by Raven Snow
Deliberately walking past Cherry's silent room, I made my way out onto the stage. Trust Melanie to make me the opening act. She was just hoping I'd make a fool out of myself in front of all those people. Her hopes probably weren't in vain.
The crowd swarmed around the small stage, eating fried food from the vendors and speaking loudly with their neighbors. Lots of people were in capes— not just Oliver— and magic themed clothes dotted the spectrum, but there were also quite a few soccer moms and slack-jawed teenagers.
A cold sweat broke out all over me at the sight of that many people. If they had all been in a conga line, I'd have joined right in without a hitch. But these spectators wanted to watch me do magic— something I'd sworn off a long time ago.
Chanting quietly to myself about having Melanie in my pocket, I marched up onto the stage and stared the town down as they fell silent, one by one. Wyatt's eyes stood out immediately from the rest of the crowd, a cool color that I couldn't help but still associate with warmth and happiness.
I didn't say anything— a rarity for me. Instead, I whipped my hands towards the sky in a move that I knew looked very fast to the audience. They caught flame almost without any push from me, the one trick I'd done a million times.
A few gasps sounded, the fire's blue light reflecting in hundreds of eyes, glimmering in the dim surroundings. Smiling, the rest of my arms caught fire. Then, my body, face, legs. Before the crowd knew what hit them, I was completely encased in flames.
People screamed in delight as I twirled around, giving a good show of dancing flames. It was a simple trick, one I'd perfected as a child. But to the audience, I was a master magician, facing down the possibility of a fiery death. Only Grandma would know better.
The flame went out all at once, revealing me to the audience. A roar of applause went out as they saw my body and clothes were completely unsinged. I gave a simple bow and then retreated from the stage.
A glass of water was on the table next to the other contestants who were waiting for their turn. I took a sip, watching as Penny Helbrim went up. To be fair, she did have to follow my performance— but the crowd was thoroughly unimpressed with whatever trick she did. It was so unmemorable, even I don't remember what it was.
Turning away from the stage, I decided to collect my things from the dressing rooms. Maybe I could open the Funky Wheel and catch some of the traffic that wasn't here. This was complete bullshit, of course, because everyone was here— but there was also a chance that if I left immediately, I wouldn't run into Wyatt.
"Harper."
Drat.
Wyatt hooked a finger through the belt loop on the back of my shorts, yanking me backwards. His heat against me was like a drug, and I had to fight myself not to settle back, to feel every inch of him snuggled against me.
"Let go of me, Detective."
"That's not my name, and you know it," he said against my ear. "You're mad, so just say that instead of passive-aggressively trying to put distance between us."
"You want just plain aggressive?" Turning around, I placed a single hand on his chest and pushed real hard. "There. Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
To my surprise, he actually stumbled back like he'd been shot. Usually, I couldn't budge the man.
His blue eyes were as wide as I'd ever seen them, with a fear I couldn't begin to explain shining in their depths. A second later, and he was paler than the crescent moon hanging above us. Wyatt's mouth opened, but no sounds came out.
A shiver went through me at this inexplicable behavior, but I wasn't about to give up winning the fight. "What, no words? That's a first. You—"
He was at my side in the next second, a death grip on my forearm, with a cell phone I hadn't seen him reach for pressed against his ear. "Detective Bennett. We need an ambulance at the stage stat—poison victim, still conscious."
Frowning, I opened my mouth to demand to know what the hell he was talking about. No one had been poisoned, for god's sake.
A sudden wave of nausea and dizziness overcame me, sapping the strength right from my bones. Sirens sounded in the distance, and I sunk to my knees on the ground. It was a controlled descent— mostly because of Wyatt's steel grip on both of my upper arms.
Looking quickly away from my now light green fingers, I stared into Wyatt's face instead. This turned out to be a mistake because I found a wild, sick kind of fear there, and it wasn't reassuring.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," I said. The words may not have come out in the right order, but I was sure I got the message across.
