Wisteria Witches Mysteries Box Set 3

by Angela Pepper

  “Zara Riddle,” Maisy called out with a cheery tone. She looked as tall and gorgeous as I felt rumpled and sleep-deprived. Her ebony hair was swept up in a topknot, all the better to feature the length of her neck and her perfect, medium-brown skin. She gave me a quick smile that emphasized the sharp planes of her face and broadened her strong jaw. She wore an orange Dreamland Coffee apron, this time with a hot-pink blouse underneath. The orange and pink, almost tertiary on the color wheel, looked so wrong together they were right, vibrating with energy. She wasn’t yawning today.

  Upon receiving her cheerful greeting, I smiled with relief. She wasn’t going to char me with lightning on the spot.

  “Two times in two days,” she exclaimed loudly. “I haven’t seen you this much since good ol’ Tansy Wick’s ghost was in possession of your taste buds! Get in here and get a coffee, you silly ol’ witch, you!”

  I stopped in my tracks, horrified. So much for subtlety. The coffee shop was crowded, full of people enjoying their first cups of the morning in small groups. A few of them had sweaty hair and wore jogging shoes. This was evidently where the Sunday morning jogging crew wound up after their run.

  I backtracked toward the door. The joggers weren’t looking my way yet. If I ducked out quick enough, they might not connect my face to Maisy’s proclamation of witch!

  But the door wouldn’t open for me. It was stuck tight, by magic.

  “Oh, Zara! The look on your face!” Maisy cackled.

  I raised both of my hands, palms-up, in a gesture of what’s-your-problem?

  “Calm down,” the other witch said. “I’m speaking to you through a sound focus.” She waved at the seated customers. “None of them can hear us. Look.”

  I glanced around. Sure enough, none of the coffee drinkers were even looking my way, let alone showing interest in Maisy’s talk of ghostly possession.

  “You got me,” I said. “You totally got me.”

  Maisy replied, “It’s a pretty simple spell. I can show you sometime.”

  I walked up to the counter and asked—quietly, because I didn’t know if the sound focus went both ways, “Is it the sound bubble spell, modified in shape to form a tunnel?”

  “No.” She drew her head back and twisted her lips. “But that’s a good idea. One could approach a sound focus that way.” She looked me up and down. “Zara, you’re not modifying spells, are you? Don’t tell me you’re into dangerous home brew!”

  “Home brew?” I’d never heard it called that before. “That wouldn’t be a very wise thing for a novice such as myself to do.”

  She watched me, her expression frozen. “No. It wouldn’t be wise for someone such as yourself to attempt. As a novice, you really should be under constant supervision by a mentor.”

  “Are you offering?” I grinned. “My aunt’s out of town at the moment, as I’m guessing you already know.”

  Through a tight mouth, she said, “I’ve got my hands full with my niece, but I might be available for the occasional lesson or question.”

  “Great! I have two questions. First, can you see the ghost standing next to me?”

  “No.” Her mouth contorted into a tight frown. “Sadly, I do not possess that type of sight.”

  “Second question, then. Can I run a tab? I’d love to get one of your amazing coffees, but I left my house in a hurry and forgot my purse.”

  Her frown changed into a smile of bemusement. “A witch need not beg for money.”

  “So, you’ll loan it to me? Sort of a witch-to-witch thing?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “Just that a witch need never beg for money. Haven’t you figured that out?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I could pickpocket like a professional if I wanted to, but a life of crime is not the life for me.”

  “Probably for the best.” She shook her head and moved over to the coffee machine. “What would you like?”

  “Vanilla latte.”

  “That was Ishmael Greyson’s favorite drink. Are you here about him again?”

  “Sort of. I’m here with him.”

  “Then I’ll make two vanilla lattes,” she said. “One for him and one for you.”

  “That’s not nece—” My attention was drawn by the sight of Ishmael nodding his head. He’d been leaning against the counter next to me, watching my conversation with Maisy with great interest.

