Battle of the Hexes, page 3
Elvira lived in a converted Art Deco bank across the street from Twisted Whiskey, a whiskey distillery/tasting room. Which was convenient, seeing as how she’d turned the old bank vault into a speakeasy. It was probably my favorite place in town, especially on nights where magic met cocktails. Which was more often than not.
The building was from the early part of the twentieth century with elegant, clean lines and geometric shapes. Even the double doors were original oak framed in brass. Beside the door was a small plaque that read Private Residence and a doorbell, and below that was a keypad.
She’d texted me the code to the door, so I let myself in. It was cool and dark inside, old school jazz floating out from the speakers poked into strategic corners. I immediately felt my shoulders ease down from my ears.
Graceful columns rose from sleek, marble floors, while art deco chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. The teller windows had all been torn out long ago, creating a vast room that had been partitioned off—by bookshelves, silk screens, or whatever else had struck Elvira’s fancy—into smaller areas, each dedicated to something she considered essential to the Craft.
One area held a work bench lined with little glass apothecary jars, each neatly labeled in Elvira’s spidery handwriting. Massive wooden racks hung with drying herbs and flowers. Bookcases were filled with essential oils, recipe books, tinctures, and other interesting accoutrements. Another area held art supplies and various works, including a half-finished acrylic painting of a fairy circle. There was even a library, completely overrun by overstuffed bookcases and overflowing piles of books.
At the back, a monstrous thick door stood open. A sign next to it that said Vault. That was Elvira’s speakeasy. I was hoping we’d have our lesson there. Instead, I found her pottering around in her garden section.
The garden area held rows upon rows of raised beds of every herb you could imagine. Full spectrum lights hung over them since there was no way they’d get enough sunlight from the high windows. The air was redolent of moist earth and fresh greenery. Elvira watered the plants by hand since, as she explained, most automatic watering systems would make the air too moist for the books in her library. Plus, she claimed she found it soothing to do it herself. She was bent over what looked like basil, muttering to it. Spellcasting or just talking to her plants? Elvira would probably say it was the same thing.
I cleared my throat to be heard over the music.
Without looking at me, Elvira pointed a black remote at a corner of the room and smashed a button. The volume dropped to something more manageable.
“Hey, G-ma. Giving the basil a talking to?” I teased.
“They’re not looking as sprightly as they should,” she said, straightening. “I’m giving them a bit of encouragement. I found a new recipe for a cocktail.”
“Let me at ’em. I’ll get ’em growing.” I wiggled my fingers. Anything that involved a cocktail had my interest.
She gave me a look. “Stay away from my basil. Plants are not your forte.”
“Hurtful, but true.”
She gave one of the basil leaves a final, gentle tap, then turned toward me. “Now, what shall we practice today?”
“Well, I’d like to learn something practical like cleaning the house.”
“But?”
“What do you mean but? I didn’t say but.”
She raised a brow. “It was implied.”
I sighed. It was impossible to hide anything from Elvira. “I think we might need a drink for this one.”
“That bad?”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, then, to the vault.”
The only indication that the good-sized room had once been a bank vault was the massive steel door that stood open. One wall was taken up with a rack filled with dozens of bottles of wine. In the center of the room stood a long bar, its wood top polished to a shine, the wall behind it covered in mirrored shelving stocked with vintage glassware and bottles filled with every kind of booze imaginable. There were three plush red velvet high seats at the bar, plus a comfortable loveseat and matching side chairs nearby.
“How about something for clarity?” she asked, taking up her usual place behind the bar while I climbed onto one of the bar stools to watch her work.
“Works for me.”
She dumped vodka, lemon juice, limoncello, and a few other things into a Cobbler shaker, gave it a vigorous shake, then poured the fragrant, pale-yellow drink into two coupe glasses. She lifted her glass. “Bottom’s up!”
I could feel the tingle of magic at the very first sip. Elvira might claim my cocktails were more powerful, but hers packed a darn good punch.
