Chet jumped in. “You know something about the homicide?”
Griebel abruptly closed his mouth and made a strangled noise as he shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I don’t know anything.”
“Come on,” I said. “You just told us you’re involved. If you want to go straight, you can start by coming clean.”
He squinted his dark, mole-like eyes at me. “You’re not Zinnia Riddle. You’re one of the other ones.” His eyes got even smaller and deeper. “You’re the bad one.”
“Am not!”
I turned to Chet for backup. The furious wolf look was back on his face again. He reached down, and in one smooth motion, he grabbed the small man under the armpits, hoisted him up, and threw him back against a wall. I heard the thud of Griebel’s skull striking the hard stone.
“Who are you working for?” Chet demanded.
Griebel screwed up his mouth and then spat in Chet’s face.
Chet’s face contorted with fury. He had both hands busy holding the squirming man in place. He leaned back and used the top of his head to crack the man on his forehead. Another sickening skull sound.
Griebel screamed in pain. “Help! He’s going to kill me!”
Everything was happening so fast. What happened to patience? What happened to not cornering the guy?
Griebel continued to howl, the sound of his voice tearing at my heart.
I grabbed Chet’s arm and yanked it. He was strong, but I used all my muscles plus a power assist from my magic.
With my help pulling away one of Chet’s arms, Griebel managed to wriggle free. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he pointed at me. “Witch!”
“That’s not an insult,” I said.
“You tried to trick me. Witch!”
“Calm down,” I said, which worked about as well as it usually does when you tell someone to calm down.
Chet was moaning and rubbing his face with the sleeve of his jacket. The skin around his eye, where Griebel had spat, was red and raw as though burned.
Griebel finally located his eyeglasses on the stone floor, and put them on. He glowered at me through the round lenses. “Zara Riddle.”
And then, before I could say another word, Griebel Gorman stomped his right foot three times and disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Chet and I were alone in the hallway.
I swished my hand through the smoke to make sure he was really gone, and it wasn’t just an illusion. My hand passed through the smoke easily.
“He’s gone,” I said.
Chet hunched forward and continued to rub his eye.
“Are you okay?” I leaned over to look at his burned skin. The flesh was red and bubbling, still burning. “What did he hit you with? Acid?”
“Don’t touch it,” Chet said. “We need something to wash it away first.”
I looked over at the open doorway leading to the wine cellar. “Red wine or white?”
Twenty minutes later, Chet’s eye was looking much better. We used a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc—the driest of the white wines available—to rinse away the acid, and then I applied my witch powers. Thanks to my healing hands combined with Chet’s own restorative magic, the wound healed up like, well, magic.
“Why would he do such a horrible thing?” I asked. “Who spits acid in someone’s face?”
“That’s what gnomes do,” Chet said. “Gnomes are repugnant creatures.”
I’d read about gnomes in the DWM Monster Manual. According to the book, gnomes are skilled at designing mechanical devices with tiny moving parts. They’re nearsighted, but what they lack in distance sight they more than make up for by being able to see detail in front of their noses. Their natural vision rivals that of a basic high school science lab’s microscope. And it’s rumored that they can escape dangerous situations by stomping their foot three times and disappearing in a puff of smoke. After seeing Griebel Gorman perform this feat, I knew it was more than a rumor.
However, the book hadn’t said anything about them spitting acid.
The door to the wine cellar creaked open. Rob walked in, by himself, carrying a tray with a silver dome on top.
“Got you a salad, Moore,” Rob said, grinning. “Spinach with sprouts, and a lentil-based dressing.”
Chet got up from his folding chair and growled at his coworker.
Rob stopped in his tracks. “Easy, boy. I was joking about the salad. It’s a steak, I swear. Medium rare, just how you like it. No need to rip me to pieces.”
Chet swiped the silver-domed tray from Rob. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, and he took the meal over to the folding table with the computer equipment.
Rob came over to sit beside me. He looked at the open wine bottle on the floor by my feet. “Am I missing something? What happened down here?”
“We had an encounter with a gnome.”
“Griebel Gorman?”
“You know him?”
“That guy is the worst,” Rob said. “I hope you both roughed him up good. He deserves payback for what he did to you, Zara.”
“He was just listening at the door. He never touched me. Chet picked him up and held him against the wall, then Griebel spit in his face before he got away.” I fixed him with a questioning look. “What do you mean about payback for what he did to me?”
“For what he did to you with the toaster.”
“Jog my memory,” I said. “I know Griebel did something to the toaster that Tibbits used to kill Winona Vander Zalm, but that was all before I even moved to Wisteria.”
“Sure, but then he modified another one that nearly killed you.”
“He did?” That was news to me. I tried to play it cool, but I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “I thought the whole incident with me throwing the toaster into the sink was just Winona’s spirit trying to send me clues.”
Rob turned to his coworker, who was focused on eating his steak. His face was still red and splotchy, but the food would help boost his energy.
Rob said, “Hey, man, you didn’t tell Zara about the failed assassination attempts?”
Chet replied, “We had it under control.”
I said to Rob, “There are a lot of things Chet didn’t tell me when I first moved here. A whole lot of things.” I tilted my head to the side. “You know, we should go out sometime for drinks and compare notes.”
