Hannah arrived just before midnight. As soon as she was inside, I changed the door key to the phrase that Lissa had given to Penelope. I set Hannah in the Eames chair and send her down to the vault, and I followed her.
Mark, Barry, and Orion were waiting for us. They had extended the chalk line into a full circle with the writing table at its center. I noticed that the Eames chair was just outside the line.
“If this works the way it’s supposed to, we can stop Penelope as soon as she comes downstairs. She won’t be able to cross the line without being repelled by the amber.”
It looked pretty flimsy to me. “And you’re sure this is going to work?”
The look on Mark’s face told me he was sure of no such thing. I glanced at Barry. He was standing outside the line on the other side of the room—chains ready, just in case.
Mark had positioned himself off to the side where he had a clear line of sight to the Eames chair—and a massive pillar to step behind, just in case. I realized that “just in case” factored in our calculations a lot more than I was comfortable with, but it was too late. We were committed.
Hannah took her place at the writing desk with her mother’s spellbook open in front of her. We heard footsteps on the shop floor above us. I stood behind Hannah and held the amber in my cupped hands as she started to chant.
We expected to see Penelope, but it was Simon who popped into the Eames chair. She'd sent him down ahead of her to trigger any trip wires we had set.
He scrambled for the table where Hannah and I sat. He managed to grasp one corner of the empty box, but it slipped out of his hand and skittered across the floor. Simon lunged for it.
His mistake. He was wide open, out in the middle of the floor, on his hands and knees—fully exposed, falling backward and not paying attention to his surroundings. Mark told me later that Simon was right on top of one of the chalk lines that marked the perimeter of the spell’s power when Penelope popped into the Eames chair.
Penelope saw Simon before he saw her.
I can’t exactly explain what happened next; I can only tell you what I saw. Mark raised his staff in both hands, above his head. Penelope’s aura had gone green, but not the rich color that marked a healer. It was as dark as the bottom of the sea. She raised her hands, as well, palms to the sky.
There was a massive flash of blue and orange light, so intense that it was more physical than visual. Lightning leaves a taste and odor in the air, so it wasn’t that. The only thing I’ve ever seen that comes close are those horrifying old films of nuclear tests on Pacific atolls. Picture that moment when the film bleaches entirely white for a beat, just before the mushroom cloud boils up.
I don’t believe that I lost consciousness, but the next thing I understood was that Simon was dead. He was flat on his back, his eyes open wide. There was no mark on him, but the look of horror frozen on his face told me that his had not been a peaceful death.
I quickly scanned the tiny room. Penelope was gone.
The others were starting to rise from the floor, shaking themselves off and trying to get oriented. Mark and Barry were doing their macho thing, dusting off their clothing and acting like it was no big deal. I was aware of Daisy, sitting quietly in the back corner, taking in every word.
It took me a second to realize what was different. The room seemed bigger—and it was. Penelope had blasted a hole right through to the basement of the street-front shop.
Lissa’s head popped up at the ragged edge of the hole. Her eyes were wide. Frank was beside her, his back arched and his ears flat against his head. His eyes were huge.
Hannah was crumpled in the corner, too shocked even to cry. She’d get there eventually, I knew. Simon was her enemy, but he was also her big brother. She was going to need some time to process this, and we would be there for her.
Lissa stepped through the hole in the wall and slumped down on the floor inside our vault. Orion sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him and started to sob. She was going to be useless for a while. Frank climbed into her lap and closed his eyes, purring softly to give her comfort.
Mark made eye contact with Barry, and a silent pact passed between them. Mark nodded at the Eames chair. Daisy and I cradled Hannah between us and helped her upstairs.
When everyone else had gone, Mark and Barry would deal with Simon one last time. His body would never be found.
Chapter Thirteen
Orion tried to track Penelope, but he found no trace of her. At first, we thought she might have been vaporized in the blast that killed Simon, but when Lissa went home later that evening, she discovered that her mother had been there before her. Penelope had taken a kitchen knife and shredded every item of clothing in Lissa’s closet and poured vinegar in all her shoes. The message was as clear as if she had left a note.
Lissa was terrified. She called Daisy and arranged to stay with her until she could find a place of her own. She wanted no part of that house or anything else that belonged to Penelope.
The next evening I took a little detour on my way to work. Penelope’s home was locked up tight. The drapes were drawn and there was no light showing at the corners of the windows. Padlocks had been added to the already-locked security gates.
Every community has that one house that the neighbors shun. The kids tell stories about it at slumber parties, a flashlight throwing spooky shadows under their chins, and the teenagers cross the street to avoid walking past it. This is how haunted house legends are born.
◆◆◆
When I finally got home, John was frantic. I gasped out the story in small bursts of words, trying not to sob.
I needed to be held and he needed to hold me, but we still hadn’t figured out the physics. John could wear earbuds and sleep under blankets, but my hands still passed right through him. We drifted to the bed, both of us miserable.
