Zinnia replied coolly, “I do not appreciate what you are implying.”
The van rocked again. “Riddle, if you ever get yourself into deep, deep trouble, I hope I'm the first one you call.”
“Sure,” she said begrudgingly. “First things first. What do you know about local flareups?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny reports of local flareups. This guy's face looks like a simple accident.”
She made a disgusted sound. “Vinnie, I've seen bookwyrm dough accidents before. This is far beyond the slip-up of a novice witch. It knocked him out cold, and my reversal spell doesn't even lighten the ink. Here, watch.” They were silent, presumably observing as Zinnia performed a spell she'd pretended to not know two days earlier, when I'd inked myself.
“Hmm,” he said. “That is troubling.”
“See? It's definitely a flareup. And other witches are reporting problems as well.”
“Witches have been causing problems,” he said acidly. “Nothing new there.”
“Come on, Vinnie. Our groups have cooperated in the past. No need for you to shut me out like a civilian. What are you seeing on your end? And don't tell me nothing, because I know you see everything.”
After a pause, he reluctantly said, “The Department has been tracking some unexplained surges in the central lines. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“That's what your kind always says. Why do you insist on shutting us out?”
He snorted. “You witches, with your wildly erratic magic, do more harm than good. Just look at this innocent man. He'll be lucky if he's not permanently debilitated by the haphazard work of one of yours. It's a miracle the whole town isn't a smoldering pile of rubble.”
She huffed, “Give me a little credit, will you? At least I called it in.”
“That you did, and we do appreciate your efforts. Tell me more about these other problems the local troublemakers—I mean, witches—are having.”
“Mostly spells backfiring. But there was something odd with one of my suppliers. They were cleaned out of black scarabyce blood. It might have been innocent enough, but I fear we may have a flying monkey situation.”
Vincent laughed. “You got me, Riddle. I thought you were serious.”
She answered with no mirth. “Not actual flying monkeys, of course. But, as you know, large quantities of black scarabyce blood can be used to prevent tissue rejection.”
“You think someone's sticking together strange new creatures.” He laughed again, a low, mocking laugh. “I'll put out an APB on Dr. Frankenstein and that other guy, Dr. Moreau.”
“Look me in the eyes, Vinnie, and tell me your department wasn't the one acquiring black scarabyce blood.”
Silence.
“Riddle, you're barking up the wrong tree. Try looking a little closer to home. There's a heat signature coming off your novice, and it's not benign. Whatever's happening right now and causing these flareups, she's involved.”
Zinnia was slow to come to my defense. In fact, she didn't defend me at all. “Zara has been connected to most of the objects that were erased,” she said slowly.
“Exactly,” he said. “Let me take her to the lab for testing and questioning.”
“Over my dead body. I'd never trust her around you and your so-called science.”
“How completely unsurprising of you to object,” he said flatly. There was a tapping sound, fingers on a computer keyboard. “You're so in love with your magic and addicted to its power that your mind slams shut to reason and science.”
“You could try a little harder to convince me otherwise.”
“Fine.” More tapping on the keyboard. “Have a look at this reading. Thanks to reason and science, I can see that your novice witch is standing just outside that door, in direct defiance of your orders, listening to our entire conversation.” More tapping. “How convenient that she's standing near that particular bumper.”
Zinnia cried out, “Vinnie, don't!”
I'd started to back away from the van, but not fast enough. A shockwave pulsed through me. My body seized. Suddenly, the sidewalk was coming up to hit my face.
Everything went black.
I felt nothing but pain.
Saw nothing but darkness.
And then I smelled something familiar. My aunt's perfume. I could hear her voice, sounding worried, but I couldn't understand what she was saying. Her words were jumbled.
I felt pressure under my armpits. Were those Zinnia's hands? I was moving, being dragged.
“Don't try to help,” she said. “Just relax. I've got you. Stop squirming, and let me get you inside the house to recover.”
I tried to ask what happened, but my mouth wouldn't move.
“You're heavier than you look,” she muttered. The pressure under my armpits released, my head bumped the ground, and I stopped moving. My eyes still wouldn't open.
I heard her chanting a spell. I didn't know this one, but I'd learned enough about spell syntax to guess it was the same body-lightening spell she'd used on Frank. I felt a tingle that was as soothing as the shockwave from Vincent's van had been painful.
Suddenly, my heart clenched and my chest was filled with pain. Was this a side effect of the spell?
I didn't want to hurt anymore, so I floated up, up, up and away.
I heard my aunt's voice, but it was far behind me, far away. I was free.
Free from what? I couldn't remember. I didn't have a care in the world as I floated away.
Chapter 23
Big eyes.
The world was a swirling, confusing jumble, but I could see big eyes.
Big eyes the color of jade, framed by wispy hair so black it was nearly blue.
Corvin.
I was staring into the pale, round face of my ten-year-old neighbor.
How did I get there?
The last thing I remembered was...
Pain. Blackness. A shockwave from Vincent's van. Zinnia. Moving my body. Telling me to relax. Zinnia doing something to me. A spell? I couldn't remember. I'd been free, floating above everything, and now I was here.
