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

by Heather Blake

  Imogene screamed and wiggled, trying to shake Pepe loose, and Lydia dove for the gun, wresting it out of Imogene’s hands. The gun went off in the struggle, and Imogene slumped to the ground. Blood spread from a wound in her chest. Suddenly, the room flooded with police officers, who quickly took control.

  And just as abruptly, the morass I was stuck in released me. I fell to the floor, gasping for breath. My chest heaved. I felt as if I had a third-degree sunburn.

  Nick dropped down next to me and cupped my face, then pulled his hands back and stared at them. He leaned close, panic flaring in his eyes, desperation in the gold flecks. “You’re burning.”

  But I wasn’t. Not anymore.

  “Michael,” I whispered, partly wanting to explain, partly calling to him. “He saved me.”

  I tried so hard to feel the whumping. I was desperate to feel his presence.

  To thank him.

  But he was already gone.

  Chapter Thirty

  It had been a terribly long week since Imogene had died from what was determined to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound inside the Black Thorn. These past seven days had been filled with more downs than ups, but tonight . . . Tonight I was going to try and put it all behind me and enjoy myself. Indian summer was here, it was a beautiful night, warm and breezy. Stars twinkled, but there was no moon visible. It was a new moon.

  “You have that look again,” Nick said, putting his arm around me.

  The Ghoulousel’s perky music filled the air, and the line for the ride stretched all the way to the Scarish Wheel. It was Halloween, and the last night of the festival. Almost every little kid was wearing a costume.

  Two of the riders on the carousel had their heads thrown back in laughter. Starla and Vince. I watched them carefully and tried to feel happy for my friend. I wasn’t there yet. I was still too leery of Vince. But he was definitely growing on me.

  I breathed in, trying to ease the anxiety that had been threatening to swallow me whole for a week now. It was time to let it go. It was time to look ahead.

  “Just thinking about stuff,” I said.

  Nick and I were in line for the caramel apple booth.

  Finally.

  “I know,” he said softly, pressing his lips to my temple.

  I was glad he didn’t say that time would make me feel better. He just let me feel. And he let me lean on him. Which meant more to me than I could ever say.

  Michael had been buried on Tuesday. I spent the whole day crying, and even now I couldn’t think of that day without welling up. It had been a painful, yet beautiful good-bye.

  On Wednesday, Nick agreed to let Mimi go to lunch with Glinda so Mimi could hear stories of her mom. On the surface, it seemed like a really sweet gesture, but I couldn’t help but feel that Glinda, under the facade, was using Mimi—and using Melina—to get to Nick.

  “Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly.

  Glinda was playing some sort of game with Nick, I was sure of it. And I didn’t like it. What she underestimated was me. I was ready to fight for him, so I dared her to bring it on.

  On Thursday, Harriette passed away due to complications from her heart surgery.

  Her funeral had been yesterday, and every time I thought of it since, my throat swelled and tears flowed. Even now. I blinked them away and tried to focus on the good.

  The good of how Trista and her mother had reconciled before she died. Of how Lydia and Trista had put the past behind them and were ready to start fresh. Of how Lydia suggested to Dash that they join forces to create a new family-based flower business. One they created together, bringing Floras and Terras to work together. Bertie and Ophelia would keep their greenhouses, and Dash and Fisk would take over Imogene’s. And of how Fisk had given the most eloquent eulogy for his grandmother. Of how Fisk had been strong for Amy early in the week, then how she had been strong for him yesterday. If they could make it through this, then I believed they could get through anything, no matter how young they were. Of Lewis, who weathered the turbulent emotions of the day to say good-bye to his beloved. He’d been devastated.

  I’d debated all week whether to share with Amy the Witching Hour spell. Time was of the essence, especially with the new moon tonight. In the end, I finally decided that the Elder wouldn’t have shared the spell with me unless she had wanted me to pass it on.