I climbed in under the old quilt and curled up in a ball. I expected John to sit on the edge of the bed and talk to me; at least I would have the comfort of his voice. But then I felt the blankets lift on his side of the bed, and he climbed in beside me. The quilt was tucked in between us, and I finally felt the presence of his body as he spooned around me, murmuring consolation in my ear.
So, I have my husband back, in spirit if not in body. That night was the end of Simon’s reign of terror, but it was a new beginning for John and me.
So, what about the physical side of our marriage? Let’s just say that John has always had a way with words.
◆◆◆
We each coped with the aftermath of our showdown in the vault in our own way. Orion took Lissa away to his ancestral home in Santorini for a month, letting the Aegean sun bake away the horror. Mark retreated into his books. Barry went on a three-day drunk.
I went back to work.
Daisy was sitting in the Eames chair when I let myself into the shop the next day.
“You nearly scared me to death!” I gasped.
“Well, you did introduce me to the door, dear,” she said, but she looked pleased. “I heard from Aaron again.”
I grinned. “He smells a rat.”
“That he does,” she said. She looked a bit like Frank. “He didn’t expect to win this easily.”
“It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about getting on with my life.”
Daisy patted my hand. “Good for you! Somebody has to be the grown-up.”
I shrugged off the compliment. “So,” I said, “how much longer do I get to enjoy your company? Don’t tell me that you have to rush right back.”
Daisy was suddenly serious. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
I prepared myself to be disappointed. Daisy had always been very matter-of-fact about things: get the job done, move on to the next task. I wasn’t ready to let her go. But she surprised me.
“I’ve decided I’m going to follow your example—make a clean break. What would you think if I decided to get a place here?”
“You’re movin
g?” I was flabbergasted. Daisy had spent her entire life in New Orleans. As far as I knew she’d never even been on vacation.
She looked determined. “I’m thinking about taking a small place for six months, just a trial period. See if I like it.” Her eyes twinkled. “I might even buy a bicycle.”
As far as I knew, Daisy had never married or even had a serious relationship. She’d had a hand in raising all of us, and had given me my first training in the craft, but she had no children of her own. Her closest relationship was with her sister—my mother. “What did my mother say about this?” I asked gently.
Daisy shook her head. When she answered, her voice was soft. “A little distance might do us some good.”
I knew this wasn’t a simple decision for her. Our extended family would be furious at what they would see as her defection. They would blame me for luring her away from them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Daisy said. “I’m a big girl; I make my own decisions. They’re just going to have to get over it.”
I gave her a big hug. I said the only thing I could say: “Welcome to Arizona.”
◆◆◆
Charlie was overjoyed when I called him and asked that he drop by and pick up the profits from the sale of Minerva’s tooth. “I can’t believe you found someone willing to buy that thing,” he said as he pocketed the cash.
“Actually, I bought it for stock,” I said. “You never know when something like that might come in handy.”
It was clear from Charlie’s expression that he thought such an object would never come in handy at his house. He thanked me again and quickly said his goodbyes.
It was Lissa’s first day back at work. Greece appeared to have agreed with her. Or maybe it was Orion. They both seemed ridiculously happy, and I was happy for them.
She approached my desk. “Would you like me to put this in the vault for you?” she asked.
“No, we’ll keep it up here for now,” I said. I opened the box to show her the wicked-looking baboon tooth. “I bought it for you.”
Conflicting emotions played across her face: horror, chagrin at not wanting my gift, horror again, and then finally resignation. “Thank you,” she said meekly.
I laughed. “Lissa, this is not like your mother giving you the tiger’s claw. We’re going to use this as a training tool, you and me. We’ll teach you to control it, and when you’re ready, we’ll transfer it to your care.”
Lissa hesitated—I’m not exactly the cuddly type—before she gave me a big hug. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she murmured into my shoulder.
“Just listen and learn. You were very brave, but that’s not enough. It’s time you started developing your own craft.”
What Daisy had done for me in my youth, I would do for Lissa. The next generation at Pentacle Pawn had begun.
—The End—
Preview: The Sea Turtle Spell
In The Sea Turtle Spell, Maggie’s witchy family runs a pawn shop for magical objects in New Orleans. One of her relatives killed her husband – and her grandmother’s cat is ready to snitch.
The Sea Turtle Spell, a novella, is the prequel to Amanda Hartford’s Pentacle Pawn series.
John
I was the one who found my husband's body. I almost tripped over him.
I’d Ubered back to my family home on Royal Street a little after ten, after a few casual drinks at an oyster bar on the other side of the Quarter, catching up with a former colleague. There are no clubs or restaurants in our block, only retail shops that close by nine, so the foot traffic around our building gets lighter as the evening wears on. Our neighborhood is generally safe after dark and heavily patrolled—nobody wants to jeopardize all those tourist dollars. Even so, I'm always aware of my perimeter when I step out onto the sidewalk.