As we enjoyed our cocktails, I told her about Frog Kenneth’s arrival in town and our attempts to capture him. I also told her about my new nudist neighbor, Dahlia Wildes.
“Ah, yes, the council was abuzz about her. We don’t often get new people in town, so everyone gets overexcited when we do. She comes from a small private commune on the East Coast not far from Salem.”
“What’s she doing here?”
Elvira shrugged. “Why does anyone go anywhere? Change of pace? The need for something new? Who can say? Now, about your frog problem.”
Here it came.
“You do realize you’re the only one who can turn him back.” She gave me an expectant look.
“No, I didn’t. I figured any witch could undo whatever I did.” I honestly had no idea how I’d done it in the first place.
She shook her head. “Only the witch who hexed him can turn him back.”
“I don’t know how,” I said. “I didn’t even know I cast a hex.”
“Strong emotion and magic run willy nilly can do that,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “But I can help you figure out how to undo the hex. But first—”
“First,” I prodded.
“You need to catch him, JJ. It’s the only way we can turn him back, and we need to turn him back before it’s too late.”
“I’m trying,” I assured her, polishing off my drink. “He’s as slippery as a... Well, as a frog.” I eyed her. “What do you mean, ‘too late?’”
“The longer he’s in this form, the more accustomed he’ll become to it. He’ll start thinking and acting more and more like a real frog until, eventually, his humanity will be completely gone, and we won’t be able to turn him back. He’ll be stuck as a frog forever.”
Based on the way he’d stared at me and his rude ribbits, I was pretty sure there was no danger of that happening any time soon. “Wait a minute. Does that mean there are frogs running around that are actually people?”
She laughed and dropped fresh ice cubes into the shaker, followed by the other ingredients. Apparently, we were going for round two. “I doubt it. It’s a rare power, transmutation, and not one I thought ran in the Jones family.”
Well, that was a relief, I suppose. “Don’t I get all the luck.”
She gave the shaker a vigorous shake, ice rattling against the metal sides. “The real question is, who brought that frog here?”
“Emerald and I wondered the same thing,” I said, holding my glass out for a refill. “She suggested maybe Kenneth had magical abilities I didn’t know about and got here by himself. I don’t think Kenneth has a magical bone in his body, frog or human. Besides, it’s too long a distance in frog form.”
“No, I agree. It’s most likely somebody brought him here, and I doubt it was for any good reason.” She tapped one purple nail on the counter. “What about this new neighbor of yours?”
“You said Dahlia came from the East Coast. How would she even know Kenneth?”
“Good point.” She squinted. “Internet?”
“I guess it’s possible,” I admitted. “But then how would she know not only that he’d been turned into a frog and then brought here? I just don’t see it.”
“I suppose you’re right. You should speak to Eoinn.”
Eoinn was the resident psychic. I’d met him when I first arrived in town, and he declared we would be “best friends” because he’d seen it. In a vision. I wouldn’t say we were best friends, but we’d certainly become friendly and had even hung out a bit.
“I thought he saw too many possible futures to be any use.”
“He does,” she agreed. “But you don’t need to know the future. You need to know the past.” She held up the shaker. “Another?”
Chapter 4
By the time I left Elvira’s, I don’t know that I had achieved clarity, but I was certainly a bit tipsy. Not fully pickled, but definitely buzzed and merry. Even my right knee—which had been giving me hell—had stopped twinging, which was a good thing since I was walking home. Fortunately, it was all downhill.
My phone chimed. It was a text from Con. My heart rate kicked up a tiny bit. Okay, a lot bit.
Con: DINNER TOMORROW?
Me: SURE. WHERE?
Con: DRUNKEN PIXIE. 6pm.
He knew I hated eating late. Even before I hit thirty, I found eating too late led to indigestion. It had only gotten worse the older I got. Oh, for the cast iron stomach of a twenty-year-old. Although it did give me an excellent excuse to eat cereal for dinner.
