Witchy See, Witchy Do

by A. A. Albright

  ‘The plywood was brought in especially for Heather’s suicide, presumably, because there’s normally a great big hole in the middle of this floor. If she tried to set things up from the lower floor of the tower, or even from the gallery of the belfry where the bell-ringer normally stands, it would have been a lot more difficult for her – she was a small, slight woman. She had been hanging by that rope.’ The detective pointed to a bright green rope attached to the bell. ‘That was tied to the bell rope by an incredibly nifty knot. Presumably because the bell rope itself would have been far too thick for her purpose. Margaret cut her down with the secateurs she just happened to have in her pocket, and one of the firemen tried to resuscitate her before we arrived. But there was nothing to resuscitate.’

  While he spoke, I stared silently at the body. I knew Heather about as well as I knew Margaret, which wasn’t very well. But she had always seemed like a pleasant woman – if a tad on the highly-strung side. And her cottage, a little house on the main street, was one of my favourite houses in the town. Her garden was teeming with flowers and herbs all year round, and she sold the loveliest honey I’d ever tasted.

  I blinked back a tear. ‘I only spoke to her yesterday. She asked me if she could realign my chakras.’

  The detective sighed. ‘She asked me the same thing.’

  ‘Really?’ Greg said as he began taking photos of the scene. ‘She told me three days ago that my chakras were the loveliest she’d ever seen.’

  ‘Well maybe you and your perfect chakras could take some photos of those symbols.’ Detective Quinn pointed to the glowing circle on the floor. Just inside the thick, green line, there was a line of smaller drawings. Some of them looked like pentagrams; others were completely foreign to me.

  Greg didn’t need to be told twice. He zoomed in on the glowing green symbols, snapping away and changing filters every few seconds. Every once in a while he waved his scanner about too, testing the area for magical traces or signatures. I watched him, shivering. His scanner had a shimmer to it, but it was only the same innocuous haze I’d come to see around many magical objects. It had begun with the first time I saw a Wayfarer’s truncheon, but it hadn’t been remotely regular since then. Sometimes I saw it, and sometimes I didn’t.

  But the circle’s green glow? This did not feel as harmless as the shimmer. I didn’t like anything about that painted-circle set-up, and it wasn’t just because it was glowing in an eerie shade of green. Every time I let my eyes focus on it, my skin began to prickle and my heart began to drum.

  To distract myself from my unease, I pulled out my notebook and began to jot down a few impressions. Like, wasn’t it lucky that Heather happened to be wearing trousers this morning?

  ‘Really, Miss Smith?’ The detective scowled at me, staring down at my notepad. ‘That’s what you’re taking from this.’

  I kept scribbling. ‘I didn’t know you read shorthand,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to come up with a new system for the next time I’m writing about how annoying you are.’ I pointed at Heather. ‘If she were wearing a skirt, whoever found her would have been able to see her underwear.’

  ‘Yeah, I get where you’re going, Miss Smith. No woman would want people to be looking at their knickers, even if they’re dead. I’m still not sure that this angle is up to your usual journalistic standards.’

  I paused my writing and cocked my head at him, grinning. ‘You think I have standards? Why Detective Quinn, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. But no, I’m not about to start a column called Fashion Tips for Your Suicide. It’s just that every single time I’ve seen Heather, she’s wearing a skirt or a dress. Usually a nice floaty, hippy-style rigout, coupled with flip-flops, ankle bracelets and toe rings no matter the weather. So I just think it’s kind of weird that, on the day of her suicide, she happened to be wearing trousers.’

  Greg turned to us, frowning. ‘It’s true. I mean, Heather loved her image. If she were about to commit suicide, wouldn’t she wear, I dunno – an even floatier dress than usual rather than a pair of trousers? She dresses like that because she’s convinced she’s a white witch, and you can be darned sure she’d want to act like a witch right until the end.’ He cleared his throat as one of the human gardaí in the room looked his way. ‘Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – who actually believes in witches and wizards and all that crazy nonsense?’

