by Nancy Warren
With another quick glance to make sure I was alone, I tried to open the book. It didn’t open.
I tried again, gently using my thumbs to pry open the book’s cover. Again, nothing happened. Gran’s protection spell was working, then.
From down below I heard Miss Watt say, “Oh yes, just at the top of the stairs at the end of the corridor and turn left.”
Rapidly, I slipped the book that wouldn’t open into the bag along with my knitting and crochet books. Then I knelt down and quickly shoved the coffee table books back approximately where they had been. I rounded the top of the banister and began down the stairs just as an old man wearing a stained raincoat and walking with a cane began to ascend. There wasn’t room for two of us on the stairway so I backed up.
He gave me a curious look as he passed me with a murmured thanks and I wondered if he could somehow sense my agitation.
I scampered down the stairs and slipped out the front door so I wouldn’t have to see the Watt sisters. I knew it was ridiculous, but I felt like a thief even though I was almost certain this was, in fact, my own property. If I was wrong, I would return the book, but I didn’t want to face them feeling so jumpy. Nyx joined me as I left the tea shop, her tail twitching as we walked back to Cardinal Woolsey’s. I had the oddest feeling she was protecting me.
When I got back to the shop, Hester was helping a woman who’d seen a crochet pattern for a cushion in a magazine. She couldn’t remember the name of the magazine, its date or anything but that she thought the cushion had wavy, colored lines on it and was pretty.
Hester led her to where we kept patterns and seemed perfectly able to handle the order, so I gave her a wave to let her know I was back, and then carried the precious grimoire upstairs to my flat.
Where could I hide it? Even though I knew I’d be downstairs for the rest of the day, the way strange things had been happening around here, I didn’t want to take any chances. If I could find the spell book with a scrying mirror, perhaps any witch could.
I’d read over the years various ways to keep things safe, putting them in places where thieves would never look. I couldn’t imagine putting this beautiful old book in a laundry basket or a garbage can. After wandering around for a couple of minutes, I put the book inside my suitcase in the back of the cupboard in my room. Then I stacked the extra quilts and pillows and blankets that Gran kept in my room over top of it, hoping it looked as though it were an old suitcase that no one ever used.
I went back downstairs, very careful to make sure the door was once more locked. No one could get up there without passing me and I was going to be very careful not to turn my back on any customers, no matter how innocent they looked. I glanced at my assistant and it seemed to me that she wore a shifty, guilty look. I wouldn’t turn my back on her, either.
It was four clock. Another full hour before I could close.
It was the longest hour of my life.
Hester kept yawning, which didn’t help. Finally, at a quarter to five I told her to go. She glared at me and reminded me that yesterday I’d let her go early and Rafe had put her in the naughty chair.
“If Rafe questions you, tell him I’m closing early.”
She looked as though this might be a trick to get her grounded again.
“I really am. If Rafe gives you any trouble, send him to me.” No one’s life would be ruined if I closed ten minutes early. Knitting is not a craft fraught with emergencies, and I was dying to get upstairs and have another look at that grimoire.
Once she’d left, I was about to close when the doorbell jingled its merry tune. Grrr. I hoped this customer would be quick. I put on my how can I help you face and turned to see Peter Wright standing inside the door.
“Peter,” I said, feigning calmness even as the ring on my hand began to burn. “I was about to close up.”
He smiled, and for the first time I noticed how creepy his smile was. “Good. I want to talk to you, privately.” Before I could answer, he’d locked the door and flipped my open sign to closed.
“How can I help you?” I didn’t understand why he was a danger, but, not only my ring, but every sense in my body, both human and witch, clanged an SOS. From the corner of my eye I saw Nyx stand in her basket, her back arched and her mouth open in a silent hiss.
Chapter 18
He was carrying a leather satchel and reached into it. I flinched but nothing more deadly emerged than paper. He said, “We really need you to sign this agreement so we can sell the shops to Richard Hatfield.”
“We? You don’t own the shop next door, your parents do.”
