She paused in the middle of reading about that woman she’d seen on the TV at the Tipsy Witch, not because she was particularly interested but because of one line:
...the woman, who had been found dead in her bed with a round mark the size of a thumbprint on her neck…
One, journalists shouldn’t have been able to get hold of that information, unless the friend who’d gone on TV to cry murder had found the body and sold her eyewitness story. Two, a circle mark on her neck? Against her will, Gabi flashed back to six years ago, to not hearing from Joy all day after they’d spent the night together on the beach, to having all her texts unanswered and her calls ignored. She remembered walking to Joy’s house, her stomach in knots, thinking something was wrong with her, something terrible had happened to her. And something terrible had happened—just not to Joy.
Gabi had let herself in the house, walked upstairs, and found Joy laid in bed with her mother. Her dead mother. There’d been a rash, just visible above the collar of Charity’s WITCH UPON A STAR night gown. The rash was no bigger than a five pence piece and faded red. Gabi had only noticed it because Joy clung to her mother, her fingers curled into the neck of the night dress just below the mark. She remembered everything about that scene, at first burned into her memory because of horror, then grief, and then shame when Joy yelled and raged and broke up with Gabi for stealing her final night with her mum while she was alive.
It was probably nothing, a woman being found dead in her bed years later with a similar mark. How many people got rashes every day? Hundreds? Thousands? It was probably nothing. But that memory had sunk its claws into Gabi and refused to let go.
Afternoon came around and Gabi was freezing, even wrapped in three T-shirts, two jumpers, an oversized hoodie that might have belonged to her father, and a fleece blanket. Getting paid a pittance, even for working ridiculous hours and saving the town from a homicidal witch, sucked. She’d put all her wage last month on rent, back when she’d felt relieved and grateful to have money in her bank, to have passed Paulina’s trial. Now Gabi was bitter she had no money left over for electric, for heating, for petrol, for food. After the town hall nightmare, when Gabi’s situation was getting dire and she debated moving out of the flat and going home, she’d asked her dad how the hell he’d survived all those years. Helpfully, he’d told her to give it a day or two and she’d see.
And she had seen. Her doorbell rang for the first time three days after town hall. A woman whose name Gabi didn’t know pressed a hot dish of casserole into Gabi’s hands, thanked her for looking after Agedale, and went off on her way. Then came another, a woman who Gabi had once witnessed assaulting her husband with a garden gnome; the old woman had turned up with four bags of shopping, edged past Gabi without a polite question, and began unloading them into the fridge and cupboards. Gabi had been too relieved to argue. Then came others with fish pie, cottage pie, meat pie—being up north, Agedale was all about pie—and a couple canisters of petrol were set in the hallway. Gabi was thanked in myriad different ways, and they all went off home.
Any parcel she needed posted went free, no matter how Gabi insisted she could pay—even if she couldn’t, she very much embodied her surname. A middle-aged woman skipped forward to put two pounds in the machine Gabi was using at the laundrette before Gabi could even dig out her purse. There was always a steaming hot loaf of bread waiting for her at Fae’s Bakes. Tenners handed over to Aunt Cheryl at the bar to pay for Gabi’s next round of drinks. In the course of a few days, Gabi had gone from dubious new investigator to valued protector of Agedale. It was both irritating and heart-warming. Gabi felt wanted, appreciated, but it was a two-sided coin; she also felt the heavy pressure. These people depended on her. She couldn’t fuck this up.
Today, Gabi was finishing up the last stack of paperwork for Perchta’s trial, the majority of it already boxed up, when a knock came at the door. It was way past drop-in hours—during which many people dropped in to either thank her, ask her for help regarding minor situations they could take care of themselves, or just for a highly inconvenient chat—but that didn’t stop people bringing around whatever meal they’d decided she needed for tea tonight. Not that she needed anything—the freezer was full of potluck, the fridge was bursting with groceries, and her cupboards were stocked with whatever could fit.
Gabi unrolled herself from the blanket burrito she’d become, put a heavy pen on top of her paperwork just in case it decided to rearrange itself in her absence, and hauled her cold bones to the door.
