Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (22 page)

But the room was steady as a rock.

“I’m okay, buddy. I’m okay. How about you?” Gingerly, I sat up and gathered the little
dog into my arms. He radiated relief. I ran my hands all over him, looked into his
eyes. He appeared completely unharmed.

Sniffing the air again, I winced at the horrible smell. With trepidation, I reached
up to feel my own short locks.

Everything seemed fine.

I held on to the fainting couch, as wobbly as baby Bart had been in his playpen earlier.
Except for the broken spell bottle, the room looked exactly as it had when I’d walked
in from Margie’s. My cell phone still sat on the Civil War trunk, right in front of
me.

I clutched at my dragonfly amulet. It was still there, but something had changed.
I held it away from my neck to see it better. My breath hitched in my throat.

The Dragohs’ ring had fused to the back, as if it had originated from the same piece
of metal. I ran my thumbnail over the ridge it formed. But the other change was what
made it hard to breathe. No more did tiny etched dragonflies follow each other around
the circle in perpetual chase. All the embossing was gone. Only smooth, slightly warped
metal remained.

I ripped off the necklace.

After all my precautions—the amulet, the ring, the double smudging and protection
spells, the rune on the mailbox post, rosemary by the front door, nasturtiums in the
front yard, and potted basil in the kitchen—I had been attacked in my own home.

And not in a small way.

Hedgewitchery was a gentle magic, Lucy always said. She was right. No doubt there
were layers and layers of the Craft for me to learn, and at some point in the future
perhaps I could have fought off the attack by myself.

You did it yourself
, something whispered.
I only guided you.

Nonna?
I called mentally.

But there was no answer.

“Nonna!” This time out loud. Mungo watched me with wise eyes.

Again no response.

“Okay, I get it,” I called. “But I want to say thank you. So, you know: Thank you.”

I’d have felt silly if I didn’t think she could really hear me.

I eyed the phone. I could still call Lucy. In fact,
should
still call Lucy, if only to tell her what happened.

I picked up the phone and dialed Steve’s number.

 * * *

It was just after midnight. The witching hour. I sat on the velveteen fainting couch
with my legs tucked under me, Mungo on my lap. He still seemed okay, though I kept
running my hands over him, looking for missing fur, bruises, anything that hurt. He
did the canine equivalent, sniffing me all over. We were both utterly unscathed, at
least physically. I couldn’t speak for Mungo, but I was still pretty shaky inside.
And scared nearly out of my wits.

“You were very brave,” I said to him. “Thank you.”

He blinked and nosed my hand, then licked it.
It’s what I do
, he seemed to be saying. I ruffled the fur along his back and tried to think.

Someone had breached all my protections and entered my mind. My
mind
. It was a terrifying realization. Under the tutelage of the spellbook club I’d come
to think of magic as primarily beneficial, and at worst benign. It was, indeed, both
of those things. It just turned out that it could be a whole lot more, too.

Maybe Mama had been right to be frightened for me, I finally admitted.

Mungo sighed, at last relaxing enough to lean against my chest.

Tires screeched on the street outside. I got up and peeked through the slats in the
window shutter. The black Land Rover sat at an awkward angle in the driveway behind
my Bug. For a moment I wished Steve could have been a little more subtle about his
arrival, but truthfully I couldn’t have cared less. As long as
he’d come. He doused the headlights, jumped out, and ran toward the house.

I had the door open by the time he reached it.

His honeyed hair hung loose against the shoulders of a black T-shirt. His dark eyes,
wide with worry, searched mine.

“Katie.” He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight while he kicked the door
shut behind him.

I clung to him, burying my face in his shoulder. The tears I’d been holding back stung
my eyelids.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.” He held me away from him, looking me over, stopping
at my eyes and holding my gaze. “Aren’t you?”

My lip trembled.

He pulled me back against him. “Oh, Katie-girl.”

Swallowing convulsively, I fought back the tears still. I hadn’t called Steve in order
to cry on his shoulder. Despite our sometimes confusing relationship, I trusted him.
And he knew the Dragohs. I was sure Lawrence Eastmore’s murderer had been my attacker.
There was simply no other explanation—no other motive. I needed Steve to help me figure
out what had happened, and how to fight back.

