A Cauldron of Witch Tricks

by Constance Barker

  “When you’re a hermit witch in a marsh, I guess you can do what you want,” Zinnia said.

  “Too true.”

  “So who else is there to ask?”

  Nann already had someone in mind. She couldn’t let Zinnia in on it. “I’ll try to figure it out myself. I’ll see BJ if I get desperate.”

  AFTER NIGHT FELL, NANN remained in the store. The other person she had in mind lived in the same building as the businesses and Zinnia’s apartment. Nann wasn’t sure if Zinnia didn’t know she had a neighbor on the third floor, or if she was in denial about it. Abandoned and boarded up, the third floor served as a meeting room for Amity Corner’s Vampire Hunter Society. Apparently unknown to them, it also served as the home of Amity Corner’s resident vampire.

  Carrying on Aunt Nancy’s tradition, Nann visited the lonely Marquise Charlotte for tea nearly every new moon. This wasn’t the new moon. In fact, the moon was nearly full. Nann didn’t know which was worse, visiting a hermit swamp wizard, or surprising a centuries-old creature of the night.

  She crept up the stairs, hoping Zinnia didn’t hear her squeaky tread as she passed the second-floor landing. Over the decades, Calamity Corners experienced vampire outbreaks. Even though the last one occurred in the ‘80s, the Vampire Hunter Society still met regularly, remaining vigilant. Sort of. Normally their meetings consisted of enormous amounts of beer, periods of prolonged scratching, and endless burping.

  Cemetery Center, the big building that housed the business and apartments, had been built over the site of a church that burned down. While the building had been deconsecrated, and the former bodies in the church graveyard moved to Amity Corners Cemetery, the grounds remained consecrated. It was this that kept Charlotte imprisoned in her third floor digs.

  Nann gave a quiet tap on the door. When no answer came, she pushed it open. The VHS held their meetings in this dusty foyer. A coffin on a raised dais served as their meeting table. It was within that Charlotte passed the daylight hours. Whichever past member of the VHS was smart enough to realize that the grounds surrounding the building would keep the monster trapped apparently did not pass the information along. Nann saw the heavy lid pushed to one side. No vampire in there.

  “Charlotte?”

  Though the entrance to the apartment appeared boarded shut, it flung open. Nann took a step back. Usually, when she visited, Charlotte had her flaming red hair in an elaborate Louis XVI up-do. The vampire was impeccably turned out, whether her outfits were eighteenth century or more modern.

  Now, she was bundled in a frayed pink robe. The pair of ancient bunny slippers shared one button eye between them. A crazy thought stole into her head. She knew what she was getting Charlotte for Yule. A white towel wrapped Charlotte’s hair. But her face—it looked like someone dabbed two red dots on the eyes of a marble statue. Otherwise, she was nearly featureless. Nann never realized that the vampire wore a lot of makeup.

  Charlotte slapped a hand over her forehead. “Eyebrows! I have no visible eyebrows! I’m a redhead! Tu me fais chier, what are you doing here, Nann? It is not the new moon.”

  “I I I...” All thoughts were startled out of her.

  Charlotte tossed her head at the door, and Nann marched into the apartment. Toast, the little cat Nann acquired for the vampire, rubbed against her ankles and made a friendly growl. Somehow, this made Nann feel a little more at ease. “I, uh, didn’t know vampires needed to take baths.”

  “We don’t.” Charlotte gestured to a chaise lounge. The TV was on, paused on a soap opera. “But if you don’t wash your hair once in a while, you get spiders in it.”

  Ee-gah! Nann knew she could never unhear that. She tried to hurry it up before she learned more of Charlotte's horrifying secrets. “You heard about the Port Argent town supervisor’s murder?”

  Charlotte waved at the TV. “Of course. The salaud deserved it.”

  “Was he blackmailing you?” Nann couldn’t believe the man would have the stones.

  “Blackmail? I don’t know what you are talking about. Non, the man, and his friends, are part of an anti-magic league. It has gone on for decades. But only in private. In public, it is all ‘school tax blah blah blah, public works blah blah blah.’ But in their meetings, they always bring up the desire to eliminate any magic from their stupid little town.”

  Nann frowned. “Really? How do you know?”

