The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery

by Heather Blake

My eye wandered next door, to Terry Goodwin’s house. As usual, all the shades and drapes were drawn. He was a private man—mostly because he bore such an uncanny resemblance to an older Elvis that I had started wondering if he could possibly be the singer. Maybe all those rumors about his being alive were true. . . .

  Only after realizing Elvis would be in his late seventies did I stop speculating. Terry wasn’t that old—more likely in his early sixties as far as I could tell. Archie’s ornate iron cage, I noticed, was empty, which wasn’t unusual this time of day. Terry often took the macaw in at night to protect him from the elements—and brazen tourists. Archie, of course, also had his own version of a doggy door. As the Elder’s right-hand bird, he had to be at her beck and call. All hours. Day or night. Inside or out.

  The porch swing squeaked slightly as I swayed back and forth. In the quiet of the moment, I realized with a start that I was alone. No presence. I breathed in the sharp chilly air, feeling the sting in my nostrils, and I felt myself relax.

  I was alone. It was blissful.

  The feeling, however, didn’t last long, as the silence was broken by the sound of flapping wings.

  Archie flew toward me, looking as bright as a polished gem under the soft glow of the porch light and the backdrop of frosted landscape behind him. His hood was a vibrant red, and the blues, greens, and yellows in his tail reminded me of the tropics. Of warm sand, fruity drinks with little umbrellas, and lazy days without a care in the world.

  Oh, if only it were true.

  Unfortunately, I had many cares. Including a murder, a ghost, and a missing pet.

  For a second, I thought Archie might be here under orders from the Elder, but then he called out a cheerful, “Tally ho, Darcy!” as he swooped downward. With a dramatic flourish he landed on the porch railing.

  I breathed in soothing coffee steam and said, “‘It takes an early bird to get the best of a worm like me.’”

  He tipped his feathered head and considered me with a dark eye. “Pillow Talk.”

  “You’re good,” I said.

  “I know.” He fluffed his plumage.

  We often tried to stump each other with movie quotes. It had become quite the competition.

  I sipped my coffee, loving the slow burn down my throat. “You’re up early.”

  “Haven’t been to bed yet.”

  He had a deep yet playful voice. Well, playful when he was being himself. When he was acting as a representative of the Elder, he sounded formal and intimidating. “Working?”

  “Intelligence gathering for the Elder.”

  “Which means?”

  “Spying on village residents, of course.”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  “This murder has the Elder on edge.” He leaned in and whispered, “She’s scary when she’s on edge.”

  “I think she’s scary all the time.” Talk about intimidating. She had inconceivable powers—and as the Craft’s judge and jury, she had the ability to revoke any Crafter’s magic if she found a Crafter in violation of a Craft law. She met with violators in a clearing in the Enchanted Forest—she was always hidden within a magical tree, so her true identity wasn’t revealed. I often wondered who she really was, and whether I’d met her yet in and around the village.

  “That’s because you don’t know her well yet,” Archie said with an amused lilt to his voice. “She’s quite personable.”

  Yet? I had no plans to meet with her ever again. Meeting with her usually meant I’d screwed up. Again. “Did you learn anything about the murder?” I asked, changing the subject before he suggested a getting-to-know-you tea with the Elder.

  “Dreadful business,” he said, shaking out his feathers. “No suspects as of yet, though I did learn one interesting piece of news. Fisk Khoury has a black eye. Apparently he’d been involved in an altercation early last evening.”

  “With Michael?”

  “Indeed. They were seen going at it in the alley behind the bakery. Vince Paxton broke it up and sent them on their way.”

  Vince Paxton owned Lotions and Potions, the village bath and body shop, and he was also a Seeker—a mortal who sought to become a Crafter. Which was nearly impossible, save for a few exceptions. Crafting was hereditary—a mortal could never obtain any Crafting powers. Vince knew that, but it didn’t stop him from trying. I had to admire his persistence.

  “Around seven?” I asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Evan said Michael had left to deliver Harriette Harkette’s cake around then, and Harper said that Amy Healey received a disturbing phone call at seven and left in a hurry.” I took another sip of my coffee and dribbled on my robe. I thumbed the droplet away and asked, “Do you know what they were fighting about?”

  “Negative. Vince, however, might know.” Archie tipped his head and blinked at me.

  Subtle, he wasn’t. “You want me to talk to him.”

  “What a brilliant idea!”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Starting to feel a chill, I pulled my robe up closer to my chin. Archie obviously couldn’t question Vince.

  I slowly rocked in the swing. My good friend Mrs. Pennywhistle worked for Vince part-time at Lotions and Potions, and I wished she wasn’t out of town—she would have already wheedled any information about the fight out of Vince. He was going to become suspicious if I started asking him questions—so I was going to have to be sneaky about it.

  “What are you thinking about? You’ve a most curious look on your face,” Archie said. His claws curled around the railing, and his colorful tail feathers looked startlingly vibrant against the pale purple paint.

  “Manipulation.”

  “Ah, very good.”

  I studied him, his dark eyes. “Does the Elder think a Crafter is involved in Michael’s murder?”

  His wing twitched. “Unknown at this time.”

