“Not today.” Ian holstered his gun and plucked a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He swept around Drew’s shuddering form and slapped the cuffs on his wrists.
Drew didn’t even struggle. The fight had left him. He slumped forward, shrinking back into the man I’d met at the Jazz Club. Harmless and unsure.
Ian pulled him to his feet and marched him past us. Drew only paused a moment in front of Blythe, lowering his head. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could croak out before shuffling the rest of the way to the back of the cruiser.
I heard Blythe inhale sharply beside me. She grasped my wrist tightly and then released the breath in one long motion. “Thank you. To both of you. I don’t know what would’ve happened…” She shook her head, spraying me with droplets of lake water. “Scratch that. I know what would’ve happened. It wasn’t pretty.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” I replied. “My witchy senses were all over the place tonight. I knew something was up.”
“Me, too,” Raven added. “The hair’s been standing up on my neck all evening.”
I chuckled without really finding anything funny. “I guess the three of us are connected.”
“It’s the Half-Moon Witch thing.” Blythe shrugged her shoulders and looked down at the birthmark. It was hard to spot in the darkening evening, but even now I could make out the half crescent strawberry colored mark.
Raven nodded in awe. “It is a Half-Moon witch thing. It really does exist.”
Chapter 21
Light poured from the windows of Brunick Manor as Ian pulled into the drive. Raven’s motorcycle rumbled behind the cruiser, coming to a stop just short of the rear passenger door where Blythe exited, now dressed in the clothes she’d worn on her date. A blanket that Ian had grabbed out of his trunk still hung from her drooped shoulders, despite the humid evening. He didn’t ask for it back as she shuffled toward the front door with Raven at her side.
“I guess you’re not getting that back,” I said to him, watching Blythe through the passenger window. He’d been silent on the trip home and I was grateful for it. This evening had been a lot to digest. “Blythe has a habit of stealing warm fuzzy things.”
“She can keep it,” he said with a soft smile that reached his eyes. “She deserves to keep something warm and fuzzy with her tonight.”
“Thanks, Ian.” I placed my hand on the handle, but the sudden movement of his hand to my knee made me freeze. Blood rushed to my cheeks.
“You know, I don’t really understand what happened out there tonight,” he said, turning toward me. His hand was still conspicuously placed on my leg. “One minute we were running toward him and the next thing I know we’re getting bowled over by something flying through the air.”
Dang. I thought we’d managed to hide our witchy powers from him tonight. I swallowed down the nervous feelings that had begun to spring up. “You must’ve hit your head when you fell. That was just me and my clumsiness bowling you over. Nothing else.”
I turned back toward the door and froze again when he spoke. “I’m not a total dimwit. Something weird was going on back there.”
Uh oh. On top of everything that had gone on today, I wasn’t in the mood to give the I’m a Witch speech. I’d given that speech to a boy I liked in college. There’s no better way to end a relationship than to tell a guy you’re a real life bona fide witch. At first, he’d laugh because he thought you were joking. And then he’d get real freaked out and leave. Forever. Not happening.
Of course, Ian wasn’t a boyfriend. He was a friend. But one of the oldest friends I had. I didn’t need to ruin that tonight.
“What are you saying?” I asked him, afraid to say anything we’d both regret. I could feel his gaze on the back of my neck.
“I’m saying that bad guys don’t just get knocked over by a sudden and convenient blast of wind.” He groaned and shifted in his seat. “That something odd was going on.”
I sighed. Here it comes. The big explanation and the end of a lifelong friendship.
He surprised me just then by grabbing my arm and pulling me back gently to face him. A grim frown made his lips press into a thin line. “But at the same time...I’m not sure I want to know what happened out there. Maybe it’s best we just leave it at that. A convenient blast of wind.”
A smile worked its way onto my lips and I couldn’t help but nod eagerly. “We saved Blythe, that’s all that matters.”
“You saved Blythe.” He dropped his arm and fiddled with the small computer screen in-between us. It was flashing some codes and had the recent arrest report of Drew that Ian had sent into command. “You were right. I should’ve taken you more seriously.”
“Hey, can I get that in writing?” I quipped with a grin.
He looked up at me and a smile tugged at the left side of his face. “Not on your life.”
“Fine.” I opened the car door and slipped out. My family was waiting for me inside and I had an aching need to go hug Grammy Jo. “But I’m not taking all the credit for tonight. You’re a good cop, Officer Larson. You saved her, too.”
“Tell you what,” he said leaning over the passenger seat. “You can tear up that ticket for your pig and we’ll call it even. How’s that sound?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Deal.”
He backed out of the drive and was way down the road before I turned to the house. The warm yellow glow coming from the small pane of glass set in the front door beckoned to me. Letting my feet guide me, I rushed inside and toward the sound of voices in the kitchen. My aunts and cousins were all sitting around the table, tea cups in hand.
At the head of the table sat Grammy Jo, in a loose cream blouse and skin tight leggings with tiny donuts up the sides. She stood up when I entered, holding her arms wide. “Well, don’t just stand there, child. Come give your grandmother a big squeeze.”