  She made a vague gesture with her fingers. “I know many things.”

  “Do they use magic to try and eliminate magic?”

  Charlotte sat on a recliner. Toast jumped in her lap. The vampire stroked the cat’s head with her long nails. “I do not follow.”

  She told the Charlotte about her recent visits to Port Argent locations, the queer sensations that had overcome her. That, plus the boxes of paraphernalia, slated to be sold out of state.

  “The antique store,” Charlotte nodded. “They have been trafficking in magic since they opened. Through estate sales, they acquire pieces, and ship them to out-of-town buyers. You are lucky Nancy had her ducks in a row before she lost her faculties. Otherwise—poof! Her collections scattered to the four winds.”

  Aunt Nancy had a collection of books that rivaled the occult section in Nann’s store. She also had obtained a large number of magical objects, both Druidic and from other practices, in her lifetime. Nann thought about a bunch of anti-magic types rifling through the stuff in the secret basement Lady Lair. It gave her the chills to think about it.

  “But as for magic against you, against practicing magical people, that is witchcraft,” Charlotte said. “This is the lowest form of magic. I have nothing to do with it.”

  Nann, unfortunately, knew someone who did.

  IN THE MORNING, BEFORE sunrise, she scampered around the kitchen. She dumped pig chow into Pokey’s bowl. It looked like a forlorn breakfast. She tossed an apple in the pile. Somehow that looked worse. In the freezer, she found some corn. As she thawed it in the microwave, a sleepy pig grunted behind her. Nann switched on the radio.

  “Why are we up so early?”

  “I have to visit BJ the swamp wizard before work.” Nann checked the corn. Still half-frozen. She beeped a couple more minutes.

  “Ah.” Pokey sat on his haunches. He yawned. “The marsh should be beautiful on an autumn morning.”

  She checked the corn again. Stirred it. One more minute. “You think so?”

  Pokey snorted. “No! It’s a horrible swamp. You think bugs and snakes take time off to look at the leaves changing? Ick.”

  “Awesome.” She dumped corn into the bowl, seeing ice crystals. Damn. “This is still kinda frozen.”

  “That’s okay. It’s only a little chilly this morning. You know, since I’m eating frozen corn, why not throw in a popsicle too?”

  Nann folded her arms. “We don’t have popsicles.”

  “Ice cream would be almost as good.”

  “I’m not giving you ice cream. Especially for breakfast. It’ll make you fat, and when your joints start hurting, you’ll get cranky.”

  Pokey blinked at her a few times. “A fat cranky pig. Perish the thought.”

  AFTER GRABBING BREAKFAST sandwiches and coffee at a fast food joint, she headed west toward Chokeberry Swamp. As she drove past the state beach, she thought about the magic trafficking.

  Since the early 1800s, the tiny towns of Port Argent and Amity Corners had engaged in a cold war. The former was founded by Captain Argent. He fought against the British in the French and Indian Wars (which subsequently brought Marquise Charlotte to the New World as a kind of vampire of mass destruction), but on the side of the Americans in the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. During his final days as a soldier, Argent discovered this part of the world, envisioning a large port city on Lake Ontario. His dream included a connection to a canal system that would enable the populating of the frontier.

  At the same time, the Galère d’Merlinite, a cabal of sorcerers, had set up shop on the nearby corner bluffs. It was a place infused with
magic and lacking in persecution. All they wanted was to practice their ways in peace. Which meant they had no interest in a large port city a mile away. Since the sorcerers were anti-port, the would-be port town became anti-magic.

  Nann had first met BJ the swamp witch when latter-day members of the Galère, who were also the board of directors of the paper mill, started murdering each other with sympathetic magic. BJ was board member Brock Miller’s son. BJ had become involved in magic to try to save his family from the toxins left behind by the paper mill. In failing, he went a little bonkers. She wasn’t looking forward to the visit.

  Though Chokeberry Swamp was a protected wetlands, forbidden to vehicles, Cricket nimbly rounded the gate blocking the hiking trails. Glorious fall foliage diminished to bony black trees. Even over the engine, Nann could hear the arrhythmic croaks of amphibians against the shifting drone of bugs. She parked next to a tumble-down shack of sticks and stones. BJ Miller waved his hunter’s orange Elmer Fudd hat at her.

