Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (4 page)

“Darlin’! I just have to show you the book I found in here the other day.” The voice
was deep with Southern flavor.

I looked up to see two women in their mid-thirties with perfect blond-streaked hair
and flawless makeup approaching the bookcase.

The speaker continued. “It’s exactly what you need to deal with that wolf you work
for.”

Such interruptions were inevitable when your library was stocked by a coven of witches
who had strong and unerring instincts for what volumes would help Honeybee customers.
The result was a hodgepodge of strangely useful literature that ran the gamut from
classical Jane Austen to Jon Kabat-Zinn’s meditation yoga.

Mimsey stood with alacrity, sweeping my drawing off the table and folding it in half.
“Katie, may I talk with you in the office?”

My head swiveled toward the newcomers, but they appeared oblivious to the idea that
they might have interrupted us or the notion that Mimsey was being rude. She wasn’t
really, though. I was just used to the inordinate pleasure she usually took in assisting
and witnessing how the library helped people.

“Sure,” I replied, and stood to follow her.

Lucy popped up, too, and we trouped to the register. I’d been too distracted by drawing
the tattoo to notice that several more customers had entered the bakery, and now Ben
was trying to ring people up in between making coffee drinks. Seeing his dilemma,
Lucy retied her apron and hurried behind the counter to help. When I paused, Mimsey
took my elbow and gently steered me toward the kitchen. Ben glanced up as we passed,
eyebrows raised.

Cookie was slicing a batch of toffee-studded biscotti to go into the oven. She looked
up as we made our way through to the office, curious, but she obviously had her hands
full at the moment.

Mungo stood up on the small club chair from which he reigned whenever he was at the
Honeybee, tail wagging
furiously until he got a good look at Mimsey. He watched as she closed the door and
sank into the swivel desk chair. He tipped his head to the side with an expression
of expectation very similar to the one he donned when I cooked bacon at home.

I folded my arms, leaned one hip against the filing cabinet, and waved at the paper
she held in her hand. “You recognize it, don’t you?”

She hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

“Why didn’t you tell the others?”

She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I waited.

She unfolded the drawing of the tattoo and held it at arm’s length. At first I thought
it was so she could focus better, but then I realized I’d never seen Mimsey wear glasses.
Her nostrils flared slightly in distaste.

What on earth?

“Mimsey,” I urged.

After a long moment she leaned down and put the paper on the floor between us and
looked up at me. “Yes. I’ve seen this sigil before. I wanted to be sure it was what
I suspected before I said anything to the others.”

Mungo leaned forward on his paws, peering quizzically at the drawing.

“Sigil?”

She pressed her lips together. “The depiction of the wreath was lifted from the heraldic
symbol of a wreath of oak leaves.”

I frowned. “Those don’t look like any kind of oak leaves to me.”

“That’s because they aren’t. Those leaves are from a holly tree.
Ilex x attenuata
is my guess.”

“Ilex
…?”

“Nowadays we call it Savannah holly. Oh, now, don’t look so surprised. I’ve been a
florist for decades, but I know about a lot more than tulips and roses, believe you
me. And these sun spokes coming from the center? They reflect the ancient wheel of
Taranis.”

“Okay, what the heck is a Taranis?”

“He’s the Celtic god of sun and thunder.”

“Both?”

“Think of it as yin and yang. It’s the solar cross, used by druids for centuries.
The spokes represent the equinoxes and the solstices and two other sabbats—Beltane
and Samhain. For the ones who are branded with that tattoo, the cross combines with
the wheel to have an additional meaning.”

I stared down at my amateurish depiction, slightly smudged now from folding, lying
on the floor of the Honeybee office. But I wasn’t really seeing it. I was thinking,
Branded
.

“Druids?” I drew the word out.

Mimsey sighed and nodded. Mungo barked low in his throat.

“Hush!” I whispered.

Chastised, he laid his head on his paws. I instantly felt guilty. After all, he was
as surprised by Mimsey’s words as I was.

