by Emery Belle
“I can handle it,” I said with much more confidence than I felt, dropping my purse onto the ground and surveying the young witches and wizards who were playing together quietly. After my encounter with the baby zombies, anything else had to be a piece of cake. Right? Right?
“Good,” Astrid said, gently disentangling the brownies from her legs and scooping one up in each hand. “If you need me, just follow the sound of the howls.” Then she turned and melted back through the door.
“I’ll be sure to do that,” I muttered to myself, then jumped slightly when I felt someone tugging on my jeans. A young boy with bright green eyes was standing beside me, gnawing on a toy wand and looking up at me with an adorable smile that revealed a dimple in each cheek. My heart melted a little as I bent down to greet him, and when I reached his level I realized one chubby fist was clenched around something.
“What do you have there?” I asked, expecting it to be a gummy worm or a toy truck. He snickered and opened his palm, and I shrieked and scrambled away on all fours when the miniature tiger figurine he was holding suddenly reared to life, growling as it pounced for my throat. As soon as its claws brushed my skin—and I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable—it froze in place and zoomed back into the little boy’s hand, docile once more.
“That’s a neat trick,” I said shakily, wiping the cold sweat from my palms as I climbed to my feet, my heartbeat erratic. I took a moment to compose myself, and when I looked down again, the boy had been replaced by a young witch of about five with bright red hair and a sweet smile. She was rocking a stuffed unicorn in her arms and sucking on her thumb.
“Hi there,” I said, more cautiously this time. “What’s your name?” I grinned down at her, and she regarded me thoughtfully for a long moment.
“Gee, you’re ugly when you smile,” she said, then turned and skipped away without another word.
“Is this a real wand?” an excited voice asked, and I whipped around, my heart in my throat, to find a group of kids gathered around my training wand, which I’d stupidly left in my purse on the floor. A young boy was holding it up in the air while the others oohed and aahed and tried to grab it, though he kept it out of their reach.
“It’s not, it’s just a toy,” I said, willing my voice not to betray my panic. Walking over to him, I held out my hand. “Give it back, please.”
The wand—traitor that it was—decided at that precise moment to begin shaking in his hand before the tip erupted in a golden light. The boy’s face lit up with wild excitement, and he began swinging the wand around the room in a circle, watching the golden light bounce off every surface while the other kids clapped in delight. When he aimed it at the stuffed animal bin, the light morphed to red, and I had just made another swipe for the wand when I heard a cracking sound and the bin burst open of its own accord.
“Uh-oh,” the boy said, dropping the wand as the toys’ eyes popped open in unison and they began surveying their surroundings with great interest. An oversized stuffed bear with a half-chewed eye emitted a low, threatening growl and climbed unsteadily to its feet, and a one-eared monkey followed suit, baring its teeth as it jumped onto the chandelier and began swinging back and forth by its tail.
“Nobody panic!” I shouted, my voice cracking with fear, which immediately sent the kids into a frenzy. In the time it took me to blink, the stuffed animals surged from their bin with roars, snarls, and squeaks, charging straight for the terrified children, ready to exact their revenge.
I froze in place, unable to move as I watched a plush pink elephant siphon water from the drinking fountain with its trunk before spinning around in a circle, spraying streams of water onto every surface. To my left, a raggedy frog was bouncing from head to head, and on my right, a shabby stuffed tiger had cornered two witches, roaring with rage as they tried to ward it off with useless toy wands.
A scream tore through the air, jolting me into action, and I began racing around the room, trying to put a stop to the madness. I was in the middle of trying to tug a shrieking toddler from the jaws of a crocodile when Astrid burst into the room, her mouth dropping open at the sight of the chaos before her.
She drew her wand from her pocket, quick as a flash, and restored order with several loud bangs from its tip. The stuffed animals dropped in place, their eyes glassy once more, and the momentary stunned silence blanketing the room was soon replaced by the sounds of wailing children.