“Mrs. Fredericks.” Gabi said, smiling at the stooped old woman. Like her other neighbours, Mrs. Fredericks came around often but unlike the others, she didn’t talk much so Gabi genuinely didn’t mind her. “What can I help you with today?”
“I’ve got a heater from my Andrew. Big thing. Very warm. I can’t get it to budge.”
Gabi nodded. “Let me get my coat.” As errands went, this was the least nuisance-y of the past week. Mrs. Fredericks only lived two doors down so it wouldn’t take long to move a heater from one room to another. Gabi buttoned up her coat, shut the door behind her, not bothering to lock it for such a short trip, and followed Mrs. Fredericks to her house.
Inside smelled of lavender and the unidentifiable musk of old people and was a clutter of shiny cherry furniture and lace doilies.
“Here it is,” Mrs. Fredericks said needlessly, pointing at the hefty-looking space heater lurking in the hallway.
“Alright, then,” Gabi said, contemplating the best way to pick it up. These past few weeks had been good for one thing: she had time to set up her weights and gym equipment and, even better, to use it. Working out was a passion she’d discovered training for the job, when she needed something mindless and exhilarating to distract her from her studies. “Where’d you want it?”
“Number ninety-seven.”
“Number ninety—” Gabi raised her eyebrows. That was where she lived. “Very sneaky.”
Mrs. Fredericks bustled around the heater, looking pleased with herself. “There’s a bag of blankets, jumpers, and soup on the table, too. And a hot water bottle. And I got the electric key from your father. The ladies of the choir sent a tin around and we’ve put fifty pounds on there.”
Gabi blinked, a little blindsided by the generosity.
“Freezing in that house,” Mrs. Fredericks pointed out.
“Yeah,” Gabi agreed. “Thanks. And tell your choir ladies thank you too.”
It was a struggle, and the edge bit into her arms through her coat and the plug trailed along the icy floor, but within a few minutes the heater was set up nicely in the hallway, angled so it’d get the front room and the kitchen.
“Thanks, Mrs. Fredericks,” Gabi said, grinning, as the old woman set her rattan bag of warm things on a sideboard, her tight silver curls bobbing with the movement.
Mrs. Fredericks nodded. “There’s nettle in there too. Give it to your girlfriend to put around her house. Keeps out evil. You can’t be too careful.”
Gabi’s mouth opened and closed.
“Take care now.” Mrs. Fredericks patted Gabi’s arm and trundled off.
So the whole town thought Gabi and Joy had got back together? Awesome. Gabi muttered to herself as she turned on the heater and bundled herself back into her blanket burrito to finish up her files.
Joy
The sun was blaring, which was odd behaviour for January, but Joy wasn’t complaining. Half of the snow had already melted and the ice was beginning to thaw, making the paths less treacherous. Joy almost regretted the fuzzy hat, scarf, and thick gloves she’d bundled herself into, along with her second-favourite furry coat—the first wrecked by her stay in a dirty cell—and cerise wellies, but it was still cold enough to bite, even with the sun. And her mum had always told her to wrap up.
Joy remembered her shouting down the hall to take a coat even in summer. Every day without fail: take a coat, Joy! And don’t forget your amulets. Joy touched those amulets now, smiling. The chains had b
roken ages ago but she still kept them in her pocket, one for luck, one for balance, one for protection, and one to encourage discounts on bread and milk. That last one had always seemed suspect to Joy but still she kept it because it was very like her mum.
“I don’t care for that weather,” Mor Margaret, the ancient woman who owned and ran the apothecary shop said as Joy stamped her wellies on the doormat. The woman was small and stooped, with a halo of dyed-red curls pinned above her dark, weathered face. Her eyes were unusually irritated.
“The sun?” Joy asked, removing her gloves.
“The cold,” Mor Margaret corrected. “Now, what’d you come for?”
Joy dug her list—slightly soggy—from her coat pocket and rattled off the list. The large number of protective spells she’d concocted when Perchta began killing and the offensive potions and packets she’d been producing ever since—storing them just in case—had burned through her supplies.
“Summer savoury’s on the top shelf of the next case, a few down from sage. How’s your Salma?”
“Fine, I think,” she answered, avoiding the topic. Joy accumulated the rest of her order without another word, reaching up on her tiptoes to snip a length of lavender that hung from wooden frames near the ceiling.
