“I knew it would,” my aunt lied.
Chapter 29
Zinnia busied herself replacing all the light bulbs in the living room lamps while I got acquainted with the freshly encharmed book.
“How is it that I have so many lamps?” Zinnia asked rhetorically as she twisted in another fresh light bulb. “They must be breeding.” She gasped. “Would you look at that!” She held up a tiny lamp decorated with petite pansies. “A baby lamp! How sweet is that?” She cooed over the new arrival.
On any other night, I would have happily delved into the whole lamp-breeding situation, but my focus was on the book on my lap.
I flipped through the pages of the heavy, leather-bound tome that needed a new name. It was no longer a Codex Niquitia. Zinnia confirmed that it would no longer provide answers to magical questions. It was now solely a vessel for spirits. It was currently the Codex Harry Blackstone.
The pages contained faint images from Harry’s life. I saw his mother’s face, beloved family pets, and endless diagrams of machinery.
I’d expected—and hoped—the book would be organized in a chronological fashion, with the first page containing Harry’s birth and the last page his death, but the book didn’t work that way, because human memories didn’t work that way. The illustrations were ever-changing, with images of dogs chasing sticks changing over to a classroom chalkboard without notice.
The faint images on the pages were not the real magic. They were just a side product of the real power of the book, which was having Harry’s memories in a navigable format. To dive into those memories, I’d need to cast a basic page-finding spell, then place my hands on the open pages, and let my consciousness be taken over by Harry’s.
While my aunt fussed over her new baby lamp, I cast the first exploratory-search spell.
Codex Harry Blackstone, take me to earlier today, when you did whatever you did to ground Foxy Pumpkin.
The pages riffled, and the book slammed shut.
“That didn’t work,” Zinnia commented. She was floating mid-air, as though standing on an invisible stepladder, twisting a new light bulb into the ceiling fixture.
“I noticed,” I replied, a little defensively. “I tried to see what Harry did to my car today, but it didn’t work, because it wasn’t part of Harry’s living memories.”
“Of course it didn’t work. Harry did that during his afterlife.”
“I know. Duh. That’s what I just told you.”
Her voice stretched high and thin. “There’s no need to be snippy.” Cobwebs floated down from the ceiling fixture, disturbed by my aunt’s movements.
“Sorry. I really do appreciate you helping me with this.” I patted the cover of the closed book. “And thank you for sacrificing a powerful book to the cause.”
“No trouble,” she said, though her voice said otherwise. It had been a great sacrifice for my aunt to convert a rare and powerful book to be Spirit Charmed, especially considering she’d had no guarantee it would even work.
Zinnia gracefully climbed down the rungs of an invisible stepladder. “You ought to try some simple searches to warm up before you attempt to view the deceased’s final days.”
“Something like the first day of school?”
“Excellent idea!”
* * *
A sandwich on a dainty china plate appeared before me. Zinnia was handing it to me. The crusts had been removed. The inside was smoked salmon, cream cheese, sausage, cucumbers, and something that resembled lettuce, except it was purple.
“Take it,” Zinnia said.
“I didn’t even notice you leaving the room to make this.”
“You were busy.”
“This is the most beautiful sandwich I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said snippily. “You wanted a sandwich, so I made you one.”
“It’s beautiful. Honestly. I’d never, ever, ever make fun of someone for bringing me food.”
“I’m sorry the lettuce is purple, and not the usual green, but it is high in fat-soluble K vitamins. The lettuce is... not vegetarian. However, the part that appears to be sausage is of vegetable origin. More or less. Fungus is genetically closer to meat than most people think. It’s actually quite a fascinating process...”
I waved a hand. “I’d rather not know how the sausage is made.” I took a big bite. A heavenly symphony played in my mouth. I paused, mid-chew, and asked, “You didn’t put Zeronnaise on this, did you?”
In a robotic voice, she replied, “By contract, I can no longer produce or use the substance known as Zeronnaise.” She winked and whispered, “But I do have a few leftover jars if you’re interested.”
