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

by Juliette Harper

  "I'm not going anywhere until we talk about Brenna," I said finally.

  "There will be plenty of time to talk about that woman," Myrtle replied dismissively.

  "There's no time like the present," I responded with stubborn sweetness.

  Sighing, Myrtle said in a long-suffering tone, "I see you are determined to embrace the less than admirable tradition of obstinacy cherished by the women in your family."

  I just looked at her.

  She had no idea how much I could “cherish the obstinacy.”

  Several heartbeats passed, and then she let out another massive sigh.

  It didn’t work.

  Ancient Fae or not, she could stand right in front of me and hyperventilate for all I cared. I wasn’t budging.

  I’m won’t say Myrtle caved exactly, but she did finally meet me halfway.

  "Very well,” she said, her tone dripping resignation. “Brenna is putting out no more signal than the other humans on the square. Because of that, I don't think she's an immediate threat, but I want to discuss the matter with Moira, which is one of the reasons we need to be on our way. Are you satisfied?"

  No, I wasn’t satisfied. She answered one question and raised 20 more, but I wasn’t ready to get in a real contest of wills with the aos sí and find myself turned into a toadstool or something. I confined my follow-up questions to two.

  "What do you mean by 'signal' and who is Moira?"

  “Oh, for heaven sake’s,” Myrtle said impatiently, “we really do not have time for a classroom lecture!”

  Maybe she didn’t have time, but I certainly did.

  And what the heck was wrong with her anyway? Myrtle was never this testy.

  Again, I stood and waited.

  Finally, Myrtle said, “All living beings generate an energy signal. When I choose to do so, I can hear the background hum of humanity. Those with magical powers stand out for me. Other than the people in this room, there are no other magical beings within the range of my perceptions. Brenna has either lost her powers or she is masking them in some way. Now are you satisfied?"

  I didn't like the sound of the whole masked powers thing. "On the off chance that she does still have her powers, should we be leaving the store unguarded?" I asked.

  Amity fielded that one. "The store is warded," she said. "I cast the spell myself. Nothing can happen here that we won't know about in The Valley."

  Okay. Magical LoJack. That was good.

  "And this Moira person?" I asked, still standing my ground. “Who is she?”

  "She is the Alchemist," Myrtle answered. "If Tori is to be apprenticed by her, they must meet as soon as possible. And Barnaby is quite anxious to speak with you. Neither of those things can happen as long as we are standing here wasting time."

  I looked at Tori. I could tell from the expression in her eyes that she was almost as excited as Darby but was trying to be way more cool about it.

  "You up for this?" I asked.

  It was a completely unnecessary question.

  "Kick the tires and light the fires, baby," she grinned.

  Great. Top Gun quotes. Just what I needed. Tori in Maverick mode.

  "Okay," I said. "Which pack is mine?"

  Darby looked so happy and relieved I thought he might cry. "I selected the red one for you, Mistress, and the yellow is for Tori,” he said.

  Our favorite colors.

  It is impossible not to love Darby. They should put a picture of him beside the word "thoughtful" in the dictionary.

  I tested the weight of the pack, then slipped the straps over my shoulders and took the walking staff Amity held out to me. The polished oak felt instantly familiar to my hand, and as soon as I touched the wood, the chunk of raw quartz set in the top of the staff began to pulsate slightly.

  "She likes you," Amity said approvingly.

  "She?" I asked, watching the stone with open fascination.

  "The staff was a gift to Knasgowa from the ancient oak that stands in the center of The Village Green in Shevington," Amity explained. "Your ancestors have carried this staff with them on their trips to The Valley for more than 200 years."

  I ran my fingers over the wood and felt . . . life.

  "Does she have a name?" I asked.

  Myrtle answered, the tone of her voice now filled with affection. "She is called Dílestos. In the ancient language of the Celts it means to be steadfast and loyal. The tree in the center of Shevington sprang from the roots of the great oak under which I made my home in the time before there was time. Learn to hear her voice, Jinx, and she will guide you well."

