by Sam Short
“What if he changes into his wolf again?” Millie asked Timothy, as Sergeant Spencer pushed his prisoner into the back seat of the car. “A human won’t be able to deal with a werewolf. Will you be going to the police station in case you’re needed again?”
“I’m not needed. He won’t change again today,” said Timothy, pulling the coat tighter around him. “He can’t change again today. He’s a weak wolf, I could smell it on him when I fought him. He needs moonlight to recharge his powers, and the moon won’t be in the correct position to provide that sort of energy until just after nine o’clock tonight. He’ll be safely locked in a police cell at that time, and even a werewolf doesn’t have the strength required to rip open a steel cell door.”
Millie nodded and looked Timothy up and down. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Did he hurt you? That was very brave of you.”
“It was,” agreed Judith. “Very brave.”
“It would take more than a wolf as weak as Trevor Giles to hurt or scare me,” said Timothy. He smiled, placing his hands on his hips, the coat he was wearing falling open at the front, forcing Millie to avert her eyes. “But, yes — I suppose it was brave of me, and I would imagine that both of you young ladies would like to date me after my display of heroism?” He looked between Millie and Judith, scrutinising the witches in turn. “I’m afraid I can only date one of you, though,” he said. “And I pick Millie to share a steak with me tonight at The Embarrassed Lobster. Congratulations, Millie, you’ve won twice today.” He gave Judith a sideward glance and winked. “No offence, Jude.”
Pointing at the portion of Timothy’s anatomy which hid in the shadow of his naked stomach, Judith laughed. “I’d have taken more offence if you’d been fully dressed and not displaying your… thingamajig.” She shook her head and gave a dry laugh. “I would imagine that Millie is honoured that you requested her company tonight. I bet she can hardly contain her joy.”
Trying her hardest not to blast out the belly laugh which rose quickly within her, Millie gave a polite smile instead. “I’m sorry, Timothy,” she said. “I’m really not in the mood for steak night at The Embarrassed Lobster.”
“There’s no need to be sorry,” replied Timothy. “I understand. It must be daunting to be asked out by the strongest wolf in town, but believe me, I do have a gentle side. I’m not all testosterone and masculinity.”
Raising an eyebrow as she dropped her eyes to the lower portion of Timothy’s body, Millie nodded slowly. “I know, Timothy,” she said. “I know.”
Chapter 8
Millie parked her damson red Triumph Spitfire alongside Windy-dune Cottage, being sure to put the small car’s roof up before she locked it and stepped into her home. Bathed in the amber glow emitted by the standing lamp next to the tall stone fireplace, the open plan living room and kitchen was as welcoming as always.
She took a minute to appreciate the view through the French doors in the kitchen, marvelling at how perfectly the sea reflected the oranges and crimsons of the sky and the last rays of the sun, the latter dropping below the distant horizon as the moon took its place in the sky.
Tossing her coat over the back of the large sofa, and slipping her shoes off, replacing them with her comfiest slippers — the tartan pair with the worn faux fur lining, Millie looked around for her familiar. He wasn’t perched at his favourite spot on the kitchen table eating leftover pizza, neither was he sitting on the arm of the sofa watching trash TV.
Considering that Reuben only stretched his wings in the great outdoors when forced into exercising by Millie, and doubting very much that he was in one of the two bedrooms or the bathroom, there was only one place he could be. The same place he’d been every night for the last few weeks, pouring over ancient books about magic, looking for a spell which would allow Millie’s dead mother to visit once more.
His dedication to finding a spell which would help her had comforted Millie. It was nice to know that he had her back, and he was certainly earning his keep by performing the duties of a witch’s familiar.
During her last visit, Millie’s mother had explained that the spell Millie had cast, which had allowed Josephine to cross between the realm of the dead into that of the living, had built a permanent bridge between the dimensions — a gate which Millie’s mother could use again and again. Since that first visit, though, she hadn’t reappeared, and with no logical explanation as to why her mother would not visit again if she could, Reuben and Millie had surmised that the reason for her absence had to be the fault of magic.
