Arthur paws my leg and I gently shoo him off. “Don’t be silly. We’re just…good friends.”
“You’re more than that.”
True, but I don’t know how to say it. I feel like a teenager with her first boyfriend. “Friends who kiss once in a while.”
Dad chuckles. “He’s a good kid. His family may be challenging, though.”
“Tell me about it.” I suck in a breath at the words and try to take it back. “I mean, they’re nice and all. I like them.”
I nod to try and give my weak declaration more oomph.
“Nice?” Dad gives me his knowing smile. “That word is the kiss of death when your mother uses it to describe someone. It means she can’t stand them and is only being polite. From what I remember, Helen Cross is not nice.”
Lancelot rubs my calf, meowing loudly. I chuck my napkin and rise. “All right, all right. Enough.”
Avoiding Dad’s mischievous eyes, I go to the stove and begin making a pancake without the chocolate. Tabby strolls in and sits staring at Dad. She purrs so lustily, I can hear it three feet away. “Let’s get back to you and Mama,” I suggest. “How do you plan to win her back?”
My directness takes him by surprise and he lowers the fork, moving pieces of food around on his plate. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Is that the real reason you’re here?”
His steady gaze meets mine. “I came back to see you first and foremost. I feel terrible about missing Thanksgiving with you.”
I flip the pancake and rest a hip against the counter. “Water under the bridge. You’re here now and that’s what’s important.”
He sips his coffee. “Any thoughts?”
“On how to win over Mama?” I screw up my mouth, thinking. “She’s a romantic at heart, so flowers, chocolates, compliments. You know, the usual. Don’t mention anything about your competition, and be casual about it. Drop by City Hall and see if she needs help with work stuff. Invite her to lunch. Find the perfect time to say you’re sorry and she was right.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Doesn’t matter. Relationships are full of little slights and hearing an apology and the words, ‘you were right’ will cause her to lower her walls and see you differently.”
A shake of his head. “I don’t get it.”
I break up the cake and wave a hand over the pieces to speed up the cooling process. “Look, I’m no expert on relationships, we both know that, but I am on Mama. I’ve taken care of her a lot since she sent you away. Even though she’s independent and wants everybody to see her as a leader, she secretly craves being loved.” I toss the pieces in the three cat bowls and the felines descend on them. “We all do. Let her know she’s appreciated and she’ll be putty in your hands.”
I return to the table to finish my breakfast and Dad looks pensive. I inquire about his last gig and that lightens the air. He keeps up a steady stream of stories and tells me about the lyrics he’s working on. He seems truly excited about all of it, and doesn’t mention Mama further. I don’t either.
As I’m starting to clear the dishes, someone knocks. Out on the porch, I find Rhys in green trousers and a red vest.
“Morning, honey! I made cinnamon apple cake for our lone guest at the B&B this morning and had some left.” He hands the wrapped loaf to me and kisses my cheek. It’s still warm and I inhale the lovely aroma. “Thought you and your daddy might like it.”
Rhys and Brax seem to enjoy running the bed and breakfast next door, as well as managing the Thorny Toad. Rhys is as good at creating alcoholic drinks as he is baking. This morning, his fair skin is flushed, accenting his freckles. He’s obviously left a warm, toasty kitchen.
The air is chilly and I motion for him to come in. “Do you have time for coffee?”
“Not really, but I’d like to say hi to your daddy.”
I lean close and lower my voice. “You didn’t tell me Sean was seeing my mother.”
Rhys draws back and frowns. “Our Sean?”
“The very one.”
He covers his mouth in mock horror. “With your mother?”
I nod. “You didn’t know?”
“Honey, I had no idea. That boy must get around.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Sean has a girlfriend, I know that, but it ain’t your mama.”
“Seriously? He’s two-timing her?”
Rhys nods. “There’s been a gal real regular like when he works at the Toad. Haylee Dean Bower. She’s related to Reverend Stout. His niece or something.”