  The detective scratched his chin. ‘Heather did. And you’re right – she loved to act the part. She even got herself a black cat a few days ago.’ He got down on his haunches, peering at the symbols on the floor. ‘But I do think it was a suicide – and I already have a good idea what Heather thought these symbols meant.’ He glanced over at his colleagues, then looked at Greg and me and whispered, ‘If you guys have seen enough here, do you want to come back to the garda station and have a little chat?’

  4. Grieve For Me Not

  Detective Quinn worked in a normal Irish garda station, but he was far from being a normal garda. He was far from being a normal supernatural, either. In fact, let’s just cut to the chase and say he was the kind of man who liked to run contrary to pretty much everything in existence.

  He was an unempowered witch, a dayturning vampire, and a grumpy so-and-so to boot. I guess because he was the only supernatural in Riddler’s Edge Garda Station, he figured he might as well cover the spectrum.

  He and I had a similar kind of job. Mine was to write two versions of the same newspaper. There was a daily edition, in which I tried to put a normal spin on the very un-normal crimes which occurred in Riddler’s Edge. And there was the evening edition, where I got to tell it like it was.

  The detective did much the same – he made the crimes look as normal as possible, liaising with whoever he needed to in order to make sure the truth stayed flexible. He worked closely with the Wayfarers (a supernatural police force) and also some of the higher-ups in An Garda Siochána – some of whom were supernaturals themselves, and some of whom were simply aware of our world and had vowed to protect its secrecy.

  But despite the fact that we worked towards similar aims, and often needed to consult with each other, I had never once been inside his office at the garda station. It was pretty much as I imagined it would be – impossibly neat, with an expensive coffee machine for his personal use.

  ‘Garda issue?’ I asked as he prepared us all drinks.

  ‘Paid for it myself, Miss Smith. Although I could give you a cup of what they call coffee in the canteen here if you’d prefer.’

  Just as I was about to make the wittiest comeback in the history of witty comebacks, Greg sat forward. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘If you two are finished bickering, maybe we should get on with discussing Heather’s suicide. Or not-suicide. I didn’t recognise all of the symbols painted on the plywood, but I have the feeling I’ve seen them somewhere before. How about you two?’

  The detective looked thoughtful. ‘Even the pentagrams weren’t really pentagrams. The angles were off. And it had all of those odd little … I don’t know … would you call them hammers? … painted inside each point of the stars.’

  ‘Could have been.’ Greg pulled another bag of nuts from his pocket and began to eat. ‘I have plenty of close-ups though, so I can try and match the images just to be sure.’

  Dylan Quinn made a few unintelligible grumbling noises as he made the finishing touches to our coffee. When he passed a cup my way, he finally found some words that we could all understand. ‘Obviously I’m just as curious about the drawings as you are. But like I told you both when I invited you here – Heather committed suicide. This is all depressingly clear-cut, I’m afraid. She was a woman who thought she was a witch. She did something stupid because she believed that to her core, and she wound up killing herself in the process.’

  I had been about to sip my coffee, but I paused with the cup just millimetres from my mouth. ‘Why did you invite us here if all you were going to do was tell us it wasn’t a murder? Couldn’t you have done that in the bell tower?
’

  The detective sighed. ‘I could have. I could have given you this there, too. But then we wouldn’t have been able to argue about it quite as loudly, now would we?’ He passed a plastic baggy my way. There was a piece of paper inside, with a neat, handwritten letter thereon:

  To Whomever Should Find Me,

  Grieve for me not, for I am not dead. I have performed an intricate and powerful resurrection spell, so that I can return from the dead as an immortal and live forever. I will be returning to you very soon.

  Heather.

  I finished reading and passed it on to Greg. Detective Quinn sat back, placing his hands behind his head. And I didn’t happen to notice, honest I didn’t, that the action made his toned arms look better than ever. ‘As you can see, Heather took her beliefs pretty seriously. But I don’t think we’re going to see her resurrected body walking down the streets anytime soon, do you?’