Corvin's lips were moving. He was talking to me.
What? Corvin, I didn't catch that.
He repeated himself. “You're not really dead.”
Very funny. Of course I'm not dead. Hey, how did I get here?
Where was here? I saw a big wood table. Sleek concrete counter tops. An enormous concrete sink, big enough to use for dismantling bodies. I was inside a kitchen that had been lovingly renovated in the Farmhouse Chic style. I was inside the Moore house, sitting at their kitchen table, with no memory of how I'd gotten there.
The windows were black. Had I wandered over in the middle of the night, sleepwalking? The time on the microwave read 2:15 AM.
“Talk slower,” Corvin said.
What am I doing here? As soon as I asked the question, I realized my problem was so much worse than it had first seemed. I had no voice. Because I had no vocal chords. I had no body at all—not a solid one, anyway.
“I don't know what you're doing here,” Corvin said. “I'm getting a glass of milk.”
Is that all you were doing when I showed up here in your kitchen?
“Yes. I had a bad dream, but I don't remember what it was about.” He went to the fridge and got a carton of milk. It was a brand new container, the cardboard TetraPak type. Using his small hands, he clumsily ripped open the top to form the spout. I reached out and tried to help him, but my ghostly hands kept passing through. I watched helplessly as he spilled milk everywhere while pouring himself a cup.
Corvin, where is your father?
“He had to go out for work. They picked him up in the big van. Grampa Don is supposed to be looking after me, but he fell asleep watching TV.” He took a drink of milk, giving himself a white milk mustache. “Don't worry. I still brushed my teeth.”
Oh, that's good to hear. Apparently I'm a ghost now, and my daughter is an orphan, but at least we've won the battle against tooth d
ecay for one more night.
Corvin gave me a confused look. “You're not a ghost,” he said. “You're a witch.”
You think this is a spell? Maybe it is. The last thing I remember is getting a wicked shock from the bumper of a van. I guess maybe it was a spell that made me this way. I'm not dead. Phew! If I had a forehead, I'd be wiping it right now.
“Where's your body?” He leaned forward and poked a finger through my translucent hand. “Did you put it on ice cubes? At school, they told us about a kid on a farm who got his hands cut off. Both of his hands. He picked them up with his teeth and he put them on ice. And then the doctors sewed them back on.”
Did the doctors use black scarabyce blood?
Corvin's eyes widened. “You're funny.” He held up his fist and wiggled his thumb up and down. “You still owe me one.”
For what?
“You took his clicky pen, and I'm the one who got in trouble. I know you took it, because I found it in your house, in the drawer next to your bed.”
He was talking about Chet's multi-pulse click generator, the one he'd used to dissipate my sound bubble spell at the restaurant. In all the commotion, I'd forgotten to return it and apologize.
Corvin, you were sneaking around in my house?
“You started it,” he said petulantly. “You're the one who stole, and stealing is worse than being somewhere you're not supposed to be.”
Well, that's debatable. And you stole something, too. You stole the clicker back from me.
“I'm the one who got in trouble.” His smooth forehead dimpled with a dark emotion. “But I didn't tattle on you. I'm not a tattle tale.”
Thank you. And you're right. I do owe you one. Hey, have you seen Zoey tonight?
“She's sleeping. I can see into her room from my room.”
That was a relief. Now all I needed to do was figure out what spell I was under. Or go next door and sleep it off. Assuming I could sleep in my translucent state.
Corvin played with the front of his blue-black hair, pulling the fringe down to cover his eyebrows. “Is Zoey your real daughter? You look like her.”
Yes. Some people say she's the one who looks like me, since I came along first.
“Zoey is my friend.”
I'm really glad you two are getting along.
I glanced around Chet's impeccably stylish, renovated kitchen, and then back at Corvin.
Am I imagining things, or is this the longest and most normal conversation you and I have ever had?
Corvin yawned. “I'm going back to bed.”
Want me to come upstairs and tuck you in?
He stared at me with his big jade eyes. Then he suddenly turned on his heel and ran out of the kitchen, shouting, “Witch! There's a witch in the kitchen!”
I heard the squeak of a reclining chair righting itself and then Grampa Don shouting, “What the wing dang doodle! What time is it, boy? You should be in bed.” He groaned, and the chair squeaked again, free of its occupant. “Come on, let's get you settled back down. Wipe that milk mustache off your face.”
I listened to their footsteps as they went upstairs.
Soon, I heard Grampa Don singing to Corvin. The song sounded more like a funeral dirge than a lullaby. Things were different here in the Moore house.
I looked over at the brand new, nearly full carton of milk that Corvin forgot to put back into the fridge. Kids. It was going to spoil, and Chet would come home to sour milk after a long night doing important secret shifter business.
Grampa Don entered the kitchen, wearing only a T-shirt and tightie-whitie underwear. He scratched himself as he lumbered around, completely unaware of me.
Hello? I waved my translucent hand.
He reached for the carton of milk and paused. He stared right through me.
Grampa Don, can you see me? Or hear me?
He shook his head as he grabbed the milk and put it away, muttering, “Dang old houses and their dang ghosts everywhere.”