I want to punch Sean in the face. “To make matters worse, Sean is Dad's former drummer.”
Rhys’ expression shows a new level of shock. “No! I didn’t know that.”
“Dad's pretty hurt about it.”
Rhys glances toward the kitchen. “What are you going to do about it?”
I fiddle with the wrapping on the cake. “I have no clue.”
“Sean keeps things close to the vest, but he’s been hitting the bottle hard. Comes in hung over a lot.”
“Great.”
As we enter the kitchen, Rhys and Dad exchange hellos.
Rhys stops near the fridge. “The electrical is all fixed,” he tells Dad. “We’d love to have you play tonight.” Rhys shoots me a glance, as if he’s wondering if that’s smart now that he knows about Sean. “That is, if you're interested.”
Dad wipes his fingers on a napkin and tosses it in the garbage can. “Sure, I’ll be there. What time?”
They settle on the details as I start washing dishes.
Rosie arrives, Fern in tow. There’s one pancake left and she helps herself to it and coffee, greeting all of us. She breaks off a tiny bit for Fern.
Rhys leaves, Dad bugs out to go upstairs, and I hear him practicing a minute later. Rosie and I go to work.
My mind is filled with all the responsibilities hanging over me, and I can hardly focus. An hour later, the smell of cinnamon still hangs in the air. Dad jogs down the stairs and tells me he’s going out for lunch. “The old band members are getting together at Queenie’s.”
I wonder if this includes Sean? “Have fun,” I say and watch him leave.
After Rosie and I finish our morning appointment, I take off to a town eight miles away—the closest I could find to gather the items on the list Winter gave me.
The various ingredients are for a protection spell, a binding spell, and a ritual to put the genie back in the bottle if she won’t cross over.
My aunt had a few of the herbs, but not the black salt or chalk to create the circle to hold the spirit while I decide what to do with her when the time comes. Maybe by then, I’ll have a better idea, but for now, I have to be prepared to contain her so she can’t hurt anyone.
I’m carrying the necklace in my pocket when I enter the store called Chicks with Gifts Emporium. Up to this point, the locket has never done anything, and I stewed all night about Mamma Nightengale’s comment. Helen is certain it contains the ghost, but what if she’s wrong? What if the family tale is just that—fiction?
As I enter, the smell of patchouli and lavender coil in my nose. My shoulders relax and I let go of an audible exhale.
“Welcome.” The woman behind the counter has orange tipped pixie hair and is wearing a peace sign t-shirt. “I’m Raven. Can I help you?”
She comes out from behind the counter, heading toward a display with boxes of tarot decks in hand. On the table are fake crows and skulls, with an assortment of Christmas lights wound between them.
My coat pocket begins vibrating. Surprised, I slap a hand over the outside. “I hope so,” I answer, digging in my bag for the list. “I need supplies for a…”
Her eyes brighten. “Spell?”
“Yes,” I admit. “A couple actually. All very important.”
“Oh, goodie,” she says.
Before either of us moves, the necklace skyrockets out of my pocket and flies through the air.
Chapter Nine
“How intriguing,
” Raven says as it whizzes past her and catches awkwardly on the upright hand of a porcelain witch figurine. “What is it?”
With a sigh worthy of my mother, I edge toward the statue. “A pain in my backside.”
Reaching for the locket, I flinch when it jets straight up, knocking into a decorative hanging lamp, then buzzes past a collection of goddess statues. It bumps one hard enough to cause it to tumble, and it tips into a display of feathers and smudging bowls, before landing on a holiday arrangement of jewelry. The entire exhibit of necklaces tumbles to the floor.
The locket seems to take a breather among its fallen comrades and I wonder if it’s trying to use them as camouflage.
If I had doubts about the thing being possessed, I don’t now.
“Sorry,” I say, scrambling to fix the mess. “It’s never done anything like this before.”
“Haunted object?”
She seems knowledgeable about these things. “A cursed ghost is trapped inside.”