As far as I knew, John was upstairs. He had planned to spend the evening with a Guinness and a book in the family library. I remember that I was smiling as I emerged from my rideshare. My mind was on getting upstairs and distracting John from that book.
I didn't see my husband lying across the threshold until I stepped into the alcove. The police said later that the LED bulb above the front door was unscrewed, but I didn't notice it. John was facing the door with his knees pulled up to his chest. His hands were laced together over his head, his elbows pulled tight together to protect his face. It was a defensive position, as if someone had been kicking him.
I heard my cousin Aaron pounding down the staircase from the apartments above.
“Oh my God!” he gasped, bending over John. “What happened?”
I was sobbing. All I could do was shake my head. "I don't know, I don't know. Help him!"
Aaron had already dialed 911.
“Is he breathing?” I shrieked. “Oh my God! Is he breathing?”
Aaron wouldn't answer, and he wouldn't look at me.
Sirens were coming.
◆◆◆
John Spencer was not supposed to be dead. He was only 42. He worked out, he watched what he ate, he slept his full seven hours every night. He was always the grown-up. John was a sportswriter, a brilliant wordsmith who traveled with professional franchises and covered big-dollar college teams. His stories read like music, but that meant that his days and most evenings were very structured. John lived a simple life in a world of statistics and deadlines.
Me? Not so much. I resolved a long time ago to live every minute of every day. I loved that man dearly, but it irked me that, whenever we went out to supper, he could just sit there and watch me plow through my Bananas Foster and never even ask for a bite. I mean, Laissez les bons temps rouler, right?
My life is all about magic. After all, I'm a witch.
I'm Marguerite Flournoy, but everybody calls me Maggie. My family operates Pentacle Pawn here in New Orleans, in a shop at the back of this house where my family has lived for generations. I'm a physicist by training and a skeptic by nature. Having one foot in the scientific world and the other in magic gives me a unique perspective on things. So, in the few minutes before the paramedics arrived, and before the shock of John's death could close me down, I forced myself to take a close look at his body.
It’s funny what you think about at times like this. What stood out for me was that John was wearing a single red rose in his lapel. Odd, I thought: John never wore boutonnieres.
I didn't want to disturb the scene, but I touched his cheek and found that he was already growing cold. Despite his defensive posture, I saw no blood or bruises. I felt a vaguely electric tingle, the residue of a potent spell. This was not your usual mugging. John had been killed with magic.
But who would've wanted to hurt John? He wasn't a threat to anybody. He had no talent for the craft, and everybody in this house loved him. Right?
As the paramedics pulled up to the sidewalk, the terror on John's face burned itself into my memory. If this death had been done by magic, then I needed to absorb the fact that someone inside my safe haven had a hand in it.
Both paramedics were ridiculously young; they looked like they were barely out of high school, but they went right to work. I found myself shut out of their efficient circle.
I stood on the sidewalk and watched them roll John out of the alcove and place him flat on his back on the sidewalk. The paramedics methodically opened boxes of equipment as they spoke to each other in medical shorthand. Aaron lurked silently in the doorway, watching.
A small crowd formed around us. It was street theater, and they jostled for the best views. I wanted to scream at them, to tell them to go about their business. I wanted to call them vultures, feeding off of other people's misery. But I never took my eyes off of John, and I said nothing.
It was over very fast. An ambulance pulled up, and the paramedics loaded John inside. I started to climb in, but they closed the doors and pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk.
I found Aaron at my elbow. He glanced at his phone. “Our ride will be here in five. I'll go with you,” he said. “Y
ou shouldn't be alone.”
People say that they remember these tragedies as a blur, but every moment of that night stands out for me in bright bursts: the short, noncommittal responses from the nursing station, Aaron and me squirming in uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room for hours, the crisp creases in the ER doctor's surgical greens when he came out to talk to me, the exact words he said.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Spencer—he was gone before he reached us. You have our sympathies for your loss.”
I think now that the doctor must have practiced that line a thousand times in medical school, but to me his words were fresh and they cut deep. John was gone.
There's a ritual to these things. The bureaucracy is in charge of death. Reports must be written and documents filed. People who die suddenly or alone are not exempt. Unattended deaths are brought back into the system by autopsy.
It was hard for me to bear the notion. John wasn't vain, but he was proud of his body. An autopsy felt like a violation, but I needed to know how John had died. Still, I was pretty sure that medicine had no answers for me.
The emergency room doctors had no clue. John's defensive posture in the doorway suggested that he had been assaulted, but there were no external injuries—not even a bruise from when he fell. There was no sign of heart disease, no brain hemorrhage. The toxicology screen was clean.
The doctors were stumped. The cause of death was listed as heart failure, simply because when someone dies their heart stops. The police, having no other clues, were happy to accept that explanation.
But I knew the truth. John was not killed at our door. John was killed by the door. And I needed to know why.
◆◆◆
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A note from Amanda
If you enjoyed The Blue Amber Spell, please tell a friend – or two or three.
The Blue Amber Spell Page 13