Standing straighter, I dropped my hands from his shoulders and stepped away. “Thanks.”

But he stepped with me, his lips seeking mine. His palms pressed into my back and
the room went dark as I closed my eyes into the kiss. This was not the light, teasing
way we’d flirted before, but intense and urgent. I felt the tears threaten again as
my resolve—to resist, to be strong, to fight the evil that had found me—wavered. His
lips moved to my earlobe, then descended in tiny kisses down my neck. He slipped his
finger under the
strap of my tank and tugged it aside to access my bare shoulder.

I didn’t have a logical thought in my head by then, only the desire to know I was
still alive, and to be alive with this man. I plunged my fingers into his long, smooth
hair, savoring the crackle of energy between us.

Without warning, Steve pushed me away. A gasp escaped my throat as I stumbled. I turned
and our eyes locked. “No,” he croaked. “Not like this.”

Confusion and desire rooted me in place for a long moment. Then I buried my face in
my hands, struggling to tame the myriad emotions crowding my tired mind.

His fingers touched my arm. “I’m sorry. But you’re so vulnerable right now. You don’t
need me pawing you.”

Yes, I do!

I took a deep breath and dropped my hands. “You’re right.”

“You do need something to eat. So does Mungo, I expect. Come on.” He tugged at my
arm.

Silent, I followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he rattled open
the refrigerator door.

“Bah,” he said, dumping the limp leftover Greek salad from the Soho in the garbage.
He assembled eggs and cheese, green pepper and onion on the counter, followed by bread
and butter.

“Where can I find a skillet?”

I gestured wearily toward a lower cabinet. He got out a pan, set it on the burner,
and plopped a pat of butter in it. As it began to melt, he left the kitchen and returned
moments later with my robe. Only when he
placed it around my shoulders did I realize my skin was ice cold.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Why is there a wedding dress on your bed?”

I rubbed my eyes. “I was thinking of wearing it for Halloween.” It seemed like I’d
opened that box on my bed eons ago.

He smiled. “Eggs’ll be done in a minute.”

“I had a big dinner,” I protested, slipping my arms into the warm sleeves.

“Just trust me.”

Turning back to the stove, he browned peppers and onions, then poured in beaten eggs
and covered the whole shebang with grated cheese. It wasn’t complicated, but I had
to admit it smelled like heaven. Soon the aroma of toasting bread drifted to my nose
as well, and I found myself absolutely ravenous.

“Do you like peppers and onions?”

“Of course,” I answered before realizing he was talking to Mungo.

My familiar raised his head from where it rested on my bare foot.

Yip
.

He was obviously as tired as I was.

“Mungo likes peppers and onions just fine,” I said. “He was a big help tonight, you
know.”

Steve considered the dog, then gave him a slow nod of approval. “I’m glad to hear
it.” He took the skillet off the burner and set it under the broiler to melt the cheese
and finish cooking the frittata. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “You didn’t say
much on the phone—I could only tell how frightened you were. That’s not
something I’ve witnessed before, so it must have been pretty bad.”

My shoulders hunched as I remembered. “It was…I don’t know how to describe it. It
was something, in here—the house, I mean—and in
here
.” I pointed to my head.

His eyes flared in alarm. “What did it feel like?”

I described it, or tried to: the inky blackness, the feel of decaying metal. “It’s
hard to define, but it wanted to hurt me.”

Steve took the pan out of the oven. He sliced a hefty wedge of the frittata and put
it on a plate. I saw his hand shaking as he set it in front of me. A smaller wedge
went into a bowl for my little wolf.

I dug in and seconds later so did Mungo.

Sliding into the seat across from me, Steve asked, “Who did this to you?”

A shrug. “I don’t have the vaguest idea.”

“Well, they’d need something of yours—or you—in order to cast this kind of spell.”

“Like what?” I asked around a mouthful of frittata. “Can I have some juice?”

He got up and went to the fridge. “Like hair or fingernails.”