He shook his head while I was lifted onto the gurney and into the ambulance. "Don't try to talk."
The bus jostled me as it sped down the road. Wyatt kept his iron grip on me, not letting the bumps disturb me too much. As my color darkened, becoming more like fresh grass without any of the implications of vitality, his got lighter and lighter. Usually a reasonably tan man, my detective looked like he'd never seen the sun.
Though I wanted to stay mad at him, my heart was racing too hard, fear and adrenaline surging in my veins. I couldn't manage to hold onto my temper— a better sign than my green skin that something was wrong. I brushed his cheek with my fingers tentatively. His hand caught mine and held it there, and my caress became rougher.
"There wasn't much of the poison left in the cup they found at your disco skate," he said. "It's evaporating at a startling rate, but the lab is rushing it over now so we can make an antidote. You're going to be fine." The last part seemed more for his ears than mine.
Shaking my head made me feel like I was going to be sick, so I stopped almost immediately after I started. "If you use that for an antidote, you'll lose the only hard evidence you have to find the killer."
"That doesn't matter right now."
I wanted to argue that it mattered a great deal, but the world was going a little fuzzy, and I lost track of it. While I floated around the edges of this plane, I heard Wyatt's coarse voice calling my name—and not very nicely. I could barely make out what he was saying, but he seemed to be insulting me, the doctors, and everyone else in the room.
It would've made me smile if my insides weren't burning.
My eyes flickered open after what seemed like only a few seconds. Wyatt was right there by my side, circles under his eyes and a five o'clock shadow covering his chin.
"How long have I been out?" My words were slurred, and I couldn't quite connect with my body to make it move. The thought of being paralyzed made me tense— only Wyatt's hand running over my hair kept me from screaming.
"Just about all night."
He must've pressed some button to alert the nurses, because just then, my doctor walked in— the same one who'd patched me up after the car accident a couple of weeks ago. He smiled, but he looked tired and stressed, just like Wyatt.
"I'm glad to see you with your eyes open, Miss Beck," he said. "You gave us all a scare."
"Antidote?" I couldn't be more verbose than that at the moment.
A cloud passed over his face. "I'm afraid there wasn't enough of the poison for us to make one." Wyatt squeezed my hand. "But you seemed to have ingested a small amount, which is why you're alive and your color is starting to return to normal."
I glanced down at my forearms which were exposed under my hospital gown. The color was indeed a light green like it'd been when I first noticed the change— almost as if I were extremely nauseous.
"Does this mean she's in the clear?" Wyatt asked before I could.
The doctor shook his head. "Until I give her an antidote— due to the magical nature of this poison— I won't know anything. My colleagues and I have hypothesized, based on the study of the poison and the previous victim, that your body— possibly by magic— is fighting off this poison, which is why the color is receding. We don't believe it will be able to do so completely, however. It's just a matter of time."
"But I can leave, right?"
Wyatt shot me a warning glance that said I'd be getting out of this bed over
his dead body. If I'd felt up to my normal level of sass, I'd have retorted something clever or stuck out my tongue at him. Instead, I just ignored him.
"You would be leaving against my advice," the doctor said slowly, skating around the edges of forbidding me.
I forced a smile, something that felt alien on my too tight face. "Understood.”
Wyatt stewed in silent fury as he drove me away from the hospital. The man had pitched a royal fit to try and get me to stay, but when I'd gone to call a taxi, he'd caved. His parents had apparently dropped off his car when they came to pick up Cooper from my bedside.
I'd frowned at that. "You shouldn't have let him see me like that— he'll have nightmares."
"Couldn't keep him away," he'd grumbled back at me.
We passed by the street he needed to turn on to get to the Funky Wheel, and I lifted my heavy head up from the window sill. "Missed."
"I'm a cop," he said, his voice forced into a lightness that seemed unnatural. "I always hit what I aim for. You're staying with Cooper and me— Mom'll drop him off in a couple hours."
