by Nicola Marsh
“Cool story.” He stared at me with renewed interest, appraising. “For someone who doesn’t believe in Wicca, you sure know a lot about it.”
I put Persephone in his cage. “I grew up surrounded by it. Makes sense I’d absorb it by osmosis.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “That story still doesn’t explain why fur ball’s a he with a girly name.”
“I’m getting to that part.” I rolled my eyes. “When Angie got him as a baby, a kid working his first day at the pet store told her Persephone was female. By the time she found out the truth from the vet a year later, she couldn’t bear to change his name.”
“Poor little guy.” He squatted next to the cage and stuck a finger through the bars to pet him. Persephone turned his back and burrowed into his hay.
“He copes admirably. He has the run of this place, he has the best quality hay money can buy, specially formulated chinchilla pellets, and plenty of cuddles.”
“In that case, here’s to you, big guy.” Ronan toasted Persephone with his diet cola. “Now that I know your aunt’s rabid pet isn’t going to attack me, want to start sorting out that other mess?”
Mess is right. And he didn’t know the half of it.
“The PC’s through here.” I led him into an alcove off the dining room where Angie kept her computer.
Lame to be nervous about having a boy in my bedroom, but I didn’t want Ronan getting the wrong idea. And I didn’t want to put myself into the position of telling him I wasn’t ready if our sleuthing turned into a make-out session. I really liked him, and he made me want to try things I’d never done before, but my life was too messed up at the moment to add sex to the mix. I needed to be in a better place before we got that far, not anxious and wound so tight I felt like I’d snap at any moment.
“Is this your aunt’s PC?” He pulled a chair out for me, then sat next to me.
“Yeah, though you can wipe the history when we’re done, right?” I could have moved my laptop out here, but if there was the remotest chance Ronan was behind this crap I didn’t want to give him access to it. Wiping Angie’s history seemed infinitely safer and smarter.
“Absolutely.” He booted up. “Let’s kick some bad guy ass.”
Wish I had his confidence. I admired Ronan’s resolution to help me solve the mystery but I wasn’t playing fair. I hadn’t told him about the necklace or the séance, so the stuff I really wanted to research, like Tabitha and her magic shop, would have to wait until he left.
He opened a search engine and his cell rang, some weird melodious sax ringtone that belonged on an old guy’s cell.
He glanced at the screen and grimaced. “Sorry. Give me a sec.”
My rampant imagination immediately attributed the call to some stunning ex, so when he answered “Hey Shannon”, The Dizzy’s lead singer, I exhaled in relief.
“What? No, I can’t. Busy.” He shot me a glance and frowned. “Tonight? Seriously? Fuck.”
I bit back a grin. Guys’ phone conversation was very different from girls’. Monosyllabic, short and sweet.
“Okay, okay. Hang onto your microphone. I’ll be there.”
He stabbed at the disconnect button with particular viciousness. “Don’t hate me, because I really tried to get out of this, but the band’s rehearsing an hour earlier.” He rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his mussed hair further. “Apparently some studio guy is coming by the gig tonight, so we need to get our set straight.”
He snagged my hand and intertwined his fingers with mine. “I’m really sorry. Raincheck?”
“Absolutely.” I squeezed his hand, liking how well we fit together. “Go rehearse. I’ve got a stack of homework to finish anyway. We can play detectives another time.”
Concern clouded his eyes as we headed back to the kitchen. “You sure? Because finding the sicko behind this is important.”
“I know. But nailing Jackman’s new assignment probably takes precedence, unless I want to fail history.”
He lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. Sweet and sexy. “What’s the topic this time?”
Nothing as confronting as paganism, thank goodness. I wrinkled my nose. “If we had to take sides in the Civil War, which would we choose.”
“Lame compared to the witches.” He released my hand, drained his soda and lobbed the can into the trash. “I hated all that boring as bat shit factual stuff in high school.”
“Which is why you majored in music.”
