by Bailey Cates
I’d bristled. “Do not!”
But I found myself standing in the middle of the playground with a dozen kids circling me, dancing and whooping that Hollywood Indian “Woo woo woo woo,” fingers returning to their pursed lips over and over. I’d laughed at first, thinking it silly fun.
But then it felt scary, and not so fun at all.
“Stop it,” I said. But no one listened, not even Monty, who joined the others. His eyes held laughter and affection. He’d have loved it if I’d really been an Indian princess.
“Please. Stop,” I begged, searching the playground for the teacher. She leaned against the school’s brick facade, smoking a cigarette and watching us. I waved her over.
She waved back and took another drag.
Woo woo woo woo. Woo woo woo woo.
“Leave me alone!” I’d yelled. Only it had been more than a yell.
It had been a Command. And the other children responded immediately. They left me alone. From then on. None of them spoke to me again unless it was absolutely necessary. They avoided me completely, throughout my entire school career. No hostility. No nothing. It was as if, for those people, I had ceased to exist.
Even Monty, who had been my best friend until then.
My parents had never told me about the Voice, or what it could do. And now that I thought about it, that incident may have confirmed Mama’s decision to discourage and hide any hint of my magic.
Well, now I was going to learn everything I could. “Tell me about the Rule of Three.”
“It’s a Wiccan thing,” Bianca said. “But most light witches believe in the truth of it. It’s simply the belief that whatever you do, whether for good or ill, will come back to you threefold.”
“Talk about a carrot and a stick.”
Her eyes widened behind her oversized designer sunglasses. “Ha! I guess it is. Do good to attract good, don’t do evil and avoid it in your own life.”
“What other rules are there?”
“Well, not rules so much as … tenets. The Rule of Three is more or less the same as the Golden Rule found all over the world: Treat others as you would want to be treated.”
“Only on steroids, with that whole threefold return thing.”
“Right. It’s part of the Wiccan Rede. That’s a kind of poem that outlines all the basic Wiccan beliefs. Another part of it that guides my magic—and my whole life, for that matter—is the last line: And harm you none, do what you will.”
“Cookie isn’t Wiccan, though?”
“Cookie picks and chooses what’s convenient for her, including some of the old voodoo ways—more than she tells us, perhaps. A lot of voodoo is white magic, though, and Cookie is good—good at heart and good for the spellbook club. She keeps us on our toes and enriches our workings. Please don’t think I have any serious problem with her. I just want you to learn about your magic from a positive and joyful perspective.”
“I’m still amazed at the things I’m willing to believe since Lucy told me about my family only a few days ago. But it makes so much sense when I think back on things that have happened to me.”
“You’ll get used to it. And to us. When Lucy told us she wanted to bring you into the spellbook club without our ever meeting you, I had my doubts. That kind of thing isn’t usually done. And the murder hastened her revelation considerably. But in one brief week I already know she was right to invite you. You belong here with us, Katie.”
Belong. It was a word I’d never known the true meaning of before.
Now I did.
Chapter 16
“Looks like the gang’s all here,” I said upon entering the Honeybee.
Lucy and Ben sat with their arms around each other on one of the brocade sofas. He looked more rested, so I assumed he’d managed a nap. Jaida sat on the sofa opposite them, and next to her Cookie flipped through a magazine. Teetering on a stepstool, Mimsey fussed with one of five ivy plants hanging above. I still couldn’t believe she was seventy-eight. Today she was dressed in sherbet yellow.
Light classical music played softly from a hidden speaker, and the ivies added a final touch of atmosphere. Add the good baking smells and the chatter of happy customers, and it would be the perfect place to draw people back again and again.
Lucky me, to be able to spend my days there.
As long as Albert Hill didn’t mess things up.
“What did you find out?” Jaida asked.
I grabbed a couple of coffees while Bianca pulled a table over. I joined her, and we took turns relating Frank Pullman’s revelations. Lucy frowned when she heard his joyous reaction to Mrs. Templeton’s death.
“He never asked for details about her murder. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been so cavalier if he’d known,” I said. “His story was pretty strange, too. If all he did was leave a bit of sawdust behind after restoring some woodwork in her home, why would she set out to systematically ruin him? I mean, she had to convince his boss to fire him, and a lot of other people not to hire him. There had to be more to it than some fictional mess.”
“Not necessarily,” Cookie chimed in, tossing her magazine on the low table between the sofas. “The condition of her apartment building makes it obvious that she was a woman who pinched her pennies until they squealed.”
“Hmm. Maybe,” I said. “But why would everyone else go along with it?”
“They were frightened of her,” Lucy said. “You saw how she threatened Ben. Threatened us all.”
“But a threat isn’t the same as having actual power. Yet she was able to ruin Frank Pullman’s life, and she kept Ethan Ridge working at a job he hated and paid him next to nothing. He used the word power to describe her influence in Savannah as well.”
Jaida’s eyes narrowed, and she looked around at the others. “Katie’s right. Do you think perhaps Mrs. Templeton possessed real power?”
My jaw slackened. “You mean that old witch was a … witch?” The last word came out as a squeak. Someone that mean and bitter with real magical power scared the bejesus out of me—even after she was dead. But it certainly would explain a lot.