  A stem blooms devoid of light,

  At the darkest time of night,

  When the clock strikes the midnight hour,

  There revealed is the Witching flower.

  What Amy did with the spell was her choice, and when I left her last night, she still hadn’t decided. Although she recognized and admired Michael’s ingenuity in creating the spell, she had also seen the dangers associated with it. A job at the new Elysian Fields with Dash and Fisk using her inherent Illumicrafter skills was always an option, but she wouldn’t need the job for the money.

  Before she died, Harriette had gone ahead and changed her will. It now included not only Fisk, but also Amy, who now had the funds to keep her apartment (which she planned to do) and continue her schooling. As far as anyone else knew, the spell had died with Michael. The flowers Michael had resurrected—that were now housed in Dash’s greenhouse—would soon start to wilt unless Amy kept them alive using a renewal spell. My guess was that she would do that, because by keeping those plants alive, a little bit of Michael stayed alive, too.

  I looked across the green, to a spot where Mimi stood next to Glinda as they played a squirt gun game that sent witches on brooms rising on a stream of water. I felt a tug of jealousy at the way Mimi laughed so easily with her new friend. Missy sat at their feet, watching them closely.

  Nick and I still hadn’t resolved our problem about sharing information on cases, but with Michael’s murder behind us, it was easier to simply let the issue go. I had no plans to get wrapped up in another murder case ever again.

  “Pepe showed me the honorary badge you gave him,” I said. “He’s quite proud.”

  “I should really give him a position on the force.”

  “He’d love to make himself a uniform,” I joked, “but Godfrey might get jealous.”

  Nick laughed. “I can see that fight now.”

  Pepe and his butt biting had become something of a legend in only a week’s time. Outwardly, he pretended to be embarrassed by the fuss, but I knew he secretly loved the attention.

  Nick nudged me playfully. “Maybe Mimi was right, and I should hire you, too.”

  “How much do you pay?” I asked with a teasing lilt.

  “It’s a very good wage, plus there are fringe benefits.”

  “Such as?”

  He leaned in and kissed me. Full on the mouth, right there in front of all the kids—and Starla and Vince—on the Ghoulousel. “All the caramel apples you want.”

  “Well,” I said, “that’s an offer I can’t refuse, but at this point, I’ll take just one caramel apple.”

  The line had barely budged.

  “We’re getting there,” he said. “Patience.”

  Frankly, I thought I’d been patient enough. We were talking caramel. Caramel!

  “What do you think of those terms?” he asked.

  He had a joking tone to his voice, but I heard a note of seriousness, too. He was fishing to see if I was really interested in a job. I had to squash that notion fast.

  “Hmm,” I said. “For some reason I think I can get the fringe benefits without having to work with Glinda.”

  Was she a nice but complex person? Or was she manipulative and conniving?

  Not knowing made me nervous.

  Ve and Terry walked by, holding hands, and I laughed at the reactions from other people, congratulating Terry on his Elvis “costume.” This was probably the one night a year that he could get away with walking around without a disguise. He posed for pictures and signed autographs as well.

  Talk about eccentric.

  Ve’s heartbreak over Hot Rod hadn’t la
sted long, and she’d picked up her relationship with Terry where she’d left it off—deciding that a bird in the hand was better than nothing. He, of course, had taken her back without a second thought. Tilda, however, was still giving Ve the cold shoulder.

  I smiled, thinking about Tilda. This morning, Lew and I had worked out a visitation agreement regarding the fussy feline. I thought that especially now he needed Tilda’s happy energy around him, and he’d had tears of gratitude in his eyes when I left her there to spend the day with him. From here on out, it would be a regular occurrence—she would spend every other weekend with him.

  I’d yet to break the news to Ve.

  The line advanced, and finally—finally!—we reached the counter. Nick bought me the biggest apple there.

  Was there a more perfect food on earth than caramel? I didn’t think so. The apple was merely a vessel in which to transport the sweetness to my mouth. In heaven, I smiled.

