Witch at Last: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 3 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries)

by Juliette Harper

  “You can’t possibly be suggesting that Shevington’s settlement is still out . . . there,” I said, gesturing in the general directions of the mountains.

  Festus considered my statement for a moment, and then pointed with one front paw. “It’s more like over there,” he said, “but actually the valley exists in the place in between.”

  The place in between?

  What the heck was that supposed to mean?

  The magical doublespeak was bad enough, but coming from the mouth of a talking cat who was my kind-of boyfriend’s father? This was all getting to be too much for me.

  I sat back down heavily.

  “Okay,” I said with resignation, “I’m listening.”

  Festus reached up with his good back leg to contemplatively scratch his ear. “You like old movies, don’t you?” he finally asked.

  “How did you . . . ”

  OMG 2.0.

  Festus had been right there in the cobbler’s shop listening to every conversation Chase and I had. The old rascal had watched while we kissed. Now it was my turn to blush.

  The cat chuckled when he saw me redden. “Yes, I’m a terrible eavesdropper,” he admitted, “but I’m not a voyeur. I left the room when the two of you started rubbing whiskers.”

  Now there was a euphemism I’d never heard before.

  I decided for the most neutral response possible.

  “Yes,” I said, pretending to ignore everything after the movie question, “I like old films.”

  “So you’ve seen Brigadoon?” Festus asked.

  The 1954 MGM musical with Gene Kelly, Van Johnson, and Cyd Charisse was one of my mom’s favorites. The plot is about an idyllic Scottish village that only appears once every 100 years.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ve seen Brigadoon. So you’re telling me this Valley of Shevington blips in and out of the real world?”

  Festus shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m telling you that time runs along different streams. If it’s easier, think of time like radio frequencies.”

  “You mean the way you can sometimes almost tune in a station?” Tori said.

  “Exactly,” Festus said. “The Valley of Shevington exists in a different stream of time that the Fae have the ability to access. That’s how The Valley has remained undetected for centuries.”

  “Then why does it need to be guarded?” I asked.

  “A mortal can only get to The Valley in the company of a member of one of the magical races,” Festus explained, “but the entrances are vulnerable to Creavit witches.”

  So, there had been bigger stakes involved back in the day when Alexander Skea and Knasgowa went to such great lengths to keep Brenna Sinclair out of Briar Hollow.

  “What would a Creavit witch stand to gain from reaching The Valley?” Tori asked.

  Festus looked at Myrtle. “I think you should answer that.”

  Without hesitation, Myrtle said, “The last Alchemist lives there. She is the only surviving practitioner who knows how to perform Veneficus Trajectio.”

  “What’s an Alchemist?” I asked.

  “The Alchemists were a special class of Fae,” Myrtle replied. “Their ranks were drawn from many races within our world. In some of our cultures, they were called Druids. Perhaps you’ve heard of Merlin?”

  I thought Tori’s eyes were going to pop right out of her head.

  “No way,” she gasped.

  Under any other circumstances, I would have laughed when Myrtle answered, “Yes way,” but I was starting to feel a little shell-shocked.

  “It doesn’t really matter what you call them,” she continued. “That’s just semantics. From the 12th century forward, the Alchemists worked to codify and preserve the esoteric knowledge of our kind. Many of the terms we use are Latin because it was the learned language of the time.”

  “And there’s only one Alchemist left?” Tori asked.

  Myrtle nodded. “Yes,” she said. “As the Creavit gained more power in Europe, the Alchemists fled to The Valley of Shevington and sought sanctuary there.”

  Which explained the protection part. I looked at Festus. “The werecats patrol the mountains?”

  He nodded. “That’s why there are so many legends about panthers in these hills.”

  “My granny, Dad’s mom, called them ‘painters,’” Tori said. “She told me a painter screams like a woman.”

  Festus drew up with pride. “In my day I could let out with a scream that would curdle the blood in your veins.”