Magic, Millie had realised after almost a year of practising it, was not as straightforward as it was made out to be by the more experienced witches in the paranormal community. In fact, it could be downright frustrating to get a spell to work correctly, and Millie had no problem in believing that a magical glitch was preventing her mother from visiting again. A glitch which Reuben was adamant he could solve with the aid of the stacks of books in the coven cavern beneath the cottage.
Millie stepped towards the little wooden door built into the stone wall alongside the fireplace. It stood slightly ajar, a faint green glow leaking from around it, and the relaxing scent of ground herbs and old paper managing to seep past it and into the living room.
The entrance to the magical cavern below the cottage had not always been such a prominent fixture in the living room. It had been hidden from view when Millie had first moved into her home, only revealing itself to her when the energy within the cottage had confirmed that Millie had made the decision to stay in Spellbinder Bay, and not move away as she had intended to when things had become difficult.
Recalling how shocked she’d been when the door had first appeared, Millie smiled to herself as she pushed it open and stared down the stone steps hewn out of solid rock. “Reuben! Are you down there?” she called. No answer. She called again, her eyes adjusting to the calming green light which crept up the steps, illuminating the rough walls. “Reuben?”
“I’m here,” came a squawking reply. “On my own. With nobody to keep me company.”
“Well, I’m here now,” said Millie, rolling her eyes. Her familiar really was an attention seeker. Reaching the bottom of the steps, Millie peered around the cavern, searching for the bird on the book heavy shelves carved from rock, and then on the brooms in the old iron stand, the handles of which Reuben liked to perch on. She smiled when she saw the cockatiel — standing on the rickety table next to the potion cupboard, his back to her, his head lowered as he studied an open book. “Hello, Reuben,” she said.
“Where have you been?” said Reuben, his back still turned. “It’s past nine! It’s very late! I’ve been on my own all day!”
“It’s only a couple of minutes past nine, and you know I’ve been at the school open day and fete,” replied Millie, gazing into the waist-high ring of stones in the centre of the cavern. The contents of the cauldron mesmerising her as they always did, she dragged her eyes away from the green liquid which shimmered and swirled, and looked at the cockatiel. “I did invite you, Reuben, but you said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather be force-fed sunflower seeds and cuttlefish bones than attend an open day at a school and be forced to share the same space as a herd of children for a whole day.’” She smiled and lifted her eyebrows. “Or words to that effect.”
“Words which I stand by!” squawked the bird, spinning to face her, the crest on his head standing proudly upright. “But that still doesn’t explain where you’ve been until this hour! Gallivanting, I expect!”
“I had a few glasses of wine with Judith,” said Millie. “And time ran away with us. That’s all. Nothing exciting.”
Reuben cocked his head to the side and fixed one small coal black eye on his witch. “I heard the sound of your car engine! You drove home after drinking alcohol? Well, I never! I would never have imagined you to be the sort of person who would take such an irresponsible risk, Millie Thorn! I’m disappointed in you. Very disappointed!”
“Calm down,” said Millie. “Timothy Huggin
s was kind enough to make a sobering potion for Judith when her dad phoned and asked her to come to the police station. She needed to drive, and instead of leaving my car at the hall and getting a taxi home, I decided to take some of the potion, too. So, don’t worry, Reuben. I’m as sober as I was when I woke up this morning.”
The bird gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Good for Timothy Huggins. He’s a splendid chap,” he noted. “A chemistry teacher, a magnificent wolf, and a gentleman. I have a lot of respect for him. A lot of respect indeed.” He fluttered the short space between the table and Millie’s shoulder, landing with a light touch of his wing tip on her cheek. “Now that you and that awful bloodsucker are no longer an item, perhaps you’d think about… taking Timothy as your man friend? I think he likes you!”
“He makes no secret of the fact that he likes me,” said Millie, rolling her eyes. “Which you know very well. But I’m afraid he’s just not my type.”