“Yeah, well, they’re old and I need that money. I’ve gotta get my kids back. My wife won’t let me see them. She says I’m not a proper influence.”
Imagine.
He began breathing hard as though thinking about his ex made him crazy. “I need a good lawyer and a stable home. Those things cost money.”
“Peter, I feel for you, I really do, but I promised Gran I’d run the shop. I’m sorry, but I’m not selling.”
“Let me make this simple for you,” he said, pulling something else out of the bag. It was the dagger. I could hear his father now, showing it off to me. It’s a double-bladed dagger from the sixteenth century, I reckon. Lovely piece. Look at the way the cross-guard curves. The loops at the end would make bruises the size of peas when the dagger was pushed into a person’s body.
“You killed my grandmother.” I had trouble getting the words out around the anger burning in my chest. “For money?”
“I wouldn’t have, if she’d been reasonable. And I won’t kill you, either, if you’re reasonable. I worked out that once she was gone, you lot in America would want to get rid of the place. That’s what you should do. Sell up and go home.”
His words buzzed around me like so many flies around dung. But I was thinking, seeing things in a new light. “Rosemary. She saw you kill Gran, didn’t she?”
As we were talking, he was urging me back, into the back room where I’d found Rosemary. Since I was at the pointy end of a very sharp dagger, I went. He held up his free hand. “Hey, that’s not on me. That old cow and her son tried to blackmail me.”
That blackmail note hadn’t made sense until now. The meeting was set for ‘the shop’ at midnight and I’d assumed it was this shop. But Rosemary hadn’t been killed here. “She met you in Pennyfarthing, thinking you’d pay up.”
“I wasn’t going to pay her, when I hadn’t got the money from the shop sale yet. How could I? When she saw me getting agitated, she said if she didn’t get home in an hour, her son would call the police.” He shrugged, as though his subsequent actions were entirely reasonable. “What could I do? It was their own fault. Greedy sods.”
And he, of course, wasn’t one.
I had to do something, but all I could think of was to keep him talking. Maybe Rafe would come looking for me. I didn’t think I had long, though. I’ve heard the term blood lust. Now, looking into Peter’s eyes, I saw it. He wanted to kill me. Whatever I did, he was going to stab me to death and enjoy himself. His eyes looked drugged on the excitement.
Still, as a plan to get money together to get his kids back, I didn’t think this one was entirely sound. “And what happens if I don’t sign that agreement and you kill me?”
“Sidney Lafontaine did some research. You inherited from your grandmother, but if you die, then everything goes to your mother. We all know she doesn’t want a knitting shop. She’ll sell it.”
“Unless I have a will. Which I do. I’ve left everything to a cat shelter. By the time the charity’s board of directors make a decision? Your kids will be adults.” I had no idea if I was talking garbage, but I had to keep him talking and not stabbing.
He looked momentarily taken aback. Good. Then he scoffed. “No, you haven’t. Come on, I don’t have time to waste.” He pushed the contract at me, holding the dagger near my throat.
“Do you have a pen?” I asked. This was ridiculous. Though, somehow, a deadly da
gger held by an ex-military guy isn’t ridiculous. I should have realized, when I saw the expert way he’d stabbed through Gran’s ribs that the killer had training. How stupid I’d been.
“Bloody hell.” He dug in his pocket, felt in his satchel.
Keep him talking. “Why did you put Rosemary’s body here and then hit me over the head?”
“I put her body in here because I wanted to frighten you away. I wouldn’t have knocked you out, but you came down to the shop when you had no business being there.” He looked at me like I was stupid. “You close on Sundays.”
“If I’d known you were down here, believe me, I’d have stayed away.”
“I heard you coming, and I couldn’t let you see me.” He shrugged like bashing me over the head was perfectly reasonable behavior.
I had powers. There must be something I could do. I recalled making the wools float around. At least I could do that. My fingertips were tingling at the thought. Not that I’d get far bopping him on the head with balls of floating wool. Why hadn’t Gran opened a rock and fossil shop?
