Basic Witch: Witches of Salem (Gemma Bradbury Magical Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Harmony Hart

  I managed a weak smile. “Thank you. It’s nice to know someone believes me.”

  “And make it snappy!” Detective Otto called out after Christopher. “And you,” he pointed a finger at my nose and balled a fist over his baton in a sad attempt at a show of authority. “You don’t move a muscle. Not until this crime scene is secured.”

  I fixed my gaze on him and crossed my arms over my chest. Titus extended a paw and rested it on my cheek.

  “I believe you, too.”

  “I would hope so. You were here, after all.”

  “Who was here?” The Detective asked.

  “No one. Just me, my cat, and him.” I looked down at the body, a sudden sadness overwhelming me. I was so caught up in what was happening to me that I hadn’t stopped to think about the life the man left behind. Did he have a family? Would someone miss him? “What did you say his name was?”

  “Mortimer Montcrief,” a voice called out from the crowd. “Earth Witch and Sophisticated Purveyor of Magical Goods.” I glanced over to see a tall, wiry blond man wearing round glasses and a light pink bowtie edging his way toward us. “His passing is a great loss to The Coven.”

  “I’m sorry, I think my blood sugar must be low. I haven’t eaten dinner yet. Did you say something about a witch? And a coven?”

  “Indeed, I did. Gilmer Gayle, Assistant to the Mayor and High Council Delegate, at your service. Or more specifically, The Coven’s service.” The man came to a stop in front of me and extended his hand. “Gemma Bradbury, I take it?”

  I shook his hand. “How do you know my—”

  He turned to Detective Otto and arched a brow. “I’m under strict orders to escort Ms. Bradbury to Coven Headquarters to meet with the High Council at once.”

  “Not so fast, Gayle. This young lady is a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation. She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Psssh,” Gilmer replied. “Murder? Mortimer Montcrief was nearly a century old. He probably dropped dead from the sheer frustration of living.”

  “I’m the law in this town! I decide whether it’s murder or not.”

  Gilmer cast a look of exasperation my way. “Detective.” He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, removed his glasses and set to work polishing the lenses as he spoke. “You are not the law in this town. At best, you are a legislative enforcement officer.” Gilmer fixed his glasses back on his face and frowned. “Though I continually struggle to understand why an angel like Chief Ward would trust a bumbling, mildly racist moose shifter to protect and serve.”

  “Hey! I—”

  Gilmer shot a smirk at Detective Otto. “As of now, Ms. Bradbury is officially in The Coven’s custody. Any questions you have for her can wait until tomorrow, and will be asked only in the presence of her Coven-appointed attorney.” He stepped next to me and offered his elbow. “Now then. If you’ll come with me.”

  I stood motionless for a moment, contemplating the two choices that lied ahead of me. Gilmer seemed nice enough, if not a little bossy, but his repeated references to witches and covens gave me pause. I wasn’t exactly excited about the prospect of leaving with a complete stranger who may or may not be completely insane. But the idea of staying with Detective Otto as he persistently tried to pin a maybe–murder on me was even more frightening. Titus jumped down into my arms and nudged her cold nose against my cheek.

  “I think we should go with the nerdy guy.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the mysterious bookcase that brought us here, wondering what the chances were that it would take us home, too. Suddenly, I had an idea. I nuzzled my face against Titus’s head in what I hoped looked like a show of affection for my runt of a cat. But in reality, I just wanted to be very sure that she heard what I said next.

  I drew my arms in tighter, holding on to her as tightly as I could manage without crushing her, and whispered, “Trust me.”

  “Okay. But we’re going with the nerdy guy, right?”

  I flung myself backward toward the bookcase, clutching Titus to my chest as I spun around and threw the entire weight of my body against it, shoving back with all my might. Which, to be fair, wasn’t very much. Occasional visits to pilates and yoga didn’t exactly prepare me for moving built-in furniture.

  The bookcase didn’t budge.

  I boosted Titus onto a shelf to free both hands, dug my Uggs into the floor and heaved against the bookcase with a decidedly unfeminine growl.