Drunken Pixie was a marvelous Parisian themed cocktail bar that also served tasty bites. It was one of my favorite places.
Me: SOUNDS FANTASTIC. CAN’T WAIT.
Wait... Was it cool to admit I couldn’t wait? Did I care if I sounded cool? Not really. That ship done sailed a long time ago.
Con: ME EITHER.
The downright giddy feeling that rushed through me was probably more appropriate for a sixteen-year-old, but I didn’t care. I liked Con.
Something rustled in the bushes, and a frog streaked across the sidewalk in front of me. A frog with a paisley bowtie.
Me: GOTTA GO. FROG SITUATION.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and took off after Kenneth.
NO DOUBT CON THOUGHT I was crazy, but there was no time to consider that as I took off after Froggy Kenneth. The little bastard was fast, I’ll give him that. He scrambled under fences, hopped over curbs, and dodged a wonky signpost on Mugwort Drive.
My breath heaved, my lungs ached, and I had developed a stitch in my side. Someone stick a sword in me. I’m done.
Froggy Kenneth clued in that I wasn’t following and stopped to stare at me. His large, bulbous eyes were spooky in the dim light.
“What?” I tried to snap, but it came out more as an exhausted huff. I bent over to catch my breath. Good luck with that. “Listen, I am trying to turn you back into a person, or as much of one as you were before... this.” I waved at his frog form. “But I can’t do that if you keep running away.”
“Ribbit.” His tone was very reasonable. For a frog.
“Okay, then. Just come with me, and we’ll go to Elvira’s. She can help.”
“Ribbit.” I swear he nodded.
I walked slowly toward him, and he sat there calmly, waiting. The minute I reached down to grab him, he was off.
I let out a string of words that would have made a sailor blush and ran after him. This was ridiculous. I was too old for this crap.
At 3rd and Moonshadow, the frog veered toward a slightly overgrown lawn. He stopped in front of an evergreen bush that needed a good trim.
“Ribbit.”
“Seriously, Kenneth. This is some nonsense. Do you want to stay a frog forever?”
Kenneth deliberately turned his back on me and stared at the house that accompanied the lawn. It was cute in a slightly bedraggled way, much like the lawn. It was one of those tiny shingle-sided beach cottages meant to weather in the salt air of the Pacific without much fuss. Probably a one bed, one bath originally built for vacations only, though like most houses in Miracle Bay, it was clearly lived in year ’round. Like the yard around it, the cottage had seen better days. Several shingles were broken and in need of replacing, the roof was on the mossy side, the top step up to the porch sagged a little, and though it was dark, I could tell by the porch light the front door needed a lick of paint. It wasn’t a complete dump, but more on the shabby side. Nothing a few hours of elbow grease couldn’t fix.
Kenneth stared at the cottage a moment, then back at me. There was an air of expectance about him. If a frog could be expectant. I wasn’t sure. Maybe I was hallucinating this whole thing.
“Ribbit.” Froggy Kenneth hopped slowly onto the patchy lawn, turning to see if I was following.
I sighed. “I’m coming.”
So this is what my life had come to. Following a frog around town. Why couldn’t I be a crazy cat lady like normal people?
No, Enki didn’t count. For one, he wasn’t a real cat. For two, well, I didn’t have a second thing.
The grass came up to mid-calf and swished against my jean-clad leg. Here and there, sandy earth peeked between clumps of grass. Not only did it need mowed, but whoever owned the place should probably just pull the stuff out and put in local flora. It would do better on the coast than this sad attempt at a lawn.
“Ribbit.”
I nearly tripped over Kenneth. He’d stopped in a shadowy part of the yard right in front of a strangely shaped lump. I squinted, but it was hard to see in the dark. My night vision wasn’t what it was. I probably needed progressives, perish the thought.
With another sigh, I pulled my phone out of my pocket again and tapped the flashlight app, nearly blinding myself in the process. Kenneth’s croak was mocking, to say the least. In this instance, I didn’t blame him. I deserved mocking.