The vampire deterrent basket was still in the corner, beside the broom. In it were sharpened wooden knitting needles, more useful against tiny vampires than a human maniac, I suspected. There was also a crucifix and the jar of holy water.
He was rummaging in the satchel with the hand holding the contract, his other hand holding the dagger against my throat. I tried to forget the knife and focus. I pictured the jar of holy water and willed it to rise and come toward me. I felt my power, like warmth rushing through me, and, behind his shoulder, yes, I saw the jar begin to rise. “Strike this murderous devil,” I said aloud, “Holy water douse this evil.”
“What?” he said, and then he turned to look and yelled as the jar flew at him, hitting him in the forehead with such force that the jar broke and the water gushed into his eyes blinding him.
I pushed him away and tried to run, but he grabbed my arm. He hadn’t dropped the knife. I knew I only had a second before he regained his sight. Frantically, I tried to pull away.
Nyx hissed and jumped onto his face, clawing and scratching. He screamed, flailing with his knife hand, trying to stab her. My fury grew and I punched the arm holding the knife, but he held it in a vice grip. “Broom,” I yelled, “Sweep away this dirt.” Then, “Knitting needles, fill my empty hands.” I made the finger-waving gestures to go with my shouted commands. I had no idea where the words were coming from, but I followed instinct.
The broom flew up. It was a heavy whisk broom with a wooden handle, no doubt the kind witches fly on. As it obeyed my command, it turned and jammed Peter Wright in the belly, about where he’d stabbed Gran.
An old broom may not look like much when it’s leaning in the corner with dust and cobwebs clinging to its straw, but get it going fast enough, and the hardwood handle can do some damage. He grunted in pain and doubled over. The broom struck again, and again. Meanwhile, the sharpened needles flew into my hands and I stabbed my attacker in the wrist until, at last, he dropped the knife.
While I grabbed the knife and jumped back, Nyx hissed and attacked his face yet again. He dashed a hand across his eyes where the holy water still seemed to blind him.
Nyx had scratched his face, the jar had wounded his forehead and the broom was still whacking him. “Stop,” he yelled. “Make it stop.”
At that moment the trap door flew open and Rafe appeared, fangs bared, ready for vengeance.
There was also banging on the front door, and a shout of, “Armed police, stay where you are.” And I heard the front door being bashed in.
Again.
A team of cops ran in, all with their guns drawn. Ian was right behind them, his grim look easing when he saw I was unhurt.
I dropped the knife, not because I thought anyone would think I was the perp and shoot me, but because I was done. I trembled all over and sat down on one of the chairs before my legs buckled.
“Hold on,” Rafe said in my ear, putting an arm around me. “You’re all right.”
Peter was handcuffed and being read his rights. I looked at Ian and raised my brows. “Five minutes earlier would have been good.”
“Do you need an ambulance?”
I followed his glance and found my hand was bleeding. Must have happened when I grabbed for the knife. I shook my head. “Just a knick.”
“How did you know Lucy was under attack?” Rafe asked. He sounded angry, but I knew it was because Ian had almost arrived before he did. And both of them were nearly too late.
“Rosemary Johnson’s son died of a suspicious overdose. Peter Wright’s prints were found at the scene. I went to interview him and his parents said he’d popped over here. Then his mum burst into tears and said he’d taken an old dagger. That’s when I called the Armed Response Unit.”
I nodded. “He needed money, you see. There’s a developer who wants this whole block of shops, and he’ll pay a great deal. But the deal was only good if we all sold. I was the only hold out, so—” I raised my hands. “He tried to persuade me with a knife to my throat.”
Ian gazed, bemused, at the floor. The broken jar sat in a puddle, the broom by its side, along with two wooden knitting needles and a very feisty kitten, now grooming itself. “You fought off a trained killer wielding a knife with — knitting needles and a broom?”
“And my cat.”
He shook his head. “I’ll take a proper statement later, but for now, rest.” He turned to go and then said, “Lucy, you are a remarkable woman.”
