It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (4 page)

I sensed a genuine fondness between the two of them, and it immediately relaxed me. They looked adorable together, a perfect pair of lovebirds.

“Hopefully not too much,” I teased.

Sylar laughed and said, “Are you keeping secrets?”

Ve caught my eye and mouthed “Mortal.” Ah. Okay. Sylar wasn’t a Crafter and didn’t know about the wishes.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I countered. Maybe Harper was right about the wolves.

Ve’s gaze swept over me, inspecting. Her thin eyebrows lifted and her smile broadened. “Did you come straight from the Goodwins’?”

I nodded. My cheeks were still burning after my doorway rendezvous with Nick Sawyer, but it was probably
the glitter—­or the eyelashes—­that had captured her amusement. I’d already tucked the tiara into my handbag.

I glanced around. “It’s crowded in here.”

Sylar stuffed oversized hands into the pockets of pin-­striped trousers, straining the expensive fabric. His red tie hung crookedly, and I wanted to reach out to straighten it and adjust the tails of the vest that clung to his big belly. “Most village meetings are usually well attended.”

Bookshelves had been pushed aside to create a meeting space that was now filled with folding chairs. People were clustered in small groups, chatting. I saw a few familiar faces in the room. Mrs. Eugenia Pennywhistle, the feisty geriatric owner of the Pixie Cottage, who was known affectionately as Mrs. P, stood with Ramona Todd, a stylist at the Magic Wand Salon; Shea and Max Carling, who owned a jewelry shop named All That Glitters; and Marcus Debrowski, the village lawyer. I didn’t know if any of them were Crafters—­I was still learning my way around the village’s magical residents.

Marcus said something, and Mrs. Pennywhistle threw her head back and laughed. I smiled—­it reminded me of a Phyllis Diller cackle. Actually, now that I thought about it, Mrs. Pennywhistle looked a lot like Phyllis Diller, too. Outrageous strawberry blond hair had been teased sky-­high and sprayed to look like she’d just come out of a wind tunnel. High cheekbones, long thin nose, pointed, painted-­on eyebrows. She wore a pink velour tracksuit, and what looked to be brand-­new hot-­pink Nikes. We’d met a few times already, crossing paths on the green. She liked to power walk every morning, and Missy liked to see if she could trip her up.

A crack of thunder made me jump. Sylar squinted ­toward the front picture window. Rain slashed across the pane. He said, “I wish the rain would hold off until after the meeting.”

My nerves tingled.

Ve patted my hand, indicating that she would grant this wish. She turned away from any onlookers. I saw her left eye twitch as her spell was cast.

No one but me seemed to notice that the rain had suddenly stopped.

At sixty-­one, Velma was tiny, like Harper, but her eyes were a golden blue like my own. Tonight hers were skillfully made up with pink and purple shadows. Rosy blush made her cheeks glow, and soft gloss brightened her plump lips. Her coppery hair was worn off her face in a loose twist secured with a silver clip. I’d lived with her two weeks now and had never seen her hair down.

I looked around for Harper and found her with Vincent Paxton, Spellbound Bookshop’s manager. She was smiling up at him as he pointed out reference books. Bookshops were Harper’s nirvana, and she and Vince had become fast friends the day we arrived in the village. Apparently, his type of wolfishness was okay with my little sister.

“Is it hot in here?” Ve asked, drawing my attention back to her. She unwound a lightweight turquoise scarf from around her neck, then shimmied out of a cropped sweater and pushed both into Sylar’s hands. The skin of her shoulders and chest glowed red above the neckline of her flowing sundress. The beautiful golden locket she never took off swayed from a long chain as she fanned herself.

“Very,” I said in hormonal solidarity. I was lying through my teeth. It was actually chilly inside the airy shop.

Sylar dropped a kiss on Ve’s forehead and said, “Why don’t you get something cool to drink while I round up Gayle and get this meeting started.”

Gayle Chastain owned the bookshop. I saw her standing off to the side, talking with a man at the snack table.

Sylar had to be the “grand hoo-­ha” Harper had mentioned on the phone. “And I’ll round up my sister,” I said, looking around. She was no longer with Vince, who stood near the podium.

“The quicker the better,” Sylar said darkly, his eyes narrowing on a spot across the room.

I followed his gaze. Harper was now cornered by a woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She was tall and slender, with crimped long blond hair that seemed to burst from her scalp like Medusa’s snakes. She wore a striking blue one-­shouldered dress, gold high heels, and the reddest lipstick I’d ever seen.

Harper caught my eye and mouthed “Help.”

“Looks like Harper needs us,” I whispered to Aunt Ve.

There was venom in Sylar’s voice as he said, “That she does. Truly, I wish Alexandra Shively would just go away forever.” He walked away.

I glanced at Ve. “Doesn’t much sound like that wish was pure of heart. Though if she’s evil or something, then maybe her being gone forever isn’t a bad thing, right?”

“Alexandra is a complex person,” Ve said. “She is a Seeker who publicly claims herself to be a Craft ‘high priestess’ and markets herself openly as a witch.”

A Seeker was a mortal who sought to become a Crafter. “Does she realize she’s making us look bad?”

Us
. My transition into a life of a witch was happening so seamlessly I hardly noticed.

“Subtle warnings to cease go unheeded, and to openly discuss the matter, even in generalizations, would only fuel her fire. We all were hoping that once she realized she had no true powers, she’d simply go away. But she’s convinced she is a Crafter.”

The types of Craft native to this area were hereditary gifts, passed down from one generation to another. The only way a Seeker could become a true Crafter was if
the Seeker had a Craft ancestor. However, there was a Craft law that allowed a mortal to become part of the Craft society through marriage, though that mortal wouldn’t gain any power—­just knowledge.