“Smart girl.” His arm slid around my waist and tugged me in for a hug.
When he held me close, my doubts evaporated. He had no motivation or connection to my past. He couldn’t be a part of this or so keen to help in order to cover up. He couldn’t have any other motivation to hang with me other than the fact he liked me.
Hopefully, if I recited those reasons long enough, I’d start to believe them.
“I’ll call you later.” He kissed me and I clung to him, prolonging our lip contact.
When he eased back, his goofy grin made my heart flip. “Not too much later.”
I walked him to the door, envying his laid-back attitude. Nothing fazed Ronan—apart from me fronting up and accusing him of planting a dead body in his music video. I wanted my life to be carefree. Always had. But when you spend too much time worrying about people finding out your mom’s a witch and then coping with her alcoholism, cruising along in blithe cheeriness is highly unlikely.
After he left I turned off Angie’s PC, headed into my room and booted up my laptop, wondering if I should stick plugs in my ears in case. When blissful silence greeted me, I typed 666, magic shop, Manhattan, into the search engine.
Surprised at the lack of hits, I opened the shop’s website, a surprisingly low-key affair with minimal links. No online ordering, no selling spiel, just the basics: location, contact details and a bio.
I clicked on the bio, disappointed when a detailed outline of Tabitha’s questionable talents didn’t pop up. My disappointment was short-lived when I recognised the picture of the shop’s owner.
Massimo the Magician. Black hair, horrendous dye job, crew cut. Beady brown eyes more suited to a snake. Deep forehead furrows in a weathered face. The guy had made my skin crawl when I’d run into him backstage at the Broadwater Fair, where he’d performed.
The same fair where Noah and I had danced all night long.
Gotcha.
I’d found my link.
Tabitha was an employee of Massimo’s, the creepy guy who’d loitered around the fairgrounds long after his magic show had ended. If he’d returned for a repeat performance at this year’s fair, the one I’d been absent from, gladly ensconced in New York, he may have been privy to gossip about Noah and my past.
And that meant Tabitha could know too, and that whole séance thing had been a scam.
What I wanted to know was why.
The website wouldn’t give me any further information but I knew someone who could.
Time to pay 666 another visit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I BANGED MY fist against the glass door as Tabitha flicked the “closed” sign on 666.
“Open up,” I shouted, drawing a curious glance from an older couple strolling past.
“Sorry, closed,” Tabitha mouthed, pointing at the sign, her smile annoyingly smug.
Hating to rely on dishonesty—maybe I could say the devil made me do it—I tried my best puppy dog expression. “I want to try another séance.”
Her gaze darted to the door handle in indecision.
I had her.
Shrugging as if her co-operation meant little, I half-turned away.
The lock clicked, she swung open the door and waved me in.
“Thanks.” I brushed past her, wishing I didn’t find the shop so damn appealing. Aesthetically. Had to be a remnant of my Harry Potter fan fetish from when I was thirteen and read the series three times.
“I’m the only one here,” she said, standing on tiptoes to ram home the deadbolt. I sighed
in relief. Running into Massimo would have been scary.
“You’re the person I came to see.”
She pulled down the blind over the door and I belatedly realised I was trapped inside with her. Not that I was afraid of Tabitha per se, especially now I knew her talents in contacting Noah were totally fake.
“Have to say I’m surprised you’re back.” She looked me up and down, distaste curling her upper lip. “Considering how freaked you were after the séance.”
“Maybe I’ve grown a backbone?”
I only just caught her “Doubtful” as she preceded me up the narrow hallway to the back room. Funny how unthreatening it appeared as I stepped into it today, now I knew the talented medium was perpetuating a giant hoax.
She sat at the head of the table and her narrow-eyed gaze swept over me, coolly assessing. “You really want to do another séance?”
“No.” I pulled a chair up to the table and sat. “I want to ask what kind of game you’re playing.”