I shone the light on the lump and gasped. A pair of eyes stared back at me. A very dead pair of eyes in a very dead human face.
Froggy Kenneth had just led me to a dead body.
Chapter 5
I stared down at the dead guy, my mouth gaping. You’d think by now I’d be used to stumbling across dead bodies, but my brain had fuzzed over.
This is a fine kettle of fish. Enki appeared out of nowhere—literally—and strolled toward me casually.
“Holy bananas, he’s dead.”
Way to state the obvious. His tone was dry as dust.
“Be careful of Kenneth,” I said, suddenly remembering how I’d got there in the first place.
Who?
“The frog.”
What frog?
I glanced around but there was no frog in sight. “Dammit. He ran off again.”
Be that as it may, we have bigger fish to fry.
“What’s with all the fish analogies?”
I’m hungry. Sue me. Have you called the police? Or that boyfriend of yours? He’s at least decent eye candy.
Oh, right. Dead body. This was going to be fun to explain.
I dialed the police emergency number first and reported the body, then I sent Con a text along with the address. First a frog, then a dead guy. He was going to think I was more trouble than I was worth.
He might be right.
I shook my head. No. I wasn’t going to think about myself negatively. I was no longer doormat JJ. Or at least I was working at not being doormat JJ. Work in progress.
I shone my flashlight on the dead guy again. It was hard to tell, but he looked vaguely familiar. I frowned, trying to dredge up the memory of where—or if—I’d seen him before.
A light went on in one of the windows of the cottage, and then the front door swung open. A man stood silhouetted in the light. “JJ?”
I squinted. “Eoinn? What are you doing here?”
The red-headed psychic padded down the front steps in bare feet. He was dressed in striped pajama bottoms and a gray t-shirt with the words Rose Apothecary swirled on the front. “This isn’t right, is it?” he muttered to himself.
“What are you doing here, Eoinn?” I repeated.
He blinked, eyes clouded with confusion. “I live here. This is my house. Isn’t it?” He glanced behind him. “Yes. Yes, it’s my house.”
Remember that many possible futures thing? There were some seriously weird side effects. He tended to be confused about reality a lot.
“I didn’t realize you lived here.” I kept my voice soothing and calm. “There’s... a little problem.”
He blinked again, the confusion clearing. His eyes were suddenly sparkling bright and the sharpest I’d seen them. He ran his hands through his ginger hair. “You found him, didn’t you.” He nodded. “Yes, I knew you would this time.”
I nodded at the body. “You saw this?”
“In one of my visions. Some of my visions. Yes.”
“Do you know him?” The dark-haired man huddled at my feet would have been handsome if he wasn’t, you know, dead. Again, that niggle of vague recognition.
“I—” Sirens pierced the air before Eoinn could finish whatever it was he was going to say. The interruption threw him back into whatever weird fugue state he’d been in. “JJ? Is that you? I saw you—”
Good gosh, this one has the memory of a goldfish. Enki shook his head, then circled the body, sniffing at everything more like a dog than a cat.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“I’m standing here.” Eoinn’s expression was beyond confused.
Welcome to my world, buddy.
“I was talking to Enki.”
I’ve smelled this one before. Not a fan.
“Where—?”
Car doors slammed, and I turned to see Chief of Police Xena Quintero stride across the lawn. She was tall, muscular, and totally intimidating—mostly because she could snap me in half like a twig. And not just because of her impressive muscle mass. She was an elf, which meant she had plenty of magic at her disposal, too. Tiny silver rings marched up the elegant point of each ear. Her ink-black hair was done in tiny braids pulled back with a silver clip etched with elven symbols, and her rich, dark skin glowed in the warm light from the porch. She gave me the side eye, her eyes shimmering oddly silver. I wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or if it was an elven thing, and I wasn’t about to ask.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Her tone was dry as the Mojave. “It’s getting to be a bad habit of yours.”