  “Actually, that’s perfect,” I said. “He’s currently smiling and looking forward to it.”

  “I always liked Ishmael,” she said. “I can’t be bothered to give people a hard time unless I like them. You do understand what I mean, don’t you?”

  “I think so. My coworker at the library, Frank Wonder, is always pulling elaborate pranks on me. He’s a good friend, in spite of that.”

  “On the contrary. That’s how you know he’s a good friend.”

  “Okay. I do see what you mean.”

  “Frank. He’s the flamingo?”

  I pressed my lips together to give my brain time to catch up with my mouth. She’d casually asked me to confirm a friend’s powers. Was this a trap? A test?

  I answered slowly, “Frank does have bright pink hair, like a flamingo, if that’s what you mean.”

  She winked at me. “Of course that’s what I mean. I would never expect you to divulge anyone else’s secrets.”

  “Maybe. You did suggest I might pick people’s pockets for coffee money.”

  Her chin dipped down, and she fumbled the silver mini-pitcher she’d been using to catch the machine’s espresso.

  She quickly recovered and said, “Oh, Zara. I was only teasing you. It’s what we witches do. Even the good ones can be naughty sometimes.”

  “I have a lot to learn. I guess your niece told you about my visit to the vet clinic yesterday afternoon?”

  “She’s talked about nothing but.” The machine whirred as the brown elixir dripped into the silver mini-pitchers. “I understand there’s a new menace on the loose. One who chops off heads.”

  I gave a sidelong glance over to Ishmael to check on the ghost. He was staring at the coffee and smiling, seemingly not connecting the idea of heads being chopped off with his own situation.

  “I’m glad you’re up to speed,” I said. “Perhaps you can help. Two heads are better than one.”

  Her coffee-black eyes twinkled. “Two witches are better than one.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  After she’d made the vanilla lattes, as well as an espresso for herself, Maisy said, “Let’s take these coffees and sit in the back room. It’s not very pretty to look at, but it’s quiet and private, so I don’t have to keep up the sound spell.”

  “Sure,” I said, and she led me and my ghost buddy into the coffee shop’s back office and storage room. She was right about it not being very pretty to look at.

  Chapter 27

  The three of us—Maisy Nix, Ishmael Greyson, and myself—sat around a small table in the storage area at the back of Dreamland Coffee.

  Ishmael tentatively touched the rim of his coffee mug, wrapped his fingers around the handle, then left his hand there. His expression was serene. He didn’t appear to be bothered that he couldn’t pick up the mug or sip any of the vanilla latte. He simply sat there, quietly as always, as though waiting for something to happen.

  “This table is unbalanced,” I said to Maisy, noting the angle of my latte inside my cup. “That must be why it got sent away from the other tables in the front.”

  “Things around witches do have a tendency to become unbalanced.” She kicked the base. To my surprise, the surface became more level and my latte evened out in the mug. There was no way kicking the table made it level. It had to have been magic.

  “Fixed it,” I said.

  “This table is particularly jinxed,” she said. “We’ve cast a lot of big spells on top of the old gal.” She gave it a loving rub.

  I leaned forward and touched a dark spot. “Is this a burn
mark?”

  Maisy raised an eyebrow. “You should ask Zinnia about that burn. She nearly set the whole place on fire.”

  “Oh?” I gave her my good-listener face—the one I used at the library when I suspected a patron with multiple late fees was about to tell me a whale of a tale that was well worth the equivalent of their late fees.

  “Zinnia wouldn’t like me discussing her business in her absence,” Maisy said.

  “She would not,” I agreed.

  “But we can talk about spells,” she said. “Have you found the secret to peeling the raw egg?”

  “There’s a secret?”

  She nodded. “Imagine you’re holding the egg inside your mouth. Let your jaw drop down and forward, and cup your tongue. It gives focus to the oval form.”

  “My aunt never told me about that.”

