Fae Witch Chronicles Books 1 - 3, page 4
As always, I expect Maggie to comment on my being late as I rush through the door with my hair still damp from the shower. As always, she seems not to notice. In fact, Maggie barely glances up from the volume she’s poring over as she sits perched on a stool behind the counter. “I just made tea, if you’re interested,” she says. “Oh, and I made some cinnamon rolls.”
My stomach voices its interest by way of a grumble. Partly because I haven’t yet eaten, and partly because Maggie is a phenomenal baker. If she ever quits the book business, she won’t have to worry. People would happily line up to pay for her baked goods.
I go out back, leave my jacket on a hook, and take Maggie up on her offer. I fill a mug and deposit one of her cinnamon rolls onto a plate. I take both out front, where I settle onto a stool beside Maggie.
“What’s that you’re reading?” I say, licking icing from my finger.
It takes a moment for Maggie to look up. “Book of Shadows,” she says, inserting her index finger within it to hold her place, and turning the leather-bound volume to view the spine. “Once belonging to … Lauren Flannery, apparently.”
“Is it new?” I don’t mean new in the actual sense, because the book is clearly old, with frayed edges and yellowed pages. I just wonder if Maggie might have come across it recently while scouting for new items.
Maggie shakes her head. “No, this one’s been out back for a while. I thought maybe you’d been reading it. I found it sitting here when I came in.” Maggie doesn’t wait for me to respond, since it’s not in her nature to care if I leave things lying around. “Those are new,” she says, nodding to a cardboard box on the floor.
The box holds an assortment of what, to most, would seem a collection of random objects: a chipped mug, an old pair of cat-eye glasses, a pink yo-yo, a brass doorknob and a ceramic figurine of a dancing bear, among other things. They’re charms, I’m sure, that Maggie must have unearthed somewhere over the weekend.
“Wow, that’s quite the collection.”
Maggie smiles. “Estate sale. The neighbors knew her as only Genevieve Mormont, a sweet old woman known for her cats, her garden and her remarkable independence, given that she lived alone until she passed away at the age of ninety-eight.”
“Huh. Good for her. One of ours?” I wonder if she might have belonged to the Richmond coven.
“Never heard of her,” Maggie says. “But some witches prefer keeping to themselves. Old Genevieve, whoever she was, certainly had a penchant for creating charms. The glasses are remarkable, by the way. Put them on and you visit France in the 1950s.”
I raise my eyebrows, knowing I’ll be checking those out later. Pretty much impossible to resist.
“I wondered if you might dust those items off and add them to the display out back,” Maggie says. “No rush, of course. After you’ve had your tea.”
That’s about as demanding as Maggie gets. I’ve never had a boss before, but I can’t imagine many of them being like Maggie. She pays me under the table, since she knows I don’t have an actual bank account, leaves it up to me to record my hours, and always asks if I’m free on a particular day before putting me on the schedule—her schedule consisting of a verbal agreement, such as “How does Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday sound?” To be honest, I’m not quite sure why she needs me, other than to allow her a little freedom for coming and going. Then again, that might be reason enough, since Maggie has a number of men in her life and likes to wander off from time to time.
We spend the next half hour chatting about life at the Cauldron, while we sip tea and munch on cinnamon rolls, of which I have two and Maggie three. Maggie loves talking about the Cauldron since she used to live there, in the era she refers to as Maggie BC. This reference is typically accompanied by her pinching her love handles since, in this case, BC means “before chubs.” In other words, when she was young.
Since we’re on the subject of the Cauldron, I decide it can’t hurt to ask. “What about ghosts?” I say. “Did you ever run into any while living there?”
Maggie chuckles. “Are you kidding? The Cauldron is right by Hollywood Cemetery, and it’s a house full of witches. Ghosts always know where to find us. Let me think. Okay, there was Naughty Ned, who had the habit of wandering through women’s rooms just as we were getting out of the shower. There was Bellicose Bev, who, fittingly, managed to appear whenever one of us had an argument. Oh, then there was also Maudlin Mary, who—wait, do you still name the ghosts?”
I shake my head, fighting against a smile. “For the most part, we tend to ignore them,” I say.
Maggie frowns. “So desensitized, your entire generation.”
“Well, I think it’s more a matter of letting them be,” I say. “Unless, of course, they need our help for some reason.”
Maggie thinks about that for a moment. “So, what you’re saying is that it’s considered politically correct now to ignore a voyeuristic ghost?”
I can’t help but chuckle, imagining a young version of Maggie giving Naughty Ned a piece of her mind. The perv. “Well, I’m sure Naughty Ned would have come up, if he was still around. What about a girl around my age? Jeans and a jacket, kind of a pageboy style haircut? I keep seeing her in the upstairs hall.”
Maggie considers, then shakes her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but she doesn’t sound particularly memorable. Could be I forgot.”
It sounds like I’m barking up the wrong tree, but I try again. “She sort of goes catatonic all of sudden, like she’s desperate to say something but can’t. Then her face goes white and her lips turn blue, like maybe she froze to death.”