Lucy wrinkled her nose and dusted off her hands as if she’d been handling something distasteful. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. We still have to find out what happened to her so the police will leave Ben alone.”
Finished fussing with the plants, Mimsey climbed down from her stepstool. As she joined Bianca and me, she grimaced. “It might matter, Lucille. What if she cast spells to protect herself? Or to keep her secrets?”
“If she cast a spell to protect herself, it sure didn’t work very well,” I pointed out.
“All I’m saying is that if she had real power, we might run into vestiges of it in the course of trying to find out what happened to her. She wasn’t close to anyone, as far as we know, not even Albert. So some of her wards may never have been breached.”
“But if she’s dead …” Lucy trailed off.
Cookie’s chin jerked up. “It may not matter, especially if she was strong in black magic. In fact, her own magic may be why the police are having such difficulty finding the real murderer.”
We looked around at each other.
My uncle stood. “That’s enough. You need to stop this … this … whatever it is you’re doing. I won’t put any of you in danger. This problem is mine and mine alone.”
“That’s not entirely true, Ben.” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.
“She’s right,” Lucy said. “Anything that happens to you affects us. Katie, the Honeybee, and most especially me. You are not going to prison for a crime you didn’t commit, and that’s that.”
My aunt and uncle glared at each other for a long moment.
Appalled at the rift between them, I said, “Please, don’t fight. Please. We’ll figure it all out, and no one will get hurt. Uncle Ben, you just have to trust us.”
“Of course I trust you. But I most certainly don’t trust the people you’ve been talking to.”
It was al
most seven when Mungo and I got home. His dish was still full of kibble, but after a quick sniff he turned his back on it.
“Fine. If you want some of the chicken salad I’m planning for supper, you’re welcome to it.”
But first: a quick run to get the endorphins going. I went into the bedroom, took running clothes out of the armoire, and stripped down.
Of course that would be when the doorbell rang.
Hurriedly, I yanked on shorts and a T-shirt, ran my fingers through my hair and went to see who it was.
Mungo barked and bounced around the living room like a furry maniac. He hadn’t reacted that way when Margie had come by the day before, but I didn’t know who else it could be. A quick peek around the corner of the window shutter provided the answer.
What the heck was Steve Dawes doing on my front step?
I threw open the door. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and he’d let his hair down—literally. It was the color of honey and fell nearly to his shoulders. I hate it when a guy has prettier hair than I do, but Steve Dawes had prettier hair than most women. I resisted the urge to touch it, instead waiting in silence for him to speak.
His smile faltered when he saw my expression. “Now don’t get mad, okay?” He waved a white paper bag at me like a flag of surrender. His other hand held a bunch of yellow roses. “I know you wanted to wait to go out, but you have to eat. So I brought supper to you. No fuss, no muss, no bother, and no need for a grill.”
“How did you know where I live?” I demanded.
“Oh, I have my ways,” he said. “Are you going to let me in? This bag contains she-crab soup, bourbon-pulled pork, and a nice big salad to round things out if you’re one of those girlie eaters.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Plus …” He lingered over the word. “I have information about Ethan Ridge.”
Behind me, Mungo growled.
Surprised, I whirled to look down at him. “What’s the matter?”
Completely still, he stared at Steve. Baffled, I turned back—and saw that three dragonflies had landed on his right shoulder. He looked down at them, then back up at me. Flashed those pearly whites. “Looks like I need to make friends with your canine companion there. But don’t worry. I’ll bring him around.”
Strange though I found it, Mungo’s reaction to Steve was the least of my worries. Was Cookie right? Was this guy a witch? Was he capable of using magic on me? Why else would I get that flutter in my stomach every time I saw him?
I hesitated, but the smell emanating from the bag made my decision for me. “Okay. Come in. But you’re really pushing it, you know?”
“Oh, trust me. I know.”
I tend not to trust anyone who tells me to trust them. Mr. Dawes was no exception.
The dragonflies zoomed off, and Mungo backed slowly away from the door as our visitor entered. Steve knelt in front of my familiar and held his hand out. “I brought enough for you, too, buddy. We’re going to be friends. You’ll see.”
“Mungo,” I said, “it’s okay.”
The little dog threw me a look of disgruntled disagreement. How did he do that?
“He’s just protective. That’s good. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.” He stood and walked the few steps to the kitchen door.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to eat in there. The patio in back is shaded, but I don’t have anyplace to sit out there yet.”
“I bet the mosquitoes are terrible, too.”
I shrugged. “They’re not so bad.”
Steve held my gaze for a few beats, then inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You’ve already solved that problem, then. Good.”
“It’s just that there seem to be a lot of mosquito hawks around here.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
He went into the kitchen, and before I could stop him he picked up Mimsey’s Spellwork for Dummies, which I had planned to review again while I ate my chicken salad. His eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he held up the book. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, trying hard for casual. Maybe a little too hard. “Just one of the books from the Honeybee shelves. It looked amusing.”
“Amusing, huh.” He flipped through the pages. Frowned. Blinked. “Well, there is some good basic information here.” He put the book on the counter and moved back to where I stood in the doorway.