  “The fair one has returned, as the Sorcerer of the Swamp predicted. Who could blame her? Was it possible to throw off the chains of his charms? ‘Hello, Nann with two NNs,’ he said.” He said.

  Nann sighed. For whatever reason, mental health issues, working with unworldly forces, whatever, BJ tended to voice his inner thoughts. “Hey, Beej. I brought sandwiches.”

  “And coffee he noted, but preferred not to be presumptuous.”

  “And coffee.” Nann held out a cup.

  “Could she read his mind? He thought, gratefully taking the vessel.”

  “No, I can’t read your mind. You speak your thoughts aloud.”

  “‘Do I?’ Did he?”

  “So. What are you up to, BJ?”

  “Erecting snow fences. Once the winter comes, high drifts will shelter my castle, and the royal road will be clear. I hope. I’m really tired of chopping firewood. Come! Let me show you.”

  BJ was dressed in his typical hide poncho, which only came to mid-thigh, the hat, and tall Wellington boots. Nann averted her eyes from the poncho. Sudden movement or a stiff breeze would reveal more of BJ than she wanted to see.

  “Strategically drifted, the snow will shelter me from the wind.” He steadied a stout branch pounded into the ground, an orange net stretched across it to a nearby tree. “My castle will be a warmer place this winter.”

  “That’s actually pretty smart. Do you think it will work?”

  “‘I don’t really know. But you get bored, living alone in a swamp,’ he shrugged.” He shrugged.

  Nann didn’t know how much crazy she could put up with. She cut to the chase. “I’m here to ask you about Blake Simmons.”

  “One of his enemies, the wizard thought. But he said, ‘Never heard of him.”

  Nann sighed. “You’re still voicing your thoughts out loud, Beej.”

  “Damn it! I have to refill my prescription. But it’s a fourteen-hour round trip to the pharmacy. If I don’t time it right, the pharmacy is at lunch. Or closed sometimes.”

  “What do you know about his murder?”

  “Murder?” No inner voice was spoken. BJ looked shocked.

  “He was killed a couple days ago. In a locked room. No way in or out.”

  “Well, good for whoever did that! He was an anti-magic guy. Called the cops on me when I was in town. Hey, I’ve got every right to be in Port Argent. The Man, always opposed to the sorcerer, down on the magic stuff.”

  “You don’t know anything about it?”

  “‘There’s an anti-magic league in Port Argent.’ Doesn’t Nann know this? ‘They actively keep out magic and magic practitioners. I don’t go into town unless I have to. If someone wants a love potion or a charm, they can come to me.’”

  Nann suppressed a sigh. “I gotta get to work. You want the rest of my coffee?”

  “‘Oh, God yes!’ Wait, that sounded kind of desperate. ‘I mean, sure, if you don’t want it. Thanks.’ Much cooler. BJ, Sorcerer of the Swamp, also known as Mr. Smooth.”

  “I need to ask you something. It seems like there’s some kind of anti-magic, I don’t know, thing going on in Port Argent. When I go into certain buildings, I get sick and dizzy.”

  “‘Sounds like a charm of some kind,’ the sorcerer mused.”

  “Is there some way to counter that?”

  “What, an anti-anti-magic charm? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. But listen. Every four years, these local politicians start up with the no-magic speeches. Maybe they’re doing something about it. I wouldn’t put it past them. Just watch your back in that town, Nann.”

  Chapter 10

  Scratch BJ off the list. Nann drove toward Amity Corners. As she moved through Port Argent, she saw political signs in many yards. To her surprise, Barb Buford was running for town supervisor. Why should that surprise her? Her cronies were already local politicians.

  Maybe Barb thought that magic brought property values down. Why else would she be so opposed to it? Of course, on the political side of things, witch hunts had always been a popular tactic. Often, a very successful tactic, she thought. Unless, of course, you were on the hunted side of things.

  Nann thought this was kind of a fallback position. Only people who ran for office without any good ideas would go that route. If she thought about it too much, she was pretty sure most of the people in office got there that way. Best not to think about it.

