Halo Effect

by Annabel Chase

  “Are you okay?” Ember asked. She seemed to notice my change in mood.

  “Yes, fine,” I said. “I don’t have the best memories of this neighborhood. Nothing to do with Stefany Trello, though.”

  “Think of it this way—you’ve been here long enough now to collect bad memories as well as good.”

  “It’s been a rollercoaster ride, that’s for sure.”

  We approached a modest one-story house painted dark green with almond-colored shutters. The flower beds were simple but well-kept and there was a sign on the door that read No Trespassing. No Exceptions.

  “Well, we know she’s friendly,” Ember said with a wry smile. She gave the door three hard knocks.

  “At least we’re not trying to sell her anything.” That had to count for something.

  The door opened and a troll answered wearing a floral tunic dress in jewel-toned colors. Her light brown hair was shaped in a bob and her ears were adorned with two small rubies.

  “Hello there. How can I help you?” Her greeting was more amiable than I expected, given the sign.

  “My name is Ember Rose and this is my friend, Emma Hart. I’m a reporter working on a couple stories in Spellbound. We heard about your generous offer to donate organs to your former daughter-in-law and would love to know more. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  Stefany motioned for us to come in. “Not at all. Can I get you anything to eat or drink? I have homemade muffins if anyone’s interested. I’m baking now since I’ll be out of the kitchen during my recovery. I figure I’ll freeze whatever’s left over.”

  “None for me, thanks,” Ember said.

  I was tempted by the muffins thanks to the enticing aroma that lingered in the air, but I politely declined. I’d feel awkward if I were the only one eating.

  Stefany motioned to the small dining table in the eat-in kitchen. Ember and I sat across from each other and I took a moment to admire the cozy interior. It had a farmhouse quality, with ceramic chickens and pigs on the walls and a wooden sign that read Eggs-25 coins. I smiled at the pig-shaped vase in the center of the table. A bouquet of roses burst from its middle. The autumnal colors blended nicely together, despite their unorthodox vessel. Daniel would be proud to see the ripple effect of the festival.

  “I have tea, lemon fizz, and coffee. Pick your poison,” Stefany said.

  I was inwardly relieved when Ember requested a lemon fizz because I wanted one, too.

  Stefany poured three glasses from a white ceramic pitcher and joined us at the table. “It isn’t every day I get company,” she said.

  “Not with that sign on your door,” Ember said.

  I nearly spit out my drink. Although I’d had the same thought, I certainly wasn’t planning to voice it. I liked that Ember managed to be direct without being mean. Some seemed to believe the two were interchangeable.

  Stefany took the remark in stride. “I keep forgetting to bring that inside. I’ve had it up for years. To be perfectly honest, I’d welcome strangers into my home, especially now that my husband’s passed and my son’s left the nest. It gets lonely being on my own.”

  “Personally, I think it depends on the stranger,” Ember said. “Then again, there are certain family members I don’t necessarily want dropping by unannounced…” She paused to sip her drink. “Or announced, for that matter, which is one of the reasons I was so intrigued by your story.”

  “Oh, I know it’s an unusual case, but Bitsy was married to my only son. I can’t help but see her as part of the family.”

  “Bitsy?” Ember asked.

  “Short for Elizabeth,” Stefany said.

  “What made you decide to help her?” Ember asked. “It sounds like you two didn’t have the best relationship even when she was married to your son.”

  Stefany clutched the glass of lemon fizz. “I think it’s because I was still trying to control my son’s life and Bitsy resented it—rightfully so.”

  “That’s a typical dynamic,” Ember said. “An older relative trying to control the path of every family member.”

  “It came from a good place, you see,” Stefany said. “I love my son and I only want the best for him.”

  I swallowed a mouthful of lemon fizz. It tasted sweeter than the kind Daniel and I had at home. “Why did they get divorced, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Stefany hung her head. “Bitsy blames me. She says they were constantly fighting about my involvement in their lives and it got to the point where she told him to choose.”

  Ember’s brow lifted. “And he chose you? That’s some serious maternal mojo.”

  Stefany pressed her thick lips together. “I’m not proud of it. In hindsight, I think Bitsy was right. I interfered in their marriage one too many times. I can see why they didn’t have children. They were too busy arguing about me to focus on their relationship.”

  “Is that what prompted you to get involved when you heard she was in need?” I asked. Guilt was a powerful motivator.

  “I don’t think it’s guilt,” Stefany said. “In fact, I’ve known about her need for a transplant for weeks and ignored it. Didn’t even send my condolences. It was only in the last few days that I made the decision.”

  Ember cut a quick glance at me. “What made you decide to help?”

  Stefany tilted her head, considering the question. “It’s the right thing to do. My son loved Bitsy enough to marry her. He was never a fickle boy. There must be some goodness in her that I haven’t been open to seeing.”

  “This seems like a 180 degree turn for you,” Ember said. “Something must’ve happened to nudge you in that direction.”

