by Cindy Stark
Timothy Franklin, born of a witch but denying it, was using his ancient grandmother’s spell book. Timothy Franklin who despised witches. Timothy Franklin, one of the founding members of the Sons of Stonebridge.
She couldn’t wrap her mind around it.
Why would he target others who used magic and then do the same himself?
The idea that he had that knowledge but kept himself in hiding sent a chill ricocheting through her body. Did he know of others in town?
Worse, did he suspect her?
She didn’t think so, but…
Oh, gosh. This changed everything.
She needed to warn the others.
But, what if some of them already knew? Then she’d be outing herself.
She’d have to tell Cora. She could trust her.
Maybe not Victor.
Definitely not Victor. He could be a firecracker at times, and he didn’t have the town’s best interests at heart.
Of course, she’d tell Peter. She’d tell him first. He would be able to give her solid advice.
She paused and then shook her head. The sneaky little bugger.
This time when she glanced about his office, she looked with new eyes. If he’d warded the room, there was a reason why.
Hazel closed her eyes to shut off her sense of sight and inhaled a deep breath. In slow degrees, she expanded the area of awareness around her, looking for where magic was the most powerful.
After a few moments, she was certain she felt a strong pull from something to the left of her. She opened her eyes, but all she found was a wall covered with nothing but wood paneling.
She stood and strode toward it. She searched it from top to bottom, looking for a crack or a clue, but she couldn’t see anything.
Then again, she shouldn’t be looking for ordinary. She needed whatever he’d hidden to reveal itself to her. Silly her, she needed to use her magic to find this.
She mumbled beneath her breath, trying to recall another spell she’d used before when she couldn’t find an earring she’d dropped.
“Whatever you need…”
She shook her head. “Whatever you are, whatever you’ll be…”
Frustration threatened to steal her better senses, but she fought hard. She wished she would have brought an amethyst to help relieve stress.
No, she could do this. She was Clarabelle’s granddaughter. Everyone in the coven believed she had powers beyond what she knew.
She brought a picture of all three spell books that she’d encountered while living in Stonebridge into her mind. They were probably the closest images she had similar to what she was looking for. Then she breathed.
“Wherever you are, let me see. Show me your secrets, so mote it be.”
Sixteen
After muttering the revealing spell, Hazel focused hard on the plain wood paneling, willing whatever it was to expose itself.
Several seconds passed, and then a shelf sitting high on the wall, high enough no one would bump his head, appeared before her, and she nearly toppled backward in surprise.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
A vintage, hand-carved wooden box sat before her like a gorgeous present waiting to be opened.
Unfortunately, a modern-day gold lock kept her from her prize.
She frowned in frustration and then spent the next twenty minutes searching for the key using ordinary and magical means. She found nothing.
Timothy would have taken the key with him. Of course, he would.
She’d have to gain access to the box by other means. Magical means.
Fortunately, she’d anticipated this obstacle and had tucked Clarabelle’s spell book and items to complete a breakable spell into her bag. Risky to bring them along, but this might be her only opportunity to have a look through Timothy’s stuff. She wasn’t going to miss out.
She moved her purse to a short filing cabinet out of the direct line of sight from the front counter and pulled Clarabelle’s book from the bag. She kept her back to the door, and her senses open as she quickly thumbed to the page she’d earmarked in anticipation of having to do such a thing.
Breakable and Unbreakable.
It was as likely as anything to work.
She assembled her candles and opened the old tome. Voices from the outer room sent her into sheer panic, and she froze.
She threw the bag on top of everything. As much as she wanted to rush right out, she paused and took a few breaths to calm her presence. Then she stepped from his office into the outer area.
Sandra Elwood, the mayor’s wife, and Susan Bartles chatted as they strolled past the counter. Hazel must have caught Susan’s attention because she cast a look in her direction, and Hazel’s stomach felt like it had fallen to the floor.
Hazel swallowed hard. Susan was one step shy of being an actual member of the Sons of Stonebridge, and here she was, in the library, with Clarabelle’s spell book and Hazel’s tools of the trade mere footsteps away. She feared Susan was just as stout of a believer as John, and they would freak if they knew what she was up to.
Hazel dug her nails into her palms to keep her mind off her racing heart. She pasted on a calm smile. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
The mayor’s wife shifted her gaze to Hazel. “Oh, hello, Hazel. Good to see you.”
Susan nodded in agreement. “It was so kind of you to volunteer to cover one of Timothy’s shifts.”
Hazel worked to keep her friendly veneer from cracking. “I don’t mind volunteering. Stonebridge is my home now, and I’m happy to support Timothy and the community. The guy works so hard and deserves a break.”
“He sure does,” Sandra said.
Susan eyed the empty counter in front of Hazel and then glanced over her shoulder to Timothy’s office. “Everything going okay?”
Hazel nodded emphatically. “Yes. It’s great. A little slow, actually. I was about to pull the phone out of my purse and read, but then you walked in.”
