Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie We're In Trouble! (The Toad Witch Mysteries Book 2)

by Christiana Miller

  He nodded. “Not exactly at, because your house is a bitch, but in the vicinity. But we were stoned on some primo hash that Moe brought home from his trip to Mexico, and now no one remembers where exactly. We’ve been looking. I mean, since the weather keeps being so like, freakishly warm, it’s gotta be growing, right? But we can’t find it.”

  He looked out of the window. “Oh, shit!”

  “What?” I looked around.

  The local sheriff was coming out of the diner four doors down from the pharmacy, and Forrest, of all people, was going in. They stopped and chatted for minute.

  “Don’t let him see me,” J.J. squeaked.

  “I thought the sheriff was down with your weed proclivities.” I squinted, trying to read Forrest’s lips as he talked to the sheriff.

  Not like I knew how to read lips, but I was willing to give it a try. The more I stared, the less sense it made, though. I tried to move my mouth to mimic Forrest’s. All I got was something that looked like hello, nice weather and yellow balls fart pecans.

  How did deaf people do it? I sucked at reading lips. So I switched to glaring at Forrest, hoping to push him out of this section of town by the force of my will alone. That seemed to work as well as lip-reading. He was completely oblivious. Either that, or he was very good at blocking.

  The sheriff walked over to his patrol car and J.J. squeaked again.

  “Use your words, like a big boy.” I said, annoyed. “Don’t make me read your mind.”

  Another squeak.

  I looked over to where J.J. had been sitting. He was gone. In his place, was a large brown-and-white rat.

  Chapter 30

  I looked down at the rat, and it looked up at me.

  “What happened to J.J.?” I asked.

  The rat’s whiskers quivered.

  “Well, hell.”

  Between the cargo pants and hoodie, J.J. had a lot of pockets. Was it possible he had stashed his pet rat in one of them? Had J.J. snuck out of the car and accidentally left the rat behind, while I was distracted with Forrest? Had I been that hyper-focused on trying to read Forrest’s lips?

  Oh, crap. Was it possible that J.J. told me he was leaving, fully expecting me to hear him? Could he have asked me to take care of his rat while my mind was otherwise engaged?

  Or had J.J. somehow turned into a rat without my seeing it? But wouldn’t I have sensed that kind of magic building up? Could it have been the cottage? Was it pissed off about J.J.’s visit? Or his missing pot plants? Did the cottage’s reach extend into town? I looked around. I didn’t see any abandoned clothes, just the rat.

  I wrinkled my nose and stroked the rat’s head. “Snap out of it Mara. That’s just crazy talk. People can’t really turn into animals.” Of course, they couldn’t turn into trees either, but tell that to J.J.’s great-great-grandfather.

  It had to be J.J.’s pet rat. J.J. was just the kind of kid to keep a pet rat in his jacket pocket. With the smells emanating off the kid, the rat would feel right at home.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” I put my hand out for the rat to sniff and tried to look inside its mind.

  It was a dark maze, lit up by images of food and grass.

  Well, that was no help. Those images could belong to either J.J. or the rat. Gosh-dangit. Gus was going to laugh his ass off about this.

  A tapping at the driver’s side window made both of us jump. I clutched at my heart, while the rat jumped down and hid underneath the passenger seat.

  “Miss? Are you okay?” The sheriff asked, tapping on the window again with his nightstick.

  I rolled the window down and smiled at him. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re parked in a loading zone.”

  “I was just dropping off…” Instinctively, I turned to the passenger seat, but remembered there was no one there. I turned back to the cop. “…a prescription. I’m sorry. I thought I could run in and be out in ten minutes.”

  “Last I looked, loading zone wasn’t synonymous with shopping zone. You need to get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.” I said, not about to argue. “I’ll do that right now. Sorry about that.”

  I started the car and he moved aside. Thankfully, one of the cars ahead of me was just pulling out. I drove up a few feet, pulled into a parking spot, and turned off the ignition.

