note to her. But, I reminded myself, all that supposition was useless without knowing more. Like Étoile said, we could be on the cusp of something.
Unfortunately, when it came to the investigation task Étoile assigned me, I came up with nothing. Several hours of searching through the records and ancestry books provided no connection between any of the witches on her list and Georgia Thomas. They didn't even appear to share any common ancestry. Two had grown up in the same state, but none had a schooling connection. All of them attended my trial — that was easy to find out, thanks to Council records — but they didn't appear to have spent any time together. They only stayed in the hotel part of The Amethyst when we'd gone into lockdown. As far as connections went, it was tenuous at best, and I didn't think Étoile would be pleased. I was also surprised she didn't ask her assistant to run down this information. Perhaps, I surmised, it was a distraction; and then I wondered why she would do that.
Before I called Étoile and gave her the news, I found something in the "Notable News" box that had me pause, sceptical of what I held in my hands. I looked at the newspaper clipping, barely believing what I could so randomly find. The words swam together as I blinked away the sudden tears that skimmed my lower lashes.
Jonathan Mayweather was an only child. His parents died together in a car crash as they returned home from an anniversary dinner, leaving Jonathan alone at the age of seventeen. A week later, he turned eighteen, just fast enough to escape the care system, but certainly not old enough to be alone in the world. As the sole surviving family member, he was also the only heir of the Mayweather mansion and estate. I skimmed the clipping to the end, noting that Jonathan had already accepted a place at Columbia, although it failed to mention what he studied. I imagined him arriving alone in the city, leaving no one behind, and making no friends. Perhaps it was then, while still in his youth, that he met the Bartholomews? At first, they were his friends; but Eleanor, much later, became his murderer.
The black-and-white image showed the mangled remains of the Mayweathers' car; but it was the smaller photograph, cut into the text, that captivated me. My father as a young man, smiling happily, standing between his parents. It must have been his high school graduation because he wore a cap and gown and looked impossibly young. He resembled his parents too. I could make out the strong jaw of his father, and the eyes of his mother. It was the first time I'd ever seen my paternal grandparents; and I stared at them for a long while, absorbing their images. Had they been witches too? Did they train Jonathan? Of course, these questions might never have been answered; but at least, I knew what happened to his family. It struck me that I was also the last in the line of these people. The last Mayweather. The last Mayweather witch. That wasn't a comforting thought.
My hands shook a little as I placed the clipping on my desk and stared down at it. It was yellowing at the edges and the top right corner was ripped. The newspaper was called The Gazette, but I couldn't make out a town name. There was a reporter's name printed under "Family Tragedy - Son Survives," and I noted it on a separate page of the notepad, adding a question mark. I tore the sheet off and pinned it to my bulletin board. I turned the clipping over, but there was nothing except a portion of an advert on the back. There were little dots of glue, like the clipping had been stuck in a scrapbook at some point. That made me wonder who would have searched for clippings like those and tried to preserve them.
Turning my back on the clipping, I stooped beside the box and rummaged through it, searching for anything else about my father or his family. Finally, I found the scrapbook leaf it had obviously gotten unstuck from, though where the rest of the scrapbook was, I didn't know. It wasn't in the box any longer. Taking the leaf to my desk, I placed the clipping over the top, and it clearly fit the unfaded part. There was some faded writing underneath, but I could barely make out any words. Turning it over, the writing was sharper and more legible. Someone jotted down some notes about the Mayweathers. My grandfather's name was John and he was forty-seven when he died. My grandmother was Thea and she was forty-five. Neither one had any siblings. There, the writing was smudged, and I couldn't make out a few lines, but the final sentence surprised me. It was rumoured, the mystery writer wrote, that Thea Mayweather was a direct descendant of a witch, who was rumoured to be the same one in the old legend about the witch and the werewolf. This ancestor had a special talent for creating talismans, including the one in the legend, it said, without naming her. Just as I was desperate to read more, it ended.
I rocked back in my chair, amazed at what I'd found. I had to remind myself I didn't know who wrote these handwritten notes or how true that rumour was. I didn't even have a name to cross-reference the ancestor mentioned. I also didn't know what Thea's original family name was. That piece of information, however, wouldn't be hard to find, although I was sure the names would have changed over generations.
Of course, it occurred to me that the rumour could be entirely unsubstantiated.
It also could be true.
If it were, where did that leave me? Was I the direct and last descendant of one of the most powerful witches in our history? It was a lot to take in, and the more I thought about it, the more I wondered who else could know about my connection. I couldn't be sure when the scrapbook was completed, or how it ended up in the Council's archives. I couldn't even be sure the person who originally made the notes was still alive. The only thing of which I could be certain was that the information had been buried for a very long time.