Rob’s sunny smile returned. “Sure! As soon as we get out of this castle. It gives me the creeps, and I think that wyvern is up to something. He’s always skulking around, always watching.”
“Ribbons?”
Rob blinked in surprise. “You’re on a first-name basis with the wyvern? Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me he opened a telepathic link with you.” Rob chuckled. “Then I’ll know the apocalypse is definitely on its way.”
“Uh.” I looked down and scuffed the stone floor with the toe of my shoe, dragging a streak of mud from the puddle of white wine that had formed when I’d rinsed Chet’s eye.
Rob swore under his breath. “Are you for real? Ribbons talked to you?”
“I think so? He sort of talked inside my head.”
“That makes sense,” Rob said. “Wyverns have always been linked to,” he looked at me before finishing in a whisper, “witches.”
“Witch is not a dirty word.”
“Depends on who you’re talking to.”
“You mean Dr. Ankh? I guess witch would be a dirty word to her. She doesn’t like my type at all.”
“Dr. Ankh’s got nothing against witches,” Rob said. “If anything, her people have always had a thing against shifters. Which makes it all the more surprising she agreed to come work with us.”
“Her people? What is she?”
Rob grinned. “You’re not going to believe this, but—”
Chet interrupted. “That’s classified.”
Rob closed his mouth with an audible clicking of his teeth.
I turned to Chet and shot him a pleading look. “Come on. I can keep a secret. And you d
id promise to get me more clearance.”
Rob laughed. “You? Zara, you’ll never get clearance. I’m sorry, but the DWM does not give intel to civilians. Especially if they’re witches.” He stopped laughing, gave me a serious look, and put his hand on my shoulder. We were both seated, so he looked directly into my eyes. “No offense, buddy. You know we love you, but you’ll never get even basic access.”
“But I already did. I got your Monster Manual book.”
“That old thing? The one by Jorg Ebola, that old crank?” Rob looked incredulous. “Half the information in there is wrong or outdated.”
I’d suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed ignited my fury. The adrenaline from the encounter with Griebel was still running through my veins, making me feel like kicking or punching someone, and not in a playful pretend way.
I turned to Chet, who was chewing the last bit of gristle from his steak’s T-bone. “You’re a real prize, Chet Moore,” I spat angrily at him. “Is that how you repay someone for risking her life to get your fiancée back from the brink of death? With a worthless piece of fiction?”
He frowned as he set down the bone. “There’s some good information in that book. It’s not worthless. And besides, there’s no way I could possibly repay you for your help.”
“No, there isn’t,” I said. I got up from my chair and used my magic to open the door so I could make a speedy yet dramatic exit.
“What’s going on?” Rob asked.
“Nothing, because I’m outta here,” I said as I walked through the door.
“Zara, we still need your help with something,” Rob called after me.
“I don’t work for the department,” I called back. “Find some other dummy to bait your traps!”
“Wait,” he called out.
It wasn’t fair for me to be angry with Rob, but I was. He worked for the DWM, and I was sick and tired of everything they stood for. The secrecy and the meddling and the layers of lies.
I continued down the hallway, then up the stairs and out of earshot.
Chapter 27
“Zed is on the warpath. I repeat, Zed is on the warpath. Everyone, take shelter. There’s a firecracker on the loose.”
I looked up from my haze to see my old friend Nash. The skinny musician with the boyish grin and the adult hairline was perusing the wire rack of postcards by the entrance of the castle’s gift shop.
“Nash,” I said, wincing because I’d forgotten he was there at the castle, let alone my promise to have a drink and catch up with him.
“Am I in danger? Am I standing directly in your warpath?”
“I’m not on the warpath,” I said defensively.
He waved a hand, indicating my body and the air around it. “Then explain all of this. You’re clomping around, clenching your fists, frowning, and on top of all that, muttering to yourself.”
“I was just deep in thought, feeling betrayed, and… planning my next countermove.”
“Exactly,” Nash said. “You’re on the warpath. What’s his name?”
Chet Moore, I thought but didn’t say. With a side of Archer Caine. Instead, I unclenched my jaw and asked, “What makes you think it’s a guy?”
Nash pulled a postcard off the rack and gave it a casual looking over. “That’s true. It might not be a guy at all. You are here with your mother. So, what’s the older firecracker done to get you so riled up?”
“Hmm. Where to start?” Not that I could tell him the truth, even if he invited me to.
He tossed the postcard back onto the rack. “Sounds like you need to get out of here,” he said. “Let’s bolt and find somewhere we can talk. Somewhere far away, like Kansas.”
“Nash, you promised me you wouldn’t leave.”
He hunched up his shoulders and mimed being electrocuted or tortured in some way. “Zed, I’m a creative person! I can’t have my spirit caged up like this. I can’t take another day!”
“But it hasn’t even been one day. The announcement was yesterday afternoon, which wasn’t even twenty-four hours ago.” A lot had happened since then, but it was still just Monday.
“I know, I know,” he said heavily. “But ever since the wine…” He trailed off and glanced around guiltily.
“What wine?”