“Is it true the military bought it from you to use as a weapon?”
She smirked. “By contract, I can no longer discuss the potential applications of the substance known as Zeronnaise.”
“You’re a wild one, Aunt Zinnia.”
I ate the sandwich, as well as a full jar of pickled items that may or may not have once been cucumbers. As long as my aunt took a bite first, I trusted the food she provided.
When the clock struck midnight, our chatter about food stopped abruptly.
Zinnia eyed the leather-bound tome on the coffee table.
Hesitantly, she said, “We could always wait, and pick things up tomorrow night.”
“We have a coven meeting.”
She scratched her head. “I forgot they moved it to Tuesday this week.” She grimaced. “Do you suppose the new girl will be there?”
“Ambrosia?” I gagged dramatically. “Probably.”
“We ought not miss that,” she said.
I coughed into my hand. “I think I feel a bug coming on.”
Zinnia looked at the clock on the wall. “It is getting late,” she said, then, “I’m not tired at all. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight if we don’t...” She trailed off, and we both looked at the book.
Truth be told, I was putting off a deep dive, because I didn’t want to disappear from reality. I’d been enjoying hanging out with my aunt in her house. I’d missed the woman during her long vacation, and I’d missed being in her house, surrounded by all her wacky floral decorations and Zinnia energy. Even bickering with her was more fun than having nobody to bicker with.
I slowly reached for the book and placed it on my lap. If I wanted to discover the secret of Harry’s poisoning, I would need to take the plunge, losing myself in the pages of the book.
Now, losing oneself in the pages of a book was a perfectly harmless—depending on who you asked—activity for people all over the world. But this wasn’t just any book. It was a conduit, a portal to the spirit world. Submerging myself fully, so I could access Harry’s memories as more than fleeting impressions, required a sacrifice. Everything had a cost, after all.
My sample searches on Harry’s first days of school had revealed the sacrifice was time. Instead of experiencing Harry’s memories instantly, as a quick psychic flash, the book revealed his life to me in real time. A minute of Harry’s memories cost me a minute in my world, a minute of my own life. A minute I’d never get back.
Even worse, if I picked the wrong place to start, I might lose half an hour of my life watching a dead man brush his teeth, shave, and pick out clothes for the day.
The book felt heavy on my lap.
Zinnia, who was sitting across from me, reading a different book on her own lap, said, “Oh, no.”
“Now what?” She’d been checking through her magical resources for tips and tricks about using objects as afterlife conduits.
“It’s probably nothing.” She licked her lips.
“Just tell me.”
Her brow furrowed. “It’s probably nothing,” she repeated, “but perhaps you shouldn’t taste anything when you’re in the visions.”
“Are you kidding me? Don’t taste anything?”
“The memories are a simulation, of course. They aren’t real. But a part of your mind d
oesn’t know that. If I describe to you now the tasting of a lemon, the tart, cool juice spraying in your mouth, the waxy yellow skin, the citrus oil tickling your nostrils, the sour, acidic-sweet taste of juice on your tongue...” She paused. “Is your mouth watering?”
“You know it is.” I shook my head. “That’s not even a spell, is it?”
“It’s everyday magic. When imagination becomes reality inside the mind.” She looked me dead in the eyes. “Because of the mirror neuron effect, you must not taste the poisoned peppers that killed Mr. Blackstone.”
I smirked. It was hard for me to keep a straight face whenever she said poisoned peppers.
Zinnia sighed. “We must take the warnings very seriously.”
“Sure, but Bentley said our friend Harry was poisoned repeatedly, over a period of time. One little taste didn’t kill him, so it shouldn’t hurt me, right?”
She swished her lips from side to side, read her page a moment, then said, “There’s an amplification effect that could go in either direction. I’m not sure how the inversion works. If you could give me a few more days to research...”
“Nope.” I patted the book’s sturdy, leather-bound cover, then opened it decisively. “Kathy wants the ghosts and the Goblin Horde out of the library as soon as possible.”