  He’d paused just a second too long before answering. If a Crafter had somehow used his or her power to hurt Michael, the Elder would know immediately as the Craft motto was Do No Harm. But if a Crafter had killed Michael—but hadn’t used magic to do it, the Elder wouldn’t have any way of knowing.

  Archie’s hesitation, however, had me suspicious that he knew more than he let on. “What aren’t you telling me, Archibald?”

  He blinked innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re the one who needs my help to get information from Vince. Don’t you think you should share what you know with me?”

  “Negative.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “‘Ah, but nobody said life was fair.’”

  “Mommie Dearest,” I said grudgingly.

  “Faye Dunaway at her finest,” Archie said with reverence.

  “You’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?”

  “About?” he asked innocently.

  Undoubtedly he was under orders to keep quiet. “All right. We’ll play by your rules for now.” I finished off my coffee and finally noticed how cold I was. I set my mug on the floorboards, and as I straightened, the doggy door opening caught my eye. I was reminded again about poor Tilda, and a fresh wave of tension came over me. “You didn’t happen to see Tilda during your travels last night, did you?”

  He brightened. “Is she missing?”

  “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

  “But, Darcy, she looks at me like I’m a snack.”

  It was true. She did. “Be that as it may, have you seen her?”

  “No.” He shook his head, his neck feathers shimmering in the light.

  “If you had seen her, would you tell me?”

  “Doubtful. Did I mention the snack thing?”

  I really couldn’t blame him. After a long second, I said, “Do you know if Tilda’s a familiar?”

  He waved a wing at me. “Oh, no you don’t, Darcy Merriweather. Familiars are for you to discover on your own.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”
/>   “Why do I have to discover them on my own? I learn about most Crafters in the village through word of mouth. Why not familiars, too?”

  “It’s not for me to decide,” he said with a strange tone.

  I set my foot on the floorboards to stop rocking. “Whose decision is it?”

  “My beak is sealed.”

  “The Elder’s?”

  He made a humming noise, as if talking with his beak closed. I couldn’t help but wonder why the Elder would make such an edict.

  While I pondered, I saw a flash on the village green. A bright light that was extinguished as suddenly as it had appeared. I blinked, wondering if I’d imagined it. That was twice this morning that I questioned my imagination. It was becoming something of a common occurrence.

  The hinges on the swing creaked softly. A stem blooms devoid of light, at the darkest time of night. The verse kept playing in my head. I would bet my last Peppermint Pattie that I hadn’t imagined—or dreamed—those words. So, who had spoken them? And why?

  “Archie, can Crafters become ghosts?”

  Archie tipped his head side to side. “I don’t rightly know. They can become spirits, of course. But ghosts? Not certain.”

  “What’s the difference between the two?”

  He thought for a second, then said, “I don’t know, but the Elder would, Darcy.”

  I was afraid he was going to say that. I didn’t particularly want to meet with her.

  “Shall I set up a time?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  He mimicked a chicken’s squawking.

  “You’re not funny,” I said, standing.

  “I am so.”

  Smiling, I turned to go inside. As I did so, I saw another flash on the green. I glanced at Archie. “Did you see that?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “A light on the green. It keeps turning on and off.”

  “Probably one of the vendors setting up early.”

  Maybe. But my instincts told me otherwise.

  Chapter Seven

  I laced up my running shoes and hit the path along the green at a good clip. A few months ago I couldn’t even jog half a mile, and now I was regularly running several miles a day. Most of the time I ran with Starla, Evan, or Nick. Today, I had the ghost with me.

  Whump, whump.

  I assumed the ghost was Michael and wondered if there was a way I could find out for sure.

  I had to admit, it was rather comforting knowing I wasn’t alone on these trails. It was still dark, and the festival—especially the harmless haunted house—looked a little spooky in shadow.

  I kept an eye out for that strange flash of light I’d seen earlier—and for a flash of Tilda’s white fur. She didn’t much like me. In fact, she kept spitting up hairballs in my bed. But I’d become rather attached to her, and I hoped she was all right, that someone had taken her in last night and was just waiting till morning to call the phone number on her collar tag. My heart broke at the thought of her out in the cold.

  A light was on in the Gingerbread Shack—Evan was already there prepping the day’s treats. I wondered how he and Starla had fared with Amy last night, and I decided to stop in and ask. I was zigzagging across the green when I spotted the glow.

  I slowed to a stop near the Ghoulousel and stared at the public parking lot. The Gingerbread Shack van had been towed, and yellow police tape had been strung around the entire lot. But right at the spot where Michael’s body had been found, something was emitting a dazzling bright light.

  Whump-whump-whump.

  The ghost was getting worked up about something.

  As I watched, the light flickered and died out, then came back on a moment later, full blaze.

  What on earth?

  I was debating what to do when a force pushed me from behind, shoving me forward, toward the glow.

  Enough was enough. “Now listen here,” I said in a sharp whisper. “I don’t mind you hanging around, but no shoving me around! It’s freaky. Understand?”

  A tiny light flickered. It could have been mistaken for a firefly, but I knew. I smiled. “Good.”