Sandra gave her a sympathetic look. “Sorry that we won’t be much entertainment. I wanted to show Susan a book I’d found on knitting, and then we have to be on our way.”
Hazel shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ll help you and then get some much-needed reading done. I wouldn’t mind having a couple of hours to relax, to be honest.”
Sandra snorted. “From your mouth to God’s ear.”
Susan chuckled. “Amen. We women work just as hard as Timothy, but we rarely get the credit.”
Hazel smiled and nodded. “Do you need help finding the book, or do you know where it is?”
Sandra waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t you worry. I know right where it is. It will just take a second to retrieve.”
True to her word, Sandra and Susan returned a few moments later with two books in Susan’s hands. She pushed them across the counter toward Hazel.
Hazel lifted her brows in question. “Do you have your library card with you?”
Susan slipped a wallet from her purse and retrieved her card. “Sure do.”
Hazel took it and wrote her name and number on the white card from the pocket in the back of the book that she’d keep. She stamped a blue card with the return date and tucked it in the pocket. She then slid the books toward the ladies. “So good to see you both.”
“Thank you,” Susan said.
Sandra waved. “Good to see you, too. Keep up the good work.”
Hazel didn’t dare move, didn’t dare enter Timothy’s office until the women had been gone for nearly ten minutes. Finally, she convinced herself she’d be okay to continue with her searching.
Hazel fought with her better sense as she pulled the candle and a match from her bag. Lighting it here would be dangerous, but she couldn’t exactly haul the box out to her car, take it home to examine everything, and then bring it back unnoticed.
Though part of her was tempted to try.
She quickly lit a blue candle for power and focus and then an orange one for action. She narrowed her gaze to the gold lock and sent h
er energy toward it. “Release your hold. Relax your guard. Let the strength within you free. Allow me entrance. Allow me to see. This I ask, so mote it be.”
A loud crack sounded, and the lock fell from the box.
A huge grin split her face, and she wanted to holler “yes!”, but she best not.
She didn’t waste any time lifting the lid and peering inside.
Two books that looked as old as Clarabelle’s were stacked neatly to one side, and she slipped on thin, cotton gloves before touching anything. A modern-day, somewhat worn notebook had been tucked along the edge. And a small shoebox occupied the other side.
Curiosity forced her to open the shoebox next, and she gasped. Candles, crystals, sage…
Timothy had enough items in here to do a plethora of spells. Heck, he was probably better at it than she was. The idea irritated her beyond measure.
Disgusted, she placed the lid back on the shoebox and turned her attention to the old books. The first was a spell book belonging to a woman named Lily. One of Clarabelle’s friends.
She flipped through pages and found it to be similar to the other three she’d witnessed. If she didn’t think she’d make herself a Sons of Stonebridge target, she would stick it in her bag and let Timothy suffer without it.
But no. Whatever she ended up doing with what she now knew, she’d need more planning. A rash decision could bite her and likely others hard. From what she knew, the Sons of Stonebridge didn’t mess around.
She replaced the spell book and lifted a brown leather-covered book. Inside, she found page after page of scrawling, old-fashioned handwriting that she struggled to read like everything written during that period. Dates were the only things that separated the filled spaces.
Someone’s diary.
She read a few pages that spoke of little other than daily chores and this person, a girl Hazel guessed, being angry with her parents for unjust treatment. The girl wanted to visit with a friend, someone named Genevieve. But her mother feared Genevieve was under scrutiny and would put the girl in danger of being discovered to be a witch.
Genevieve… One of Clarabelle’s friends had been named Genevieve. Could it be the same person?
She turned more pages and read on, certain now that the diary belonged to a girl. She’d had a fight with her friends over magic. Another friend, Lily had forced them all to do a secret spell. This girl had been excited but also scared.
Lily had to be the one related to Timothy.
Also, she was a known associate of Hazel’s grandmother. One of the women who was supposedly drowned in Redemption Pond along with Clarabelle.
A prickly feeling settled into her soul, and Hazel’s mind began to race. Genevieve. Eliza. The connections were clear.
She grabbed Clarabelle’s spell book from her bag and opened to a page past the middle. She held it next to the diary and compared the handwriting.
“Dear Blessed Mother…” she whispered. It couldn’t be.
She held Clarabelle Foster Hardy’s diary in her hands. A familiar zing of energy flitted through her now that she was open to it, and Hazel couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognized the feeling from the start.
Her very own ancestor’s diary.
And Timothy Franklin had it.
That thought burned her more than anything. She was Clarabelle’s granddaughter, and this rightfully belonged to her.
Worse, when she left that night, she’d have to leave it behind.
The thought sickened her.
She glanced at the clock above Timothy’s desk. She had an hour left of her shift. An hour to absorb as much of what she held in her hands as possible.
It wasn’t enough.
Hazel kept the diary on the filing cabinet next to her purse and gave the notebook a quick perusal. The writing inside turned her stomach.
Notes from some of the Sons of Stonebridge meetings. Names of people they were watching for signs of witchcraft were tucked in between other ramblings.