I'm not a ghost!
He scratched himself again and lumbered out of the kitchen, flicking off the light along the way.
I sat in the darkness. I wanted to get up and leave, but I didn't know how.
I'd reached for the milk carton no problem, but I hadn't been thinking about moving. Now that I was more aware of my situation, I couldn't so much as get out of the chair.
The time on the microwave read 3:01 AM.
Nearly an hour had passed since the last time I checked. Yet it felt like I'd only spoken to Corvin for a few minutes.
The time read 3:25 AM. Time was fleeting.
I remembered a snippet from Beatrizz Riddle's FAQ:
Spyryts... experience memory loss and confusion. Without the concrete structure of their bodies, even time loses its linear nature. While their knowledge seems to stay intact, their short-term memory is as slippery as a handful of tadpoles.
The time read 3:40 AM.
I certainly was confused, not to mention lacking the concrete structure of a body. Time was slipping away on me. Was I a ghost now? Had I died? Corvin had assured me I wasn't a ghost, but the kid could barely open a carton of milk.
Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn't even figure out how to get up from the kitchen table.
As I stared at the closed door of the Moore family's refrigerator, an image of my purse came to mind. Pink. Leather. Brass buckle on the strap.
That was it. If I really was a ghost now, surely my purse was with my body. All I had to do was find my purse, and I'd figure out what happened to my body. Would I be in cold storage, laid out on a bed of ice cubes?
No. I couldn't think about my pale, freckled body on ice. Or the word orphan, which was what my daughter would be. No. I couldn't lose hope yet.
With the image of my purse in mind, I recalled the summoning incantation and accompanying gesture. The spell would be difficult without lips to whistle with or hands to twirl as though reeling in a fishing line. I'd have to do it in my head and convince the forces of magic it was real. I focused my mind as powerfully as I'd ever focused on anything in my life. (Or in my death.)
Nothing happened. Where was that purse?
I tried again.
Still nothing.
But you know what they say. The third time is always the charm.
Chapter 24
Pink.
The world was once again a topsy turvy, twirling jumble, but I could see something pink, with a brass buckle.
My purse.
I'd arrived somewhere new. And before my ghostly eyes was my beloved pink leather purse, sitting next to the sink in a familiar-looking kitchen. Huge bunches of drying herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling. The time on the microwave read 3:45 AM. I had transported from Chet's kitchen to Aunt Zinnia's kitchen in five minutes or less.
Now, where was my body? The kitchen was empty and dark, with only one light over the sink turned on. Was Zinnia sleeping? I listened. The house was quiet. I wished I could float up to her room and check her bed.
Something tugged at me.
Darkness.
The lights were out, and the comforting sight of my purse was gone.
The dim room came into focus. I had moved again. I was upstairs, in Zinnia's room, just as I'd wished for. Her bed was empty.
Where are you, Aunt Zinnia?
I performed the object-locating spell, this time with my aunt in mind. She'd warned me it didn't work on people, but I tried it anyway.
Even though I whistled the incantation and did the hand gesture perfectly in my mind, nothing happened.
Her flower-decorated room remained empty and quiet. Panic started to rise up within my ghostly body. Where was she? Did I dare check her bathtub for a redhead on ice? I felt discombobulated. So discombobulated, I feared I might float away, lost forever as I mixed with regular air, like dissipating smoke.
Keep it together, Zara, I told myself. Now think. Before you had magic, what did you do when you lost track of something? You recalled the last place you rem
embered seeing it. Where was the last place you saw your aunt?
The last time I'd seen Zinnia, she'd been holding Frank's feet and loading him into a Department of Sanitation van with Vincent Wick.
Frank! I'd completely forgotten about poor Frank.
I wished I could check on him. I wished it, hard.
Once again, something tugged at me, and off I went, magically slipping away to my next destination.
The world tilted, went cold, then hot, and I was inside a blue room, looking at Frank Wonder.
He lay on his back like a corpse in a casket, with his hands folded across his chest. At least his chest was moving, rising and falling. And the ink that had covered his face appeared to be receding, pulling up at the edges and seeping toward his mouth.
“You dummies should wait for backup,” said a man's voice.
I wasn't alone.
And the room wasn't blue.
The walls were concrete, gray, and appeared blue because they were bathed in the light of several enormous computer screens.
At the center of the screens, in the middle of what appeared to be a control or command center, was a man. He was lit in silhouette, but I recognized his sharp, hawk-like nose immediately.
It was Vincent Wick.
He'd been the last person to take Frank, so I shouldn't have been so surprised, but I was.
“Don't go in there,” Vincent said. Was he talking to me? No. He had the tone of voice of a man talking to himself, and I didn't see anyone in the bunker besides him and an unconscious Frank Wonder.
“Do not go in there,” Vincent said, more emphatically.
Who's going in where?
Vincent didn't react to my question. Was he gaslighting me again, or was he truly unable to hear me? My urge to strangle him returned. He kept watching the screen. After a moment, he smacked his forehead. “Of course you're heading in there. Bunch of macho idiots.”
Wicked Wisteria (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance) (Wisteria Witches Book 2) Page 19