As I fell into her arms, it felt like jumping into a memory. All the times she’s hugged me as a child; after a knee scrape, a disappointment, a broken heart. They were all there, held within the warmth of her embrace, the strength of her arms, and the hum of her voice. It was wonderful to have her home.
“Have a seat, we’re celebrating,” Aunt Piper said with a big smile stretching across her plump face. She motioned toward the chair next to her.
“I’m not sure why,” Aunt Viv replied. Her eyes widened so much that I thought they were going to fall out of her head. “This will happen again, you know. They always target the magical kind. It’s only a matter of time before they string one of us up on that bonfire again.”
Blythe and Aunt Piper giggled as Raven quietly whispered to her mother to relax. Aunt Viv could always be counted on to find the horror in a situation. The good part was that she was usually wrong.
“Your cousins have just been filling me in on your adventures.” Grammy Jo sat back down and raised one dark eyebrow. “Sounded like a little too much witchy fun, if you ask me. Tea?”
She held out a cup of steaming tea as I sat. I took it from her and waited for a lecture. Surely, after everything we’d done this week – breaking into a store, interrogating subjects, finding a bomb, nearly getting killed twice – was worth a long lecture about magical responsibility. But Grammy Jo just laughed and refilled her cup.
“Be careful,” Raven said in a loud whisper. “I’ve heard Grammy’s tea will kill you.”
The four of us giggled as Grammy threw a tea towel at her granddaughter. I sipped the warm beverage, feeling suddenly lighter. A giddiness bubbled up my gut, spilling out into my laughter. I knew this drink. It was Grammy Jo’s own recipe – euphoric eucalyptus. It only came out when there was something to celebrate and tonight we definitely had something to celebrate.
“Hello?” The voice that came from the doorway caused us all to swivel in our chairs. My jaw dropped when I caught sight of Momma Tula standing there in a light cotton summer dress, her freshly washed hair combed smooth. A pink blush lit up the cheeks that had remained pale for too long and I
could even see a hint of lipstick on her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered and she took a bold step forward, into the kitchen. “Mind if I join you?”
“Of course!” I sprung up from the table, unsure whether to offer her my chair or run in for a hug. As not to scare her away, I just stood there for a few seconds until she took the seat across from me.
“Good of you to join us, Tulipia,” Grammy said, holding out a cup. As Momma Tula took it, Grammy gave me a knowing wink. “We were saving you a cup.”
I hid my tears behind my dainty blue flowered tea cup, overjoyed with the family sitting around me. This is what I’d missed. Generations of Brunick witches all together.
Blythe and Raven retold the story about tonight, talking over each other and gesturing loudly. I just sat there, soaking it all in.
I’d always looked past the fact that the three of us shared a birthday and a birthmark, but maybe Momma Tula was right. There was something between the three of us, as different as we were. Raven with her flowing black locks and Native American heritage. Blythe with her blonde bob and exuberant personality. Then, of course, there was me. The copper-haired artist with a piggy sidekick.
We were something special. We were the Half-Moon Witches.
---
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An Excerpt from A Bone to Pick
Chapter 1
This wasn't the way I had planned to die. My cotton uniform weighed heavily on my body, suffocating in the autumn heat. Guns fired around me. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled my nostrils. Bodies littered the field, victims of a useless and senseless battle. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and crouched lower in the tall grass, shoving my musket a little higher on my shoulder. Kat, my pint-sized pig and loyal guardian, stood next to me. His beady little eyes surveyed the field for danger.
This was life or death. If we didn't make it through this, Blythe was going to confiscate my room and turn it into a craft room. She'd fill it with her paint-by-number crap paintings of little kittens and neon flowers.
Over my dead body.
I raised the gun in my hand and leapt from the ground with a noise that only Xena the princess warrior could replicate, Kat at my heels. Sprinting to the middle of the field, I took aim on the man in front of me, the musket directed at his ill-fitting leather vest. My chest heaved with anticipation. As my finger squeezed the trigger, the man's eyes bugged. He froze like a deer in the middle of the highway, one leg raised to flee and the other cemented to the ground.
Bang!
The force of the shot threw me backwards, landing me squarely on my rear end. I would've let out a stream of curses, but the fall had shoved all the air out of my lungs. Instead, I growled through my teeth and pushed myself up on my elbows. Kat grunted and shoved his snout in my face, leaving a fresh patch of slobber to meld with the sweat already coating my face.
"No, no, no, that's not the way it's supposed to go," Butch moaned from the sidelines. He marched onto the field, his baggy Legends of Zelda t-shirt flapping in the wind. "Hazel, you're supposed to die. How many times do I have to tell you that?"
Maybe a few dozen more times. We were supposed to break for lunch an hour ago. My stomach had taken over the sensible part of my personality and replaced it with a hangry monster. All I really wanted was some food.
"Why can't the woman win?" I demanded, gasping for a deeper breath of fresh air. "What is this, some sort of patriarchal nonsense?"
Butch's pimply face morphed from a sweaty shiny mess to a fantastic tomato red mask of frustration. The shadow of a mustache resided above his upper lip, begging to be put out of its misery. He’d just turned twenty this fall, and must’ve thought facial hair would make him look more like a man. It didn’t.