Surprise mingled with fleeting fear before her mouth stretched into a blasé smile. “You’ve offended me with your lack of confidence in my abilities.”
“Cut the crap.” I slammed my palms on the table, satisfied when she jumped. “Did Massimo put you up to this?”
Genuine fear darkened her eyes and she blinked rapidly, like she had a stray eyelash irritating her lid. “How do you know Massimo?”
I leaned into her personal space and thrust my face into hers, enjoying being the intimidating one this time. “I don’t but you do.”
Confusion creased her forehead. “’Course I do, he’s my dad.”
Her dad? Wow, hadn’t seen that one coming. Familial bond meant they were closer than I’d thought. This only reiterated what I suspected: for some unknown reason, Massimo and Tabitha were out to get me.
“So tell me, why’d your dad mention Noah to you and why the hell are you trying to spook me?”
She took her time answering, darting glances at the door as if she expected Massimo to walk in on us at any moment. Interesting. Why would she be afraid of her dad unless she was doing something wrong?
“I haven’t seen Massimo in years.” Her fingers dug into the edge of the table, her nails leaving tiny grooves. Yep, she was definitely scared about something. “We’re not close.”
“So you run this place all by yourself.” I snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“I do.” She squared her shoulders and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her bare her teeth in a snarl. “He tours around constantly with his magic show and when he isn’t on the move, he lives upstate.” She paused, her fingers on the table clenched so tight her knuckles stood out white. “He gifted me this place for graduation, then got the hell out of my life, just the way I like it.”
Begrudging respect mingled with my anger. Tabitha was awfully young to be running a shop like this: balancing the books, checking inventory, scamming clients like me. And she’d obviously had a falling out with her dad, but that didn’t mean they weren’t in cahoots in whatever warped plan they were perpetuating on me.
“I know all about his tour shows.” This was utter crap of course, considering I’d avoided anything to do with the guy after our run-in backstage. “Broadwater Fair ring any bells?”
“Should it?”
Either she was an excellent actress or her guilelessness was genuine and she didn’t have a clue what I was driving at.
I leaned in closer. Yeah, like that would intimidate her. Even with my worst frown and death glare I was probably as intimidating as Persephone on a bad day. “Did Massimo feed you any info about me? About Noah?”
Slight hesitation before she shook her head. “No.”
I sniggered. “I’m expected to believe you really can contact the dead and deliver messages?”
She released her death grip on the table and studied her fingernails at arm’s length, feigning boredom. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you believe. I’m a medium. I’m good at what I do.”
A small part of me wanted to test her claims but what would another séance achieve? If she was lying—and I was almost certain she was hiding something—she’d use more of the info about me she’d been fed. It would prove nothing.
I pushed back the chair and stood. “Thanks for the chat. I’ll let myself out.”
She watched as I crossed the room, her solemn gaze riveted to the space above my head. I suppressed a shiver. If she started spouting crap about Noah being in the room, I’d grab one of the wands from her merchandise shelves and shove it up her ass.
“You’ve got a cloud hanging over you.”
I halted in the doorway, incredulous. “Your messenger boy Seth already told me. That’s the best you can do?”
She held her palms up, to show she had no tricks up her sleeve. “You’re not paying me, I’ve got nothing to gain by lying.”
Yet she was. Go figure.
“You’ve got darkness shrouding you. A real threat looming over you.” She gnawed on her bottom lip before adding, “Be careful.”
I shook my head in disgust, clomped up the hallway, through the shop, and let myself out.
Tabitha and her prophecies of doom didn’t scare me. But knowing her sinister dad Massimo had gone to the trouble to do all this and not knowing why?
Yep, much more effective in creeping me out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SINCE I’D MOVED into Angie’s apartment six months ago, she’d been home for dinner a grand total of nine times. That’s why I loved living with her so much: the freedom to do what I wanted, when I wanted, without being watched.
For that’s what Mom had done: watched me.