  “She wants you to figure it out yourself, the hard way. She’s actually a very good teacher, considering she doesn’t have much experience as a mentor. Actually, her methods would be more than adequate... if you were the typical sixteen-year-old novice.”

  “Was that how old you were when...?”

  “Yes.” She tossed back her espresso and set the tiny cup down with a clink. “Is our friend still with us?”

  I looked over the empty chair where Ishmael had been. “He’s gone,” I reported. “I didn’t even see him go.”

  “Our girl talk must have bored him into the next dimension.”

  “Or he suddenly remembered he had other pressing business.”

  “Ishmael’s pressing business days are over.” She pursed her lips. “Lucky guy.”

  “If you say so.”

  She took his vanilla latte and set it before herself. “I don’t like to see good coffee go to waste.”

  * * *

  Maisy and I continued to talk shop—spells and potions and magical creatures. In what seemed like no time at all, an hour had passed.

  “Sounds like it’s getting busy out there,” Maisy said, pushing her chair back. “Sundays start late, but the place can really fill up, between the joggers and the church crowd.”

  I smirked. “The church crowd comes here?”

  She smirked back. “If they only knew their delicious coffee was roasted by a witch!”

  “Oh, they might not even care. Half of them are probably shifters and gnomes, knowing this town.”

  She got to her feet. “Zara, as much as I would love to continue this long overdue meeting of ours, I do need to supervise my employees.”

  I got to my feet as well. “Thank you for letting me take up your Sunday morning,” I said. “We should do this again some time.”

  “We should,” she agreed.

  I was about to make a joke about joining her “book club,” if that was indeed what they called their coven, when I spotted something on the shelf behind Maisy. It was the karambit. The curved blade I’d dropped off the night before at the DWM. Or at least a very similar one.

  A tiny croak came out of my throat.

  “Zara?” She followed my gaze to the knife. She turned and picked it up.

  I sucked in air and took a step back reflexively.

  Tension filled the air. My senses tingled and time slowed.

  Maisy narrowed her coffee-black eyes and took a step toward me. I took another step back.

  “Zara, you seem upset about something,” she said, brandishing the blade casually. “Are you afraid of knives?”

  “Maybe a little bit,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. My daughter and I both had a powerful dislike for TV scenes where a character is shown chopping vegetables. Not quite a phobia, but definitely something.

  Maisy was no dummy. She knew something was up. Slowly, as though tasting each word, she said, “But there’s something about this knife in particular that you’re reacting to.” She swished it from side to side, watching my eyes as I tracked the blade. “Talk to me.”

  Her mouth blurred, the air around us crackled, and she cast a spell. It was fast and complicated, and something I’d never heard before.

  I felt a buoyancy form, like a bubble in the pit of my stomach, and then words spilled from my mouth. “Ishmael Greyson was beheaded by a knife like that.” The spell made me talk! I swallowed hard, but doing so couldn’t stop the words from coming. “That must be why Ishmael led me here today. We were walking aimlessly, or so I thought, but then we ended up here. With the weapon that killed him.” As the last words left my lips, I felt an immense sense of relief. It had to be a side effect of the spell.

  “And you actually think I killed him,” she said flatly. “Thanks a lot.”

  Whatever she’d cast on me was short in duration. The buoyancy in my stomach was gone. I felt no more unnatural compulsion to speak, and yet I did. I had questions.

  “You have to admit it’s an unusual blade,” I said.

  “I admit nothing. It’s a pretty knife. That’s why I have it.”

  “What do you use it for?”

  She stared at me with narrowed eyes for a long moment. The coffee shop was getting busy. A din of laughter spilled into the cool back room.

  Finally, she said, “Okay. I’ll tell you what the knife is for, but you need to keep both of your hands where I can see them.” She nodded at the round cafe table that stood between us. “Place both of your hands on the table.”

  I considered my options. Maisy Nix and the karambit were between me and the only exit. To my sides and behind me, the walls were all concrete blocks. If I was getting out of that storage room, it would be through Maisy Nix.