  "Dílestos," I whispered, opening my mind to the staff. "Hi there."

  The last time I communicated with a tree, I’d placed my hands on the trunk of an aged, venerable hickory and found myself drawn into its alien awareness of time and space. Dílestos was different. More refined and purposeful. More present.

  Then, I hadn’t learned about the Celtic perception of the oak tree as a storehouse of knowledge. I didn’t know Druids used oak staffs to access other facets of reality, like the one we were about to visit. But I did feel the weight of the oak’s constancy, and when a single word, warm as a summer wind, flowed through my mind, I smiled.

  Dílestos said, "Friend."

  I felt Tori's eyes on me and looked up.

  "Hey," she said, "what's going on over there?"

  "It's like that night," I answered softly, "when the hickory spoke to me."

  Myrtle said quietly, “You are learning to find the life in all things. Remember, Jinx, the blood of the Cherokee people flows in your veins. Your connection with this land is far deeper than you realize.”

  Tori turned to Myrtle. "Wasn’t Duncan Skea a Druid?” she asked.

  Myrtle nodded. “Yes,” she said, “he was.”

  “So, I have Druid blood, too,” Tori said, “and the Druids were big on trees, right?”

  “Correct,” Myrtle said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “So does that mean I can learn to talk to trees?” Tori went on.

  "Yes," Myrtle said, "the trees are our sisters and brothers. They draw their wisdom from the deep memories of the earth. When you discover that part of yourself that stems from your Druidic ancestors, you will hear their voices just as Jinx can."

  Since the theme of the evening seemed to be discovery, I didn’t see any reason why Tori had to wait. I held Dílestos out to her.

  “Go on,” I said. "Try it."

  She hesitated for just an instant. “Okay,” she said, tentatively reaching for the staff, “but don’t let go.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

  Tori laid her hand next to mine on Dílestos. The pulsations of the stone changed their rhythm and a faint blue glow stirred in the facets of the quartz.

  After a couple of seconds, Tori's eyes grew round in her face.

  “What is it?" I asked.

  "She said 'Welcome,'" Tori said, grinning in disbelief. "I heard her say ‘Welcome.’"

  “Excellent!” Amity said. “She likes you both. That’s even better than we had hoped.”

  I remember exactly what ran through my mind when she said that.

  Why the heck does it always feel like we’re being asked to pass tests we don’t even know we’re taking?

  The instant I thought the words, Dílestos whispered, “Get used to it.”

  In spite of myself, I laughed.

  “What?” Tori asked curiously.

  “I’ll explain it later,” I said. “Let’s just say Dílestos is our kind of gal.”

  UPSTAIRS in the store

  IN THE DARKENED area behind the espresso bar, a single cup quivered slightly as the tiny witch peeled herself off the curved surface, stood up, and inhaled deeply to inflate herself back to a three-dimensional form. She launched off the edge of the shelf on her broom, flying swiftly to the basement door, which stood slightly ajar. After listening for a moment, she slipped into the space, descending into the shadows belo
w.

  He told her what to expect: a dingy, cluttered cave full of junk. But he had also given her a word. Asperio.

  Her voice was nothing more than the whine of a mosquito. The utterance opened a tunnel no larger than a pinprick. But it was enough for her to see and to listen undetected.

  Long minutes passed before she zoomed away again, this time landing on the musical chessboard. Although some of the pieces were taller than her own form, the tiny green-skinned woman picked each one up, struggling to clear them all away until only the pawns stood in their proper places.

  Starting at the column for Middle C, she arranged them one by one. When she was done, the witch picked up her broom and tapped the corner of the chessboard three times. Each pawn levitated individually and came down on the polished wood with a sharp tap.

  When the last pawn landed, the witch climbed on her broom again and began to investigate the store, examining the merchandise, flying into the storeroom, and then moving around inside Tori’s micro apartment. The tiny crone didn’t have to return to her prison on the cup until the humans came back, and she planned to enjoy every second of her freedom.

