Murder, Magic, and Moggies

by Pearl Goodfellow

  I had to hurry. The storm was coming.

  But, hurry to do what? I steadied my climb with the frayed twist of splintered twine I'd used before. In this lifetime? I felt confused.

  Shush. Shush. Click, click, click.

  I had reached the top of the staircase. I found the hauntingly familiar warning sign, only this time it wasn’t warning of an undertow or dangerous riptide. This time there were only three words lettered in a dire, arterial red.

  “Hic Sunt Dracones.”

  The short phrase tugged at an important memory. I’d seen those words somewhere before.

  Suddenly, a strong, searing wind blew through the trees above my head. Thick trunks bent and creaked, as Nature leaned down to whisper a warning through her rustling leaves.

  This storm was bringing more than rain.

  Thunder rumbled ominously

  This storm was bringing danger.

  Another sound drifted on the air. A lilting, sing-song melody in a child’s voice. It almost sounded like “Rain, Rain, Go Away.” Appropriate, I thought, given the approaching weather. I tried to catch the words.

  “With his blue and lapping tongue, many of you will be stung. Snip, snap, dragon.”

  Snapdragons. I remembered the bright, cheery flower in Grammy Chimera’s flower bed. She had always planted red ones.

  “Red snapdragons give positive energy,” Grammy used to say as she’d have me help her gather up bouquets of the heavy-petaled flowers to brighten up the shop. She would hum along with the fat black bumblebees as she clipped the fragrant stems.

  “I like snapdragons,” I would say while dodging the bobbing bugs. “I think they’re my favorite flower. They’re so pretty.”

  Grammy Chimera would waggle a gnarled, knuckled finger at me, one eye squinting low.

  “That may be, but be wary, girl. There may come a time when snapdragons will serve you well beyond just being a beautiful flower. Every flower has a history. Every single one has a life's purpose too. You just need to listen.”

  “You’re just joking, Grammy. Flowers can’t talk!” I had laughed. Grammy Chimera had clucked her tongue cautiously.

  “Oh, but they can, girl, and you’d be wise to listen. Tulips can be a declaration of love. A seven-petaled rose will mean order and balance. Snapdragons? Snapdragons tell us things are not always what they appear to be. And be careful where you stick your nose because magic is in the air.”

  Grammy would often joke about many things. Magic wasn’t one of them.

  Maybe I wasn’t so fond of snapdragons, after all, I had thought at the time. I remember waving my hand across a swath of bright, yellow puffs tucked in a far, secluded corner of Grammy’s cottage garden. I snapped a single blossom free and had skipped over to her.

  “What about this one?” I declared, thrusting the yellow button of a bloom under her nose. She had immediately swatted it from my hand. It had fallen to the dirt. Grammy Chimera had crushed it under foot.

  “The tansy is a deceitful flower, child. It looks happy enough, but the friend who offers it is no friend to you at all.”

  Grammy’s face twisted into a severe frown.

  I had shuddered. “Why? What does it mean?”

  “Someone gives you a bouquet of tansies, child; it’s not because they care for you. No. Not one whit. Not a single iota. A tansy… is a declaration of war.”

  That such a cheery-looking, pleasant flower could carry such an insidious message had chilled me, even remembering it in my dream, but then so did the childish singing drifting on the wind. An explosive rumble of thunder rolled through the sky. A sudden sense of urgency fluttered my heart. If a child was out alone when this storm hit…

  The air became increasingly oppressive. My breath punched angrily at my lungs. My feet slowed in their march toward the singing, the soles of my shoes sinking into the sandy path. I could still hear the eerie melody, rolling over on itself, again and again.

  I finally came to a clearing where a small boy danced around a golden bowl of blue flames. I thought I could see something in the bottom of the bowl, under the tongues of fire. The boy skipped merrily around the fire, singing his odd little tune, then suddenly stopped.

  “Hi, Hattie!” he called happily. His familiarity caught me by surprise.

  “Come and play!” he beckoned eagerly, like a childhood friend, and plunged his hand into the fire.

  “Don’t! You’ll get hurt!” I cried. But, no sound came from my throat. But, the warning was unnecessary. It was as if he couldn’t even feel the searing heat of the licking pyre. Like it was cold and not hot. He withdrew his hand without a single burn or blemish. He stared at me intently with ice blue eyes.