  Greg slid the letter back across the desk, shaking his head. ‘No. Probably not. But I still don’t get why we’re here. Fair enough, we could shout at you in peace in here if we wanted to, but there’s hardly much to shout about.’ He nodded down to the scanner he had attached to his belt-loop. ‘There wasn’t a trace of magic in that bell tower. It’s a tragic death. But it’s unlikely it was supernatural.’

  He didn’t reply to Greg immediately. Instead he turned his eyes on me, lifting one of his dark brows with a goading look on his face. ‘So … you’re not going to argue with my conclusion, then, Miss Smith?’ he said when I remained silent. ‘Because I saw the expression on your face back there, Miss Smith. I know you’re about to tell me all of the ways in which I’m wrong. You have the floor, so to speak, Miss Smith.’

  Hmm. Was it just my imagination, or was he saying Miss Smith far more than necessary? And with a lot more emphasis than necessary, too. Almost as though he was underlining my name while he spoke. I did once ask him to stop being an overly formal jerk and call me Ash or Aisling the way everyone else did. But I’d long since given up on expecting him to be friendly.

  He wanted me to call him out on his formality again, I was sure. Not just call him out, but shout him out. So why was he so desperate for me to shout at him?

  Sure, I could tell him that I had a deep and pressing sense that there was more to this than met the eye. But it wasn’t as though I was a psychic. I was just a woman whose intuition was screaming at her six ways from Sunday. After all, everyone said that Heather called herself a white witch. And the last time I checked, humans who believed they were white witches didn’t attempt resurrection spells. They were all about nature and healing and whatnot. They were not about hanging themselves from church bells and attempting to turn themselves into the walking dead.

  ‘It’s not necessary to give me the floor,’ I said sweetly. ‘I have nothing to shout at you about. I’m sure you’ll do just as fine a job as ever with this investigation, Detective Quinn.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘What? What do you want me to say, Detective? If I were a suspicious sort of woman, I might almost think you enjoyed arguing with me. If so, you’re going to have to get your kicks from somewhere else today. Heather thought that painting some glowing green symbols on the floor would make her return from the dead and live forever. She was wrong.’ I tossed back the remainder of my coffee and placed the cup on the desk. ‘Like you said – it’s an unfortunate death, but it’s not suspicious.’

  At first I thought that the detective was frowning at me because he was disappointed not to be arguing. But then I realised that Greg was frowning at me, too.

  ‘Glowing?’ said Greg. ‘The paint wasn’t glowing. It was just standard white paint. High gloss for wood and metal by the looks of it. They sell it in the hardware for a tenner a tin.’

  I glanced at Detective Quinn, but I could see that he thought just the same. ‘Gloss,’ I said. ‘White gloss. For wood and metal. You’re sure?’

  The detective gave me a distinctly unsure look. ‘I … well. Yes. Maybe you saw it in the light of someone’s camera flash or something?’

  It was possible, I supposed. But then it wouldn’t have looked green the whole time I was there. I pictured the scene in my mind, feeling sure of what I saw: that paint did have a green glow. Even now, just thinking about it, my skin began to tingle.

  But today Detective Quinn was itching for an argument, and I wasn’t about to give him one. I could look at the paint on Greg’s photos once we got to our own office. Because if I was ever going to acquiesce and give the detective the squabble he was jonesing for, then I’d prefer to do it whilst armed with some winning evidence. ‘Yeah, maybe that was it.’ I gave him a small smile and stood up. ‘Well, is there anything else, Detective Quinn? Because I really want to go and get started on my story.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sat up straight. ‘Well … yes. Yes, that’s all. But if you need any more information for your article, you know where to find me.’

  I smiled again. ‘I shouldn’t need anything more. Come on Greg – let’s get to it. We’ve got things to do.’

  Greg looked awkwardly at us both, then pushed his chair back and stood up, waving at the detective and following me from the office. ‘I guess we have things to do then, Dylan. See you later.’

  5. Ninety Percent Egg and Eleven Percent Cress

  As we headed into the Daily Riddler office, the building was buzzing. Well, as much as a small newspaper with an even smaller staff could buzz.

