Ah, the old tone was back. Amber somehow felt on surer footing now. This version of the chief she could handle. It was the version she knew best.
“Well, in my family, it’s the rule, not the exception.”
After a brief pause, which mostly involved him staring at her in slack-jawed confusion, he asked, “And what’s the term for what you are?”
“I’m a witch.” Saying it that openly was oddly freeing.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “A … witch. What, like cauldrons and wands and broomsticks?” He stilled. “My God, can you fly?”
She fought a laugh. “No, I can’t fly. And I don’t know any witches who can.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, brow creased. A faint, persistent jangle sounded then. She assumed his leg was bouncing nervously under the desk. Were there coins in his pocket? She couldn’t tell if he was furious with her or terrified. “So what can you do then?” he finally asked, but it came out sharp, like an accusation. Almost defensive.
She understood his tone, even if his posture offered mixed signals. “Tell me,” his tone said, “how dangerous you are.”
“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know the extent of my powers. I only just found out that my history is a bit more complicated than I was first told. But we don’t turn people into animals or use eye of newt in our potions or whatever else you might think.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
After a beat, she asked, “Are you scared of me?”
He visibly swallowed. “A little.” Lips pursed, he said, “But this somehow makes much more sense than you being a psychic. Why on earth did you let me believe that? There I was, asking you about your otherworldly hunches and whatever nonsense. Were you just having a laugh at my expense?”
“First of all, I am sorry about that,” she said, “but you barely tolerated me being a psychic—how would you have reacted if I’d told you I was a witch?”
The slight totter of his head told her that her assumption had been right.
“Second of all, I wanted to know what happened to Melanie. Having you believe I was a psychic helped get me there. And psychics do exist, by the way—that’s not nonsense. I’m just not one of them.”
He blinked several times. “Please don’t tell me vampires, werewolves, and leprechauns exist too.”
“I’ve never met any, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face again.
She chewed on her bottom lip some more while he processed all this. Though the furrow to his brow told her he wasn’t having the easiest time with it, he hadn’t gone screaming from the room or defenestrated himself from the neglected window behind him. That had to be a good sign.
“I have to assume this is a closely held secret, given the psychic cover-story and your look of sheer panic when I saw you use your … magic.”
Amber nodded, aware that even saying the word made him uncomfortable.
“So why are you volunteering this to me now? What does this have to do with what happened to the maid? Was she a witch?”
And here came the part that truly could make him snap. It was ultimately what had broken her relationship with Max. When he’d started to realize there was a whole other world out there, one hidden just under the surface of the only one he’d ever known, he couldn’t deal with it. It shook too many of his core beliefs to the ground. So Max had left.
Amber was almost positive he’d convinced himself that Amber was mentally unstable and that everything she’d told him was a figment of her imagination. That was easier for him to believe than the truth, she supposed.
If the truth about rival witch clans was what sent the chief over the edge, she’d yank the information back out of his head and replace it with something easier for him to handle. What that something was, she didn’t know.
She blew out a breath. Here goes nothing …
“My aunt, who is also a witch, believes that a witch from a rival family—the Penhallow family—has come to Edgehill with the intent to harm me in some way. I believe the maid was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a Penhallow killed her, not realizing it wasn’t my aunt. That, or they were perfectly aware that it wasn’t my aunt, and they’re sending me a message that they’re here.”
The chief gripped his armrests now much like Amber had earlier, but his features had been schooled into indifference. Cop mode. “How do you know that’s who was responsible? You didn’t see the body.”
“The Penhallows are cursed. Unlike my family, where magic is passed down from parents to children, the Penhallows’ ability to perform magic was stripped from them. Centuries ago, the Penhallows had started dabbling in something you’d recognize from movies and TV shows as ‘dark magic.’ They found a way to take powers from other witches through siphoning-spells.
“A witch’s powers are sacred and it’s a cardinal sin to take them from another witch. After decades of this practice going unchecked by our council, several heads of prominent witch families banded together to strip the Penhallows of their ability to do magic.
“This infuriated them, of course, and they spent years trying to get their sentence reversed by appealing to the council. The council denied them time and time again. Every denial made them angrier. One Penhallow, in his anger at the council, hunted one of the councilmembers down and killed him in cold blood. The councilmember’s magic transferred to him through the knife the Penhallow had stabbed into his chest.”
The chief’s mouth was agape again. “Had a witch never killed another before? Wouldn’t this transfer of power have already been a well-known possibility?”
“That’s the thing—witches had turned on each other in the past. We’re not unlike non-witches in that way. But the power transfer had never happened before. When a witch died, his or her power went with them.”
He nodded slightly. “Did it have something to do with the Penhallow being stripped of power?”
“That’s the theory,” Amber said. “A witch is meant to have power; it’s what makes us who we are. When the Penhallow killed the witch, the councilmember’s powers filled the spaces left by his removed magic. But the power he received was twisted. Spells were heightened in strength, but would have the opposite intended effect. A spell meant to heal a wound, for example, became a spell that caused infection. A tincture meant to ease a troubled mind to allow for sleep, now caused horrific nightmares.”