  “Snip snap dragon, flee fast with your wagons,” he sang and began his merry little dance again.

  Another figure came strolling up the hill into the clearing. Gideon! Oh, thank the Lord and Lady!

  “Gideon!” I called out. “Gideon! Help!”

  Gideon smiled and nodded. He raised a long arm toward the horizon. “A storm is coming.”

  I turned. The encroaching clouds were barreling down on the island like a freight train. I turned back to Gideon. “I know! I know!”

  I tried to move, but my feet were rooted to the spot sinking deeper into the sucking sand. Gideon reached the little boy and draped a possessive arm around his shoulders. The child stopped his singing and walked with Gideon toward the dark cave. He looked over his shoulder, back at me, and waved goodbye.

  “Wait! Gideon! No! Where are you taking him? Gideon!” I was practically screaming over the howling wind. That cave, with its impenetrable blackness, was more dangerous than the coming storm, I was sure of it. I couldn’t let Gideon take him in there!

  The pair disappeared into the murk of the cavern. As soon as I had lost their silhouettes to the interior darkness, I was suddenly able to pull my stuck feet free, and I lunged for the gaping hole.

  Just as I reached it, a rumble louder than any thunder shook the cliff face. Rocks tumbled, pinging off the jutting edges in rapid, violent little landslides. Instinctively, I covered my head.

  The ground shook beneath my feet. A great blast of hot air rolled from the cave as a massive roar knocked me flat on my back, while nearly taking out my eardrums.

  Something was coming out of the cave.

  Something impossibly huge.

  I opened my mouth and screamed the word…

  “H-A-A-T-T-I-I-E-E-E-E-E!!!”

  Except that wasn’t the word, and I wasn’t drifting in the memory of my dream any longer. Jet was still trampolining on my bladder, and there was no holding it in any longer. I would have to interpret the odd symbology from my subconscious later. Right now, nature called.

  Correction. Nature was screaming.

  “Okay, fine!” I groused. “I’m up! I’m up! I’m up!”

  I floundered from under Grammy’s old quilt and flailed my legs till my bare feet hit the cold floor. I stomped, reluctantly, toward the bathroom. Just before I slammed the door, I whirled on a grouchy heel and stared at my furry alarm clock.

  “You know what I’m going to do, right?” I threatened.

  A self-satisfied grin spread wide across Jet’s furred features until the tips of his canines poked out.

  “Hump Day. Hump Day. Hump Day, yep!” he chanted mischievously, and with a flick of his tail, he turned a fuzzy posterior in my direction and sashayed proudly from the room.

  Chapter 8

  “Am I boring you?” David asked as another mighty yawn escaped my lips. I had nearly fallen off the broom three times on the flight over the Gorthland Swamps. The Chief Para Inspector had picked me up shortly after my morning ablutions. Jet’s timing had actually been pretty spot-on. Dratted cat.

  It would have been nicer if he’d woken me up with enough time to stop at Gabrielle’s bakery, Celestial Cakes, for a flaky croissant and a steaming, robust cup of tea. Ever since she had been freed from Nebula Dreddock’s employ, the golem had been running a boomin
g business. You could usually find her little boulangerie packed to the gills. And with good cause. She made a killer café au lait and a chocolate rugelach that just melted in your mouth.

  I sighed. My drooping eyelids were in dire need of a caffeine jolt right about now. And it was always a good time for chocolate.

  “No, no, no, sorry about that,” I apologized with as much energy as I could muster. I cinched my raincoat a little tighter. Dark clouds had continued to blossom on the horizon, and I had no intention of suffering through another dousing like I’d gotten on the ride home from Cathedral.

  “I just didn’t sleep so well last night,” I continued. “ I had the craziest dream.”

  “Was it the one where you show up to work naked?” David began. “Because I seem to have that one all the ti—ahem.”

  His throat tightened around his unguarded words. He pulled at his collar. I couldn’t help but grin a little. Fortunately, I was behind him on the besom so he couldn’t see my wholly inappropriate enjoyment.