“What were you thinking?” Astrid said in disbelief as she located my training wand lying abandoned on the ground and shoved it toward me. “Rule number one, Wren, don’t let your wand out of your sight. I would have thought that was obvious.” I quelled under her furious gaze and, shame-faced, tucked the wand into the waistband of my jeans.
“Maybe you should just go,” she said, kneeling down to inspect the arm of a witch who’d sustained a nasty bite from a stuffed hippopotamus. “I’ll take over from here.”
“But I can’t,” I insisted, panic welling up inside me again. “I haven’t finished my hours for today, and if I fall behind, Lady Amabelle is going to banish me from the island.”
Astrid sat back on her heels and studied me through narrowed eyes while I held my breath, waiting for the ax to fall. “Fine,” she snapped after an eternity. “But frankly, Wren, I don’t want to see your face around here again for the rest of the day.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll tell you what. Hattie was supposed to drop off the hand puppets we’re using for the recital we’re holding tonight for the parents, but it looks like she’s overslept again.”
She shook her head in annoyance, giving me the impression that this was a fairly frequent occurrence. “The kids need to have their dress rehearsal to ensure the recital isn’t a total disaster, so I need you to go to Hattie’s place, wake her up, and get the puppets. Think you can handle that?”
Her last words were filled with biting sarcasm, and I opened my mouth to argue but quickly closed it again as a young wizard toddled up to her holding his bruised arm, his cheeks stained with tears. She tapped her wand against his skin gently, murmuring soothing words to him, and the bruise slowly receded until it disappeared completely.
Producing a lollipop from her pocket, she held it out to the boy, who accepted it with a watery smile. My stomach sank as I looked around the room at the other kids, many of whom were still crying in the aftermath of the chaos my carelessness had caused. I couldn’t blame Astrid for being mad at me—in her place, I’d be simply furious.
“I can handle it,” I said, bowing my head and quietly accepting the address she held out to me. She tapped the door with her wand, frowning at me as she waited for me to step through it, and I hurried back down the hallway, tail between my legs. I heard a gurgling sound as I passed one of the open playrooms, and poked my head inside to find the infant banshee I’d heard wailing on my first day being rocked to sleep by another of the volunteers, a headless baby doll dangling from one of her hands.
As I turned to leave, my shoe squeaked against the linoleum, and the baby’s eyes popped open. Her gaze latched onto mine, her black irises like endless, winding tunnels, and my skin crawled as she studied me with an intense, probing interest. “Isn’t she precious?” the woman holding her cooed, pressing her lips against the baby’s forehead as her eyes continued to burn into mine.
“Y-yeah, adorable,” I managed to choke out, backing away slowly. Finally I tore my gaze away from her and practically ran for the front door, expecting to hear the banshee’s mournful wail tearing through the air after me. And though she remained silent, I clapped my hands over my ears as I sped outside, making a beeline for Hattie’s house without a backward glance at the cheerful yellow brick building that maybe wasn’t quite so cheerful after all.
Chapter 4
Hattie’s place turned out to be a rather shabby gray shack at the end of a dusty road filled with potholes and lined with overgrown plants. Her front yard desperately needed a good mowing, and her porch was missing several of its wooden
planks and was piled with cracked cauldrons, deflated tires, and a lounge chair that looked like it had been torn apart by werewolves. But there was a cheery wreath made of intertwined ivy branches on the front door, the curtains were clean and billowing softly in the wind, and the faint smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies hung in the air.
When I raised a hand to knock on the door, I realized that it hadn’t been properly latched, and it creaked open with the slightest push. “Hattie?” I called softly into the crack, not wanting to frighten her. “It’s Wren Winters. Astrid sent me here to collect the puppets for the recital. Is it okay if I come in?”
No response, but I thought I heard water running somewhere in the house, and when I pushed open the door a little bit more and stuck my head inside, I realized that it was coming from the bathroom shower. Deciding to wait until Hattie was finished rather than return to the daycare without the puppets and face Astrid’s wrath, I perched on the edge of an armchair near the front door and looked around the room.