Reuben leapt from Millie’s shoulder and flew in fast circles around the cavern. “Oh, come on!” he screeched. “Don’t be so coy! You’ve had a bit of fang, now try a bit of fur! You might find you like it!” He swooped low, and landed on the top of Millie’s head, his claws twisting into her hair.
“As romantic and appealing as you make it sound, I’m not in the market for fur, fangs, or any other embellishment belonging to any manner of paranormal, or non-paranormal person, thank you very much,” said Millie. “George and I haven’t split up, anyway — we’re simply on a temporary break — the necessity of which has been mutually confirmed by us both.”
“Jeepers,” said Reuben, untangling a foot from Millie’s hair. “It was just a suggestion. There was no need for such a fancy reply. Nobody uses words like embellishment anymore.” He gave a whistle, and then a laugh. “Come down here, Millie. Come and spend some time with the commoners. We might not talk fancy like you, but we’re good folk. You might like us.”
“Ha ha,” said Millie, wincing as Reuben pulled at her hair. “Ow! That hurts!”
Reuben gave one last tug and freed his foot. He flew to one of the shelves in the cave wall and perched alongside an unmarked bottle with a cork stopper pushed into the neck, keeping the contents safely inside. “So… what did he want? Why did he phone her?”
“Pardon?” said Millie, straightening her hair.
“Sergeant Spencer. What did he want? You said Judith had to go to the police station because her father had phoned her. Sergeant Spencer usually closes the station at night time. Has something happened?” he gazed at Millie, the red circle on his cheek as bright as the contents of the bottle next to him. “Oh no! Not another murder? That will be the third this year! What is it with this town and murders?”
“Don’t worry,” smiled Millie. “Nobody has been murdered. Sergeant Spencer had to arrest somebody for being drunk and disorderly at the school fete. He has to stay at the police station all night to look after the prisoner, so he phoned Judith to ask her to bring him some cakes from the fete. He was hungry, that’s all. You can rest easy. There have been no violent deaths.”
“He asked for some of the cakes which you and your class of tiny people made yesterday?” asked Reuben. “The same ones you brought samples of home with you last night?”
“Yes, the cakes that my pupils and I made, Reuben,” said Millie. “The ones I brought a few of home. The ones which we made to sell at the fete.”
Reuben nodded. “Oh. You gave him the cakes for free?”
“Erm, no,” said Millie. “Judith paid for them. Sergeant Spencer told her he’d give her the money back. It’s all for charity, you see?”
Reuben blinked, his head askew. “He said he’d give you money for them? And he actually wanted them for the purpose of eating? To enjoy the taste of, and to provide himself with nutrition and energy?”
“Yes, Reuben,” said Millie. “That’s what most people do with cakes, and he’d already tried a few earlier in the day. He loved them, and he wanted more, you know how he likes his food.”
“The fact that he likes good food is what’s got me baffled about this cake situation,” said Reuben. He studied Millie for a few seconds, his eyes half closed, and then gave a shrill whistle. “You told him, didn’t you? You told him he was your father! What did he say, Millie? I bet he was amazed! I’m so happy for you! Do you feel complete?”
“No, Reuben,” said Millie. “I haven’t told him. I told you I was going to wait for the right moment. It’s still only you, me, and Henry who know the truth. And my dead mother, of course.” She paused and gave the bird a look of suspicion. “What makes you think I’ve told him that he’s my father?”
“That’s the sort of thing a father would do, isn’t it?” said Reuben.
“What is?” asked Millie, perplexed.
“Eat his offspring’s awful cooking and then pretend he liked it,” said Reuben. “It makes no sense that he’d ask for some of the cakes otherwise.” He tilted his head to the opposite side. “Hmmm. Perhaps he just wanted to make you feel good. Perhaps he’s an even nicer man than I gave him credit for, and I already had him ranked very highly on the scale of niceness.”
Scowling, Millie folded her arms and bent at her waist, looking her familiar directly in one eye, her irritated reflection staring back at her. “People like my cakes, Reuben. I’m good at baking. That’s why I was asked to teach cookery at Spellbinder Hall. The fact that you have a fussy palate, does not mean that my cakes do not taste nice.”