My attention returned to the older witch. I happened to know that she was seventy-eight
years old, but she usually looked like she was in her early sixties, if that. Now
she looked tired and drawn. If she’d used magic to enhance her appearance, the glamour
had lifted. But somehow I didn’t really think the change in her appearance had anything
to do with a spell gone awry.

“Mimsey?” I put all the gentleness I could muster into her name. “Are you all right?”

She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Of course. I’m sorry, Katie. This is so
very upsetting.”

“Oh, no.” I brought my hand to my mouth with a sense of dread. “I never thought—you
didn’t know the victim, did you?”

She gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. Perhaps. I’m not sure who all of them are.”

I pushed away from the filing cabinet, scooped Mungo up, and sat down on his chair.
“Who are you talking about?” I managed to keep the frustration out of my voice, though
I was boiling with curiosity. “Druids?”

“Yes.”

“In Savannah?” My voice came out higher than I intended. I probably shouldn’t have
been surprised, but, heck.

“Not only
in
Savannah, but
of
it. That sigil has been the symbol of a particular group of druids who have been
practicing in this area since well before the British sent their prisoners to be tried
in Savannah during the Revolutionary War.”

“Good heavens,” I breathed. “How old does that make them?”

Mimsey laughed, and the tension she emanated lifted slightly, as did a few years from
her face. “The group has been around that long, but not the individuals in it.”

I reddened. “Oh.”

“But membership is strict, passed on from one member to the next for hundreds of years.”

Mungo leaned into me as I smoothed the fur along his back. “Tell me more,” I said.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it.

“What?” I asked.

“I really don’t know that much about them. Only that if one of the members died, there
could be consequences. And if he died a violent death, as you say, well, then, darlin’,
that’s a situation we should all stay far away from. That must be what my shew stone
meant. That I should steer you clear of the situation.”

A frisson of fear ran through me at her words. Sensing it, Mungo snuggled closer.

“Or maybe you were supposed to tell me about the druids. Mimsey, how many times have
you told me knowledge is power?”

She blinked. “I don’t think—”

I interrupted. “Wouldn’t it be better to fully understand the situation in order to
avoid it?”

My words didn’t appear to make her happy, but after a few moments of consideration
she nodded. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it. It’s not my decision to make
for you. And after all, you were the one who found him. There could very well be some
significance in that.” Worry creased her forehead.

Significance
. But I understood what she hadn’t come right out and said. Months earlier, when I’d
still been trying to come to terms with the fact that I was a bona fide witch—a legacy
from my mother
and
father, it turned out—the spellbook club had suggested that I was what they called
a
catalyst
. At first that simply seemed to mean that my participation, my very presence, augmented
the coven’s spell work. But since then a few things we’d read suggested that being
a catalyst might mean a bit more.

It could mean that I provided a spark in the metaphysical
web that caused—or perhaps only allowed—things to, well, to
happen
.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” I said, tapping my arm above the wrist with a forced grin.

Mimsey rolled her eyes. So did Mungo.

Fine. I dropped my hand. “There must be something else you can tell me about this
group of Savannah druids.”

Still she hesitated. Then in a soft voice she said, “I think if you really want to
know more you should ask another friend of yours.”

I frowned. “Who? One of the other spellbook club members?”

Her eyes bored into mine, and she slowly shook her head. “No, not them. Steven Dawes.”

The skin tightened across my face. “Really?” I blurted. “Why?”

Mimsey used the arms on the desk chair to push herself upright, as if she didn’t have
enough strength to stand otherwise. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that. And please
don’t say…Oh, never mind.” She sighed. “He’ll know I told you.”

I leaped to my feet and deposited Mungo unceremoniously back on the chair seat. “Mimsey,
you’re not afraid of Steve, are you?” The thought made me cringe. “Because I don’t
have to ask him anything.”

She waved away my concern. “No, no. Go. Talk to him. Learn what you must.” She patted
Mungo on the head, then put a hand on my shoulder, snagging my gaze with her own.
“I’m glad to see that you’re wearing your protective talisman. Have you charged it
lately?”