She flipped pages. Information on how to combat spells. Most of which was ridiculous. The thought jogged her memory, and she reconsidered Timothy encouraging everyone to throw holy water balloons to see if someone was a witch.
She couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. He had to know it wouldn’t work. She wondered if he’d used the fake anti-spell information to give him more power over the citizens of Stonebridge. Ingratiated himself somehow. But she couldn’t figure out why unless he thought it would make him appear innocent.
She turned pages until she found the last one he’d written on, and then she worked her way back, looking for familiar names of people that he might have his eye on including her.
Cora.
She sucked in a heartbreaking breath. He suspected her dearest friend. She had to warn her. She’d tell Peter, too. If these people were as dangerous as she’d been led to believe, Cora could be in real trouble.
Thankfully, she didn’t spot her own name.
She continued working her way back. Most people named weren’t witches, at least not that she knew of. Some had been lined through, and Hazel assumed Timothy and his friends had decided they didn’t have tainted blood.
She glanced at the clock again. The minutes were ticking away, and she didn’t want to spend them looking at his notebook. She wanted to read about Clarabelle’s life.
She flipped a few more pages and paused. The air whooshed out of her lungs.
Sarah Parrish.
She might have missed the name of Peter’s dead wife if it hadn’t been underlined in red. Next to it, also written in red, was the word “gone”.
Seventeen
Hazel’s throat tightened as she stared at the word next to Sarah Parrish’s name. “Gone,” she whispered.
She had no doubt now that they’d known about Sarah.
None of the other names had been underlined in red.
And “gone”? What did that mean?
She feared it was code that meant Peter’s wife had been taken care of by the Sons of Stonebridge. Had Sarah’s accident not really been an accident like some in town had suggested?
She pulled out her phone and took a picture of that page and another of the one with Cora’s name.
That was as much time as she could devote to his notebook. She hadn’t noticed any other current town members listed that hadn’t been lined through, so maybe Cora was the only one on their radar currently.
Blessed Mother, she hoped so.
A family with two school-aged children entered the library, and she cursed her stupid luck. Maybe she should have worn her underwear inside out that day.
She did her best to cool her impatience and abandoned her research for the moment.
The family left twenty minutes later without checking out a book, and Hazel’s nerves were more frayed than ever.
She rushed back into Timothy’s office and picked up Clarabelle’s diary. She ached to take her time and read every page, but the fates hadn’t granted her that privilege. She had ten minutes until someone would arrive to lock up.
She’d have to figure a way to sneak back into the library another time. At night. Maybe several of them so she could read the entire thing.
Her frustration left her wanting to cry.
Her gut told her she needed this book, but she couldn’t have it.
She clutched it to her chest and closed her eyes. If only Clarabelle had followed her here and could point out the parts she needed to see the most.
“Please, show me what I need to know. Please.”
She opened her eyes and ran gentle fingers over the worn brown leather. “Show me,” she whispered.
She opened her senses and prepared to trust her instincts. Slowly, she ran a finger over the edge of the pages, waiting for a sign. She repeated the action three times before she finally received a burst of energy.
She carefully slid a fingernail into the pages where she believed she’d been directed and found herself toward the end of the book.
C
larabelle had detailed an account of the witches meeting in the forest. But the date of the entry was past the date she’d supposedly drowned in the lake.
Clarabelle had survived! The spell she and her friends had done to rid the lake of water must have worked.
Excited energy rushed through her, leaving her brain spinning.
“She lived,” she whispered.
Hazel continued to scan as much as she could as fast as she could, while keeping an eye on the clock. She needed time to put everything away and relock the box.
She skimmed across words. Sacred ceremonies. Oaths and promises. A prophecy.
Her search stopped there, and she read slowly.
Once every hundred years, a chance to heal the town would surface. A female descendant of Clarabelle’s along with the help of a powerful man would have the opportunity to bring together both sides and heal the rift that would likely plague the town for many generations.
Hazel’s breath grew shallow.
What if she was the one? She and a powerful man.
But it couldn’t be.
The idea of something so outrageous was unfathomable. This was the stuff of fantasy books. Not real life.
Her gaze fell back to the page.
If Clarabelle was right, though, she couldn’t ignore it.
With shaking hands, she took a photo of the two written pages in Clarabelle’s diary that described the prophecy.
She shifted a quick look at the clock.
She had three minutes. Plus, there was always the possibility that the person coming to lock up might show up early.
Hazel quickly arranged everything in the box like she’d found it. She slid the gold lock through the metal loops and pushed it together to lock it.
The lock wouldn’t engage.
Her heart seized. Panic flooded her like a violent tidal surge.
“No,” she whispered. She didn’t have time for this.
She grabbed Clarabelle’s spell book from her purse and quickly opened to the Breakable/Unbreakable spell. Maybe she could unbreak the lock.
She lit the match and held it to the blue and orange candles’ wicks. She worked to keep her voice steady and read the alternate spell from the spell book.