Zinnia looked alarmed. “You have goblins, too?”
I laughed. “That’s just what she calls the ghost geeks.” I licked my finger, which was the first part of a solid casting of the page-finding spell.
“Be careful,” Zinnia said.
“As careful as I always am.”
She frowned. “I shall prepare a variety of antidotes.”
Chapter 30
I’m in.
This is the last day of my life.
My life?
I’m shaving.
I am a man, and I am shaving my face.
Everything feels very right now. Very in the moment. Stream of consciousness. Like I’m inside a popular Young Adult book, written in present tense.
Back to the shaving.
I start with the cheeks before sweeping the razor under the chin. The sharp blade makes a nice crackling sound on the stubble. Now I have a white moustache of shaving cream. Always a fun look. I use a puff of air to inflate the area, and I shave my upper lip.
My eyes lock on the eyes of the handsome fellow in the mirror. I grin at myself. I am not a bad-looking guy, for my age. Such thick, black hair.
I am Harry Blackstone.
Except I am not. I am Zara Riddle, inside Harry Blackstone.
My focus narrows on a spattery streak of toothpaste on the lower right-hand corner of the bathroom mirror. Now I’m cleaning the spots off the mirror with a damp towel.
Where are the poisoned peppers?! Harry, this is exactly what I didn’t want to see in your memories. Fast forward to the peppers, please!
Harry does not fast forward.
We are still in the bathroom. I hear the shower nozzle going drip-drip. Now we are scrubbing the mirror with a hand towel like we’re about to get an inspection by a drill sergeant. Someone’s shoulder muscles—mine? Harry’s?—burn from the effort.
I look around as much as I can, limited by the edges of Harry’s visions. This bathroom is familiar. I toured it with Frank and Reyna Drinkwater.
Or—let’s get the tense right—it’s the bathroom that I will be viewing soon. Today, in this memory, it’s Tuesday, the date of Harry’s death. I won’t be here at the house until Friday next week.
Side note: That date isn’t very far away. The executor of Harry’s estate certainly moved quickly in getting the house cleaned up and onto the market. What’s that all about?
The world whirs. At last, we’re done with the mirror and moving on to something else. The mirror tilts. It’s a medicine cabinet. Harry’s hand grabs something quickly—a white tube—and then the mirror is closed.
We turn toward the toilet.
Oh no! Was that white tube some sort of personal care cream?
I silently scream inside the memory.
Harry doesn’t turn and sit. Instead, he flicks the seat down.
A foot appears on top of the closed toilet seat. Harry’s foot.
Harry applies the ointment between his toes.
I don’t know why he needs this medical lotion. His feet look fine to me. Maybe because he uses the cream?
He finishes one foot, sighs, and moves on to the other.
This is tedious.
But, on the positive side, the ointment could have been for something else. Even better, I’m getting the hang of being inside this memory.
I feel a more secure veil of separation between myself and Harry. I’m still feeling far more body sensations than I’m comfortable with, but I can handle this. As long as there aren’t any more creams.
The doorbell rings.
Hot diggity dog! Now we’re getting somewhere! Might it be the purveyor of the peck of poisoned peppers?
Harry rushes to the bedroom, stubbing his toe on the doorframe by accident. FLUFFERNUTS! I feel the stub pain everywhere, like he does.
Hopping on one foot while cussing, Harry grabs a pair of tan pants from a chair and a clean shirt from the closet. I note that he does not pull on any underwear. Not that I’m judging. He is in a hurry, and we’ve all been there.
Once the pants and shirt are on, he yanks open a dresser drawer. The drawer is empty, except for two socks that do not match. The socks are lying as far apart from each other as possible, like a married couple on TV who are reluctantly sharing a bed after an argument.
Harry grabs the mismatched socks and pulls them on. The stubbed toe is already feeling better; it only throbs a little under the tight sock.
He glances in a full-length mirror. This outfit, including the mismatched socks, is the exact same one he was wearing the day he died at the library.