He had to help me out of the car. My muscles felt like someone had sucked the vitality out of them with a syringe. "My place is fine for sleeping, which is all I'm looking to do."
It was a pointed reminder that I was still peeved with him, and he laughed bleakly. "I'm not looking for play time, Harper, just an assurance that you won't go gallivanting off into danger the moment you wake up."
The trip up the stairs stole my breath and any coherent thought. It wasn't until I laid down on his dark blue sheets and watched as he tucked the comforter protectively around me, that I had something to say.
"I need to find the poison," I said, my eyes trying to close of their own accord. "Won't be safe until I do."
Slipping his hand under the back of my neck, Wyatt lifted my head up so I was very close to his face. I'd never seem him so serious, his face drawn in heavy lines that made him look older.
"I'll hunt down the poison, and the person who did this to you," he said quietly. "That, you don't have to worry about."
The next time I rolled out of bed, I found the house free of Wyatt. A note awaited me on the kitchen fridge, telling me that there was leftover pizza inside and to stay put— on penalty of death. I felt like death just then, my head foggy and my body aching. The pain was an intimate reminder that, while I might not be green, I wouldn't be out of the woods until I got an antidote.
Besides the boyfriend, I didn't have any hard suspects. The public nature of the crime meant that really anyone could have done it; everyone had opportunity. A splash of noise startled me, and I turned around to see that Cooper had turned on the tiny, portable TV that sat on the kitchen counter.
There were circles under his eyes, and he was still in his pajamas— Batman, like his sheets. I smiled at him, and he returned it, grabbing a bowl of chocolate cereal from a cabinet.
"Dad went to work," he mumbled through his sugary breakfast. "Said to watch you."
The words would've earned a huge eye roll if my attention hadn't been fixed on the national news on the TV. An attractive anchor, full of smiles and Botox, was talking about the magical murders in Waresville. It was probably the first time in recorded history that this little town had made the news. And with the magical nature of the crime, tourist traps were about to do booming business around here.
"Melanie!"
Cooper coughed, a bit of cereal getting caught in his throat at my outburst. I slapped him on the back, but he waved me away, the piece already dislodged.
Yelling a hasty goodbye on my way out the door, I ran all the way to the driveway before I realized I didn't have a car. I kicked the trash can in frustration and made a few calls. Minutes later, Oliver pulled up in his Taurus like a knight on a steed.
"We gotta get to the stage," I told him, and he peeled off.
"I'm glad to see you with your normal color." His words were breezy, but he seemed as upset as I'd ever seen him. "You looked horrible yesterday."
"Thanks. You visited me in the hospital?"
"Briefly." He laughed— a real laugh. "Your protector wasn't letting anyone stay for long. He even kicked your grandmother out!"
My eyes widened at that. Short of shooting her in the face, I couldn't think of anything that Wyatt could say or do that would discourage Gran from something she wanted. I had to put those thoughts aside, though, because my life and the lives of others were at stake.
There wasn't a performance going on as it was too early for most civilized gatherings. Fortunately, the door to the office structure was unlocked, and Oliver and I slipped inside without issue. Not daring to turn on the lights because they might show from the outside, we snuck along in silence.
"Ow!"
I swatted my best friend on the back of the head at his cry—which had been loud enough to wake the dead.
"Stepped on my foot," he hissed.
"I was poisoned yesterday! Believe me when I tell you that you will live."
"You're gonna pull that card for the rest our lives, aren't ya?" He grimaced at me, but kept walking.
Melanie's personal office was at the very back of the building. The peeled walls were the same shade of hideous red that they'd been when my late accountant had called it his office. A large, dark desk sat in the dead center of the room, made of a cheap, unknown material that was definitely not wood.
I pulled open all the drawers, shifting through the crap without any delicacy. On the other side of the room, Oliver followed my lead with the filing cabinets.
"I don't know about this, sweetie," he said. "Melanie Gross would do a lot of things for publicity, but kill someone? Her magic shop can't need customers that bad."