“Hmm.” The corners of her lips slant down. “That’s different. How did it happen?”
Seems I’m repeating the story more than I care to lately. While I share what I know, I nonchalantly move toward the locket. It seems to quiver, and I freeze thinking it’s going to bolt again.
“Clever,” Raven murmurs once I finish. “I should use that on my enemies.”
At my look of astonishment, she chuckles. “Kidding. The witch who cursed the ghost into the necklace must have been quite powerful.”
“According to my source, she wasn’t a witch, but a God-fearing Methodist.”
“Sure.” Raven snorts. “Sorry, not buying that one.”
She asks me to wait and disappears behind a beaded curtain. I think about Helen’s grandmother and wonder if she really was a religious woman, or if hers included a bit of magick.
I certainly wasn’t prepared to find out my distant grandmother was a witch, and a shapeshifting cat on top of it. I imagine during that particular time in history, they kept their practice and the evidence under wraps. What better way than with religion?
I keep my eyes on the necklace, staying where I am, and scan the inside of the emporium since I have a moment to study it. The high-ceiling rafters exhibit bunches of drying herbs, antique birdcages, and vintage chandeliers. A collection of artistically embellished straw brooms covers one wall.
From the corner of my eye, I catch several ghosts moving around. I decide to ignore them, like I did the one attached to Sean and those at the Cross vineyard. I have enough to deal with without worrying about random spirits who might try to get my attention.
Raven returns carrying a black box with sigils burned into the wood on all sides. Along with that, a pair of long handled tweezers.
She utters words under her breath in what sounds like another language, and the hair on the back of my neck rises.
At the same time, the necklace seizes up, going rigid.
Using the tweezers, she lifts it and places it in the box. “There.” Shutting the lid, she smiles and hands it to me. “That should keep it under control for now.”
“How did you do that?”
“It’s called a curse box. It should be able to contain the necklace without any issues.”
That was one of the items on my list. “That’s amazing. Thank you. So even if the spirit gets free of the locket, this box will hold it?”
“Not exactly. To deal with the ghost, you're gonna need Tansy, Blessed Thistle…”—she goes to an apothecary-like shelving unit filled with bags and glass containers. Her black-painted nails and silver rings flash under the lights as she sorts through them. “Ah, here we go.” She pulls several out and places them on the counter. “Black salt and witch’s grass.”
She adds more items to the collection and I’m thankful I’ve brought extra cash.
“Do you know how to perform an un-hexing spell?”
I move forward and set the box next to the herbs. “Un-hexing?”
“You can’t send the curse back to the originator, since I assume she’s dead.”
I confirm with a nod.
“You have to undo it, then, and banish the spirit, but it would be best if you allowed a trained witch to handle that. This stuff isn’t for the uninitiated.”
The banishing the spirit part is where I keep getting hung up. “I assume you’ve done this before.”
She lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. “Once or twice.”
“When you say banish, you mean force a spirit to cross over, right?”
She leans on the counter. “This isn’t a simple pesky ghost you can coax into moving on.”
Her serious green eyes appraise me and she tilts her head. A moment passes where I feel a current of electricity snap between us, as though she’s sending feelers into my aura.
Her head straightens and a knowingness comes into her eyes. “You’re a spirit walker, aren’t you? New to it, though.”
My recent near-death experience puts me in that category, despite the fact I’ve seen ghosts since I was little. “Yes, long story. I see and communicate with the dead. I don’t want to send this one out into the world, because she is malicious by all accounts and putting her down there…”—I point at the floor—“isn’t something I’m comfortable doing.”
She mimics my gesture. “Down there may not be exactly what you’ve been taught it is. You definitely need an experienced witch to help you with this.”
“I’m almost out of time and my witch friend is on the West Coast.”
She rings up my purchases and I mentally cringe at the total. “If you break the hex, you’ll have a minor amount of control over the spirit itself. Then you can decide what to do with it, but you don’t have many options.”
“Can I hire you?”