  After the sheriff walked away, I cracked the windows so the rat could get some air. It was a gorgeous day out—which I was starting to get used to—but still a little overcast, so the car wouldn’t heat up too quickly.

  * * *

  I ran into the pharmacy to get my prenatal vitamins. There was a line to check out though, and by the time I got back into the car, the rat was sitting on the passenger seat, looking at me accusingly.

  “I wasn’t gone that long.” I said.

  The rat chittered. It obviously disagreed.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll take you with me next time. Chill.”

  The rat settled down and I started the car.

  “So, ’fess up, are you J.J. or J.J.’s pet?” I asked him.

  The rat twitched its whiskers and chittered again.

  “Seriously, that’s the best you can do? Even Grundleshanks figured out how to talk.”

  The rat glared at me with its beady eyes and said nothing.

  “Fine. Be that way.”

  * * *

  I drove to the Trading Post but, Anna, the girl behind the counter, hadn’t seen J.J. at all that day. When I told her I had his pet rat, she gave me his address, as long as I promised not to tell him where I got it from. As I was leaving, I noticed that the picture J.J. kept at the register of his great-great-grandfather Jarvis, was missing. I was going to ask Anna about it, but another customer came in, demanding her attention. I filed it away, to ask her about later.

  J.J. lived in a beige brick apartment building, in the middle of town. It was just as drab on the outside as what my vision had shown of the inside.

  I rang his doorbell, but there was no answer.

  I rang his neighbors’ doorbells, but no one had seen him. And no one knew if he had any pets.

  By this time, the rat was perched on my shoulder like a furry bird. I turned my head and sniffed him. It did kind of smell like J.J. Wouldn’t that be wild, if J.J. could shapeshift into a large rat when he panicked?

  I mean, who knew what could happen in Devil’s Point? Most of the town thought the cottage had turned J.J.’s great-great-great-grandfather into a rowan tree, and they seemed to be okay with that. And when I was looking up the history of the place, I learned that the Native American tribe who settled the area told tales of shapeshifting skinwalkers. But I always figured that was code for astrally shapeshifting, not physically shapeshifting.

  Besides, J.J. wasn’t a skinwalker or a shaman or a witch. He was just a barely-out-of-his-teens stoner. If a potted plant had suddenly appeared in my car, it stood a better chance of being J.J. than this poor rat did.

  I finally gave up, went back to the car and drove to the pet store.

  * * *

  The sun had come out and since it was too hot to leave the rat in the car, I opened my purse and looked at him. “Don’t poop in there, got it?”

  The rat twitched his whiskers at me, got in the purse and settled down. I zipped it almost closed, leaving a small gap. Big enough for the rat to get air, not big enough for him to escape.

  With the rat nestled in my purse, I went shopping. I bought dishes, a water bottle, cedar chips and a rat habitat. If the rat was J.J., giving him pet food seemed kinda rude. So, I stopped by the grocers and stocked up on nuts, seeds, fruits and veggies along with chicken, beef and fish.

  Gus was going to get a kick out of this—when he started talking to me again. I was feeding the rat a better balanced diet than I usually fed myself.

  * * *

  At home, I put the Dobes out in the run, then gave the rat a bath in a flat Tupperware container. It was definitely not happy about the entire thing. It started eyeballing my thumb with
a carnivorous look in its eyes.

  “Knock it off,” I warned him. “You bite me, and I’ll turn you over the humane society.”

  The rat twitched its whiskers and seemed to be thinking it over.

  “I need a name for you.” I said, as I rinsed him. “You seem pretty smart for a rat.”

  The rat poked his nose up and I stroked it.

  “Let’s go with Gronwy. Duke Gronwy of Rattenshire.”

  He squeaked and I turned the water off.

  “Great. Duke Gronwy it is. Until you either turn back into a human, or J.J. shows up to claim you.”

  Once he was dry, I crafted a cloaking spell on the cage. It wouldn’t work if someone was deliberately looking for him, but it should hold if someone (or some animal) was just passing by. But, just to be safe, I put Gronwy and his home up on top of the bookshelf in my room—out of the dogs’ reach, and away from cat territory.