"This is her first year running the festival, right?"
"Right," he said slowly.
"And she fought tooth and nail for the position— one she'd never cared about before— right? I have a theory about that."
"Of course you do." He slammed the filing cabinet shut. "No evil spells or green goo here."
"I think her shop needs the publicity so bad, she's willing to waste months of planning and setting up for this farce of a magic contest."
Oliver mulled it over as he came to help me go through the monstrous desk. "Well... I guess I haven't seen much of anyone in her shop lately. But your grandma's shop hasn't been raking in customers, either."
"Difference is," I said, "Gran can afford to keep it open for the next two thousand years with no profit coming in. I figure she was a successful gold digger back in the day."
"Or maybe an assassin." The smile faded from Oliver's face. "Speaking of suspects and your grandma.... I mean, she does hate the empty-headed witches that enter and the whole contest. Plus, it's not like she's the most stable of old witches."
And Oliver didn't even know how old she really was. Neither did I, for that matter. A couple of weeks ago, a crazy, killer witch had told me that Gran had looked the same since she was a little girl— and the woman had been over eighty. I hadn't been able to confront Gran about it, but the issue was there, never leaving the front of my mind.
"No," I said firmly. "She's crazy, but she wouldn't kill anyone."
Probably.
He shrugged. "If you say so. But Melanie? Really? Where’s the evidence?”
I threw up my hands in frustration. “Where’s the evidence of anything? We don’t have the poison anymore, and Gran hasn’t gotten back to me on what it is.”
“Which she wouldn’t, if she’d made it.”
“Not helpful. All we have is the fact that the Funky Wheel and the contest are related to the killer in some way.”
“That points to you, not Melanie,” he pointed out.
I had the distinct urge to throttle him. “I wouldn’t put it past her to frame me— we hate each other.”
“Obviously,” he said. “We know something else, though.”
“What?” I was on his case like a bee on a flower. “What do you know?”
/> Shrugging, he said, “The girl I’m seeing that works at the station said they found a shade of lipstick on the victim that didn’t match her collection. Almost purple.”
“Maybe she borrowed it from a friend.”
“It was on her neck. And, more importantly, it wasn’t her color.” At my continued confused expression, he rolled his eyes. “You are so clueless. It means the shade of the lipstick wouldn’t have looked good on her.”
“Of course. I knew that.”
“Says the woman who wears a neon green wig.”
A bump from down the hall made us jump out of our skin. We peered out and around the door, watching as a dark figure pushed his way into Belinda's dressing room. A glance at Oliver showed him shaking his head vigorously at me. I nodded in disagreement, and we went on for a moment, bobbing our heads in different directions at each other.
Finally, I pushed him out of the way and tiptoed down the hall, stopping outside the dressing room door. The man had turned on the light and was staring at the pink room in horror. Despite his slight figure, the guy had a beautiful, almost flawless face.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
Now it was his turn to jump, whirling around to look at me with wide eyes. "Oh, sorry— I didn't mean to...."
I stuck out my hand. "Harper Beck."
Taking it, he said, "John Manos. Belinda's boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend, I guess."
I inclined my head politely but decided to go without the niceties. "I heard you two were having problems before her death. I'm so sorry."
He snorted. "‘Problems’ is putting it lightly. We were all but broken up. She didn't like my job— I'm an actor."
"That must have been hard," I said, fishing for his reaction. If he was still mad about it, I could have been talking to Belinda's killer. But then, he had no motive to poison me. Most people waited to meet me before trying to kill me.
"Not really," he said. "I knew it was never going to work out."
I shared a glance with Oliver, who was standing at the door. "Why is that, Mr. Manos?"
"I hate pink."
I had Oliver drop me off at the Funky Wheel after we finished talking to Belinda's ex-boyfriend. While I was glad I could scratch his name off my suspect list— he was a really nice guy— it put me back at square one. And square one was titled “Melanie Gross.”