  She made an impatient tsk sound. “Zara, just put your hands on the table. I’m not going to hurt you.” She held one long-fingered hand to her chest. “I’m more worried about you getting excited and shooting me by accident. So, would you put your hands on the table, please?”

  I didn’t want to, but I placed my hands on the table anyway, of my own free will. The table’s burnt and scarred surface was warm. Warmer than it should have been, given the temperature of the storage room.

  Maisy’s fingers twitched, her lips moved almost imperceptibly, and I felt the familiar tug in the air of a powerful spell being cast. Another one. This was stronger than the spell that had compelled me to speak. The table beneath my hands became hotter. Not hot enough to burn, but enough to make me want to pull away. I pulled away, but only jerked my shoulders. My hands were stuck. Magically glued to the table!

  I used my telekinetic powers to reach for the nearest thing—a big bag of coffee. It would be perfect for knocking over Maisy while I made my escape, dragging the jinxed table with me if I had to.

  But the bag of coffee didn’t even budge. Those particular powers of mine weren’t working. It was as though I’d been dosed with witchbane again. Had there been something in my vanilla latte? I tried casting the pink fog spell. No fog.

  “Relax, Zara. It’s only temporary.”

  I gave her a bewildered look. “Did you dose me with witchbane?”

  She gave me a horrified look. “I’m not a monster,” she said.

  “If it wasn’t witchbane, what did you do? Was it a spell, or the table?”

  “It was all me.” She grinned. “Although... that old table has been jinxed so many times over the years, I wouldn’t be surprised if it got a few ideas of its own. Zinnia has told you about Animata, right?”

  “Animata? Is that why you killed Ishmael Greyson?”

  The grin fell off her face. “I didn’t kill anyone, you silly witch.”

  “Not recently,” I said.

  She snorted.

  I tried wiggling my fingers, then sliding my hands, then lifting up slowly, then quickly. With each attempt, I could swear I felt the table letting go and my hands wriggling or pulling away, but when I looked down, my hands hadn’t moved at all.

  “What is this magic?” I asked.

  “A steadfast spell.” She frowned. “Zinnia is right. You haven’t been paying enough attention to your novice lessons. You should be able to identify spells being
cast on you. And you should have known better than to put your hands on the table.” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have let me block the only exit.”

  “I might not know everything, but I do know that witches aren’t supposed to cast spells on each other, except in the event of an emergency.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Such as pushing another witch out of the way of an oncoming bus?” Her eyes twinkled. “Lesson one: Witches aren’t supposed to cast spells on each other. That is exactly what we tell the novices. For their own protection.” She pursed her lips. “But how is a witch supposed to learn combat magic if she’s never given the opportunity to duel?”

  I stopped struggling against the table, adopted a relaxed pose, and gave the tall, dark-haired witch a polite smile. “Are you saying that this, right here, is a teaching moment? I love it. Teach me. What’s the counter to a steadfast spell? I swear I’m a quick study if you give me a chance.”

  “Not so fast. First, don’t you want to know what this pretty knife is for?” She floated the karambit in front of herself. The sharp, curved blade glinted as it rotated through the air languidly.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you told me than, uh, demonstrated.”

  She shook her head. “If I was going to kill you, Zara, you’d already be dead.”

  I swallowed hard. “Hearing you say that is not as reassuring as you might think.”

  She used magic to grab the same bag of coffee beans I’d tried to lift. She floated the bag to herself easily, and then, in one swift movement, used the karambit to slice open the burlap bag. A handful of dark brown beans fell to the floor and scattered noisily, punctuating the tension.

  Maisy brushed her hands together, even though she had touched neither coffee bag nor karambit handle with anything but magic.

  “And that’s what I use the knife for,” she said. “Our garbage collector gave it to me. He found it next to someone’s trash and thought it would be perfect for opening bags of coffee.”

  “Whose trash?”