I nodded, fingering the silver O hanging from the chain around my neck. I could feel
the embossed dragonflies chasing each other around the metal circle. “At the last
full moon.”

“Good.” She squeezed, hard. “Don’t take it off. Not when you sleep, not when you shower,
not when you go for a run.”

She let go of me, winked at Mungo, opened the door, and made her way through the kitchen
and out to the front of the bakery. I stood in the doorway feeling stunned and confused—and
oddly, utterly inappropriately, thrilled.

Cookie’s eyes narrowed in question, first at Mimsey’s retreating back and then at
me. I smiled, nodded my approval at the tray of molasses scones she’d just removed
from the oven, and went back into the office, closing the door behind me.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked my familiar. “Should I see if Steve is available
to grab a bite?”

The little dog panted his approval.

“Maybe at Soho South Cafe? I’ll bring you a side order of shrimp-and-andouille-sausage
soup.”

Now he grinned. He loved to lap up the spicy soup, which would have been downright
disgusting if he weren’t indeed a dog. Though after Declan’s delectable breakfast
spread, I didn’t know how Mungo could even think about more food. I almost groaned
at the thought myself, but it was too early for a drink, and I didn’t want to invite
Steve over for dinner later because, well, because every time he was in my house I
seemed to barely escape the encounter without ending up in, shall we say, a compromising
position?

Maybe I needed to set some Steve-specific wards to protect myself from his charms.
Jaida was good at protection spells. Perhaps she could help me. Besides, from the
way Mimsey had acted, I could use all the help I could get on the protection front.

Steve answered his cell on the second ring. “Hey, you.”

Two words. That’s all it took to make my scalp sweat. My suggestion of a late lunch
was met with quiet enthusiasm. As I hung up, I realized that ever since the powerful
night when we’d linked our magic together in order to save a man’s life, I’d not once
initiated an encounter with Steve. It was always him pushing and cajoling, and sometimes
even tricking me into spending time with him. But I really wanted to know more about
the tattooed sigil.

 * * *

I paused inside the entrance to the Soho Cafe. From the outside it looked rather small,
but it opened into a large space with a hip warehouse feel. Metal support beams and
exposed pipes arched overhead. An enticing selection of cookbooks was on sale near
the front register, and a plenitude of savory scents greeted my nose. Even though
I was still full from breakfast, the smell of sautéing garlic and onions made my mouth
water. The high ceilings and cement floor created a cavernous acoustic while swallowing
up individual words so that the contents of conversations were more private than one
might expect.

A waitress approached. “One?” She beamed at me with a freckled grin. She was tall,
but not as tall as me, and wore a many-layered pastel dress with gossamer cap sleeves.
A Celtic knot barrette held the frizzy orange hair piled up on her head.

I imagined a stranger looking at the two of us—me with my short auburn locks, lanky
runner’s physique, and almost dowdy clothing. No way would that stranger pick my unremarkable
self as the witch.

Searching the room, I said, “I’m meeting someone.”

Steve’s waving hand at the back of the restaurant caught my attention.

I waved back. “There he is.”

Always the gentleman, he rose when I approached. He wore khaki shorts and a chocolate-colored
T-shirt that seemed to make his intelligent brown eyes even darker. The usual length
of braided leather held his smooth blond hair in a ponytail.

“Here you go,” the waitress said, now beaming at both of us.

Steve never took his eyes off me. He held out his hand, and without thinking I took
it. “Katie. You look wonderful.” He led me to the other side of the small table and
pulled out the chair for me.

“Thanks,” I said. The waitress winked conspiratorially and moved away.

Dang it. People always seemed to be doing that when I was around Steve, apparently
sensing something that wasn’t even there.

Really. It wasn’t. Never mind that tingle in my hand where he’d touched me. Or the
buzzing beneath my scalp. I shook my head to clear it and smiled at him. “Thanks for
meeting me.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He settled in across the table and handed me a menu.
“Though I am curious to hear what you want from me this time.”