It was sparse but tidy, with a few worn pieces of furniture accented by beautifully sewn quilts and doilies and a collection of delicate porcelain witches lining the stone fireplace. I found it odd that Hattie lived in such a humble place when the daycare seemed to be constantly filled with children—as the owner, how could she not afford something nicer? But then again, Glenn’s beautiful home spent its days masquerading as a shed, so perhaps there was more here than met the eye, especially since Hattie was a centuries-old witch.
With that in mind, I hopped off the chair and began examining the contents of the room more closely, starting with the porcelain witches. I walked over to the fireplace, and as I stepped onto the hearth, a beautiful sapphire-colored fire roared to life, tickling my skin with a pleasant warmth that soon washed over my entire body. I leaned closer to the mantel to study the first miniature witch, who was frozen with her hands hovering over a cauldron and her mouth hanging open, as if she was in the middle of performing a spell. Her tiny cheeks were flushed pink, and her long black hair looked so realistic I reached out to touch it…
“Don’t!” she screeched, springing to life and smacking my hand away, almost sending me into cardiac arrest in the process. “What’s the matter with you, girl? I’ve just been polished.” Frowning, she patted her cloak while twisting her head this way and that, looking for fingerprint smudges.
Finding none, she let out a relieved sigh and shook her finger at me. “I’ll let it slide this time, but try that again and I’ll curse your fingers right off. You’re lucky you got me and not Dolores.” She jabbed her thumb in the direction of the witch next to her, who was frozen in the act of aiming her wand at an invisible foe. “Fletcher tried to move her to the coffee table one day when he came to visit… let’s just say he couldn’t sit down for a full week. Dolores hexes first, asks questions later.”
The witch frowned down at the empty cauldron. “Now where was I?” She began to speak, then froze again, her mouth hanging open absurdly, her hand still pointed in Dolores’s direction.
“Hello?” I prodded her gently, then jumped back, afraid she was going to spring to life again. But her face remained impassive, her body motionless, and so I tapped each of the other witches in turn, working my way down the mantel but receiving no response.
Cocking my head in the direction of the bathroom to make sure the water was still running—if I’d taken this long of a shower at the orphanage I would’ve gotten my ears boxed, and so I was always in and out in three minutes flat by habit—I turned my attention to a beautiful dreamcatcher hanging on the wall.
Feathers in every shade of blue streamed from it, reminding me of ocean waves, and when I fingered the delicate netting, it began to tremble softly before an image of the shoreline appeared in its hoop. The soft sand and gentle waves soon dissipated, and in their place was a Gothic mansion surrounded by dense trees, its wrought iron gate illuminated by the setting sun. That too disappeared, replaced moments later by a werewolf baring its teeth at me, and when it immediately morphed into a clown playing a harmonica, I realized that I was looking at images from Hattie’s dreams.
I stepped away quickly, my face flaming, embarrassed to have accidentally intruded on her privacy and also worried that she’d somehow find out. Did magical dreamcatchers talk? I snuck a glance at the porcelain witches again, but they remained doll-like, and I could only hope that they couldn’t hear or see me in their immobile state. I had a feeling they’d be more than eager to tell Hattie exactly what I’d been up to.
Deciding that I’d done enough nosing around, I plopped down on the tattered couch, pulled a quilting magazine from a pile on the coffee table, and began flipping idly through it. After twenty pages of patterns, my eyes began to glaze over, and I was just about to toss it back onto the pile when a picture of two older women caught my eye—and one of them was undeniably Hattie.
She and the other woman were grinning from ear to ear and holding up a magnificent quilt with a picture of the Magic Island harbor, which included an exact replica of the boardwalk, with all its shops and souvenir stands, and the ferry descending into the ocean’s depths, with hundreds of tiny faces peering out its windows. An enormous blue ribbon was pinned to the quilt, and the photo was captioned Congratulations to Hattie Bumble and Pearl Dixon of Magic Island, winners of the International Witches Sewing Society’s Annual Quilt-Off.