Maggie shudders. “How ghastly. I can’t imagine forgetting that. I also can’t believe none of you have at least given her a name! How can you possibly resist? Let’s see… Frigid Francine? Oh, how about Arctic Annie?”
Geez, and she thinks our generation is desensitized. “Well, the thing is, no one I’ve asked so far seems to see her. Doesn’t that strike you as being a little weird?”
Maggie sips her tea. “Maybe you’re the only one who can see her,” she says. Then, seeing my puzzled expression, she adds, “I mean, maybe it has something to do with being a veil witch.”
I sip my tea too, as I consider. “What are you thinking?”
“Maybe she’s not actually here.”
“Then where is she?”
Maggie shrugs. “Some other dimension, I guess. But isn’t that in your wheelhouse? You are a veil witch, after all.”
Maggie does have a point. Veil witches do protect the realm from supernatural intruders, many of whom enter from different dimensions. But we don’t typically perceive them before they get here. I guess that part could change, but how could a ghost be locked in some other dimension? I thought, by definition, ghosts were marooned in this one.
I’m about to pose that question when the bells at the front door jingle, announcing our first customer of the day. I look up, expecting a group of curious yoga moms or, more likely for this time of morning, a student wandering in between classes to kill some time. Instead, an old man comes through the door, all frail and hunched over. He stares at the floor, pointing his bald dome of a head in our direction as he shuffles toward the counter. God, he must be ancient.
Maggie hops off her stool and smooths her blouse. “Grayson, how are you this morning?”
Maggie’s self-conscious tone makes me glance over to see her staring raptly back at the old guy. She looks like she just had the chance to meet Tom Hiddleston.
“Just fine, Maggie,” the man answers in a quavering warble. “You’re looking well today.”
Color rises to Maggie’s cheeks. “Thank you,” she says, and she actually pats her chest to slow her heartbeat.
The man offers his hand and Maggie clasps it warmly, wrapping hers around his and giving it a firm pump. I’d be afraid his fingers might snap off if I applied that much force. She also holds his hand for what seems a little too long. I knew Maggie was into older men. I mean, she’s no spring chicken herself. This, though, is kind of freaking me out. Grayson looks like he should be perched beside a window in a nursing home.
“So good seeing you again,” the man says.
“You too,” Maggie says, a bit breathlessly. She stares into the old man’s eyes for a few more seconds before remembering I’m right next to her. “Oh, this is Cassie. She started working here a few weeks ago.”
The old man shifts his rheumy gaze my way, and the feeling I get is that I might be seriously out of focus for him.
I give a little wave and smile. “Hello.”
“Nice to meet you.” He nods but doesn’t offer his hand. But, okay, maybe Maggie wore out his arm. He turns his attention back to her. “Anything new out back? I heard you came across some notable volumes recently.”
“I did indeed,” Maggie says. “A collector brought them to my attention. There’s one on persuasive incantations and another exploring protective spells from the late seventeenth century. I can’t speak to their effectiveness, but the books are worth looking at for their historical value, if nothing else. Which did you have in mind?”
“Both might be of interest.”
“Of course,” Maggie says. “Shall I show you?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“I’d be delighted.” Maggie fixes her hair and comes out from behind the counter. She starts walking toward the back room, way too briskly I’m thinking, for the old dude to keep up. But he falls in step right alongside her. Apparently, Maggie revs his ancient engine back up to speed at least for now.
I cock my head and ponder that scene before getting to work polishing the box of charms Maggie left on the floor. I’ll have to take them out back later, since right now I’m a little unsure what I might walk in on back there. I’ve seen Maggie around her middle-aged suitors a number of times—some of them not bad looking guys, actually, even if they are in their fifties—but I’ve never quite seen her reduced to schoolgirl mode before. How weird. Even as I think it, Maggie’s fetching laughter rises from the back room, sounding like she’s hoping for an invitation to the prom.
“That’s so sweet of you,” she says.
Oh, my God. I might get sick.
I spend half an hour spiffing up the antique charms, then look around for something else to do. Only then do I remember the Book of Shadows that had been left out. It's still there, of course, where Maggie left it next to the cash register. Most witch families keep a Book of Shadows, to record their history and document the magic passed down through generations. While they come in all shapes and sizes—from leather-bound books like this one, to simple diaries, notebooks and, these days, undoubtedly digital files as well—typically, they hold one thing in common. A Book of Shadows is of great personal value to those who created it and handed it down.
Of course, over time some families reach the end of their line. Others simply split apart. You can never tell why, but the occasional Book of Shadows becomes unmoored and floats away to be found and cherished again, sometimes decades later, by historians and bibliophiles such as Maggie. I can’t help but be curious, as I try to envision the witch who created the Book of Shadows before me. “So, Lauren Flannery,” I whisper. “What were you all about?”
The book, solid and heavy, is no sooner in my hand when I feel something coming off of it. An energy, a warm buzzing against my palm. Odd. I'm sure Maggie would have mentioned if it had been imbued with any wards. I’m about to open it, when I hear a woman’s voice within my mind, an intense and urgent whisper.
Beware the seeker.
I shake my head and go to put the book down, but it's as if it's become glued to my hand. I hear the voice again, this time louder and more insistent.