  IN A DIMLY LIT study

  THE MAN LOOKED up from his book at the sound of the pawns scratching against the surface of the chessboard. Setting the volume aside, he crossed the room and studied the pattern of the pieces. A miniature harp sat beside the board. Tapping the instrument with an elegant forefinger, the man whispered, “Interpretetur.”

  The strings of the harp vibrated and a clear voice sang, “Come on in, baby take your coat off.”

  Frowning, the man opened a laptop on the desk, went to a search engine and entered the words. While the message was clear enough, the origin of the lyrics eluded him until four rather hairy men with startlingly white teeth appeared on the screen. Some country and western group from the Eighties called The Oak Ridge Boys.

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She had, after all, tried to double cross him to acquire a lock of Elvis Presley’s hair believed to convey upon the holder the gift of mesmerizing vocal ability -- with a 100 lb. weight gain and some addictive tendencies, side effects best left unmentioned.

  That nonsense aside, however? The store was empty, which, as the great Sherlock Holmes himself would have said, meant the game was now afoot.

  11

  Just as we were about ready to fall in behind Myrtle, I heard frantic squealing, and turned to see Rodney descending the stairs in bounding leaps. He had a little pack of his own strapped to his back. As he skidded to a stop in front of me, I grinned down at him and said, “You want to go, too, little man?”

  Rodney nodded vigorously, swiveling his head anxiously between Myrtle and me.

  “It’s okay with me,” I said. “Myrtle?”

  “Of course,” she said, “We leave no rat behind.”

  That’s Myrtle for you. Just when you think she really is going all Stern Library Lady on us, she cracks a joke. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Myrtle was on edge about something, which could not be a good thing.

  But, between her joke and Rodney doing a victory dance worthy of an NFL quarterback, any tension in the room evaporated.

  I put my hand down. Rodney jumped into my palm, went right up my arm, and stationed himself on the back of my pack. I twisted my neck to look at him over my shoulder. “You good back there?”

  Rodney held up one tiny toe as if saying, “Hang on.” He extracted a minuscule safety cord from one of the pockets on his backpack, clipped himself to the shoulder strap of my bag, and gave me a thumbs up.

  Your guess is as good as mine. Rat Scouts maybe?

  “Okay,” I said to Myrtle, “lead off.”

  The group fell in behind her as she began to thread her way through the maze of shelves. Amity walked directly behind Myrtle, Tori came next with Darby, and that left me, Chase, Fetus and Rodney to bring up the rear.

  Chase and I could hardly have a personal conversation with that many sharp, furry ears listening, so we made small talk.

  “How long have you been going to The Valley?” I asked.

  Chase shifted his pack more comfortably on his shoulders, which elicited some grumbling from Festus who was pretending to be napping.

  “Remember I told you that I was raised in Raleigh?” Chase said.

  “Yes,” I said, “I remember. You said Festus left Briar Hollow when he was just a kid.”

  “Kitten,” the old cat corrected me.

  “Dad,” Chase commanded, “take a nap.” Then to me he added, “Sorry. He’s just giving you a hard time.”

  “Grumpy old tomcats don’t impress me,” I said, purposely setting out to ruffle Festus’ fur. It worked.

  “I am not grumpy,” he growled, “and I am not old. I’ve only used up one of my nine lives.”

  Nine. Lives.

  I looked at Chase. “You really live nine lives?”

  “That’s just the way people put it,” he answered, “but all Fae live longer than humans.”

  That was when I said to myself, “Okay, girl, you’re either in or you’re not.” What I said to Chase, in a perfectly neutral tone, was, “So, how old are you?”

  He seemed uncertain how to answer, and then I saw his version of the “in or out” thought move through his eyes. He looked a little bit like he was steeling himself for a blow, but he answered me. “I’ll be 87 next month.”

  “And hairball back there?” I asked calmly.

  “Hey!” Festus said. “Watch your language, young lady!”

  Chase barely smothered a laugh. “Dad is just shy of 110.”