Mor Margaret began ringing up all Joy’s items, shooting her searing looks. The crone had a real talent for finding subject Joy didn’t want to talk about.
“I haven’t heard from her in a few weeks,” she added against her wishes. Those dark eyes had got to her. She busied herself bundling the herbs and bottles Mor Margaret had already rung up into a hardy hessian bag—she’d learned long ago that a paper bag did not cut it at all to witch supplies.
“Hmm,” was the shopkeeper’s only comment. “Nine forty,” she announced and Joy frowned at the price.
“I thought it’d be nearer twenty.” She caught a flash of a look in Mor Margaret’s eyes—the woman who was renowned for cutting prices in return for favours and errands. Who already gave Joy a sizeable discount because she kept the shop in good supply of purified water—easy for Joy because of her fae nature, and because all fae were closely aligned to the sea. “What do you want?” she asked with a sigh.
“You know where Salma lives? I have a couple things made up for her mum, premade spells and the like. She finds it difficult to concentrate for long stretches so I prepare them for her.”
“You just want me to deliver shopping to Salma’s mum?” Joy narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
Mor Margaret nodded, helping Joy pack up the rest of her shopping.
Joy shrugged. “Alright.” For nine pounds off her order? Why not? She was getting fairly low on cash, since she’d only gone back to work a few weeks ago and hadn’t got her pay check yet. Her boss had been really decent about giving her time off after her injuries at town hall, and the other employee of Agedale Wildlife Reserve had been happy to pick up Joy’s extra hours. Not that Joy had ever met her—they worked different days.
Mor Margaret bent—slowly, her bones creaking and cracking—and retrieved a box from under the counter. A couple things, Mor had said, but many things, the box contradicted. Joy sighed in exasperation but she’d be alright carrying it with two hands if her own shopping bag was over her shoulder. When the weight of twenty or so small glass bottles was placed in her hands, Joy wondered how the shopkeeper had even lifted it.
“Will she answer the door to me?” Joy asked, readjusting the weight so it didn’t press on her wrists. “She doesn’t know me.”
Mor Margaret snorted. “That woman knows everyone in this town, and a fair number outside it. She’ll already know you’re coming.”
“But what if she’s having a bad day?” Joy remembered Salma telling her her mum was as conscious of her surroundings as she was conscious of her own hallucinations. Joy didn’t want to make things worse for her.
“You tell her her old friend Mor Margaret sent you. And give her one of the potion bottles. Green with a fizzy liquid inside. And use the back door—it’s always open for her kids and emergencies.”
“Okay.” Joy felt more unsure of her errand with everything Mor Margaret said but she left the shop anyway, making her way down the street to the turn off to Salma’s neighbourhood. All in all, it was only about ten minutes out of her way.
Joy let herself in the back door and set the heavy box down on the kitchen counter for a minute, catching her breath. The muscles of her upper arms were screaming. They protested as she picked up the box again and entered the living room where Salma’s mum sat alone, watching the TV. She had a regular carer now, Joy knew from the couple of phone calls to Salma in the first week she’d been gone, and Salma’s older brother was coming back to town soon to take over Salma’s job as permanent carer. Joy had never met the eldest Nazari sibling but imagined him as a male version of Salma—precise, cool, and level-headed with a caring heart.
“Mrs. Nazari?” Joy edged around the door frame, bracing when the woman’s stare swung to her. Salma’s mum was in her late fifties but still wore the regal beauty she must have had in her youth, her hair in long, thin braids and her clothes bright and colourful. “I’m a friend of Salma’s. Mor Margaret sent me to bring your things from the shop.”
“I know,” Mrs. Nazari said with a little smile. “I saw you on the way up. Put them on the table just here.”
Joy did as directed, feeling relieved to catch Salma’s mum on a good day. She’d never known, never had to know, what to do when someone with mental illness had a bad day. She’d been privileged that way.
“You heard from my daughter?”
Joy stretched her arms to get them to stop feeling like jelly. “Not recently. A few weeks ago.”
Mrs. Nazari nodded. “I spoke to her this morning. I’m worried about her.”
Joy perched on the edge of the sofa opposite the woman. “Is something wrong? Is her job awful?”