I realized I’d never been this close to him before. The space between us thrummed with energy. Nervous, I licked my lips.
“Are you really just learning?” he asked.
“What?” I managed.
He moved even closer. “Oh, yes. You have power indeed. But am I wrong in thinking you’ve only recently become aware of it?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but managed only a small croaking sound.
“Oh, my. Oh, Katie-girl. That’s delightful.”
“Don’t call me Katie-girl.” There: actual words.
“But you are a girl. A maiden, still wet behind the ears. I have a feeling you’ll mature quickly, though.”
Bewilderment vied with irritation, all flavored with a significant dollop of physical attraction that belied any notion of girlhood.
“How do you know … Are you … ?” How could I come right out and ask without sounding like an idiot?
“How could I not know? Didn’t you realize we were the same the first time we saw each other?”
I found myself nodding.
“That sense of familiarity, of having met before. But we hadn’t, had we? No, but in a sense, we are kin. Of the same family. Though I must admit I’ve never had quite this reaction to another witch.”
“You are a witch.” Stating it, I knew it was true. And I knew I’d known all along, just as I’d known I had special abilities.
Steve was like me.
He was very close now, our bodies almost touching. Deliberately, I breathed him in. He smelled like cloves and leather. For a moment, I closed my eyes, savoring his presence like a sip of fine wine.
A small shift in his position, and my eyelids flew open. I ducked to the side, almost escaping the kiss. Our lips barely brushed, but it felt like fire shot out of my toes.
Trying not to gasp, I stumbled to the counter and opened the bag. “She-crab soup, you say.”
He laughed. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”
Taking a few deep breaths, I unloaded the food and put plates and flatware on the card table. I put the roses in a glass of water and placed them on the trunk in the living room, since there wasn’t room for them on the kitchen table. We sat, staring across the table at each other.
“May I serve?” Steve asked.
At first awkwardness threatened to overcome my appetite, but that faded. After sampling the soup—laced with plenty of cream and dry sherry—we piled the bourbon-pulled pork on asiago-and-basil buns. Steve gave Mungo a bit of everything, and the terrier dove right in. Apparently gourmet Southern cooking did a lot to earn favor with us both.
“Do you have any siblings?” Steve asked.
“Talk to me about Ethan Ridge,” I responded.
“God, you’re prickly.” He took a bite and regarded me while he chewed and swallowed. “Okay. I talked to a friend of mine who’s a parole officer. Not Ridge’s, mind you, but he did me a favor and checked some records. The guy was in for fraud and assault.”
I cocked my head. “Really.” So Ethan officially had a violent background. “What kind of assault?”
“The kind involving fists and boots.”
“Hands-on, then.” I grimaced. Breaking someone’s neck was pretty much a hands-on situation, too. “Let me guess—bar fight?”
“Oh, no. Much better.” Steve grinned.
I raised my eyebrows.
“The reason he went after his victim was because the man threatened to turn him in for the fraud. See, Ridge sold a lot of people funeral plots that didn’t technically exist. The same ones, over and over, at Greenwich Cemetery.”
“So he’s a con m
an who tried to solve a problem by attacking someone. And from what he told me, he had a heck of a problem with his employer, too. An unsolvable problem, at least to his way of thinking. Maybe he fell back into old habits.”
“Could be. Are you the only one poking your nose into the murder, or is the coven helping?”
“Er …”
“I mean, the ‘book club,’” he said. “I’m pretty fair at sniffing out other practitioners of magic and, darlin’, those ladies definitely fit the bill.”
“Do they know you know?” I didn’t think so. Cookie had only been guessing when she suggested Steve might be a witch.
“Mrs. Carmichael does. We’ve had … dealings … in the past.”
Come to think of it, Mimsey had acted kind of funny around Steve. “What sort of dealings?”
“I’ll tell you when you stop pushing me away.”
“Guess I’ll have to wait, then.”
He looked plaintively at the ceiling, as if pleading with the gods. I ignored his theatrics.
We ate in silence for a few more minutes. My thoughts darted from Steve-as-witch to Ethan the con man. The manager of the Peachtree Arms didn’t look anything like Uncle Ben, though. But the witness hadn’t actually seen the murder, only someone hanging around Mrs. Templeton’s Cadillac. I wondered whether Quinn was pursuing Ethan Ridge as a possible suspect.
Finally, I sat back in my chair and dabbed at the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “This is insanely good, you know. So much for going for a run.”
“You’re a runner?” Steve asked. “Of course you are. I should have guessed from your lean and lithe physique.”
I gave him a look.
“I’m serious. Listen, I run, too. There’s a great trail through the wildlife refuge. We should go sometime.”
Mungo yipped and ran into the living room, saving me from having to answer. Seconds later, the doorbell rang again. Half glad for an excuse to delay more caloric intake, I rose to answer it. But when I saw who it was, my stomach fluttered all over again—this time from apprehension.
Declan greeted me with a big grin. “Hey, there. I brought you a present.” He gestured to his truck, now parked behind the Bug in my driveway. Black iron scrollwork poked up from the bed.