The chief mulled this over. “This fact didn’t deter the Penhallows from stealing more powers? I would think this … curse, as you call it, would keep them from doing it anymore.”
“You would think so, but the council didn’t anticipate the intense instinct that would kick in for the Penhallows to restore their magic, no matter what it took,” Amber said. “The problem was, once they had some form of magic back, it poisoned their minds just as it poisoned their magic. This twisted, backward magic is what they pass on generation after generation now, along with an insatiable desire to acquire more magic. Yet, the more they get—”
“The madder they become.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding, relieved he seemed to be following along, even though he looked seconds from passing out and toppling out of his chair. “They’re like parasites now. Like a sentient virus. They strategically track and hunt down witches who they think are the most powerful.”
He cocked his head at this. “And … you’re one of the most powerful?”
Amber couldn’t even muster up the energy to be offended. The chief knew even less about her magic than she did, and even he seemed to doubt her skill.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “All I know is what my aunt told me, which was that a Penhallow was coming to Edgehill,” she said. “You asked how I knew a Penhallow was involved in the murder of the maid? Penhallows, when they use their cursed magic, leave a trace of it behind. I felt it when I walked into the hotel room.”
The chief sighed. “After what I saw ton
ight, it’s hard to believe that woman’s death was … normal.” He rubbed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to scrub the memory from them. “Any idea what this Penhallow might look like?”
“No clue,” she said. “Witches look just as human as anyone else. It could be anyone.”
“They aren’t surrounded by an ominous cloud of black?”
An unexpected laugh bubbled out of her. “Unfortunately not. But I want to help find who this is.”
“Because you and your family are in danger now, too.”
“Yes,” she said. “I also have reason to believe a Penhallow killed my parents.”
His head reeled back as if she’d struck him. “They didn’t pass away in a house fire? Wasn’t it ruled an accident—an electrical glitch?”
“I’ve always had my suspicions,” Amber said. “If I find who did this to that poor maid, not only could it mean keeping the rest of my family alive, but I might be able to find justice for my parents, too.”
The chief searched her face, remaining quiet for so long, Amber started to worry he was slowly cracking before her eyes as everything she’d told him started to sink in. “God help me, but I believe you.”
Her shoulders sagged in relief.
“I promise to keep your secret as long as you promise not to bewitch me or my staff,” he said, eyes narrowed.
One hand to her heart, the other raised in the air, she said, “I solemnly swear not to bewitch you or your staff.”
He grunted. “I need a drink.”
After a brief pause, she said, “Can you tell me what happened to the maid?”
“Honestly, we aren’t sure,” he said. “She looked … almost like she’d been mummified. Like she’d been drained—”
“Of life?”
The chief swore under his breath. “For lack of a better phrase, yes. Drained of life. I’ve never seen anything like it. The officer in charge of taking crime scene photos took one look at her body, then ran to the bathroom to throw up his dinner,” he said. “I’m worried pictures or details will leak to the public somehow. How do I explain it? How do my officers fight something like this?”
Amber didn’t know.
After another long pause, he said, “For what it’s worth, in hindsight, everything odd I’ve associated with you has been tied to something positive. Little girls saved from ponds, kids saved from the path of speeding vehicles, little boys named Sammy being utterly enthralled by a plastic cat named Midnight …”
Amber felt her cheeks heat, oddly embarrassed by the chief’s kind words. Perhaps they were just unexpected, given their rocky past. It was a welcome change. “Well, in that case, can I ask a favor?”
“You can ask anything you like,” he said, “but it doesn’t mean the favor will be granted.”
“I need any information I can get about my cousin Edgar.”
The chief quirked a blonde eyebrow. “Isn’t he here in Edgehill?”
“He won’t talk to me,” she said. “I’ve tried.”
“Amber, if the man doesn’t want to speak to you, maybe you should respect that.”
“He may be the only person who knows what happened the night of the house fire,” she said. “I can’t shake the feeling that the Penhallows had something to do with why he suddenly recanted his story.”
That piqued his interest, even if he didn’t say anything to that effect. She could see it in the way his eyes squinted. His cop brain was working in overdrive. “I’ll see what I can find. In the meantime, be alert. Call me the second you suspect anything or anyone, okay?”
She nodded. “Okay.”
As she left his office, she realized she never once truly thought to use the memory-wipe spell. The chief now knew more than any non-witch should. And, not only had she not protected her secret, but she’d given up Aunt Gretchen’s and Willow’s secrets, too. She wasn’t sure she could reverse that fact even if she wanted to now.
She hoped she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life.
Chapter 9
Things were tense in the Blackwood home for the next several days. Aunt Gretchen could hardly look at Amber. Willow could hardly look at Amber. Amber could hardly look at either one. Amber was desperate to tell Willow about her conversation with the chief, but Willow was scarcely around. And when she was, she steered clear of Amber altogether. Amber wondered if Willow was spending her time with Connor Declan when she wasn’t holed up with them. Though, she supposed, she was likely soaking up free WiFi somewhere so she could stay connected to her office back in Portland and get as much work done remotely as possible.