I glanced around the room, looking for the prize-winning quilt, but it was nowhere to be found. I did, however, spot the box of puppets I was supposed to be delivering to Astrid sitting in the corner, and when I checked my watch, I was surprised to see that almost an hour had passed since I’d arrived. Frowning, I glanced at the bathroom door. How long could one person stay in the shower without turning into an actual prune? My stomach flipped over with panic. What if she’d somehow managed to drown in there?
Flinging aside the magazine, I jumped to my feet and hurried over to the bathroom. “Hattie?” I called, my heart in my throat. I tapped the door lightly, then pushed it open a few inches. Hot steam spiraled out, working its way up my nose and causing a small coughing fit, and when the steam cleared I saw that the shower curtain was still open, and inside was… nobody. Swallowing hard, I tried opening the door a little further, but something very solid was blocking it.
Uh-oh.
“Hattie?” I called again, my voice rising with panic. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t respond, of course, because she was lying on the floor, dead. Just like Cassandra, just like Emeril.
Except she wasn’t.
After ramming my shoulder into the door as hard as I could, it finally popped open, and I stumbled inside, tripping over the overturned cabinet that had been blocking the entrance. Its contents had spilled out all over the floor—lipstick, hair rollers, bottles of lotion—and several vials of perfume had shattered, their scents mingling unpleasantly. A fuzzy purple bathrobe was slung over the sink, and a matching pair of slippers was on the bathmat, positioned as though the wearer had casually kicked them off. A toothbrush was sitting on top of a cracked dish on the sink, a glob of toothpaste still on it, and a jar of brown sludge that turned out to be a facial mask was open, and…what was that? My heart pounded harder as I stepped closer to the sink and peered down at the porcelain surface.
Brown fingerprints, the same color as the facial mask, were smudged all along the edges in a frenzied pattern, as if someone had been frantically trying to hold onto the sink. They trailed onto the black and white tiled floor, ending in long smears that disappeared into the carpet outside the bathroom door. A sick feeling twisted my stomach as I crouched down to peer at them more closely, and it was only then that I realized something else was dotted among the fingerprints, large and small droplets that trailed from the bathroom, to the hallway, and all the way to the front door.
Something that looked a lot like blood.
Not again. Not again not again not again.
My rapid, panicked breathing quickly turned i
nto full-on hyperventilation, and I slid down to the ground, my back against the toilet, and pressed my forehead to my knees. How was this possible? How was this possible? I’d been on Magic Island for… what? Two months? And I was already about to find myself plunged into another murder mystery.
Well, not this time. No sir. I had lessons to take, familiars to train, dances to attend, rogue shrunken heads to control… I didn’t have time for this. I either had the world’s worst luck, or crazed murderers were running wild on an island that seemed so peaceful… at least on the surface.
It was time to call in the professionals.
During one of our early lessons at the academy, Lady Winthrop had demonstrated how to use the sparrow network, but I’d never attempted to do it on my own. Luckily, I didn’t need my training wand—anyone on the island could use the network, thanks to the generosity of the Sparrow Coven.
I headed for the front window, which was covered in a thin layer of grime, and pushed it open with a groan. Then I stuck my hand into the sky, as if I were hailing a taxi, and flapped it back and forth three times while whispering “Avem.”
Once I’d finished the summoning spell, I cocked my head and listened hard for the sound of twittering, and before long a small gray speck appeared on the horizon, growing larger as it flew toward me. The sparrow zoomed down to greet me, hovering in front of the window and flapping its wings gently as it bobbed up and down. I reached out to stroke its downy head while it waited for me to speak, watching me through eyes that sparkled with intelligence.
“I need you to go to the police headquarters and find Kellen. Let him know there’s an urgent situation at Hattie Bumble’s house. Tell him…” I swallowed, picturing Kellen in his terrifying minotaur form, which I’d had the distinct displeasure of seeing at Merry’s gnome hole during our standoff with Wendall. But even though the police chief and I had our differences, and he’d threatened me with jailtime on more than one occasion, I had no choice but to summon him to Hattie’s house. “Tell him Wren Winters sent you.”