  Nick gazed at me. “I’ve missed that.”

  “What, me a sticky mess?” Sadly, it was a common occurrence, too.

  “Your smile.”

  I nudged him with my elbow. “Tell me, Nick Sawyer, how do you feel about Ferris wheels?”

  “Depends on who I’m riding with.”

  “Well,” I said, “I have a proposition for you. A ride with me, and maybe, if we’re lucky we’ll get stopped at the top.”

  “Luck? There’s no luck about it. I’ve already paid off the operator. He’s been waiting for us for half an hour now.”

  “I knew there was a reason I liked you so much,” I said.

  “And here I thought you were just using me for my body.” He laughed, pulling me as close to him as he possibly could.

  As we walked toward the ride hip to hip, I took another deep breath, and I smiled wide. It was there. I could smell it.

  The scent of magic was back in the air.

  And suddenly, a weight lifted from my chest, and I knew everything was going to be fine.

  Fine, fine, fine.

  Epilogue

  A few nights later, Melina Sawyer was not as sure things were going to be fine.

  First off, she was becoming altogether too comfortable living as a dog. Heaven help her, ear rubs made her the happiest familiar around, and doggy treats made her jump for joy. On top of that, there were some days she forgot her real name was Melina and not Missy.

  Secondly, she wasn’t thrilled about the recent rift between Darcy and Nick. Her plan was for them to live happily ever after. She couldn’t let them mess it up with squabbles over police cases.

  The back door opened, and Ve stepped out. Moonlight fell across her face as she sat next to Mel on the porch step.

  “You’ve been sitting out here a long time,” Ve said.

  To an ordinary observer, the scene would simply look like a woman talking to her pet. What was unusual about this conversation was that the pet could talk back.

  “Just thinking,” Mel said.

  “About Nick and Darcy?”

  Ve knew her well.

  Mel said, “On one hand I’m happy for Nick. On the other . . . it is bittersweet seeing him fall in love with another woman.”

  “It’s what you wanted, no?” Ve asked. “And Darcy is wonderful with Mimi. . . .”

  “I know,” Mel said. The picture Darcy had drawn of her had melted her heart and at the same time cemented that she’d made the right decision to play matchmaker between Nick and Darcy. “It’s just . . . hard.” Much harder than she ever dreamed when she asked the Elder to be put into this form.

  Ve stretched her legs. “I can only imagine. Do you think it might be time to let Darcy in on your secret? She already suspects there’s a familiar in the house.”

  A familiar, yes, but she probably had no idea it was her boyfriend’s former wife. That was bound to come as quite a shock.

  “Not yet,” Mel said. “Losing my anonymity means losing my ability to keep tabs on people without their realizing it.”

  Wise Ve knew right away whom she referred to. “Ah. Glinda.”

  The situation with Nick and Darcy was difficult to observe, yes, but what bothered her most was this new development with Glinda. Mel wanted to believe that her old friend’s kindness toward Mimi was genuine, but she just . . . didn’t.

  “There’s trouble in the air,” Mel said.

  “Bad juju, as Darcy and Harper would say. I feel it, too. You think it involves Glinda?”

  “I’m not sure. I need to keep a close eye on the situation.”

  She wanted to believe with all her heart that things were going to be fine.

  But she didn’t.

  Not at all.

  * * *

  Read on for a sneak peek at the first book in Heather Blake’s new Magic Potion series,

  A Potion to Die For

  Coming in November from Obsidian

  * * *

  If there were a Wanted poster for witches, I was sure my freckled face would be on it.

  Ducking behind a tree to catch my breath, I sucked in a deep lungful of humid air as I listened to the cries of the search party.

  I didn’t have much time before the frenzied mob turned the corner and spotted me, but I needed to take a rest or risk keeling over in the street.