  I turned back toward the glow in the parking lot. I could have sworn it was bigger, brighter, like a giant beacon.

  “I take it,” I said, “by your pushing that you want me to go over there. Flash once for yes, twice for no.”

  The tiny light flashed once.

  I was afraid of that. I swallowed hard and asked for confirmation of what I already suspected. “Are you Michael?”

  Another single flash. Yes.

  My throat tightened with emotion as I let that sink in. I had been assuming the presence was him, but to have it confirmed was unsettling. After all, he’d been murdered not twelve hours ago. My heart ached with grief for what he’d gone through.

  “Why are you following me?” I asked, my words tight with emotion.

  Nothing flashed, and there was no whumping, either. After a long moment, I felt another nudge and realized that a searing heat accompanied the contact, as if a hot poker were, well, poking me.

  “All right,” I finally said, pulling myself together. “I get the message. Let’s go. There will be time for questions later.” I hoped. “But no more touching.”

  With my dark sweatpants and sweatshirt, I probably looked a lot like a prowler as I stealthily crossed the street, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and pressed my back against the pub’s exterior. I inched my way toward the light.

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  I knew the feeling. My heart pounded, my palms dampened, and I wondered how I had gotten myself into this crazy situation. Out here before dawn, letting a ghost boss me around . . .

  Almost to the light I stopped. Maybe I should turn back. Get Ve. Notify the Elder. Nick. Someone.

  Another hot nudge on my arm startled me.

  I drew in a sharp breath. “You’re pushing your luck.”

  Michael flashed three times.

  “I’m taking that as ‘I’m sorry.’”

  He flashed once.

  “You’re forgiven.”

  His urging propelled me to investigate. I inched along the wall, tentatively nearing the glow. The brilliant white light cast far and wide, creating eerie shapes and shadows across the lot and the building. At the edge of the light, I held my breath and plunged forward. As soon as I stepped into the brilliance, I felt all my anxiety ebb. It was replaced with a feeling of calm. Of contentment.

  And then I saw why.

  She was sitting, cross-legged on the dirt path near the spot where her brother’s body had been found. Even in her grief, this Illumicrafter emitted peace and serenity—even if she wasn’t feeling it. It was simply her nature.

  “Amy?” I said softly. She really did look a lot like a young Sally Field, even with her messy hair and mascara-streaked face.

  She didn’t seem to notice me.

  “Amy?” I said again, approaching her slowly.

  Her head came up, and she studied me. Tears swam in her eyes.

  “Hi, Darcy.”

  “Hi,” I said. “Can I sit down?”

  She motioned to a spot next to her.

  I’d expected the ground to be icy cold, but it was warm—almost hot. Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Michael’s dead,” she said, choking on the words.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Someone put him in there.” She nodded to the copse of trees and dense underbrush. “He would have hated that. He didn’t like the woods. It was too dark. Too dark.”

  I swallowed hard.

  She looked at me. “Why would someone do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A tear slid down her cheek, and I put my arm around her. “Have you slept?”

  She shook her head.

  “Eaten?”

  “Not hungry.”

  I understood. When my mother died, I didn’t have a proper meal for almost three months.

  I heard a car in the
distance and almost immediately felt an insistent nudging. I leaned away from it. “Amy, you need to turn off your glow.”

  “My glow?”

  I gestured to the bright light. “You’re visible for miles.” Maybe even from space—but I left that part out. “A mortal might come along.” And there was no explaining how this brilliance was coming from a nineteen-year-old girl.

  She blinked, then seemed to focus. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Turn it off.”

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  Panic fluttered in my stomach. “Why not?”

  “Strong emotions make it uncontrollable.” She swiped at her eyes.

  Strong emotions like grief. Great. I had to hide her. How was another matter altogether. I looked around, wondering if the tree canopy would give her any shelter, but as most of the leaves had fallen already, it provided no screen.

  If I could get her back to Ve’s, to an interior room, she could stay there until the glow started to fade. As I tried to figure this out, her light suddenly flickered and died.

  I blinked—momentarily blinded by the lack of light. The ground grew cold as I rubbed my eyes and then slowly opened them. I was thankful the parking lot lights cast a soft glow around us.

  Amy cried softly.

  I took hold of her hand. “Come on, we have to go before you light up again.”

  “Where?” She hiccupped. “I don’t think I can stand to go back to the apartment. . . .”

  “My house,” I said, helping her to her feet. “We can figure the rest out later.”

  I realized as I held on to her that I no longer felt Michael, his presence. He was gone. For now. I could only wonder for how long. He seemed a persistent sort of ghost.

  Shaky, Amy stood. As soon as she straightened, however, she lit up again.

  I winced, blinded again.

  As my eyes slowly adjusted, I heard a familiar noise getting closer.

  “What’s that?” Amy whispered.

  “Reinforcements,” I said, looking upward. Archie’s flapping made a distinct noise.

  As he flew into the light, he yelled, “Incoming!” as he dropped something, then flew off again.

  I spotted a shadow falling out of the sky and smiled when I recognized my mouse friend, Pepe. He floated downward, using a tiny umbrella as a parachute. I cupped my hands and caught him.