  “You used the legends and the screams to keep people out of the deep mountains,” I said.

  Festus nodded. “Between us and the Brown Mountain lights, people have stayed at a distance for generations.”

  If you’ve never heard of them, the Brown Mountain lights appear over by Linnville. People call them “ghost lights.” They’ve been studied for decades, but no one has ever come up with a solid explanation for the flashes that light up the night sky near Brown Mountain.

  Darby, who had been silent throughout the whole conversation, mumbled something. The only word I caught was “fairy.”

  “What did you say, Darby?” I asked.

  Looking a little shamefaced, Darby answered. “I said the fairies are terrible showoffs, Mistress,” he said.

  He sounded like the class nerd who never got to hang out with the cool kids.

  “The Brown Mountain lights are fairies,” Myrtle explained. “They conduct military drills in the vicinity of Brown Mountain at night to further divert attention from the area around Briar Hollow.”

  I covered my eyes with my hand and shook my head. “Please tell me that’s all of it,” I pleaded.

  Which, of course, it wasn’t.

  There was no time for me to process if the next part was good news or bad, because Myrtle just put it out there. We could get to The Valley of Shevington by passing through the basement.

  I looked up at her. “My mother told me you are aos sí,” I said. “What does that mean?”

  Myrtle’s gaze locked on mine. Suddenly she was no longer an old librarian. Instead, we were looking at the most radiantly beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was tall and thin, with thick, golden hair falling down around her shoulders. Her face glowed with an inner light and her voice carried the lilt of running water when she spoke.

  Rodney slipped away from her shoulders and scampered down to the floor, bowing low before her.

  “I was old when the earth was young,” she said softly. “I, too, inhabit the space in between, but I exist to help all the races, mortal and Fae alike. Some have called me a goddess, but that I am not. I came here to this land with Barnaby Shevington. I passed through the earth under the cold, dark waters of the Atlantic and made a new home in these hills. I am counselor and friend to thee, Jinx Hamilton. I am sister and mother. I am as I have always been and as I will always be.”

  Then the glow was gone, and I was once again looking into the kind face of the woman Myrtle chose to show us every day. She held her hand out to Rodney.

  “Arise, little one,” she commanded gently. In response, Rodney climbed back up the sleeve of her sweater and cuddled against her neck.

  “Do you believe me now, Jinx?” she asked.

  Beside me, I felt Darby’s tiny hand slip into mine. I looked down into his honest, wizened face. “Believe, Mistress,” he said. “The Valley is a good place, and you have much to learn there.”

  I looked over at Tori, who nodded her head. I looked at Chase, whose eyes begged me not to think ill of him. I looked at Festus, silhouetted against the fire.

  It was just all too much at one time.

  Standing up, I said, “Give me some time . . . alone.”

  For just a second a flicker of hurt passed through Tori’s eyes, but then she nodded again and smiled. “Call me if you need me,” she said.

  “Always,” I whispered, and then I left.

  I didn’t look back as I walked up the steps. My keys were still in my pocket. I went straight out the bac
k door, got in my car, and headed for the cemetery. There was only one person I wanted to talk to at that moment. Beau Longworth.

  5

  My plan to drive straight to the cemetery didn’t work out. At the edge of town, I pulled off to the side of the road, cut the engine, and rolled down the window. My heart felt like it was about to hammer right out of my chest and a fine sheen of perspiration covered my face. The night was warm, but the waves of heat washing over me didn’t come from the atmosphere. Now, I know that both my magic and my emotions reeled that night, but in the moment, I honestly thought I might be having a heart attack.

  A gentle breeze from the window soothed my blazing skin, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly the car seemed too small and too airless. My throat closed down and I gasped to find air. Fighting against the handle like a caged animal, I threw open the door and half fell out on the ground.

  My knees struck rough gravel, and the pain was just enough to open a small window through the maelstrom in my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to send that tiny anchor of calm out along my jangled nerves. An image of my mother’s eyes filled my thoughts, the memory of her sadness and fear twisting at my gut.