All the time.
When she wasn’t talking to the four walls.
Though in fairness, it hadn’t always been bad. She never would have won any mother of the year contests but we’d got along fine. Until I turned twelve. Overnight her mood swings had increased. We’d be talking one minute and she’d be tuned out the next, listening to a voice in her head.
Then she’d started talking to herself, at night mostly, when she thought I was asleep, but I could hear her through the thin walls of our cottage. I’d hated those nights. I’d cowered under the bedclothes, trying to cover my ears to block out increasing evidence of my mom’s madness.
I’d hidden it, of course, and hadn’t told a soul. But then Mom had started frequenting the alcohol store and the empties began piling up in our trash. Soon the whole town cottoned on to Aurora’s problem.
If they only knew.
Stupid thing was, Mom was quietest when she drank, almost at peace. She’d sit in her favourite rocker in our sunroom, focused on some distant point I couldn’t see, perfectly silent and content.
I rarely saw her staggering around blind drunk or puking or any other disgustingly embarrassing behaviours. When my mom drank, she shut out the voices in her head and I guess that’s why she did it.
After Noah died I’d had to confide in Angie, so I’d told her. All of it. By that stage I’d known I was moving out and I wanted a mental health assessment for Mom’s sake. Angie had tried to convince me Mom’s talk of spirits wasn’t a figment of her imagination. I refused to believe it. And while I played the dutiful daughter and rang Mom weekly for the first month, she seemed the same to me: as batty as a roomful of asylum inmates. I rang intermittently after that and always got the answering machine, so I resorted to leaving fake, upbeat messages which masked my ever-present concern for Mom.
I smelled roast chicken as I stepped into the apartment. At least, I hoped it was chicken. With Angie, you never knew.
“In here, sweetie,” she called out from the kitchen.
When I entered, I blinked, for the sight of Angie carving a roast chicken at the island bench and arranging the pieces alongside home-cooked veggies on dinner plates was so foreign as to rank up there with discovering that parcel on the doorstep last night.
She laid down the carving knife and fork, and beamed at me. “Hope you’re
hungry.”
My stomach rumbled. “Starved.”
First time I’d felt like eating in the last few days and I set the table while Angie hummed some weird Celtic ballad under her breath. I snuck a glance at her, slightly envious. Angie looked amazing for her age, with her sleek auburn chin-length bob, clear skin, blue-green eyes and trim figure. Mom looked years older and she was the younger sister.
She set the plates on the table and sat opposite me. “Let’s eat, then I have something I want to discuss with you.”
Uh-oh. Dread curdled in my stomach, effectively eradicating my hunger, but I forced down a few mouthfuls of surprisingly delicious chicken and slivers of potato and beans, before pushing my plate away.
“That was great, thanks.” I leaped to my feet, ready to clear the table but she waved me back.
“Sit. The rest can wait.”
I sat reluctantly. “Okay.”
She lined up her cutlery, deliberately taking her time as my angst increased.
“Is it Mom? Is something wrong…?”
“Nothing like that.” She shook her head, guilt clouding her eyes. Good, she should feel bad for psyching me out like this.
The guilt soon gave way to a glassy-eyed determination, however, as she pinned me with a no-nonsense stare.
“You’ve been going through my things.” Not a question, a deceptively calm statement underlined with steel.
The cuticle on my thumb started to bleed from where I’d been picking at it under the table and I staunched the trickle against my jeans.
“Your armoire, yes.” Thankfully, my voice didn’t quiver, unlike my jelly-like stomach that churned with dread.
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
The accusation in her eyes softened. “You could’ve asked. I would’ve happily showed you.”
Appearing suitably downcast so she couldn’t read the real reason I’d raided those drawers, I murmured, “Sorry. I didn’t want you getting your hopes up, thinking I was starting to dig all that stuff.”
The corners of her mouth curled into a reluctant smile. “And are you? Digging it yet?”
