by Gina LaManna
Tiger fell in line as I tightly shut the door of the hut. I still couldn’t shake the scent of burning. I pulled open the door once more, poked my head inside, and peeked around.
Nothing struck me as unusual. Old utensils, plates and bowls lay scattered around a small corner kitchen. Two broken glasses lay on the floor, courtesy of the cat.
The rest of the cabin looked livable, though old and untouched. A small bed sat in one corner with a lamp next to it. Everything had a layer of dust on it from what I could tell in the dim lighting.
I closed the door once more and backed away.
Even as we marched toward The Twist, the smell of burning lingered behind.
Chapter 7
“WELL, LET ME GET THE eggs and sugar,” Hettie said, flinging her door open. “And we’ll make a cake with you!”
“Ha-ha,” I said, stepping through the front door. A layer of flour flooded to my feet, and I guiltily looked down at the now-white rug. “Oops, sorry. Do you have a change of clothes?”
“No worries, we’re actually sitting outside. We’d love to have you join us! To what do we owe this honor?”
“Which part?” I looked down at the cat as he slunk between my legs. “The visit, the flour, or the return of Tiger?”
“All of it!” My grandmother threw her hands in the air, her nails glittering against the waning light. Shards of purple polish decorated her fingernails and matched the puffballs swinging around her violently pink sneakers. “You haven’t been stopping by nearly enough, Your Perkiness.”
“Nope,” I said. “We’re not doing this nickname thing again.”
“Fine. Well, come and join us out back. I’m sure Peter would love to hear the story of how you got covered in flour. I know I would.”
“Peter?” I followed my grandmother as she wound her way through her front yard to a small clearing at the edge of The Twist.
Only those of us with West Isle Witch blood could make it through without a guide—apparently, my grandmother and her daughters had been the only women foolish enough to settle down on the same half of the island as the The Forest. In response, Hettie had made it exceedingly difficult for anyone else to visit her house.
“Yes, Peter.”
“I didn’t know you had company; I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Well, I didn’t plan for him or you, but I do love surprises.” Hettie smiled and gestured toward a small brick patio surrounded by fairy lights and flowers of all shapes and sizes. “Peter, this is my granddaughter, Lily. Lily, please meet Peter.”
“You’re…y-y-you’re the Mixologist,” Peter stuttered, standing up so quickly the wicker chair beneath him toppled to the bricks. He bent, righted the chair, and grimaced.
“You can just call me Lily. Please. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Excellent, excellent,” he said. “I never fancied I’d meet you outside of the bungalow. It’s absolutely my pleasure.”
Peter reached for my hand. I made my best attempt to dodge the shake, but I wasn’t fast enough. He clasped my hand in his, gave it a few pumps, and then leaned in to give the top of my hand a quick kiss.
And inhaled a breath of pure flour.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, backing away as he launched into a sneezing fit. “It’s been quite a day. I really should be getting home; I just had to return my grandmother’s cat.”
“Sit down,” Hettie instructed. “We don’t mind a bit of powder. Do we, Peter? You must be hungry, Lily.”
Peter shook his head, his eyes watering. “I don’t mind at all.”
I took one glance at the platter of meats and cheeses on the table and agreed, just as my stomach growled. While I fixed myself a plate, Hettie poured me a glass of wine, and then turned her attention to Peter.
“Catch Lily up, will you?” she asked. “She’s obviously been having some fun without us and probably hasn’t heard the news.”
Peter nodded. “As you know, I’m a reporter for The Wicked Weekly—”
“The best newspaper for magical folks,” Hettie interrupted. “You should have copies delivered to your door every morning.”
“I’m familiar,” I mumbled around a mouthful of prosciutto. “Familiar with the paper.”
“Maybe you’d recognize my name if you read one of my articles.” Peter proudly puffed his chest outward. “I write an unsolved crimes column. Personal interest sort of thing.”