  I debated knocking on Gus’s still-closed door. I didn’t want to bug him if he was still mad, but if he wasn’t, we needed to talk. I tried the doorknob—although, I didn’t know why, really. If Gus had been in there, he would be pissed about me walking in uninvited, and if he wasn’t, I would risk letting his monster cats out for no reason. But Gus had locked the door.

  I put my palm against it for a moment. Other than the cats, I couldn’t feel anything on the other side. Either he was out, or he had tossed mega-shields up around the room.

  * * *

  When I brought the Dobes in for the night, they made a beeline for Gus’s room. A cacophony of sound emerged—screeches, hisses and growls from the felines, earnest yips, barks and growls from the canines.

  This had disaster written all over it. I ran to catch up to them. A closed door was the only thing between the dogs and death-by-cat and with the current assault from both sides, I didn’t know how long it was going to hold.

  Chapter 31

  When I got there, the Dobes were hell-bent on digging their way through the door, scratching deep grooves into the wood with their nails. Above their heads, I could see the doorknob turning.

  I grabbed the knob and held it, stopping its motion.

  “Gus!” I yelled.

  But the only reply was the yowling of the cats. Either Gus was still out, or they had killed and eaten him. Either way, I wasn’t about to go through that door to find out.

  I let go of the doorknob and it immediately started turning again—the only thing thwarting the cats’ desires to emerge and engage was the lock. Although, for all I knew, the evil feline geniuses were on the verge of figuring that out.

  I grabbed the Dobes by the collars and hurriedly dragged the fretting dogs into my bedroom, where I closed my own door and then read them the riot act. I wouldn’t have expected most dogs to understand, but these Dobes were super-smart.

  They had such guilty expressions on their faces, I was pretty sure they knew exactly what I was saying. And they tried their best to make their misbehavior up to me by becoming super affectionate.

  But when they thought I wasn’t paying attention, I would catch them glancing over at the door, torn between staying put and behaving or sneaking out and engaging the still-yowling monster cats.

  I couldn’t do anything about the cats, but I figured I could try calming the dogs. I sat on the floor with them and hummed, my thumbs rubbing between their eyes. I pulled in their energy and hitched it to mine. I slowed down my breathing and vibrational rate. Then I used long, slow strokes over their heads and down their backs, until I could gently roll them on their sides. As I stroked their chests, they started to yawn and close their eyes.

  Soon, they were both asleep. Even the cats had settled down and stopped screeching for the Dobes’ heads on a platter.

  I slid out of the puppy pile and checked on Gronwy of Rattenshire. He was curled up on his nest of shavings, sound asleep. The whole house was asleep except me.

  * * *

  I went downstairs to the library and looked through volume after dusty volume, trying to see if I had overlooked anything about the toad bone ritual.

  I kept coming back to a sketch of a guy, kneeling on a riverbank, by the light of the full moon. And then it dawned on me. Gus was going to need a full moon.

  I pulled out my iPhone and quickly looked up the moon schedule. We had a full moon earlier this month, so he wouldn’t be able to do anything until the beginning of next month. That gave me some time to get the delivery from China. And from what I was reading, for the week before the ritual, he’d have to keep the toad bones physically on his person.

  Well, there was a plan—wait until the week before the next full moon, slip Gus a Benadryl, or get him passed-out drunk, then roll him and see if any bones fell out.

  It wasn’t the best plan, but it was better than nothing. I filed it away as a last resort.

  * * *

  The next morning, Gus pulled up in Sally, my ex-little red Mustang convertible, while I was outside, picking up our delivery box of fruits and veggies.

  As he got out, he glanced at me and looked away, his face still hard.

  “Would you knock it off?!” I asked. “Aunt Tillie’s the one who said you’ll regret it. Not me. Stop hating on the messenger.”

  Gus faced me, his eyes narrowing. “That’s calculated bullshit. You need to stop pulling your Aunt Tillie out as a trump card, every time I do something you don’t like.”