Yes! This makes me happy. I figured I had the right day, but it’s good to see the wardrobe with my own eyes—or Harry’s eyes—to confirm it.
His gaze stays down on his mismatched socks as he moves down his hallway. It’s disorienting. Then his gaze, along with my view, lift up when he reaches the front door. This odd little window that I have, peering through his eyes, reminds me of the shaky-cam footage in an amateur horror movie. It’s dizzying, but I am getting used to it.
Harry unlocks the deadbolt, grabs the handle, and the muscle tension in his right arm increases as he pulls.
Time slows.
There’s a creak in his shoulder.
The door is one inch open.
The ticking of a distant clock sounds like this: Tick. Wait for it. Tock. Wait for it. Tick.
Argh!
This vision, which already felt tedious at real-time speed, is now unfolding in slow motion. Or is it? Maybe that’s just my perception. It’s possible I do have some control over the replay speed. I certainly am excited to see who’s ringing the doorbell. Is my anticipation putting on the brakes? How perverse would that be? Yet also unsurprising. Magic does have a mind of its own.
I’m waiting for the Tock of the clock, but it doesn’t come.
This moment is frozen. Dead still.
DOUBLE FLUFFERNUTS. I’m going to die here. Die from the suspense of waiting for this door to open. Unless...
If I’m the one controlling the speed, I need to relax in order to let the event unfold.
RELAX, ZARA!
The clock goes Tock. The door continues to open. Slowly, but surely.
Who’s on the other side? It could be Harry’s killer. Just like that. I could have all the answers I need in five...
Four...
Three...
Two...
Open the door already, Harry! Stop looking down at your mismatched socks!
One.
The visitor is revealed.
Chapter 31
The person standing on the small porch is a man, about fifty, the spitting image of Harry Blackstone. He has thick, unruly black hair, big, brown e
yes, and a large nose with a hump on the bridge and pointed tip.
“Good morning,” the man says, revealing teeth that are small and square, with a gap between the two in the front.
This must be Harry’s brother. His twin brother. Mr. William Blackstone, known to most as Bill.
Do I have the date wrong after all? According to Bill’s interview with the detectives, he was out of town at the time of Harry’s death. Either I’m in the wrong moment of time, or somebody lied to the police. Is brother Bill a liar?
“Bill,” Harry says. He sounds surprised but also pleased.
The memory is now running at regular speed. I feel impatient to get more information, faster, but at least this is better than slow motion.
Bill runs a hand over his black hair, fluffing it up, and says, “Didn’t wake you, did I?”
Harry mirrors Bill, running his hand over his own hair, which is still wet from the shower. I feel the silky hair, the cool dampness cling to his fingers, and the heat radiating from his scalp. And I feel something else. A tightening in the abdomen. Harry doesn’t relish this visit from his brother.
“I thought you were out of town,” Harry says. His throat is tight. He doesn’t move or invite his brother in. Beyond the cover of the entryway, it’s raining and gray. According to the weather, I’m definitely in September.
Bill rubs his forehead. The cords at the sides of his neck strain out. “After that email you sent me, did you really think I was going to stick around at some boring industry convention? I came home last night on my plane.”
The visual focus shifts from Bill’s face to twenty feet behind him, to a person walking by on the sidewalk. Bright blonde hair sticking out under a yellow rain hat. It’s Ambrosia Abernathy, the young witch. She’s wearing the same yellow rain gear as when she kicked my butt, not fifteen feet from here, on the other side of the hedge.
I hope Maisy Nix is working out a good punishment.
My own feelings about Ambrosia are in sharp contrast with Harry’s. I can’t read his thoughts, yet I can sense a general fatherly affection for the girl. She lives next door, and, true to what Ambrosia told me, they are friends.
Harry’s chest swells, then he belts out, “Good morning to you, Ambrosia!” His voice is so loud, compared to the soft patter of the rain, it’s startling, like a fog horn. “Nice weather, don’t you think?”
Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3) Page 17