“Ah, of course,” I said, though I wouldn’t recognize his name if it were printed on a billboard. “I’m sure I’ve seen it before. I’m horrible with remembering names and titles, sorry.”
Peter de-puffed a little and sighed. “Newspapers are going out of fashion these days. It really is a travesty. Have I told you—”
“Peter,” Hettie prompted. “Stick to business. Tell Lily why you’re here!”
“Oh, of course. I’m here to interview Hettie for a piece I’m working on.”
“An unsolved crime article?” I looked between the two, then focused on my grandmother. “Is that why you’re wearing…that?”
“Oh, this old thing?” she tittered. Then she straightened, looked down, and preened before us both. “Yes. Actually, I thought I was going to have my picture taken, but Peter here says there’s no space. Can you imagine—no space for this?”
On top of those pink sneakers and violet pompoms, she wore a bubblegum colored pantsuit with bell bottoms wide enough to fit at least ten of her legs. Sequins adorned the bottom and fur lined the wrists of her jacket. The only non-pink flash was the purple glitter of her nails and the bright shine of her blue-tinted eyelashes.
“I think we could probably get a picture of this. Don’t you, Peter?” I asked him.
“But the column…there’s hardly space for my words, let alone…” He melted under my gaze. “Sure, sure. Certainly. Must commemorate this night.”
He fumbled for the camera around his neck, lifted it, aimed, and then snapped a few photos. When he finally returned the camera to the table, Hettie let out a sigh.
“How wonderful,” she said. “I always wanted to be in the paper.”
“Why is Peter interviewing you?”
“Because I’m interesting,” Hettie said. “And maybe because I have insider information into the disappearances.”
“What disappearances?” I asked. “I haven’t heard of any disappearances.”
“Drew and Jonathon,” Peter said with exasperation. “You’d know if you read my column.”
“Drew and Jonathon…” I turned the names over in my mind as they slowly rang a bell. Then, it clicked. “Oh! You write that column. The conspiracy column.”
I slapped a hand over my mouth as soon as I said it. Peter’s eyes darkened, and a flash of anger flittered across his gaze.
“It’s not a conspiracy column; it’s a detailed investigation of crimes that don’t receive broad enough attention. Every case deserves attention.”
“Right,” Hettie said. “And I’m going to give this one my attention.”
“Drew and Jonathon have both been missing for weeks now. Mark my words, there will be more disappearances. These were just the first.”
I kept my mouth shut this time because I had finally placed where I’d heard Peter’s name before. Gus. Gus read Peter’s column every morning, and it was one of the only things that made him smile. He read it like a comic strip, taking every word as fiction.
I’d heard him say on more than one occasion that this Peter fellow was a kook, a nut, someone who needed to find a real job. In Gus’s defense, many of Peter’s last stories had ended up with very logical explanations.
He once claimed a UFO had landed in The Forest. In reality, it’d been a training maneuver by Glinda’s Forest Faeries. He’d also tried to prove—and failed—that the Rangers were cyborgs. Having dated Ranger X for a while now, I could say with certainty that statement was completely false.
“I thought Drew and Jonathon both voluntarily left The Isle,” I said. “I read a story on their su
pposed disappearances.”
“You can’t trust those articles.”
“I don’t know… from what I read, it said that Jonathon had a horrible relationship with his parents. Drew had packed his bag weeks before. Maybe they just took off.”
“Sure. But when the next disappearance strikes, don’t come crying to me with an apology,” Peter said, his eyes wide. “As the Mixologist, you should be ashamed of yourself for listening to that rubbish.”
“Nobody speaks to my granddaughter like that,” Hettie said, rising to her feet. “She didn’t ask to be the Mixologist, and she’s doing a darn fine job of filling some big shoes. If you truly think there’s a problem here, you need to be talking to the Rangers.”
“I thought you believed my articles, Hettie. I’m disappointed in you, too.”
“Thanks for coming by,” Hettie snapped. “You can see yourself out.”
“Actually,” I said, clearing my throat. “He can’t.”