  While all she got from Brock Junior was a confirmation that he was crazy, she didn’t have any better suspects. Maybe Doug Baker was onto something. Gene Wozniak seemed the person to benefit most from Blake Simmons’ death.

  She got to work too late to pack books for shipping. They could go out tomorrow. She did get a shipment from the distributors and spent most of the day calling customers who ordered a book or two. Otherwise, she checked out Gene Wozniak’s campaign website in between customers. When she tried to become a subscriber to his YouTube page, she was denied. Of course. Wozniak must be a charter member of the anti-magic league.

  After work, she darted into the supermarket and used the self-check to avoid encounters with people who suspected her of wrongdoing. Even though she paid for her items, she felt like a sneak-thief as she returned to Cricket with her bags.

  “What’s for dinner?” Pokey greeted her at the side door.

  “Vegetarian lasagna.”

  “And just vegetables for me?”

  Nann read the directions on the package and turned on the oven. “Nope. We’re both having vegetarian lasagna. I’ve got some spying to do.”

  “Spying? Could I help?”

  “Either that, or I could put on the TV for you until the food’s done.”

  “Let’s do some spying. I get tired of TV all the time.”

  Once the frozen pan went into the oven, Nann headed to the dining room. The table there, although it looked like it weighed a ton, easily rolled on hidden casters. After she pushed it to the wall, she crouched down and opened the camouflaged trap door that had been underneath. She and Pokey descended to the Lady Lair.

  One side of the huge basement room contained a huge flat screen television and comfy recliners. The other side was Aunt Nancy’s altar. While Nann used the altar when she needed to, she mostly left it alone. One day, she’d have to set up one of her own. Tonight, her focus wasn’t on ritual, but on the internet.

  “So what are we doing?” Pokey sat beside her.

  Nann booted up the computer. “I can’t access any of Gene Wozniak’s campaign stuff, just the home pages. He’s got me blocked.”

  “Because everyone in town knows you’re a Druid, even though you think you keep it on the down-low?” Pokey asked.

  Nann eyed the pig. “Whatever. I’m going to use one of my fake e-mail accounts.”

  “Fake?”

  “Sometimes, when a book dealer sees that Nancy Ann Szymanski, owner of Greenpoint Books, is interested in one of their titles, they raise the price. They know I’ve got one of the premier occult book sections in the country. They migh
t list a book for twenty bucks, but if I try to buy it, they’ll raise the price. It’s unscrupulous.”

  “Huh.” Pokey tilted his head at her. “Isn’t using a false identity unscrupulous too?”

  “Hey, I’m just a casual reader interested in the necromantic rites of the Mesopotamian high priestesses of Nedu. Why try to rip me off? Okay, here we go. I’m in.”

  “In where?”

  “The Eugene Wozniak for County Supervisor YouTube channel.” Nann scrolled. “Man, this guy likes to make YouTube videos.”

  Narration came through the computer speakers. “Gene Wozniak, keeping the country real.”

  “Real,” Nann snorted. “As in not magical.”

  “Can you put this up on the big TV? That would make it more fun,” Pokey said.

  Nann saw him eyeing one of the recliners. She paused the video, turned on the flat screen. It took her a moment to figure out how to get the computer to go to the TV. But soon, Gene Wozniak appeared, larger than life.

  As predicted, Pokey ran over and jumped in one of the recliners. What the hell. Nann sat in the one next to him.

  The video was pretty well done, so she didn’t feel like falling asleep right away. Eugene’s father, the video said, had a dream. A dream of making Port Argent a destination for vacationers. Toward that end, he bought an old farmhouse on Main Street, and renovated it into Port Argent’s first bed and breakfast.

  “Your Uncle Ed actually did the reno,” Pokey said.

  The video went on about this being Gene Wozniak’s first job, and how he branched out after graduating college. Wozniak now owned two chain hotels at the north end of Main Street, as well as two B&Bs.

  “That explains why our Druid friends couldn’t get a room when they came for Beltaine,” Nann said. “Wozniak must’ve blackballed them all.”

  What followed was a bunch of blah blah blah about Wozniak’s commitment to service locally, and how he could make things better county-wide. Nann saw rallies, clips of speeches, and just as she was about to nod off, a big “Ding!” sounded from the TV speakers.