  Sooner or later, I think most of us realize that we’ve judged our parents unfairly. Mom and I didn’t necessarily have a bad relationship up to that day, but I had always been closer to my dad. But as I thought of my mother, confessing the horrible secret she’d carried for so many years with tears coursing down her cheeks, I was ashamed of myself.

  Gemma was right. I didn’t have any idea what my mother had gone through in life. I just took the path of least resistance and gravitated toward my dad because he was easier. I had always thought Mom had too many rules, too many “right ways” to do things.

  I resented her nervous, cautious approach to the world because it rubbed off on me when I was younger. As an adult, I worked hard to curb those tendencies or I really might have turned into one of those people who can’t leave their homes. Agoraphobia, I think it’s called.

  Tori and my job at Tom’s Cafe get equal credit for helping to ensure my comfort zone didn’t narrow down to an anxious cage. Tori has always been one great big adventure waiting to happen, and there’s nothing like working in a busy local eatery to keep you involved in the daily life of a community.

  The thought of the regulars at Tom’s sent a pang of longing through me. I used to love to walk into the cafe in the dark, pre-dawn hours. The transition from darkness to bright lights at the start of a new day never failed to perk up my sleepy spirits. The breakfast crowd guzzled a gallon or two of coffee while filling us in on the rumor du jour. By supper, we’d be giggling privately over how the same story had transformed and expanded in just a few hours.

  Even though there’s a lot about being a waitress that’s just hot, dirty, and exhausting, I had fun at Tom’s. It wasn’t the kind of job that was going to help me realize any major life goals, but it taught me to work hard, take responsibility for my actions, and appreciate the value of a dollar.

  Tip big people. That’s a hard working person setting that plate down in front of you.

  There’s no question that I grew up in Tom’s and toughened up.

  But that night, on my knees on the side of the road in the dark, I grew up even more. I was filled with empathy for my mom, hiding what she suspected was the truth about how those high school girls died. Living with that every day. Knowing that no one would believe her even if she had tried to confess.

  Those realizations brought my mom’s way of being in the world into much sharper focus for me. All of her nervous clucking pointed to one central fact of her existence; she was terrified of ever doing anything that would hurt someone again. And she found the idea of my using magic too frightening to even comprehend.

  In her own way, Mom had always been trying to protect me. She couldn’t see that by not telling me the truth, she’d left me open and vulnerable. Now, all the people around me -- the ones who knew how much information I really needed -- seemed to be doing the same thing. It was driving me absolutely insane.

  Which sent me right into a completely paradoxical meltdown. I had wanted -- no, demanded -- to be told everything. I really didn’t have a lot of room to complain that the answers I was given were just too much. Everyone back in that basement cared about me. I was pretty sure they all loved me, but in their heads I was already some kind of super witch.

  That night on the side of the road listening to the night sounds, I wanted the world to stop . . . expanding . . . until I could catch up. Darby asked me to believe. The problem was, I did believe, I just didn't know what to do with that belief yet.

  Magical powers. Ghosts. Alternate history. Heck, alternate time. I think a girl can be forgiven for letting herself have a panic attack. Part of me felt as if I've been lied to my entire life, and another part of me was disappointed in not having been asked to join the party sooner.

  As for the revelation that Chase was a werecat, I couldn't even begin to process that one. Was he really interested in me or had he just been doing his job all along? The way he was looking at me when I left the basement, I liked to think he wanted to know me, the woman, not me, the witch. But could those two things even be separated anymore?

  When my hands stopped shaking and the hammering of my heart subsided, I slowly got to my feet, bracing myself with both hands against the roof of the Prius. When I felt steady enough to be behind the wheel, I got in and drove the rest of the way to the cemetery.

  I found Beau near the marble obelisk that marks his final resting place. He was tossing a ghostly tennis ball for Duke, a particularly incongruous sight, since Beau was buried in his Confederate colonel’s uniform.