  Stefany’s laugh was deep and rumbling, a common troll trait. “I didn’t have a near death experience, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Don’t you think it seems strange to go from an intense dislike of Bitsy to offering her one of your organs?” Ember pressed. “To go from not wanting strangers on your doorstep to thinking that, if they want a piece of you, they’re welcome to it? I don’t know about you, but when I ask if you want a piece of me, it’s because I’m angry and about to clock you.”

  Stefany’s gaze flicked to me and back to Ember. “I understand your point. Believe me, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I can’t say specifically why I’ve had a change of heart, but it feels like the right thing to do.” Her expression seemed so hopeful that I found it hard to do anything other than agree with her.

  “Have you checked with your healer that you’re strong enough to donate?” Ember asked. “You’re older than Bitsy. There must be risks involved.”

  “There are risks inherent in every choice we make,” Stefany said.

  “That’s true, but most of them don’t involve a critical part of the anatomy,” Ember shot back.

  “What does your son think?” I asked.

  Stefany laughed nervously. “He thinks I’ve gone off the deep end. I thought he would be happy. I know he still loves her, even though they’re not together anymore. Part of me wonders whether this might even nudge them toward reconciliation.”

  “You’d want that?” Ember asked.

  “It’s not about what I want,” Stefany said. “That’s the lesson I’ve learned.” She paused. “But hopefully not too late.”

  It occurred to me that if strong women were being targeted by someone, I should check on Agnes. Although I’d seen her at Flower Power and she seemed like her usual witchy self, I knew I’d feel better if I paid her a visit. Unsurprisingly, Ember didn’t feel compelled to join me at the Spellbound Care Home, so we parted ways in town.

  The receptionist glanced up from his desk when I entered and greeted me with the kind of smile that hurt my cheekbones to look at it.

  “Hello there,” he said in a singsong voice. “I’m Edmund. Who are you here to see on this fine day?”

  Oh, wow. Agnes would have a field day with this new guy. He was far too perky.

  “My name is Emma Hart and I’m here to see Agnes. I’m a regular v
isitor.”

  He recoiled slightly. “Agnes? Do you mean the witch down the hall that way?” He pointed to the right, past the closed door.

  “That’s her,” I said, smiling. I guess they’d already gotten acquainted.

  “Here’s your pass,” he said. His hand shook as he gave me the visitor lanyard. “It sounds like you know where to go.”

  “Sure do. Hope you’re enjoying your new job. Try not to let Agnes get to you. The more you seem affected, the more she’ll try to rile you.”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “She told me she bites. Is that true?”

  “Only if you’re having sex with her.” I eyed him closely. “You’re not sleeping with her, are you, Edmund?”

  His face turned a deep shade of crimson. “No, of course not. I would never.” He frowned. “I don’t mean because she’s hideous. I mean because she’s old.” He shook his head and beads of sweat bubbled along his brow. “No, I mean because it would be inappropriate.”

  I felt guilty for causing him distress, as amusing as it was to witness. “No worries, Edmund.”

  He was so distracted by our exchange that he forgot to ask me if I had any contraband, which was a good thing, too, because I’d hidden two verboten items under my cloak. All for a good cause.

  I tapped on the door to her room and waited for admittance.

  “Come in, Emma.”

  As I nudged open the door, I braced myself and hoped to find the same old cranky witch I knew so well.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Your footsteps. Sounds like we’re under attack by a polite elephant.”

  So far, so good.

  “How are you today?” I asked.

  Agnes sat upright in bed in a white nightgown with a set of bongos on her lap and a straw hat set at a jaunty angle on her head. The only thing missing from this scene was a joint dangling from her wrinkled lips.

  “Peachy keen,” she said. “I’m teaching myself to play the bongos.” She demonstrated with a couple smacks.

  “What prompted this latest interest?”

  “Some bimbo down the hall plays the flute and all the men are fawning over her like she made the instrument with her own two hands,” Agnes said.

  I produced the bottle of Goddess Bounty from beneath my cloak and placed it on the counter of the kitchenette.

  “And you decided to get in on the action?”

  “So I can get some action,” Agnes said. She hit the bongos again. If there was a tune involved, I wasn’t hearing it.

  “You could form a girl band,” I said. “Play together and have your own groupies.”

  Agnes brightened. “Hey, now there’s an idea. Sometimes that brain of yours actually works.”

  I bit back a smile. I was relieved she seemed like her usual cantankerous self. “How have you been feeling lately?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What’s with the third degree? I just saw you at the festival.”

  “I know. I was wondering if you’ve felt okay since then.”

  She squinted at me, her eyes gleaming with suspicion. “Why? What happened at the festival?”

  “Nothing happened at the festival,” I said. “It was a huge success and Daniel is thrilled with the outcome.”

  She slapped the bongos again. “I’m sure he had a lot of help. There’s no way he pulled off an event like that without support. The angel can’t flap his wings without a gust of wind to help him along.”

  I fixed her with a hard look. “Agnes, Daniel is my husband and the father of our child. You can’t disparage him like that to me.”

  “Fine, I’ll wait until someone else comes in and say it to them.”

  Maybe I would’ve preferred she’d had a personality transplant after all.

  “You didn’t have an argument with anyone at the festival, did you? No trouble?”