I stopped chewing and stared at him. Swallowed. “Really?”

“I can’t think of any other way they could get directly to you like this. But we need
to know who it was.”

Okay, that was kind of gross, and furthermore I couldn’t think of anyone who had access
to my personal…pieces.

“Maybe that explains that horrible smell,” I sniffed the air.

Yip!

“What smell?” Steve asked.

My lips parted in surprise. “You can’t smell it? It’s like burning hair. In fact,
I was so sure it was burning hair I thought either Mungo or I must be half bald.”

“Damn. That’s not good. And no, I can’t smell it. But that’s probably what he used.
We need to bind the caster, so they can’t touch you like that again.”

“I’d prefer they didn’t touch me at all again, thank you very much.”

“Me, too, Katie-girl. But we can’t bind someone unless we know who it is.”

“It’s whoever killed Lawrence Eastmore.”

“You’re sure?”

“Who else would it be? Or do you think your Dragohs were just
protecting
themselves from being exposed?”

“They aren’t my Dragohs.”

“Yes, they are.”

He sighed.

“Though the killer might still be one of them—alibis or no alibis. In fact, I can’t
think who else it could be. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Well, Andersen Lane doesn’t have an alibi for the hours after the party broke up.
There’s also Lawrence Eastmore’s son. Greer. I was planning to talk to him tomorrow.”

Steve grimaced. “Yeah, I heard he came back to town. You know, he had even less interest
in taking on the Dragoh mantle than I do.”

“Is there an inheritance involved that’s perhaps a bit more secular?” I asked. “A
bit more financial?”

“Well, sure. None of the Dragohs are exactly destitute, though Andersen is certainly
the worst about managing his gains. But Greer would have inherited the money regardless.”

I remembered what Andersen had said about how persuasive the druids could be when
it came to forcing the next in line to join their group. “Are you sure?” I took another
bite.

One shoulder rose and fell. “Not positive. I could find out, though.”

“From Heinrich?” I used his first name because in my mind he was still as much of
a suspect as any of the other Dragohs, and I hated thinking that he was also this
man’s father. “Steve, when did you get home last Friday night?”

“Pretty early. Eightish.”

“After Victor Powers’ grandson’s party,” I said, thinking out loud.

Declan had always told me Steve was a player, a heart-slayer. And now he was going
to kiddie parties and then staying home on a Friday night?

He pursed his lips. “Father mentioned he saw you at the fund-raiser this morning.
He wasn’t very happy about it.”

My chin jerked up. “Do you think he’s the one who came after me tonight?”

He shook his head vigorously. “My father may be a lot of things, and some of them
I don’t like, but he would never attack anyone like that. Never.”

“Okay.” I didn’t have it in me to argue.

“Do you want more frittata?”

“No thanks.” Forming words seemed to take all the energy I had.

“Come on, then.” He put one arm around my shoulder and another under my elbow, helping
me to my feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting you to bed.”

Fear shot through me, and I shook him off. “No! I can’t go to sleep. What if it happens
again?”

Steve’s voice was calm. “Whoever did this is recovering, too. Working such magic takes
great energy, and I can’t imagine they’ll be up to the same shenanigans for a while.”

It usually exhausted me to work magic, too, but in a really good way, like a long
run through the woods blew the cobwebs out of my mind. It was a lovely feeling, but
the defense I’d put up earlier had been something else. I felt utterly sapped.

“You know, I had protections all over this place,” I said. “Plus my amulet.”

“You’re not wearing it now.”

“It changed.”

“Changed?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Curious, he asked, “Where is it?”

“Someplace on the living room floor. I tore it off and threw it away from me when
I saw what had happened to it.”

His eyebrows rose when he heard that.

Even breathing seemed to take effort. I reached
down and picked up Mungo. “Poor little guy looks about ready to drop.”

“Here. I’ll take him.”

Mungo didn’t seem to mind riding in Steve’s arms, and I was tired enough to allow
him to carry my familiar into the bedroom and put him on the bed. I started to collapse
beside him, but Steve stopped me, took off my robe, and then pulled back the covers.
I snuggled underneath, and he tucked me in.