  It was times like these that I wished I was the kind of witch who had a broomstick. Then I could just fly off, safe and sound, and wouldn’t be hiding behind a live oak, my hair sticking to its bark while my lungs were on fire.

  But noooo. I had to be a healing witch from a long line of hoodoo practitioners (and one rogue voodoo-er, but no need to go into that this very moment). I was a love potion expert, matchmaker, all-around relationship guru, and an unlikely medicine woman.

  Fat lot of good all that did me right now.

  In fact, my magic potions were why I was in this predicament in the first place.

  I’d bet my life savings (which, admittedly, weren’t much) that my archnemesis, Delia Bell Barrows, had a broomstick. And though I had never before been envious of the black witch, I was feeling a stab of jealousy now.

  Quickly glancing around, I suddenly hoped Delia lurked somewhere nearby—something she had been doing a lot of lately. I’d been trying my best to avoid a confrontation with her, but if she had a broomstick handy—and was willing to loan it to me—I would be more than willing to talk.

  There were some things worth compromising principles for, obviously. Like a rabid mob.

  But the brick-paved road, lined on both sides with tall shade trees, was deserted. If Delia was around, she had a good hiding spot. Smart, because there was a witch hunt going on in the streets of Hitching Post, Alabama.

  And I, Carly Hartwell, was the hunted witch.

  Again.

  This really had to stop.

  Pushing off from the tree, I spared a glance behind me before running at a dead sprint through the center of town toward my shop, Potion Potables, with the mob hot on my heels. The storefront was painted a dark purple with lavender trim, and the name of the shop was written in bold curlicue letters on the large picture window. Underneath was the shop’s tagline: MIND, BODY, HEART, AND SOUL. Behind the glass, several vignettes featuring antique glass jars, mortar and pestles, apothecary scales and weights I’d collected over the years filled the big display space.

  At this point I should have felt nothing but utter relief. I was almost there. So . . . close.

  But instead of relief, a new panic arose.

  Because standing in front of my door was none other than Delia.

  I could hardly believe it. Now she shows up.

  I grabbed the store key and held it at the ready. “Out of the way, Delia!”

  Delia stood firm, neck to toe in black—from her cape to her toenails, which stuck out from a pair of black patent flip-flops that had a skull-and-crossbones decoration. A little black dog, tucked into a basket like Toto, barked.

  The dog was new. The cape, all the black, and the skull-and-crossbones fascination was not
.

  “I need to talk to you, Carly,” Delia said. “Right now.”

  I hip checked Delia out of the way, and the dog yapped. Sticking the key into the lock, I said, “You’re going to have to wait. Like everyone else.” I threw a nod over my shoulder.

  The crowd, at least forty strong, bore down.

  Delia let out a gasp. “Did Mr. Dunwoody give a forecast this morning?”

  “Yes.” The lock tumbled, and I pushed open the door and scooted inside. Much to my dismay, Delia snuck in behind me.

  I had two options: to kick the black witch out—which would then let the crowd in . . . or keep Delia in—and the crowd out.

  Delia won.

  Slamming the door, I threw the lock.

  Just in time. Fists pounded the wood frame and dozens of eyes peered through the window.

  I yelled through the leaded glass panel, “I’ll be open in half an hour!” but the eager crowd kept banging on the door.

  Trying to catch my breath, I walked over to the cash register counter, an old twelve-drawer chestnut filing cabinet. I opened one of the drawers and grabbed a small roll of numbered paper tickets. Walking back to the door, I shoved them through the wide mail slot. “Take numbers,” I shouted at the eager faces. “You know the drill!”

  Because, unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

  Turning my back to the crowd, I leaned against the door, and then slid down its frame to the floor. For a second I rested against the wood, breathing in the comforting scents of my shop. The lavender, lemon balm, mint. The hint of peach leaf, sage, cinnamon. All brought back memories of my grandma Adelaide Hartwell, who’d opened the shop more than fifty years before.

  “You should probably exercise more,” Delia said. Her little dog barked.