“Oh, right,” Hettie said, cracking her knuckles. “The stupid Twist.”
“I should get going, anyway.” I quickly finished my last bite of cheese and cracker. “I can walk him out.”
“Thanks for the information, Hettie,” Peter added tersely. “I hope we can do this again.”
As Peter followed me out of The Twist, a magical labyrinth Hettie had created to keep unwanted guests away from her home, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “What sort of information did you need from Hettie, anyway?”
“She knew Drew. Or, at least, she said she did. Turns out, she ran into him at the grocery store and asked him for a sample.”
“That’s Hettie for you.”
We walked in silence through The Twist. I kept just a few feet ahead to guide the way, finally parting the branches before the front gate.
“Goodnight,” I said with a wave, pointing my feet toward the bungalow.
“Wait, Lily.”
As I turned back, he hesitated a second longer.
“I know you don’t believe me,” he said. “But I really think there’s something different about this. I might’ve made mistakes in the past, but not this time.”
“Like Hettie said, this is probably a job for the Rangers. If you’d like, I can talk to Ranger X about it. I’m not sure what else you’d like me to do.”
“I’ve tried. The Rangers have determined it was nothing. All signs pointed to Drew and Jonathon running away.”
“Is there a reason you don’t believe them?”
“It’s just a feeling. Things aren’t adding up.”
“Look, I’m really sorry, Peter. I’m not saying you’re wrong—I just don’t have any control over the matter. Drew and Jonathon are both adults. If they left The Isle, they left. I don’t know what I can do that the Rangers couldn’t.”
“Next time.” Peter nodded at me, a sardonic grin on his face. “Next time it happens you’ll come talk to me, and I’ll forgive you for not believing me.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”
“Whatever you say. Have a good night, Lily.”
I made my way toward the bungalow, my head full and my heart feeling heavy. I’d been on a rollercoaster of a day—starting with a key to Ranger X’s home, MAGIC, Inc. Zapping me off to Wishery, to the gnome issues, and now after all of that, Peter.
I felt bad. I felt bad for hurting Chuck’s feelings, and I felt bad I couldn’t be of more help to Peter. But the issues were piling up on my plate, and as much as I wanted to solve everyone’s problems…I was only human.
Well, technically I’m a witch.
But magic can’t solve everything.
Chapter 8
A SOLID NIGHT’S SLEEP was just what I needed. A fresh start, a clear head, and a burst of energy to deal with the contents of the vial, the everblooming lily, and whatever obstacle the world threw at me next.
Unfortunately, a solid night of sleep was not in the cards for me. Warnings from Peter, Chuck, Lizzie and Ainsley, and even Gus swam through my dreams and caused fitful rest, drawing me out of bed barely past sunrise.
I slunk downstairs, surprised to find the storeroom empty. Gus had been puttering around here until the wee hours of the morning, and I half suspected he’d planned to stay all night examining the vial. He seemed to be stuck, something hovering at the tip of his consciousness, even after we’d slaved over its contents for hours last night.
We’d come up empty-handed. Whatever spell sat inside that vial, it was a form of magic we’d never seen before. Hints of some elemental magic appeared to exist within it, but somehow, someone had morphed and twisted its pure form into a new strain of magic.
We’d crack it, sooner or later. With Gus by my side, I had faith we could figure out an antidote. The main issue was time. Our clock was running out. The longer Wishery remained under the influence of The Faction, the more dangerous it would be.
I moved to the bar, made a quick Caffeine Cup, the magical world’s coffee equivalent, and returned to the table in the storeroom. As I sipped, I watched the twisting black smoke. Eventually, I stood and paced my way around the room, carrying the vial with me.
The calla lily in the corner bloomed faster than ever before. I paused, leaned near the flower, and it bloomed again. Twice in five minutes. Unheard of.
Clutching the vial, I moved back to the table, my heart racing. Surely it meant something; there was no other explanation. It had to be an enchantment of some sort—a note, a warning.