As he was leaving, he said, “Oh, and I’m afraid we broke your door.”
“I’m going to have to put that locksmith on speed dial.”
Chapter 19
Rafe helped me to my feet. “He’s right, you know. You are a remarkable woman.” I was about to answer when there was a rattle and fumbling and once more, the trap door began to open. My grandmother appeared, in black trousers and black T-shirt. Her hair was a mess and she looked as though she’d just woken up. She climbed up into the shop, then blinked and looked around. “Is it morning?”
I didn’t know what to say. Rafe said, “It’s six o’clock in the evening. Which is really your very early morning.”
She shook her head. “This is like the worst jet lag I’ve ever had. I never know whether it’s night or day.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he said gently. “Perhaps you should go back to bed for a couple more hours.”
“No.” I said. “I’m really glad you’re here, Gran. I think I found the grimoire.”
Her face lit up. “That’s wonderful, dear. I knew you would.” Then she looked around at the broken glass, the broom on its side “Oh, dear. What a mess. What happened?”
“I’ll explain. Go on upstairs and I’ll be right there.” Rafe led her into the shop, held the door open for her and she headed upstairs. I said, “I need to call the locksmith. Do you think they give a volume discount?”
“Relax, I know someone who works at night. He’ll have it fixed by morning.”
“Of course you do.” I swept up the broken glass, put the broom back in its corner and returned the knitting needles to the basket. All in all, my vampire protection kit had worked better than I could have imagined.
I walked to the front part of the shop. “Maybe I can put something against the door handle until your locksmith gets here.”
Before he could answer, the door flew open and Violet Weeks rushed in. She wore her long, black hair loose this time and the red and pink and purple stripe was like a birthday ribbon tracing her face. She wore loose black trousers, a blue silk shirt and a flowing garment that was a cross between a cloak and a coat. Instead of the ruby, she wore a large necklace of lapis lazuli and amethyst set in silver.
“Are you all right?” she asked, rushing to my side. “I heard there was a break in. My second sight told me you were in trouble.”
I was not falling for the caring cousin act. I narrowed my eyes at her. “And my one and only sight tells me that you�
��re a lying witch.”
She opened her eyes and mouth wide.
“And you need to work on your fake outrage.” I stabbed my finger toward her chest. I was so mad sparks flew from my fingertips and danced on the lapis. “You stole my order book, and to do that you had to practically walk over my unconscious body.”
She opened her mouth and I stabbed again until it looked like her necklace was putting on a fireworks display. “Do not even try to lie to me. I have a scrying mirror.” I let her think I’d seen my order book in her home when really I was making an educated guess. “Who else but you could benefit from that grimoire? It’s you who’s been after it.”
“All right, fine,” she said, and put her palm in front of my finger before I could zap her again. “Stop that, it stings.” She dug into her capacious bag and withdrew my order book. “I was bringing it back, if you must know. It’s no good to me.”
She kept glancing at Rafe, who was watching our fight with interest. “And who might you be?”
“This is my friend, Rafe Crosyer.”
“Hmm,” She glanced between us. “Cosier, I think you mean.”
“Are you seriously going to make stupid puns when I was nearly killed and you didn’t even try to save me? A killer knocked me out and you used the opportunity to steal the order book, thinking it was the grimoire.”
“I checked to make sure you were breathing,” she said haughtily. “And the man who’d attacked you was already running away so I knew you were safe.”
“He could have come back,” I grumbled.
“Well, he didn’t. And I’ve brought your order book back. I wasn’t trying to steal the grimoire. It’s as much mine as yours. My grandmother said so.”
“On her deathbed, I suppose.” I was still feeling irked with this woman and I didn’t care to be polite.
“No. She’s very much alive,” said an older woman, stepping into the shop. She looked like Gran. Maybe she had a few more wrinkles, and her hair was more salt than pepper, but the remnants of the young woman I’d seen in Gran’s family photos were there. “My granddaughter is correct. She has as much right to that grimoire as you do.”