"Because there were no women fighting in the Battle of Uriville in eighteen sixty-seven,” he whined. “You're playing a male soldier. Everyone has their place in this reenactment. You're supposed to die." He squinted at Kat, taking a step back as if he smelled something awful. “And for that matter, soldiers in that time didn’t have pet pigs. This isn’t accurate at all. Didn't you read the instructions I passed out last week?”
The instruction manual might've found a cozy home in my garbage can the moment Butch left my paint shop. If I'd realized he was serious about forcing me into joining the reenactment, I might've actually looked through them.
Nah, who am I kidding? I still wouldn't read it.
"So, let me get this straight." I waved my hands around wildly. "I'm supposed to just run out onto this field in a hundred and fifty degree weather, wearing a uniform that packs in all the heat, forget I have a musket, get shot and die? It's no wonder they nearly lost the town to rebel bandits."
Maybe it was the heat going to my head, but for some reason this late morning I was feeling particularly feisty. Butch had recruited the entire Witch Trials Reenactment Park to take part in the special hundred and fifty year celebration this fall. Upon pain of unemployment, he'd threatened us all.
We'd spent the last few weeks preparing for this momentous occasion and next week was the big event. Maybe it was just my imagination, but Butch's face seem to be sprouting more and more pimples the closer we got to the day.
Waitressing at Golden Days Diner didn't sound so bad right now. So, what if I couldn’t do my art or my magic? At least I’d have my pride.
"You know as well as I do that this town was built by innovators and warriors," Butch said with a quiver in his voice. "If it hadn't been for that battle, they never would've settled in Nebraska and built our beloved home. Don't you dare insult them."
I sighed and gazed out across the field. The casualties of the battle looked wearily up at me, sweat trickling down their faces. A rush of guilt landed on my shoulders. We'd already been at this for three hours this morning. Here I was, just making things more difficult.
With the zipping motion across my lips, I raised my hands in surrender. "All right, all right. I'll do my job."
Butch rubbed his shiny face and gazed at me through distressful eyes. "You'll die?"
"With as much gory pain I can manage."
"Good." He clapped his hands together. "Alright, people. Back to your places."
After a few moans and groans, the battlefield actors picked themselves off the ground and went back to their sides. I was surrounded by Uriville soldiers, our brown uniforms unifying us against the rebel bandits across the field.
In my middle school history class, we'd read about the great battle of eighteen sixty-seven. A caravan of engineers, farmers, and civilians had been making the great trek out west. Their goal had been San Francisco. But in the middle of Nebraska, they were attacked by a traveling band of robbers.
After fearlessly defeating the robbers, they decided to settle down and called the town Uriville. My great-great-great-grandmother had been among the settlers. Of course, it was only months later when they decided she was a witch and tried to burn her on the pyre.
Details, details.
As I waited for them to roll the cannon back to its beginning position, my attention drifted toward the tinkle of music coming from the temporary stage on my left. My cousin, Blythe, sat perched on the little wooden stool, a ukulele in her lap. She had just touched up her bleached blonde bob so that it appeared almost white in the harsh sunlight. Despite the warmth, she wore a lacy pink cardigan and a baby pink wool skirt. Her fingers strummed over the strings as she rehearsed her songs for the big event.
As much as I hated to admit it, she was pretty good. And she ought to be pretty good. She’d been driving us crazy these last few months practicing her ukulele e
very hour of the day. I was about ready to perform a disappearing spell on that overpriced piece of kindling.
Beyond the stage, my other cousin stood crouched over a hunk of century-old machinery with her wrench and screwdriver in hand. Raven was the high-heel wearing, hardware fixing, brown-skinned beauty of the three of us and the final piece of the Half-Moon Witch trio.
Ten times better at fixing machinery than any man in town, she’d been called out to the event grounds to get everything up and running. Sometimes I imagined she liked machinery better than people. It was easier for her to spend most of the day fiddling around with something that needed fixing rather than striking up a conversation. That was okay with me. Next to Blythe’s unending chatter, it was a welcome relief.
I shifted as my uniform chaffed against my thighs and found myself gazing unwilling toward the other side of the field, where a certain off-duty police officer was helping to unload Randy Underwood’s heavy wooden bar from the back of his Ford F-350 pickup. Randy owned the pub in town and always had his special brews on tap for special events. He even carried a line of hard apple cider that I liked to splurge on once in a while. They got the bar down from the truck and headed toward the tented food arena. Ian Larson looked good in his striped short-sleeved polo and worn jeans, laughing with his buddy. He certainly looked better than me.
After they set the bar down in the grass, Ian stood up to look around the fairgrounds, his gaze meeting mine. With a smile, he raised his hand and nodded. It was then that I realized I’d been staring. I tore my eyes away and focused on my musket, finding a tiny flaw in the wooden butt to fixate on.
Ever since we’d rescued Blythe from her murderous date back in August, he’d been friendlier than usual. Seeking me out at the Jazz Club, stopping by my paint shop, waving from across the fairgrounds. Nothing he said to me was suspect, but it always made me feel a little uncomfortable.
Thorn to Die Page 12