  Not. An. Inch.

  “Ms. Bradbury, this isn’t the time for rearranging furniture,” Gilmer said. “I’m sure you’re quite confused about this entire situation. I assure you there is a reasonable explanation for all of this, and you’ll have all the answers you need in time. But right now, I really must insist you come with me.”

  I slumped against the bookcase, defeated, and let out a huge sigh. “Starbucks is going to close before I get my Halloween PSL.”

  “Yes, well. We can chat about astronomy some other time. Right now, we really must be going. Chop chop.” He extended his elbow again.

  Another glance over at old Mortimer Montcrief lying dead on the floor at Detective Otto’s feet was all I needed to give me the strength to follow Gilmer into the great unknown. Whatever fate awaited me at Coven Headquarters had to be better than staying here with a dead guy and an overzealous cop. With a shrug and a silent prayer that I would wake up to find this was all a really weird dream, I looped my arm through Gilmer’s and allowed him to lead me to the front door. Just as we were about to exit onto the sidewalk, a solid ball of black fluff rammed into the back of my leg.

  “Great Sekhmet’s ghost! You forgot me! I can’t believe you were just going to leave me there all alone with that crazy moose and all of those gawking onlookers. I could have been catnapped!”

  “Oh, hell. I’m sorry.” I stooped down, lifted my trembling cat into my arms, and engaged our emergency petting protocol in an attempt to calm her down. “I was a little preoccupied. It won’t happen again.”

  I tried not to let it show, but out of everything that had happened that night—stumbling into a hidden room, falling over a dead body, being accused of murder, and realizing I was trapped in a strange place—the fact that my freaking cat was talking to me was the thing that might finally send me over the edge.

  2

  One look at the town surrounding the little shop, and I knew I wasn’t in Oregon anymore. Even in the dark, I could tell the picturesque little town was like something out of a Hallmark movie, with its cobblestone streets lined with tall, brightly colored Tudor buildings and flickering gas lamps. At the end of the street, a thick canopy of moss-covered weeping willows arched above a massive, flowing fountain and an arrangement of black wrought iron benches, the kind of place meant for romantic proposals and reading for hours on end.

  The rows of shops on either side of us all appeared to be closed, but intricately-carved wooden signs told me what awaited behind each door. Cook’s Fine Books. Designs by Destiny. And… Fae Fashion & Fabrics. Pixie Potions Apothecary Shop? Wendell’s Wands & Brooms?

  So maybe it was less like a Hallmark movie, and more like an animated Disney film. I half expected Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather to come flitting across the sidewalk.

  Titus swished her tail and flipped over onto her back, so I was cradling her like an infant. “Sleeping Beauty was okay, but I always liked The Aristocats better.”

  I frowned down at my cat. I didn’t think I mentioned the fairies out loud. Or did I? Obviously I did, because otherwise, she wouldn’t be talking—thinking?—about her preferences in Disney flicks. Unless this was all some weird dream, which was beginning to seem like the most plausible explanation. In real life, I was probably passed out on the couch with some television show broadcasting snippets of weird-dream material into my subconscious. In a few hours, I’d wake up with a bad case of bedhead, and this would all be over.

  With a deep breath and a long, slow exhale, I told myself, I’m not crazy.

  “You’re not cr
azy! Except for that one time you thought about getting a dog. I was really worried we might be getting a dog. I’m so glad you changed your mind about that. I mean, you change your mind about a lot of things, really, but that doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”

  Gilmer cast a mildly annoyed glance at me as we walked. “Chatty familiar you have there.”

  “Chatty what? Famil—oh, you mean my cat.” Of course these people—who believe they’re actually witches—would refer to cats as familiars. Because why wouldn’t they?

  “Yes. I assume this feline is your witchy companion. If not, you should have a frank discussion about boundaries. He might just be the clingiest cat I’ve ever seen.”

  “Hey! I heard that.” Titus bristled. My protective instinct flared, and I cuddled her closer to my chest.