  I set the box down and looked at him. “You don’t like it, talk to her. If she’s riding my ass about something you’re doing, what do you want me to do? Keep it from you? She’s perfectly capable of impaling you with garden shears if you ignore her. I have the scars to prove it.”

  Gus snorted. “Right.”

  “What does that mean?!”

  “I think you’re seeing what you want to see.”

  “Like hell. Look, I don’t know why you can’t sense her anymore, but Aunt Tillie is totally fixated on this.” I said. “She’s making my life miserable, trying to get through to you.”

  Gus rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s assume you’re right—for the moment. Let’s assume you are actually talking to your dead, pain-in-the-ass, Aunt Tillie. Living with ghosts isn’t like living with people. It’s easier to misconstrue their messages—between their subtlety and your filters, she could be saying do the ritual for all you know. Not don’t do. You can’t be certain.”

  “Are you kidding? This is my Aunt Tillie we’re talking about. She wouldn’t know the meaning of subtlety if someone smacked her upside the head with a dictionary. And she has more words for ‘no’ than Eskimos have for snow. I’m telling you, she’s talking to people on the other side and getting the low down.”

  Gus snorted again. “So, she’s second-guessing me, because some dead Avon lady told her it was a bad idea?”

  “I’m sure she’s talking to people who’ve done the ritual,” I said, annoyed. “Or who’ve studied it. She has access to everyone who’s crossed over.”

  “You really believe that the most advanced witches and shamans are hanging around in the Otherworld, educating your Aunt Tillie about the perils of the toad bone ritual? The mere thought of that is ridiculous.”

  “Why? Because you think they’re too good for her?”

  “Because she’s insane. Can I remind you, she tried to kill you? Just a few months ago.”

  “She was trying to protect me.”

  “Some protection. She’s a lunatic from beyond the grave. And if you keep listening to her, she’s going to make you as nutty as she is.”

  He started up the stairs to the front porch.

  I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “You saw how sick you got after the Supper for the Dead. Can you tell me that didn’t have anything to do with what you’re planning?”

  “I ate a contaminated plum—one that you dropped into the garbage disposal and didn’t throw out. Thank you very much. That wasn’t the ritual’s fault. I haven’t done the ritual yet. That was yours.”

  “You took the
garbage can away!” I said, exasperated. “You know damn well that one of the ways magic works is through serendipity.”

  He shook my hand off and slammed into the house.

  I sighed and picked up the box. This was the first time Gus and I had been in a serious, ongoing fight and it felt horrible.

  I wondered how long he’d continue living with me, if we didn’t make up soon. Would he leave me and move into Forrest’s home, full-time, once the cats had been delivered to Forrest’s stepsister? The thought of not having Gus around made my stomach sink.

  Chapter 32

  The weather had been so warm, for so long, we beat a couple of national records—not only hottest days, but longest warm spell. It was impossible to turn on the TV and not hear someone discussing it. Weather people tried to figure out how long it would last, while religious zealots and conspiracy theorists claimed it was a sign the world was ending—albeit for very different reasons: Hell has come to earth versus the poles are flipping versus secret government weather tests.

  No one mentioned anything about spoiled rotten rogue witch wanting his own way and wanting it now.

  * * *

  Once Gus saw the grooves in his door, and I filled him in on what had happened, he did something to it—either doused it in some kind of keep-away spray, or figured out how to put a hex on it. He didn’t say which. But it was effective enough to encourage the Dobes to give Gus’s door a wide berth, instead of trying to get in and meet those cats, face-to-face. Unfortunately, it didn’t work on the cats. They were constantly trying to turn the knob, or poke their claws through the gap beneath the door.

  While Gus and I were polite to each other on the surface, underneath, Gus was still pissed off at me for snooping and interfering and I was still pissed off at him for not believing me and honestly, for the cats.

  If he wanted to make sure I was never going to go in his room again, he couldn’t have picked a better weapon than those cats. The smell coming from his bedroom was insane. And it never ended. I got that it wasn’t the cats’ fault, they were sick. But, wow. It was totally stomach-turning. I had to hold my breath just to walk past his door.