I stared at the clipping longingly, my fingertips just touching the paper, feeling grateful for the little connection to my
family, while knowing it might have been the last thing about them I would ever find.
Chapter Nine
I didn't stir from my chair until I shot upright, a noise awakening me. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and stretched my arms and legs, realising how stiff I'd become since falling asleep, slumped in the chair. For a moment, everything was still, then the thumping at the front door started again and I recalled what it was that roused me.
"Coming," I called, even though I doubted my visitor could hear me. I eased out of the chair, straightened my clothes, and ran a hand self-consciously over my hair to smooth it back as I glanced at the clock. I'd been asleep for two hours. The thumping continued. "I'm coming!" I yelled as I reached the door, peeking my magic towards my guest and finding him unfamiliar, but non-threatening.
"Miss Mayweather?" asked the uniformed man at the door. He was balding and had a paunch, but the nicest smile that reached right up to his green eyes. Green eyes that I suspected changed very much under the full moon. "I'm Sheriff Johansson. I'm here about Kevin Wyatt, the um..."
"The dead man," I confirmed, as he nodded readily. "What can I do for you?"
"I just hoped to ask you a few more questions. There's no need to be alarmed."
I opened the door wider. "I don't think I'll be much help."
Sheriff Johansson shrugged like it didn't matter much to him as he stepped inside and glanced around. I waved a hand towards the couch and he sat, perching on the edge. "I'll get straight to it," he said, pulling out a notepad and balancing it on his knee, "as I have a few more inquiries to make today, including a talk with your neighbor."
"Okay. How can I help?"
The sheriff looked down at his open notepad as he asked, "Had you ever met Kevin Wyatt prior to finding him on your porch?"
"No, never. I've really thought about it and I don't recall ever meeting him."
"Have you been to his hometown?"
"I don't know where it is."
"Rockford, Canada."
"Oh. Then, no. I've never been to Canada."
Sheriff Johansson glanced up. "Off the record, I'm told you can do that shimmering thing. You ever use that to go to Canada?"
"No."
"But you could, if you wanted to?" he pressed.
"I guess so, but I haven't."
"Do you have any idea how he came to be at your house? Or why he was there?"
"No." I shook my head, still perplexed by his questions. "I wondered if he got magicked here..."
"By that shimmer thing?"
"Well, I think it's possible, but I don't know why any werewolf would consent to that."
The sheriff frowned. "Does it hurt?"
"No. Oh, no! I just meant that I can't see why a werewolf would go to a witch and ask. You guys are pretty fast on four legs," I said, insinuating that I knew about his otherness as much as he apparently knew about mine.
"But he could if he wanted to?"
I frowned. "Maybe. If he found a witch who was willing."
"Can you think of any willing witch?"
"No, but then, I was never acquainted with Kevin Wyatt or anyone he knew. It's possible he knew someone," I pointed out. I began thinking how futile it was to ask me any questions about a man whom I knew nothing about.
"That's a very ambiguous answer."
I leaned forwards, balancing my elbows on my knees with my hands held in front of me in what I hoped was a sincere manner. "I'm not trying to be. I just don't have the answers. I do know that he came to deliver what I think was a letter to me."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because there was an envelope in his hand. It was torn through my name and the contents were missing."
"Any reason why he might contact you?"
"None that I can think of. I'm really sorry, I wish I knew more. His family must be very sad."
"We haven't located them yet. Thanks for your time." The sheriff stood up, slipping the notepad into his pocket. "Hope you know Gage vouched for you and that this is just a formality. You're not in any kind of trouble."
"That's good to know, and thank you. May I ask you something?"
"Uh, sure. Go ahead."
"Did you find out how Kevin Wyatt died yet?"
The man took a deep breath as he shook his head and exhaled again. "The coroner says asphyxiation, but the cause remains unknown. He ruled the death as suspicious, so we have to keep investigating it. There're only so many things I can do off the books before human rules come into play," he explained.
"I hope you find whoever did it."
"Me too. Again, we are not looking at you. This might come as a relief to you, but I don't think we will ever find out who killed him, especially if it was a witch. Not by any legal human means anyhow." Sheriff Johansson sidestepped around me and made for the door, reaching for the handle before I could show him out. "As our packmaster, Gage is obliged to follow up on his death, too. This guy's local pack will want answers. I just hope it doesn't get ugly. Goodbye, ma'am. If you think of anything, no matter how small, call me or Gage. We don't have much else to work with right now."