  “So what’s the game plan once we get to Portia’s?” I asked.

  “Try not to get dead,” David answered matter-of-factly.

  “Oh. Great. Stellar plan, Chief,” a trembling voice quavered from under the lapel of my coat.

  “You sure you want to come on this trip, Fraidy?” David asked, used to the fact now that the cats had become a regular fixture in our investigations. “It is Portia Fearwyn.”

  As my sleepy brain started to churn on all cylinders, I recalled the eery green lightning that had flashed across Donny’s monitor at the T.V. station before it went morbidly dark. David’s pragmatic insinuation to Fraidy was thoroughly justified. Even when she was a generous mood, Portia Fearwyn intimidated.

  Still, Fraidy bobbled a nervous head. “I took an oath. To protect Hattie. No matter what.”

  A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the cloud cover. Fraidy gulped so audibly that we could hear it over the wind whistling past us. “Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”

  I scratched behind his fuzzy ear. “Oh, come on, now. Portia’s not that bad. Okay, so Coven Isles history says she’s descended from a long line of powerful magical practitioners. And maybe a couple of them had somewhat dubious, if not outright nefarious, allegiances...”

  “Two words,” Fraidy interrupted. “Urania Fearwyn.”

  The name of the fearsome black arts practitioner drew a shudder even from David. Urania, Portia’s aunt, had fought on the dark side of the Warlock Wars. Her lethal curses and mortal sorceries had cleaved a crippling blow to the side of good. In the Trials, however, Urania refused to plead guilty, certain, as many on her side were, that hers was the cause of justice in that horrible conflict.

  “Okay, I’ll give you that,” I pressed. “But come on...everybody’s got at least one black sheep in the family. Remember Uncle Julius? Grammy Chimera’s brother?”

  “Julius the Jinx? Poor guy couldn’t cast a spell with a net! Happens in the best of families. He was in love with Cressida Dreddock, right?”

  I nodded my head. “Of course, she wasn’t the first. Uncle Julius didn’t exactly have a spectacular track record with women. Got rejected. A lot. He was awkward and I guess you could say Grammy Chimera got most of the good-looking genes.”

  “Jeans?” Fraidy scoffed. “As Shade would say, poor Jinxy didn’t even get the shorts!”

  “At any rate, he absolutely fawned over Cressida. Sent her flowers. Chocolates. Letters proclaiming his undying love and affection. But she wouldn’t give him the time of day. She was just too obsessed with her sister and the attempts at her soul-snatcher charm.”

  David shook his head. “Poor Cressida. Mad from the get go.”

  “Poor Jinx was heartbroken. Grammy tried to tell him there were other fish in the sea, but Jinx didn’t want to hear it. He wanted Cressida. And he was determined to do whatever was necessary. No matter what. Didn’t matter that everybody told him love spells were a bad idea. Didn’t matter that everyone said it was bound to backfire.”

  “The lovesick fool tried to cast the Immortalis Amare spell,” Fraidy muttered into a dramatic face paw-lm.

  David titled a quizzical head. “I don’t remember you ever telling me this story.”

  “Well, it’s not like we broadcast it,” I admitted. “It’s sort of a black spot on the Opal family record. You see, Jinxy’s little love spell had the rather spectacular side effect of granting good old Julius the cult of personality. Turns out no one could resist his charms after he cast the spell. Anyone who heard his dulcet tones turned to absolute buttermilk.”

  “Although, if we’re being honest, I do like myself a bit of buttermilk,” Fraidy admitted.

  The memory gave me pause. Gideon reminded me a lot of Uncle Julius. When the Cathedral governor talked, my knees indeed went a little on the wobbly side. But the resemblance ended there. I couldn’t fathom that the handsome Gideon had been rejected a day in his life. What reason could he possibly have to resort to an undying love spell? I remembered a few women at the Town Hall meeting who were already ready to bear his children. I could almost see where Uncle Julius had been coming from.

  “Yeah. Turns out Jinxy could bend anyone’s will to his own and sadly, turns out he wasn’t so shy about doing it. Guess all those years of being kicked to the curb completely dulled his morality compass. Anyway, Urania and some other witches and wizards tried to use him to sway the war in their favor. Played to his insecurities. It almost worked too until Grammy Chimera managed to subdue him. Now he’s in a very secure, soundproof wing in Midnight Hill where he can’t cause any harm.”