Beware the seeker!
Only then, its message firmly delivered, does the book loosen its hold. I manage to put it down again just as Maggie and Grayson emerge from the back. I try not to look rattled but, honestly, I am a little. That voice freaked me out.
I snap out of it to hear Maggie saying, “I’ll be interested to hear what you think of these spells. Some of them seem quite exotic.” She carries one of the books she must have unearthed somewhere, which she rings up and slips into a plastic bag bearing the Grimoire logo.
The old man, Grayson, offers a slight bow. “Thank you, Maggie. It’s been a pleasure.”
Maggie smiles ear to ear again. “The pleasure’s all mine,” she says. “Now, don’t be a stranger.”
She waits until he nearly reaches the front door and whispers. “I have to use the little girl’s room. I’ll be right back.”
The little girl’s room? Really? What the hell just happened to her?
I glance once more at Grayson’s departing back, and then turn to my phone. As far as I can tell, I just completed my duties for the day and now it’s all about killing time between customers. I might as well see if anyone has posted to the coven Facebook group. I stop scrolling when I realize that I didn’t hear the door open, or close again.
I look up and my breath catches in my throat. Looking back at me is one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and wearing a long black coat. He’s a little older than me, but not by much. He has thick dark hair, a little on the unruly side, and piercing blue eyes displaying a keen intelligence. I try not to stare, although I fail miserably, since I’m pretty sure I memorize everything from his straight nose, to his high cheekbones, to the slight shadow of stubble on his square jaw. I drop my eyes to where his coat parts, revealing faded jeans that fit too well for me to quickly look away again. Damn. Where did he come from?
Then I realize he’s holding the bag Maggie just gave to the old man. Wait a minute. The guy grins and winks at me. Then he opens the door and leaves. I keep staring as he walks past the front windows, and I keep staring even after he disappears.
CHAPTER 7
That evening, I drive out of Richmond heading west. Technically, I’m not supposed to drive, since another inconvenience of not having an identity is that I don’t have a license. Of course, I’m also not supposed to own a car. Again, technically, I don’t, although I do keep one in my possession. The old Volvo within which I now trundle along once belonged to my father. It’s sort of mine now, since my mother only hung onto it for sentimental reasons. While she isn’t terribly keen on me breaking the law, she also figures the world at least owes me a way to get around. After all, the world failed to find me when I went missing. We managed that on our own.
As I drive, I think about the two other unexpected things that happened earlier today. The first was Maggie suddenly leaving and telling me I could close up later on my own. It occurred to me that might be a sign of her trust in me as an employee but, in truth, I think she just got horny in the company of the hottie and arranged a spontaneous date with one of her boyfriends. The result, unfortunately, was that I failed to gain clarification on why said hottie would masquerade as an octogenarian. Yes, I spent the afternoon pondering that one, each time fighting a grin thinking of that moment when he’d smiled and winked at me. I have to admit, that old man thing was an amazing display of magic. But what was behind it? In retrospect, it seems like a good-natured practical joke played entirely at my expense. But why?
The other unexpected thing was the call I received for another cleanup job. Not bad, considering I hung my shingle less than a week ago. It’s in answer to that call that I soon make my way up a country road in the middle of nowhere. There I was thinking I was taking my life in my hands meeting Dean Richardson at an inner city townhouse. This call came from a woman named Gail Barwin, who told me that she and her husband bought a haunted river home. Quite possible, I’m sure. On the other hand, who’s to say the place isn’t haunted because Mr. and Mrs. Barwin are axe murderers? I’m already starting to question my decision to become a paranormal entrepreneur.
My GPS app manages to locate the address, verified by the numbers on a mailbox nestled into the trees, and I bump up a rutted dirt road of a driveway. I park, wondering if my muffler will be remaining when I leave, then get out and go to the door. I stand on the front porch and survey my surroundings. Other than the cedar-sided house in front of me, I see nothing but trees. I suppose there might be neighboring houses somewhere nearby but, if so, I see no sign of them. I do hear a river churning along not too far off, and it occurs to me that rivers are also a great place to dispose of bodies.
Finally, the door swings open and I’m greeted by a woman in her sixties. She has chin-length gray hair, a slightly creased face and a nervous smile. “You must be Cassie,” she says. Like Dean Richardson, she glances past me to the driveway. She frowns slightly at seeing my rusting old Volvo, then adds, “Please come in.”
Mr. Barwin comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. I’m relieved to see it’s water, not blood. He offers his hand, still slightly damp, for me to shake. “Frank Barwin,” he says. “I guess you must be the psychic.”
What’s with the psychic thing? Did it say “psychic” anywhere on my flier? No, it did not. Then again, to be fair, it didn’t say “witch” either. Once I earn a little seed money, I’ll look into that marketing firm to see if I can refine my business model.
“Something like that,” I say. “I understand you think your house is haunted.”
“It must be,” Frank says.
“It’s the only possible explanation,” Gail says.
Which doesn’t give me much to go on. I look back and forth between the two of them. “Do you see ghosts?”
Gail and Frank exchange glances.
“Not exactly,” Gail says.
“We don’t really see them,” Frank says.