Stretching his wings, Reuben yawned. “I’ve tried nicer cakes, that’s all I’m saying. Your chocolate cakes are acceptable, but anything can be made to taste nice with enough chocolate in the recipe. It’s when you try and get clever that your cakes take a wrong turn. Your lemon fancies, for example… how can you possibly make something which looks so delightful, taste so absolutely awful? The only thing fancy about those vile creations is the sound they make when they hit the bottom of the bin.”
As Millie was about to explain to Reuben, that with manners like his, he could forget about pizza and kebab for at least a week, and become acquainted with bird seed and broccoli, her phone buzzed in her pocket. “It’s Judith,” she said, as she lifted it to her ear. “We’ll continue the conversation about my cakes in a moment.”
“Good,” said Reuben. “I’m glad it’s finally all out in the open. I’ve been meaning to have a discussion with you about those things which you call Viennese whirls.”
Millie stopped paying attention to her familiar as the panicked voice of Judith burst from her phone. She listened intently, her stomach lurching and the hairs on her arms standing on end. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can. Calm down,” she promised, before ending the call.
“What is it?” said Reuben. “You’ve gone white. What’s happened, Millie? Is Judith okay?”
Trying to make sense of what she’d just been told, Millie slid her phone back into her pocket and put a hand on the stone cauldron to steady herself. She looked at Reuben. “The third murder this year you were worried about,” she said. “Has just been committed, and Sergeant Spenc – my father, is the prime suspect.”
Chapter 9
Parking in the clinical white glow of one of the wrought iron street lamps which lined the majority of streets in the town centre, Millie slammed the car door shut and bounced up the three steps which led to the police station entrance. Barging the heavy door open with her shoulder, she rushed into the reception area, her face dropping when she saw the glazed look in the eyes of Sergeant Spencer, his anxiety amplified by the dull fluorescent lighting.
Ordinarily jovial, whatever the circumstances, the policeman’s face showed overt anxiety and fear, which unnerved Millie. Sitting behind the high reception desk, Sergeant Spencer’s demeanour was light years away from his customary happy self, and his voice was laced with uncertainty as he looked up and spoke to Millie. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Judith’s in the cell with the body.” He looked down at his hands, which were clasped togethe
r on the desktop, both sets of knuckles white. “With Trevor, I should say. The man did have a name, after all.”
“What happened?” said Millie, approaching the desk, her training shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. “Judith didn’t make much sense on the phone, but she said something about Trevor being murdered with poison.” She considered reaching for one of the big man’s hands, but decided against it, giving him a kind smile instead, longing for the day on which it would be acceptable to show him physical affection. “She also said that you’ve classed yourself as the main suspect in his murder. I don’t understand.”
“I gave him the poison that killed him,” he said, his voice flat.
“What?” said Millie. “You poisoned Trevor? Why are you saying that?”
“I didn’t give it to him on purpose, and I’m not quite sure what happened yet, but it’s the only logical explanation,” said Sergeant Spencer. He hesitated and shook his head. “It’s better that Judith explains everything to you. I must be treated as a suspect, and this isn’t the sort of conversation I should be having with you if we’re to follow correct investigative procedure. After all, I did make both you and Judith acting police officers after you helped me solve Albert Salmon’s murder.”
And since that murder, which had occurred on her first day in Spellbinder Bay, she had helped solve one additional murder, Millie recalled with regret. The townsfolk were used to seeing her and Judith working with Sergeant Spencer, and with the help of the concealment spell — transmitted from Spellbinder Hall and enveloping the whole town, the community never asked any questions concerning the validity of the two young women who helped the town’s only policeman.
Its strong magic working on the perceptions of non-paranormal people, the concealment spell had the effect of making mysterious occurrences quickly fade from the mind and memory of the human observer. The mysterious incidents in question spanned a broad spectrum — including almost imperceptible occurrences, such as the quick flash of black in an angry vampire’s eyes when he argued with a human, and culminating in events as spectacular as a group of five werewolves chasing a frightened fox along High Street and out of town.