Jack had called a day ago, but Amber hadn’t picked up. And now, three days later, she still hadn’t called him back. How long was too long to return a phone call before it was considered rude?
All this simmering tension made sleeping in the tiny studio apartment terribly unpleasant, but despite how upset they all were with each other, they knew they were safer together. Aunt Gretchen drank her foresight tincture every night, and every morning she informed her nieces that the Penhallow threat hadn’t lifted. That the Penhallow was still in Edgehill, roaming the streets in plain sight.
There hadn’t been any more attacks in town, and neither the sisters nor their aunt had run into the telltale signature of cursed magic. Amber worried this was all the calm before the storm.
Three days after her aunt’s arrival, Amber found herself alone in the Quirky Whisker after hours, working once again on the lion toy that refused to be tamed. The boy’s party was days away and Amber felt no closer to having a finished—and safe—product. Amber hated to cancel on a customer on such short notice, but her magic was as high-strung as she was, glitching constantly.
If she’d thought the incident with the lion and Tom had been bad, it was nothing compared to this. Just minutes before, she’d given the lion life—and mere moments after that, the little beast darted away, leaping off the counter and into the dark recesses of her shop.
“Ugh! Not again!”
She spent the better part of an hour chasing the thing. It would jump into drawers, wedge itself behind books, and hide behind corners of the pyramid-shaped shelves that dotted the store. It would slowly stalk her, its body low to the ground as it army-crawled after its prey. She’d sense it just before it attacked and it would dart away from her grasping hands, only to take up a hiding place somewhere new and this would start all over again. On more than one occasion, it nipped her. It bit her fingers, the fleshy pad of her thumb, and her wrist—twice. She was sure she’d be bruised by morning.
She was on hands and knees now, glancing around the side of a shelf. Nerves frayed, she contemplated leaving the thing down here to fend for itself overnight. But she wasn’t sure she trusted it not to go berserk in its boredom and trash the shop.
She screamed.
The demonic little toy had clamped down on her ankle this time and hung on for all the world with its fangs. Shaking her leg, she dislodged it. Suddenly furious, she plucked a book off a nearby shelf and smashed the toy as if it were a scuttling cockroach.
“No!” she snapped at herself a moment later, plopping down on her backside right there in the middle of the floor.
That was it.
She’d have to call Vicky in the morning and tell her that her son wouldn’t have the toy in time for his party. Amber couldn’t keep doing this. Not until her magic was back under control. Her ankle throbbed.
She picked a shard of beige-painted plastic off the ground. The sensation to cry burned her eyes and the back of her throat.
“It attacked again?”
Amber startled, glancing up to see Willow standing at the base of the stairs. “Yeah. This used to be the one thing I was good at …” She hated how whiny she sounded.
After their parents died, Amber had become sulky and prickly. She’d been prone to bouts of such intense sadness, she wouldn’t be able to function for days at a time. She’d sit on their bedroom floor, just like this, and stare off into space for
hours. They’d started calling the instances “blackouts,” because when she came to, not even Amber could remember when it had happened or how long it had lasted.
Willow had reacted outwardly. She’d found solace in underage drinking, mic nights, and Connor Declan’s artsy friends. Amber had envied her sister for that. Willow had found a way to purge her sadness and frustration and anger—and had come out on the other side a more well-adjusted person. Amber had bottled it up. Amber hadn’t ever been able to move past it. Not really.
Willow walked over and sat on the ground across from her, slowly lifting the dream analysis tome off the plastic lion carcass. She winced. “I hardly think this little guy is worth a blackout.”
Amber chewed on her bottom lip, gaze focused on the plastic shard, turning it end over end with her fingertips. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, not looking at her sister. “I didn’t mean to make this all about me. I know they were your parents just as much as mine. I just live with it hanging over my head all the time. I mean, my bedroom window looks out on the house, for crying out loud. I see it every day.” She looked up then. “You have distance. Literal distance. I’m starting to see that was a healthier choice.”
Willow scooted over until she was next to Amber, then wrapped an arm around her and pulled Amber in. Amber rested her head on her sister’s shoulder. Willow wore black or navy blue pajama pants—it was hard to discern color in the low light of the shop—covered in little moons and stars. Her legs were stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Her nail polish was a dark color Amber couldn’t identify.
“From what Aunt Gretchen has told me,” Willow said, “it sounds like you’ve been right all along. It wasn’t just a freak accident.”
“I didn’t want to be right,” Amber admitted. “As much as I’ve wanted answers, deep down I’ve wanted to be wrong.”
Willow rested her cheek on top of Amber’s head and gave her a slight squeeze. “I know.”
They sat like that for a while, not saying anything. They didn’t need to. Amber knew Willow had forgiven her.
Pawsitively Cursed Page 9