  “Really?” I said. “I would have pegged him for 125 if he’s a day.”

  This time Chase did laugh. Festus stood up, turned around three times, and settled back down with his back firmly toward me.

  “I think your father is sulking,” I told Chase with a grin.

  “He does that a lot,” Chase agreed. He clearly hadn’t expected this conversation to go well. His face betrayed an absolutely adorable mixture of relief, surprise, and hope.

  “So, exactly how long do werecats live?” I asked.

  “It depends on how much time we spend in the in between,” he said, “but the average is around 200.”

  That was when the “what am I” question moved to the forefront of my thoughts.

  I knew Myrtle was ancient, and obviously Darby had been hanging around a long time, but I hadn’t give any greater thought than that to Fae lifespans, much less my own. Aunt Fiona was 72 when she died, which made her 17 years older than my mother . . .

  “I can almost hear you doing the mental math,” Chase said, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re wondering if witches live longer, too. The answer is that it varies by practitioner. The more powerful the witch, the longer they live.”

  That made sense. Life itself is a form of power; it just gets doled out in different measure. I remember learning in high school science class that there’s a kind of mayfly that only lives 5 minutes. I guess even when you’re an insect, it’s what you do with those 5 minutes that really counts.

  “But am I human or am I Fae?” I asked, sounding as reluctant to know as I felt.

  “Uh, Myrtle,” Chase said, “you want to take that one?”

  The group stopped, and Myrtle turned to face me. “You are a being of the Universe,” she said, “one among many beings. There is infinite beauty in variety, Jinx. Those you know as ‘humans’ are but one branch of the expression of life. I am another; Chase and Festus are another again. As is Darby, and little Rodney. You will live according to the measure of what has been allotted to you, and then your energy will transform and you will live again. That is the way of Creation. ‘Fae’ and ‘human’ are nothing but constructs of language. Mere words do not speak to the quality of heart and mind. Do you understand?”

  Oddly enough, I did. Some truths simply slip into place in your understanding. That’s what Myrtle’s explanation did for me. As we continued walking, it wasn’t so much
the state of my own being that preoccupied my thoughts as trying to understand why the Creavit bartered for immortality.

  “The real problem with the Creavit is that what they want to be goes against the natural order of things, isn’t it?” I finally asked.

  “Yes,” Myrtle said. “They want more than what is their allotted measure, and what they seek to do with it disrupts the natural order.”

  “And it’s not just the fact that they want to live longer,” Chase said. “Over the span of many lifetimes the Creavit can gain untold wealth and influence. That kind of longevity has its positives and negatives, but it’s fantastic for political manipulation and long-range financial planning.”

  Pieces of the puzzle slowly started to fall into place for me.

  “Which would explain how Brenna Sinclair managed to buy a building on the square even if her powers are gone,” I said.

  “I would imagine so,” Chase agreed. “She would have money and resources socked away in accounts with right of survivorship. Immortals get very good at playing human games to pass as normal. They may be powerful Fae, but they have to be careful not to give themselves away. That’s how witch hunts get started.”

  “If they’re immortal, why would they care?” I asked.

  “Disruption of that sort is literally bad for business,” he answered. “The Creavit are power brokers. They prefer to work largely behind the scenes. Societal chaos, burning pyres, and angry Hereditarium councils are not good for their bottom line. Back during the Fae Reformation there were enough Creavit to band together and threaten prevailing power structures. In modern times, most of them are sole practitioners. In fact, that’s why my grandfather moved us to Raleigh, to surveil a Creavit.”

  He dropped that little bombshell like it was the most casual thing in the world, but I was so taken aback, I almost tripped over my own feet.

  “What?!” I said. “There are more Creavit in North Carolina?”

  Realizing he was yet again hitting me with a potential overload of information, Chase hastened to downplay what he’d just said.

  “More like North America now,” he assured me, “and there’s just the one that we know about. A man named Irenaeus Chesterfield. He’s the reason Dad is lame.”