  “So, I guess if you think about it, he sort of wound up with Cressida anyway,” David suggested. “I mean, they’re sort of living together.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

  “You sure we can’t put Portia in a Midnight Hill cell?” Fraidy asked. “She sure looks scary enough to me.”

  “I can’t put Portia in a cell or in Midnight Hill or Steeltrap just because she looks scary, Fraidy. We have to prove she’s guilty of a crime. You know that.”

  David was right, but Fraidy had a point too. Atropa Belladonna Fearwyn, Portia’s mother, had certainly passed her permanent disparaging scowl along to her daughter. It probably accounted for why most folks assumed Portia was about as pleasant as a spoonful of castor oil sprinkled with Wolfbane.

  Atropa had been a formidable pillar of the magical community. Both for her capabilities as a witch and her prominent position within the magical Congress. Legislative sessions within the supernatural government often got heated. As Speaker, Atropa had wielded her influence to keep order. And she had done a fair job. That didn’t stop authorities from checking wands at the door, though. No one wanted a stinging hex jolt sailing across the hall.

  Or worse.

  But not all magic was derived from the tip of a wand. Portia was living, if not potentially deadly, proof. She was one of the most adept potion makers in the whole of the Coven Isles. She combined odd bits and bobs from random blossoms and roots to arrive at some pretty potent tinctures and brews. To hear Grammy Chimera tell it, Portia had likely inherited that particular gift from her great-grandfather.

  "Mordred Fearwyn." I murmured barely audible above the shrieking wind.

  “Mordred Fearwyn! Yikes!” Fraidy shivered so hard he nearly vibrated right out of my embrace and plummeted through the clouds. I tightened my grip on his scruff and tucked him safely back inside my jacket. He ducked in and settled immediately, only to take up where he left off on his thoughts of Mordred.

  “Now that was one scary cat! You could have played tic-tac-toe on his face on the criss-cross of scars!”

  Grammy Chimera’s stories confirmed Fraidy’s fear. She would often tell me stories of how she’d be playing bilboquet at her mother Glendonite’s feet when the familiar thump and drag of Mordred’s heavy step and then the following scrape of his useless leg would herald the arrival of the menacing wizard. Mordred would s
kulk, drooping shoulder and all, into The Angel with bizarre requests for arcane herbs like Hawk’s Heart, Lamb’s Tongue, and Englishman’s Foot.

  Grammy’s cup and ball would fall limp as Mordred’s voice scratched down her spine, an abrasive vocal sandpaper rubbed raw by Lord-and-Lady-knew-what. But the thing that Grammy remembered most about Mordred was the dark, gaping hollow where his left eye had once lived. It was enough to strike terror into the heart of most grown adults (and small cats), let alone an impressionable child.

  Rumor had it Mordred lost the eye in a fierce confrontation with a powerful creature that had died off long ago, leaving its tracks only in the annals of ancient histories. But it was so long ago and records were so poorly kept in times of conflict that nobody was quite certain of the details. Of either the loss of the eye or the monster/creature that had taken it, it was a secret held close to the chest of the Fearwyn family.

  Much like the secrets Portia kept behind the door of Gaunt Manor. Secrets we were here to ferret out, I thought, as David brought the broom to land amidst the scrubby bush and cracked cobblestones that led up to Portia’s threshold.

  An odd, low ratcheting sound filled the air. It creaked, deep and rhythmically, building to a fever pitch, then fell silent for a few seconds before it ramped up again in its bizarre chorus. My swiveling gaze could find no source for the strange sound.

  “Can’t we just send her an email with our questions?” Fraidy asked, his teeth chattering in counterpoint to the moaning wind that joined the discordant composition.

  “Unfortunately, no,” David said.

  “Shall we then?” I gestured in a mock bow.

  “May as well.”

  We moved, a cautious trio toward the hulking front door. David reached up for the ornate iron knocker hanging from the scarred wood. But before the hardware could fall to the plate, the door swung wide and we were staring directly at the business end of Portia Fearwyn’s blackwood wand.