  “I’m pretty sure you’re working with some faulty intel. I’m not a witch. And it’s she. Titus is a female. She was a rescue kitten. She had a rough start in life.”

  “My intel is quite accurate, I assure you.” He frowned. “Titus is not a female name.”

  “She’s named for that character in Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt?”

  “I don’t know any Kimmy Schmidt.”

  “It’s a television show.”

  “Television?”

  “Yeah, you know. The little living room box that shows movies?”

  “Honestly, Ms. Bradbury. This is no time for gibberish.”

  “Nevermind.” I caught my bottom lip between my teeth as I pondered Gilmer’s responses. He came across as an educated guy, so his cluelessness about pop culture and entertainment was pretty weird. I knew people who didn’t watch television, but I’d never met someone who didn’t even know what a television was. And don’t even get me started on his confusion over Starbucks. That was just beyond weird. “Anyway, the foster program told me she was a boy when I picked her up. By the time she was old enough for us to confirm her gender, she was already answering to Titus.” I scratched the top of her head, eliciting a purr of satisfaction. “Besides, it suits her. She and her namesake share a flare for the dramatic.”

  “Now that, I believe.”

  “Wait, so you can hear what she’s saying?” I asked.

  “No. It would be impossible to ignore that much noise, but it all sounds like typical feline sounds to me. You’re the only one who can hear her thoughts. Oh, and other familiars, of course.”

  “So can Titus hear my thoughts, too?”

  “Yes. Although the intensity of the witch-familiar bond dictates just how much she can hear. Many witches find they have to direct their thoughts at their familiar in order to be heard. But a particularly well-bonded pair tends to experience an open flow of telepathic communication.” He peered over at Titus, who was purring happily in my arms. “I suspect you and this… Titus... may fall into the latter category.”

  “Maybe you should point out that a guy who calls himself Gilmer has no room to mock other people’s—cats’—names,” Titus complained.

  “Agreed. But let’s maybe refrain from picking on the guy who rescued us from a trip to the slammer? I gave her ear a quick scratch of reassurance. Plus, it’s nice to know we can talk to each other without people overhearing, right?”

  “Fine. But I reserve the right to hold a very serious grudge. And you know cats do grudges like nobody’s business.”

  “Deal.”

  “Right this way.” Gilmer swept his arm to the side, gesturing for us to walk down a narrow street nestled between two rows of shops.

  “So, I don’t usually make it a habit of following strange men into dark alleys. Where exactly are we going again?”

  “Coven Headquarters.”

  “Not so fast. This whole situation,” I waved my hand toward the alley, “looks more like tomorrow’s front page news—Naive Woman Found Murdered in Dark Alley—than any sort of official coven anything.”

  Gilmer pursed his lips. “Honestly, Ms. Bradbury. It doesn’t please me to admit this, but in the event of a physical altercation, I’m certain you would hold your own against me.” He motioned to his body, drawing my attention to his slight, bony frame and general lack of muscle. I wasn’t a fan of violence except when necessary for self-defense, so I almost felt bad for thinking it, but it would probably only take one solid punch to protect myself from a guy like Gilmer Gayle. “In a battle of wits, however…” he muttered.

  “Rude.”

  “Ms. Bradbury, I haven’t got all night. I’d be happy to tell the Coven you insisted on spending the night in jail under the careful watch of Detective Winterbottom.”

  “Fine,” I replied. Whatever surprises lurked in the shadows had to be better than being arrested for murder, right? “Lead the way.”

  “Remember the grudge. He touches you, I claw his eyes out.”

  “Noted.”

  I followed Gilmer into the alley, taking care to stay a few steps back in the name of self-preservation. His pace slowed, and he paused, spinning on his heel to face a solid brick wall. “Aha! This will do.” He drew a wooden wand from his belt with a flourish and tapped it on the brick, muttering something under his breath.

  In an instant, a grand doorway appeared before us, shimmering with golden light. I gasped and took a step back. Beyond the doorway, I could see a magnificent room adorned with black marble floors, ornate carved wood and silver accents, and what seemed like endless hallways, spiraling staircases and hundreds of doors.