She accepts my payment, then removes a crystal necklace from a display in the glass case and drapes it over my head. “This is a protection amulet. On the house. My sister, Sage, is the hex-breaker in the family. If you leave your name and number, I’ll have her call you.”
I scribble the info on a piece of a paper she provides, feeling the crystal on my collarbone beginning to warm.
Raven slides the info under a gargoyle statue next to the register. She tosses the pen into a cup shaped like a cauldron. “If you know any of the names of the original people involved, go next door and ask for Paris, the librarian. She’ll know I sent you.”
She walks me to the door. “Tell her you need information on dark magick witches in this area from two hundred years ago. See what she can unearth in her catacombs, okay?”
Feeling slightly more confident, I thank her and leave. At the car, I place the box and bag inside and eye the building next to the shop.
Small and quaint, the library is decorated with a smattering of holiday lights and bows. In the window, several colored flyers showcase story time with Santa and a Yule log-making party.
Raven comes out and points toward the car’s windshield. “Is that your familiar?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I’m shocked to see Tabby on the dash, scrutinizing us. “Do you have a curse box that can contain her?” I grumble.
She chuckles. “Another pain in your backside?”
If she only knew. In normal company I would keep the details to myself. With her, I suspect she’ll understand. “She’s one of my ancestors who prefers life as a spoiled cat.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Another chuckle. “My two cents? You should invite her to work the spells with you.”
I swear Tabitha winks at her, and Raven gives a wave and retreats inside.
The interior smells of leather and old paper, roses and knowledge. Magick tickles my nose. Two kittens wrestle in a large round bed, batting a ball of string between them.
Bestsellers in multiple genres line the shelves on both sides as I step deeper into the building. Across the carpeted space, I pick up hushed conversations and spot a wheeled cart lined with returns. Several books float off and land upon a nearby shelf, sliding themselves
into place.
A ghost? Either that, or the librarian has some pretty cool magick. I don’t see or sense a spirit presence, and I pass by the magickal re-shelving unit on my way to the main area.
A circular desk comes into view as I pass the cart and a young woman with long, chocolate brown hair and rosy cheeks looks up. “Hello, Avalon,” she says with a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Behind her, the clear apparition of an older woman with cats-eye reading glasses and a matching smile waves to me. “Hello, Avalon.”
Chapter Ten
Paris Charnel and her ghostly counterpart lead me down steep narrow stairs into an underground library, nearly identical to the one above, but filled with books on magick. The three of us pass endless rows, the periphery of stacks disappearing into shadows.
“Here it is,” Paris stops and reaches toward a shelf, and a dusty tome wiggles out of the stack. “Witch Wars of the South, Fable County, Georgia, 1800s.”
The volume is as long and wide as Rosie’s tote bag.
I would love to spend the rest of the day down here, educating myself. Who knew there was so much going on in the unseen world that it has its own library? I’m astounded.
The air is denser, the shadows lit by sconces on the wall that come to life as Paris passes them. There’s a heavy layer of ghosts, including two kittens wrestling with a ball of string. It’s almost as if the library has a mirror self here.
One of the ghosts acts indignant at us for disturbing the quiet. He sits at a small table, stacks surrounding him. A goatee trims his face and small, wire rim glasses accentuate his somber eyes. His attire makes me think of the early 1900s.
Using an index system I can’t begin to understand, Paris walks us past ancient shelves made of wood with elegantly handwritten signs on their darkly stained ends. The giant book simply floats beside her.
My gaze falls randomly on various leather-bound volumes. “Witch Wars?”
The ghost across the way shushes me from his shadowy nook.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
Paris’ helper, the apparition she refers to as Mee-maw Iula, keeps smiling as she levitates next to me. It denotes that she knows a secret. I see Paris in her features and assume Mee-maw stands for grandmother. Iula glides along with her hands lifted, as if in a state of constant surprise or possibly readiness. For what, I don’t know.
Magic & Mistletoe, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 2 Page 5