As soon as I sat down at the table, it calmed.
I waited, watched. For ten minutes, it held its bloom before crumbling to ashes.
When it didn’t start to bloom immediately, I stood up again and crept closer.
As I inched toward it, the stem began to grow, to preen itself before me.
When I stopped, it stopped.
With a jolt of understanding, I glanced down to find the vial still tucked in my hand. On a hunch, I left the vial back on the storeroom table, and then paced around the room once, twice, three times more.
On my next round, I lifted the vial and cupped it in my palm. I took a few steps closer, and the very tips of green, the first shoots of a new flower poked through the dirt. Another two steps, and the lily had leaves—big, healthy green leaves. It grew before my eyes.
I extended the vial toward the flower.
The lily grew and bloomed into a flower bigger than ever before.
I jerked back in surprise, releasing the vial on accident as I lost my balance and stumbled toward the table. The vial landed in the pot and the shoot lost all sense of reality.
It burst toward the sky, developed a flower, bloomed big and bright and relentless, and then shattered to dust. Then again and again, like fireworks, until I scrambled for the vial and pulled it back to my chest.
At once, the flower’s progression stopped.
“Well,” I said, looking down at the vial. “If I had any doubts as to who’s responsible for the cloud around Wishery, they’re gone now.”
The next second, a thunk sounded against the door. I quickly tucked the vial into a safe spot on the shelves, then made my way to the front of the room and rested my hand against the knob.
The discovery of a relationship between the flower and the vial had me on edge. I couldn’t put my finger on which part had me spooked—all of it, I supposed—but I halfway expected the person who gave it to me, a man most likely my father, to be standing on the other side of that door. He was someone I desperately wasn’t ready to face.
With a deep breath, I peeked through the peephole. Nobody there.
I briefly considered Chuck’s complaint while thinking I should probably get a lower peephole, too. After a few more minutes and no sounds coming from outside, I scrounged up the courage to open the door.
I held my breath as I peered out and waited for the other shoe to drop. The mystery man, the surprise visitor.
Nobody.
It wasn’t until I looked down at the ground that I realized the
source of the thunk against my door hadn’t been human at all. It’d been a newspaper slapping against the porch.
With a laugh of relief, I bent over and retrieved the paper, giving one last scan around the area just in case. Quiet, calm—just the waves on the sand rolling across miles of shoreline…and me.
I brought the newspaper with me to the table as I recouped my cup of coffee. I nearly spit it right back out as I caught sight of the front page headline: THIRD DISAPPEARANCE IN THREE MONTHS.
Underneath it was a name I recognized. Peter Knope—the very same Peter from my visit with Hettie yesterday.
“You really are growing up,” Gus said, startling me with an unexpected appearance in the doorway. “Look at you up early enough to get the newspaper this morning. Did you even know we got a newspaper?”
I cupped my mug and narrowed my eyes at him. Normally, he woke hours before me and brought the newspaper inside, read it, and discarded it before I rolled out of bed.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Gus nodded. “Me neither. That vial—”
“Have you seen this?” I held up the paper.
“Since you have it in your hands, no, I haven’t seen it.”
“You don’t get them at your house?” When there was no answer, I glanced up to find Gus watching me with a look of discomfort on his face. I realized the source of his unease and held in a muted chuckle. “You spent the night at Mimsey’s.”
Gus busied himself by leaning in and taking a look at the article. It lasted only a second, however, until he saw the byline beneath the headline. “Whatever you’re worried about, you can rest easy. That Peter fellow is a quack.”
“I met him yesterday. He thinks something nefarious is happening with these disappearances.”
He snorted. “Right.”
“What if he is right?”
Gus stomped over to the shelves and pulled out the vial. “So what? There’s nothing we can do about it. What we have to do is get started on this.”
“I’m going for a walk first. I need to clear my head and talk to Ranger X about these disappearances. Maybe Ranger HQ does need to be involved.”