  “Wow,” I said. “This is not what I expected.” But a random door appearing in an alley wouldn’t be the craziest thing to happen today. Or even the craziest thing to happen in the last 20 minutes.

  “And what exactly did you expect?” Gilmer asked.

  “Three old hags bowed over a bubbling cauldron in a dank cave?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. This is Salem, not Darkwater Cove.” He choked back a nervous laugh, dropping his voice to a whisper. “And besides, best not to speak of such things. Especially not here at Coven Headquarters. You’d be well-served to pretend you know nothing about it.”

  I opened my mouth to tell Gilmer I was just kidding but changed my mind when I saw the anxious look in his eyes. Whatever Darkwater Cove was, he seemed pretty adamant that I stay away from it. Worried, even.

  “Thanks for the advice,” I offered, patting his arm. “I appreciate you looking out for me.” He smiled, a goofy, sheepish grin framed by a rising flush in his cheeks that told me appreciation and compliments must be in short supply for poor Gilmer. I suddenly felt bad for coming off as less-than-grateful for his intervention in my situation with the Detective.

  “Yes, well. I’m just doing my job.” Was it my imagination, or was Gilmer standing a bit taller now? He swept his arm toward the still-shimmering doorway. “Shall we?”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “Ms. Bradbury.” And he was back to being exasperated with me.

  “Enough with the Ms. Bradbury stuff. Call me Gemma.” I took a deep breath, squinched my eyes closed and stepped through the doorway with Titus in my arms, delighting in the fact that we were both still intact after passing through whatever magic lived within the doorway. I turned to watch Gilmer as he followed. “Hey, is it okay if I call you Gil?”

  “It most certainly is not.”

  “But Gilmer is so formal. I mean, it suits you. But you could stand to relax a little. Enjoy yourself a bit more.”

  “I engage in plenty of enjoyable activities,” he protested. “There’s the Salem Historical Society, and the Basket Weaving Club, and Clara Cook’s Book Club.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say basket weaving?”

  “I did, indeed.” His chin jutted out with pride. “I’m an award-winning weaver, you know. “Some say basket weaving is woman’s work, but given my nimble fingers and attention to detail, I find it comes quite naturally to me.”

  “Wow, Gil. I had no idea you harbored such talent.” My voice was tinged with light-hearted sarcasm, but a small part of me felt a pang of jealousy. I’d never
stuck with a single hobby long enough to become an award-winning anything. Unless you count cooking, but it wasn’t like I was entering contests. I just really loved food.

  Jill of All Trades, Master of None right here.

  This was not a new revelation. When I got to the part in a social media profile where it asked about my interests, it was always the same: cooking, travel, reading, yoga. You know, all the activities your typical 30-something woman is supposed to love.

  Which, translated into real talk about my life, would have been: Spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on my education, and never actually enjoying the careers I’d been trained for. Moving from city to city and job to job because I never quite felt like I belonged. Hiding between the pages of books because that’s where I felt most at home. Meditating and doing yoga to quell the ever-growing anxiety over not having my life figured out. Drowning my sorrows in mimosa brunches, happy hours and a string of failed relationships that made me realize that despite my open-hearted facade, I just wasn’t capable of getting truly close to anyone besides my cat.

  I snuggled Titus closer to my chest, grateful for my furry companion. Ever since Gran died, Titus was the only constant in my life. But it wasn’t like my life was awful. I had plenty of interests, and I always managed to find people to hang out with. It’s just that nothing—and no one—ever stuck.

  We crossed the lobby, and Gilmer pushed open a massive bronze door before ushering me in. He followed, then, facing the entrance, snapped his wand and muttered something else under his breath. As he retracted his wand, the doorway vanished, leaving a smooth stone wall in its place.

  “Um. Did you just lock us in here?” My voice echoed through the room, and I winced at how loud it sounded. Something about this place seemed sacred, at least to Gilmer.

  “Don’t be silly. I locked them in,” he whispered. He gestured across the room to a raised platform, where a group of people—seven in all—stood chatting among themselves.