“Obviously.” Mrs. Nazari laughed, a deep, joyous sound. “She’s working in accounting.”
Joy smiled. She had to agree with Salma’s mum there.
“No, it’s not the job.” Mrs. Nazari leant forward, her eyes on Joy. “She said the cathedral ruins were really beautiful and sad. But she’s never been interested in ruins or architecture before.”
“Maybe she’s trying new things? People do that when they move to new places, don’t they?”
“Hmph.” Mrs. Nazari began riffling through the box of potions. “Maybe.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Joy said, standing. The fear that had caught her up when Mrs. Nazari said she was worried about Salma lifted. Salma wasn’t ignoring Joy or shutting her out—she hadn’t run off and abandoned Joy, not like her father. That still hurt, even fifteen years later. Worse were the memories, the certainty that she had loved him so much, the belief that he’d loved her. Before he’d vanished overnight without even a letter. She gnashed her teeth. He didn’t deserve her love, or her pain. He was nothing. And Salma was nothing like him; she was just busy with work and exploring her new city.
“I’d better be going,” Joy said with a forced, polite smile. “I have a couple other errands.”
“Mor Margaret made you deliver this, didn’t she?” Mrs. Nazari said with a knowing smile. “That devil.”
Joy laughed. “She did.”
“You be careful,” Mrs Nazari added as Joy made to leave. When Joy looked back, the woman’s eyes were slightly unfocussed. Was she using her sight as a Seer? “Didn’t you wonder why Perchta came here? He drew her here. There are demons all around him. Around you soon.”
Joy’s stomach swooped, her blood chilling. She was suddenly back there, shaking, terrified, Gabi hurt, her own hands turning blue. She never wanted that to happen again, was suddenly so scared she couldn’t breathe, but … maybe Mrs. Nazari wasn’t seeing? Maybe this was her illness? Maybe … maybe whatever Mrs. Nazari was saying, it wasn’t real? Joy shuddered. She didn’t like the way the woman said he. He drew her here.
Who?
Joy shuddered again. “I’m leaving now, Mrs. Nazari,” she said in a voice too tight with fear and hurried out of the room. That feeling didn’t leave her until she was home, until all the doors were locked and Joy was clutching a protective spell. She’d completely foregone the rest of her errands but she couldn’t leave again today, not until she convinced herself there was no mysterious he, it was just the imagination of a woman with psychosis.
It’s not real.
Pride
Gabi closed the door behind herself, locked out a horse-faced woman complaining very loudly about the price of butter as if Gabi could change it, and went upstairs where she promptly fell asleep on the couch. These days she felt less like a detective and law enforcer than a dog’s body and servant. Later, she wanted to look into Jeanine Waters’s records—the woman from the TV—and see if that circle mark on her neck was anything like the rash Gabi remembered seeing on Joy’s mum, but right now she relaxed into the pile of fluffy blankets and pillows and fell asleep.
That night, the sun having long since set, Gabi sat on her sofa in the flat upstairs, absently eating a slab of vaguely warm lasagne and furiously reading a case file on her laptop. It had taken an email to Paulina—who didn’t really supervise Gabi so much as officially give her permission to do things—to get the file from Bristol, where the woman from the news had lived and died. If it hadn’t been for the drug in her system, her death would have looked as normal as any natural death, as Joy’s mum’s must have looked. Or might have been. Gabi was fixating too much on the mark, making something out of nothing. But she couldn’t let go of the hunch, and if Mrs. Mackenzie’s death hadn’t been investigated, only recorded and only basic details at that, how many others hadn’t? How many had flown under the radar?
Gabi thumped her head. It could be a disease or illness or something. Her mind shouldn’t have gone straight to murder; that was just her paranoia talking, and what happened with Perchta making her jumpy. She needed a second opinion, but she couldn’t call Joy, not when it involved her mum and Gabi selfishly wanted to stay far away from that topic. It had broken them up before—what if it stopped whatever fragile thing was building between them? She could call her dad but he’d be sleeping, and if she was wrong with this, she didn’t want him to be the one to tell her. She didn’t want to be a disappointment, even for a second. So she dug her phone from under a pile of printed papers and tapped Gus’s number.
Bound Powers (Pride & Joy Book 2) Page 2