  The graveyard was almost deserted. There were only a few other spectres present, but none of them were close to Beau’s grave. Now that the resident spirits can come and go as they please, they have a tendency to wander into town. Some check on loved ones and others just like to see the 21st century world.

  Beau greeted me with his usual gallantry, bending to kiss my hand even though he couldn’t touch me here. Had we been at the store, where Myrtle’s power amplified his energy, I would have felt the cool press of his lips on my skin.

  As he straightened up, Beau frowned slightly. “You are upset, Miss Jinx,” he said, concern filling his words. “What has happened?”

  I almost asked him if he had time to talk to me, which would have been ridiculous. The dead have nothing but time on their hands. I had intended to calmly recite everything that happened. Instead it all came pouring out in a jumbled torrent of words.

  When I started crying, Beau reached for the breast pocket of his coat to hand me his handkerchief, and then realized the gesture was impossible. Seeing how much he wanted to comfort me but couldn’t only made me cry harder.

  When I finally ran out of steam and choked out, “. . . and so I came here to talk to you,” Beau said with infinite gentleness, “Please don’t cry any more, you will make yourself quite ill. Come, sit with me and we will talk.”

  He ushered me over to a granite bench intended for the mourners of the late S. Scholtemeyer, but since he or she left this life in 1897, I didn’t think anyone would mind if Beau and I had a seat.

  “I must admit that I am quite astounded by the things you have told me,” Beau began, “but given the current nature of my own being, I am somewhat more tolerant of the fantastical than I might have been when I was alive.”

  Beau has an immense capacity for understatement.

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” I sniffled. “You’re the only person I know whose world got all turned upside down, too.”

  In spite of himself, Beau chuckled. “My dear,” he said, “death is, perhaps, the ultimate redefinition. Be thankful you have been spared a transformation of that magnitude.”

  I had to give him that. Aunt Fiona always said that any day when you wake up alive is a good day.

  “So, what did you do?” I asked. “When you realized eve
rything you thought you knew about your existence had suddenly changed?”

  Beau stretched his long legs away from the bench. Even though he was almost transparent to me, I could see the scratches and wear on the leather of his high cavalry boots.

  “I did what all spirits do when they awaken to this new reality,” Beau said. “I looked for the most ordinary thing I could still do and clung to that as if it were a life preserver.”

  “What was that thing?”

  “Walking,” he said. “Before the war, I heard a young man named Henry Thoreau deliver a lecture on the virtues of walking. Like him, I have always cleaved to the soul-cleansing potential of a vigorous hike. Although I could not leave the boundaries of this place, I walked the grounds each night, searching my conscience for an understanding of why I was here or simply enjoying the distraction of my own momentum. The body changes, Miss Jinx, but the mind remains intact. I slowly learned to continue my life in the realm of my own intellect. Then, gradually, as other restless spirits came to reside here, I resumed my lifelong calling to be of service to others. I tried, in so far as I was able, to be a leader and a mediator.”

  He found a way to continue being who he had always been regardless of his circumstances.

  When I didn’t say anything, Beau asked, “Do you know your Shakespeare, my dear?”

  “Just enough to pass senior English in high school,” I admitted.

  “‘This above all: to thine own self be true,’” Beau quoted. “‘And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.’”

  I wished Mrs. Florsheim had been that good at relating Shakespeare to real life. I would have enjoyed her class a whole lot more.

  “You’re telling me I can handle all this if I just keep being myself,” I said.

  At just that moment, Duke loped up and dropped a glowing tennis ball at Beau’s feet. The Colonel stooped down, retrieved the ball, and sent it flying over the gravestones with Duke in hot pursuit.

  “Exactly, my dear,” he smiled. “Death has hardly stopped Duke from being a dog, now has it?”

  I laughed and wished with all my heart I could hug him. “Thank you, Beau,” I said. “So much.”