"I will. Goodbye, Sheriff." I closed the door and watched as he hurried back towards the road where his cruiser was parked. I could just see him walking around it and across the road before he was lost from view. I figured he was at Gage's house now. I was somewhat relieved to learn that no one accused me of having any involvement with the death, and I figured that was, in no small part, due to Gage vouching for me. Not that it solved my problem in any way. Kevin Wyatt was still dead and both his note and his death remained a mystery. Despite the elation I felt at my family revelation earlier, my intrigue turned to sorrow, and I was now back to being plain puzzled.
I flitted about aimlessly while I tried to make sense of what was going on. I found I couldn't sit still, or read, even though I tried, and nothing captured my attention on the TV. No, the restless energy inside me searched for an outlet and I knew if I kept it pent-up any longer, it might explode.
Little more than an hour later, I heard the cruiser pulling away, the flash of taillights indicating the sheriff was returning to Wilding. I waited a little while to see if Gage would come over and tell me what he and the sheriff discussed, but eventually decided that he didn't plan to. I wondered whether it was because he suddenly didn't want to see me after the previous night, or because it was pack business that he couldn't tell me about. Either way, it irked me. As for the idea of walking across the street to him... I didn't want to look inappropriate; and since I couldn't decide how I was supposed to behave around him now, I didn't know what was considered appropriate.
"This is so confusing," I told the kettle as I made another cup of tea. "What do I do?" All I got was a whistle in return, so after I made my drink, I returned to the darkening sunroom and set it on my desk.
First, I made a call to Étoile, and was glad to get her voicemail. Now was not a day in which I wanted anything pried from me; and with all the recent revelations I'd been receiving, I just wasn't ready to talk through any of it. So, when she invited me to leave a message, I told her that the task drew blanks and I couldn't find any pertinent information. I figured that was cryptic, yet simple enough for her to understand, but no one else.
Next, I called Annalise and all but invited myself to her house.
"The baby has cried all day," she said, looking tired as she opened the door. In her arms, a red-faced Selene let loose with another piercing shriek, her tiny hands flapping in the air. When the phone began to ring too, Annalise looked at me in despair.
"Let me take her," I said, reaching for the baby as Annalise gave me a grateful look and Selene gave me a death stare. She shrieked again, a fat tear slipping from one eye. I rested my hand over her forehead and let the tiniest droplet of magic soothe her.
"Would you look at that!" Annalise cooed softly as she returned. "She's asleep."
"She had a headache," I told her. "I gave her some magic medicine."
"Bless you. I knew she
was cranky, but I just didn't... oh, thank you, Stella. She's finally settled." Annalise gathered her back into her arms and Selene turned her face towards her mother, her lips making sucking sounds. "I'll settle her in her crib. Beau is at the Loup, so make yourself at home."
"What's happening?" she asked as she dropped onto the couch next to me after creeping down the stairs away from the sleeping baby. "What's new in Stellaland?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just been at home. Not doing much."
"Uh-huh."
"I enjoyed the party."
"Me too. Thanks for the gift. Everyone brought us so many things. We're really overwhelmed. Beau and I are going to write thank you cards to everyone tomorrow. I brought the cutest little notelets before Selene was born; and thank goodness, because do you know how hard it is to leave the house with a newborn baby? It's like packing for vacation except you have to change your shirt twice before you get out of the door."
"I'll take your word for it."
"You should. Gage take you home okay last night?"
"Yeah."
"Good. He said it was awful quiet without you around over the last few weeks. I'm glad you came back early."
"Me too. I still have vacation time though."
"Shame you got caught up in the dead werewolf business."
"Yeah, about that… Sheriff Johansson came by and said there was nothing to worry about."
"I knew it would all be fine. Gage stopped by this morning on the way to see him."
"Oh?"
I tried to hide my surprise, but Annalise must have caught it because she said, "Didn't he mention it? He said he just needed to get some particulars about the dead guy."
"No, he never said. The sheriff said Gage was obliged to look into the death. How come?" I said, wondering what more Gage and the sheriff had to talk about, especially after the sheriff's morning visit to his home. Clearly, something must’ve occurred and Gage hadn't thought to fill me in on the details.
"Simply because he died in our area. When any of us werewolves intend to go into someone else's area, we have a duty to notify them beforehand. Not that we always do, of course. I mean, when you're on vacation, you don't want to get caught up in anyone else's business, right? You just want to stay in a nice hotel, see a show, drink martinis, and not bother another person. But when someone dies in your neighbourhood, that's another thing entirely."
Arcane Magic (Stella Mayweather Series) Page 10