“Good idea! Let’s have that drink you promised.”
“Booze is the last thing I need in my life right now.” The smell of the white wine mixing with the acidic gnome saliva I washed off Chet’s face had temporarily soured me on the concept of wine.
“Then we’ll grab a couple of nonadult beverages and go for a walk.” He nodded for me to follow him into the gift shop, where he looked over the selection of fancy low-sugar sodas available in the cooler. “Name your poison.”
I coughed.
He turned to give me a questioning look. “Something wrong?”
Name your poison? Had he not heard that Jo Pressman had been killed by poison? Or had he simply not realized what he’d said?
“Zed?” He paused, reaching for the cooler’s door handle.
“Anything cold and fizzy is fine,” I said.
“Pomegranate it is,” he said, selecting two cans with foil tops. “And then we’ll find somewhere private where we can catch up.”
He walked the cans over to the cashier, who was a bored-looking young man with chin-length brown hair and a name tag reading Kevin 2. Nash asked him jokingly, “Hey, what happened to Kevin 1?”
Kevin 2 looked down at his name tag and said flatly, “He quit.”
“Shouldn’t that bump you up to Kevin 1?”
The cashier looked at Nash as though he was the stupidest person he’d had to endure that day, and the bar was quite high. “Ten seventy-five,” he said.
“For two cans of pop?” Nash gave me a look, shook his head, and paid the man. “For that much money, I expect some concierge service. Where would you recommend we take these overpriced sugar waters? I hear the view from the bell tower at sunset is spectacular, but sunset’s not for a long while, so what do you say?”
Kevin 2 leaned to the side as though he might topple over from sheer boredom. Mechanically, he said, “You could take a tour of our lovely naturally forested trails. Please stick to the marked paths and refrain from smoking except in designated areas.”
Nash looked at me.
I shrugged. “I haven’t seen the grounds at all.” Other than the rose bushes I fell into last night.
“There’s a waterfall,” Nash said. “It was Jo’s favorite spot. She said it was the only place she could think clearly.”
“Perfect. Let’s go there. It might jog her memories.” I made a tongue-tied oops expression. “I mean, it would be a nice way to honor her memory.”
Nash tilted his head and gave me a suspicious, sidelong look. “Uh, sure.” He handed me one of the cold cans and tapped the box of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “I could use some fresh air anyway.”
I snorted. Nash was one of those people who ironically referred to smoking as “getting fresh air.” I don’t know why it made me laugh, but it always did.
Kevin 2 called out behind us, “Have a pleasant afternoon. Come visit the gift shop again.”
The trail from the castle to the waterfall took us past lush scenery, through a cathedral of old-growth Douglas fir and red cedar. The ground-level greenery was mostly ferns and moss. As we got deeper, it became quite dark for a summer day, and the ocean sea breeze scent changed to an earthier, woodsy decay.
Nash and I stopped to read all the cultural designation placards, and he respected the signs for no smoking except in designated areas. He kept bolting ahead of me, his long, skinny legs covering ground quickly, thanks to the extra inches of heel from his cowboy boots. Then he’d stop to pull brambles and burrs from the frayed fabric of his jeans, and I’d zip ahead of him. Racing but pretending not to. Just like when we were kids.
When we finally reached the waterfall, we were both breathing hard from the hike.
“We’re not as you
ng as we used to be,” Nash said.
“Speak for yourself, old man,” I teased.
“Zed, I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you. You’re totally catching up to me. A four-year age difference is nothing once you’re in your thirties.” He grimaced, flaring the tendons at the sides of his sinewy neck. “You know what word I hate? Thirty-something. What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re thirty-nine but trying to trick people into believing you’re thirty-one. But nobody who’s thirty-one says they’re thirty-something. I haven’t been in my twenties for a good while, but I’m still years away from saying thirty-something.” I made a gagging sound and face. “Ew. It does have a terrible ring to it.”
“Probably not as bad as forty.”
I continued the gagging, the childishness of it plus the proximity to Nash making me feel like a teenager again.
He continued, “Or forty-something.”
“Yuck.” I laughed. “Let’s promise we’ll never be a decade-something. We’ll just say our actual age, no matter how scary it is. I’m Zara Riddle and I’m thirty-two.” And I’m a witch! Oh, Nash, you’d laugh so hard if you only knew. I wish I could tell you everything. I wish we could hang out again, like old times, and laugh until the muscles behind our ears ached. I wish I could be close to someone who wasn’t a family member or a secret agent willing to use me for their own purposes. I wish I’d appreciated those times we’d had, and I hadn’t wasted so much energy wishing to be older, to be somewhere else. I wish we could go back.
Nash took a relaxed seat at one of the picnic tables in the clearing. We were the only people there. He moved the designated ashtray—a tin can that had previously held mushroom soup—in front of him, and lit up using a scratched and dented silver lighter. “Zed’s thirty-two,” he said on the exhale. “Our little Zed is all grown up. And she’s got a Mini Zed.” He took another drag. “Where is Mini Zed, anyway?”
I walked over to a rock and used it to stretch my calf muscles. “She was lucky enough to get out of the castle before the lockdown.”
Wisteria Wyverns Page 21