  Malachy, the receptionist, was laughing uproariously at a video he was watching on his phone. Edward, the cleaner, was doing a little dance as he walked out past us and got into his van (he also gave us a big smile and a wave as he went, because Edward was an eternally friendly guy), and Roarke, our puzzle producer, was working wildly at his desk.

  ‘Hah! See if you get tomorrow’s four down, suckers!’ he cried out. And yes, he followed it up with a Machiavellian laugh because, apparently, getting one over on the citizens of Riddler’s Edge warranted such things.

  Greg and I took a moment to giggle at Roarke’s enthusiasm.

  ‘Did you try last Friday’s Nine Numbers?’ asked Greg.

  I shook my head. ‘I started. Then I remembered I’m not very good at mathematical puzzles, so I stopped. Was it hard?’

  ‘The hardest yet. It took me six minutes. Anyway, I’m going to go off into my dark room. I’ve got a special solution that should show up anything I’ve missed with my usual camera filters. See if there’s any sign of that green glow you were on about.’

  I gave him a smile of surprise. ‘But didn’t we all agree that I imagined that?’

  ‘Ash, I’ve worked with you for weeks now.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. ‘And in that time I’ve learned a lot about you. I’ve learned that you love David Bowie music, and red wine. I’ve learned that you wear far too much black, and that you always begin to drink instant soup before it’s had a chance to cool down – which makes you jump about the place and make the most hilarious noises known to man. But I’ve also learned that when we’re working on a story, you don’t miss a single thing. If you saw a green glow, then I’d bet my last lollipop that there was a green glow. So I’m gonna go off now and try to prove it. But if I do prove it, then you have to promise me one thing.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked.

  ‘When you wipe the green glow in Dylan’s face, I do not want to be there. Because believe me, I have better things to do than watch the two of you pretend not to fancy each other. Deal?’

  I primly removed his hand from my shoulder. ‘I do not fancy Detective Quinn. But … deal.’

  He let out his patented I so don’t believe you laugh, and sauntered away.

  As he walked away I stood on the spot for a few seconds, a funny little thrill running through me – and it had nothing to do with Greg saying I fancied the local detective. Because if Greg really knew me as well as he thought, then he’d realise that I hadn’t got a masochistic bone in my body. Sure,
I could happily admire Dylan Quinn’s appearance all day long – but I would never go out with someone who blew so hot and cold.

  The thrill running through me was for an altogether different reason. I was happy, quite simply, that Greg was on my side. All my life I’d been considered strange. Even now I wasn’t sure whether I was a real witch or not – I had no idea what I was – but I’d grown up seeing things no one else saw. Since moving to Riddler’s Edge, I’d been surrounded by people who saw those very same things. Being accepted felt strange. Being believed felt even stranger.

  As I threw my bag on my desk, Roarke jumped. ‘Ash – why aren’t you at the chroniclers’ conference?’

  I gave him a little shrug. ‘Well, I really wanted to go. But Grace wanted to go even more and we could hardly both be there, could we? She said she’ll take notes for me, though, so that’s something to look forward to.’

  Roarke gave me a disbelieving stare. To be fair, I hadn’t managed to keep a straight face while I spun the lie. Grace had not wanted to go, and once she’d explained to me what a chroniclers’ conference was, I could understand why.

  In the supernatural world, anything involving writing comes under the heading of chronicling. Doesn’t matter whether you’re writing the kinds of news stories that make people afraid of the world, or whether you’re writing children’s stories. If you tell a tale – true or otherwise – you’re a chronicler. And for some reason, chroniclers were always having conferences.

  The latest of these conferences was being held in Riddler’s Cove, a nearby (and one hundred percent supernatural) town. The subject was Chronicling and the Modern Media – How Not to Scare the Humans.

  Considering I had to write a human-safe version of every story these days, it sounded like exactly the sort of conference that I should have attended. And I would have, too, had it not been organised by Arnold Albright. Arnold was the owner of many newspapers, including the Daily Riddler.