  “Not me. I was too busy getting sauced in the marketplace.” She cackled lightly. “I saw my old friend Octavia reaming some poor satyr though. I thought he was going to die of humiliation right there in front of everyone.”

  That got my attention. “Octavia got into an argument?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it an argument. She was dressing down this satyr like he was a soldier in her platoon who’d stepped a hoof out of line.”

  Interesting. “Did you catch his name?”

  She gave me a sly look. “He was a good-looking fella. Of course I did.”

  I held up the bottle. “I’ll trade you.”

  “The name’s Franco. He’s the only satyr at the barber shop.”

  I wiggled the bottle. “Are you partaking now or would you rather save it?”

  “Does a turtle have a shell? Pour me a drink before I wither and die from unmet expectations.”

  I opened the cabinet and frowned at the two glasses shaped like a cactus. “What happened to the regular glasses?”

  “I traded them.”

  I craned my neck to look at her. “What do you mean you traded them?”

  Agnes beat on the bongos. “I mean that I wanted those glasses instead of the ones I had, so we swapped.”

  “You had four glasses and now there are only two.”

  “Oh, because I traded the other two glasses for these bongos.”

  I poured two drinks and handed one to Agnes, awkwardly gripping the cactus-shaped barware.

  “Now the scene is complete,” Agnes said, drumming her fingers on the bongo while she sipped her drink.

  It was clear that Agnes seemed unaffected by whatever change had come over the others. I still had one more test I wanted to try, though.

  “I brought you a special treat,” I said.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Alcohol and a present? What’s the occasion? Have they told you I’m dying?”

  “No one’s dying,” I said. I produced my wand from the hidden depths of my cloak. “I thought you might appreciate a dabble in magic.”

  Her eyes rounded. “I am dying.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Then why are you letting me do things I’m not allowed to do? You’re a stickler for the rules, annoyingly so.”

  “Not always. I bring you booze all the time.”

  She snatched the wand from my grip. “Not spells, though. You’re afraid to let me have access to magic.”

  That much was true, but I was here to supervise and I wanted to be sure. If she chose a helpful spell or one that failed to register on the mischief scale, I’d add her to the growing list of concerns.

  “Tiffany won’t let you go too far off the rails,” I said.

  Agnes hefted the powder blue wand in her hand. “Tiffany is a ridiculous name. It’s a wand, not a stripper.”

  “Any idea what spell you might like to do?” I asked.

  Her thin lips peeled back to show off a set of faintly yellow teeth. “I have a few ideas.”

  “You can’t do anything to the bimbo or her flute.”

  Her expression crumpled. “Why not? It won’t hurt anybody.”

  I gave her a pointed look. “Can I get that written in blood?”

  “Sure. Does it matter whose?” She threw her head back and cackled. The hat slipped from her head and bounced to the floor.

  “Seriously, Agnes. Be nice.” No, wait. The whole point was to make sure she wasn’t nice. Now that I knew for sure she’d be her typical self, did I have an obligation to stop her? I thought back to the lecture on magical ethics. If I knew Agnes was about to cause harm with a spell using my own wand, I had to stop her. Otherwise, I would be guilty by omission.

  Agnes moved the bongos aside and shifted her feet to the floor. She looked so happy that I couldn’t bring myself to take back the wand. I’d stay close by and intercede if necessary.

  Oh, who was I kidding? It would be totally necessary.

  I glanced at the thin material of her nightgown. “Are you sure you want to roam around the halls like that?”

  “You’re right.” She scooped her hat off the floor and set it back
on her head. “That’s better. Let’s go make some mischief.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time I left the Spellbound Care Home, Agnes was down for a nap like a naughty toddler and there was no evidence of the mess she’d created. I’d trailed behind her like a concerned parent and made sure to curtail the damage.

  I drove into town, eager to speak to the satyr who’d incurred Octavia’s wrath. I wasn’t sure whether he was involved in her behavioral change, but it was worth a conversation.

  I entered the barber shop in search of the lone satyr.

  The dwarf at the first station looked me up and down. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Franco,” I said.

  The dwarf pursed his lips, assessing me. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “In the back,” a gruff voice called.

  “Thank you.”

  I made my way past the row of chairs to the back room. The door was slightly ajar so I slipped inside. The satyr stood beside a table with a long strip of wax in his hand. A customer was planted face down on the table with only a towel draped over his lower half. Coarse dark hair covered his back.

  I blinked. Was he waxing a werewolf?

  “What are you doing in here?” the satyr demanded.

  My cheeks grew flushed. “Sorry, I thought you were on a break. I didn’t realize you were offering spa services back here.”

  “It’s not an official part of the business,” the satyr said.

  The werewolf turned his head to look at me. “I don’t want anyone to know I wax, so I come here. Franco is discreet.”

  “How much do you wax?” I asked, staring at the pair of hairy legs poking out from the bottom of the towel.

  “Everything,” the werewolf said. “I know it’s not typical for my species, but I prefer smooth skin.”

  “Do others think it’s your natural appearance?” I asked. They had to know he did something, even if they didn’t suspect it was wax. He was a werewolf, for crying out loud.