One thing for certain was that the Craft didn’t have high priestesses. We had a secret Elder, the most powerful person in the village, the only witch who knew all of the Craft’s laws, history, and secrets. The all-­knowing Elder was the judge, jury, and disciplinarian for all Crafters. No one wanted to be summoned to see the Elder for breaking a Craft law. No one.

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that she could be a Crafter?”

“Doubtful, though I don’t know for sure. As far as I know, she has no family, no roots, here in the village. If there had been a Shively in the Craft ancestry, it would be known. The Elder keeps meticulous records.”

Perhaps, but would she share them? Was she obligated to?

Ve turned and looked back at Sylar. “His wish about Alex going away forever worries me. He’s been acting strangely lately, and I can’t help but wonder if Alex is somehow connected to his troubles.”

“Does he know her well?”

She hesitated before answering. “He’s been quite vocal lately about how Alex’s claims of being a witch might reflect badly on the village.” She smiled. “He doesn’t believe in witches.”

“And that’s okay with you?”

“Keeps things lively in my life. He’s a sweet man. His thinking just needs a little adjustment. That, and his wish making as well.”

His wish echoed in my head. “Maybe he meant nothing ominous by it. Maybe by ‘go away forever’ he simply meant that Alexandra moves away and never comes back.”

I left out the other option. That it could mean
gone-gone
,
as in dead gone. Which certainly wasn’t a wish that could be granted.

As if she knew the direction my thoughts had taken, Ve smiled wryly. “Only one way to find out.” She cast the spell.

I looked toward Alexandra—­she seemed unaffected, though Harper was glaring at me. I grabbed Ve’s arm—­I wasn’t heading over there alone—­and crossed the room.

“Alex! Darling, how are you?” Ve said sweetly. Too sweetly to be sincere. “Girls, this is Alexandra Shively, proprietress of Lotions and Potions.”

Alexandra peered at Harper. “I would be better if I could get a straight answer from your niece.”

Harper’s arms were folded tightly over her small chest, and I could tell her patience was long gone. She stood at just over five feet, and with her short brown hair, delicate features, and big brown eyes, she looked—­and sometimes acted—­like a beautiful, impish woodland elf. I immediately went to her side. Power in numbers.

“What is it you wish to know?” Ve asked, all innocence and feigned candor.

“I simply asked your niece where she had been born and raised.” Alexandra’s eyebrows arched into sharp points. Her hair gave her an extra foot of height, what with the way the frizzy curls practically stood on end and all. She folded her arms over her chest, and I noticed the beautiful diamond watch she wore. If it was real, it had cost a small fortune. Alexandra said, “She refused to answer.”

Harper’s lips pursed. “Because it’s none of your business.”

“Very secretive,” Alex said, eyeing us both.

A gavel banged down. Gayle stood at a podium set up in a spot normally reserved for the month’s newest releases. Vince stood at her side. He was tall and lanky with curly brown hair. Black-rimmed glasses framed intelligent
blue eyes. There were two pens in the pocket of his plaid shirt. He was definitely Harper’s type—puppy-dog cute and smart.

“If everyone could find a seat,” Gayle said loudly, “we’ll get started in a couple of minutes.”

She had a soft, mellifluous voice. She looked to be about fifty, with friendly blue eyes and honey blond hair. She’d bought the shop last year with her husband, who’d since passed away unexpectedly last winter from a heart attack. To hear Vince tell it, he’d been the bookshop’s saving grace following the tragedy, keeping the shop afloat. He may be puppy-dog cute, but he had a Westminster ego.

Ve said brightly, “Let’s grab some seats, girls. We’ll have to continue this conversation another time, Alex.”

“It’s
Alexandra
. And trust me, we will continue this talk. After tonight, everyone will start taking me more seriously.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harper asked with a who-do-you-think-you-are edge.

One sharply pointed eyebrow rose. With a note of triumph in her voice, Alex said, “It means that you’ll finally have to accept that I’m one of you. I’ve finally learned the truth of my past.”

Ve rolled her eyes, though I noticed the shadow of worry on her face. She said, “Have a nice night, Alex,” and herded us toward the other side of the room, where I spotted Nick Sawyer leaning against a bookcase. He had been watching us.

Harper whispered, “What did she mean? She can’t possibly know.…”

“Hush, now.” Ve looked around. “She was fishing for information—that’s all—hoping you’d slip up, since you’re new in the village. You must be careful with Alex,” Ve said in a fierce whisper as she claimed a seat and smoothed her dress. “She’s so intent on learning the secrets of the Craft
that she’s not cognizant of those she hurts in the process. Now, I need a drink before I overheat.” Her gaze settled on the refreshment table. “Punch will have to do until I can get my hands on something stronger.”

Smiling, I said, “I’ll get it for you.”

Harper sat next to Ve as I headed for the punch bowl. A good-looking man stood at the refreshment table, fussing with miniature desserts laid out on a silver tray. Tiny cheesecakes, bite-sized cake balls, itty-bitty pies, and delicate baklava cups.

Suddenly, I was starving.

“Try one,” the man said, holding up the tray.

I glanced at him and tried to hide my sudden shock at the sight of raised welts covering half his face.

Not soon enough, apparently, because the man sighed. “I’m not contagious. I let Alexandra try a new lotion on me. There was a bit of a reaction.”

“A bit,” I downplayed. Absently, I wondered what the plague looked like, and I fought the instinct to take a giant step backward. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s itchy and burns a bit, but really it hurts only my vanity. I’m Evan Sullivan—I own the Gingerbread Shack. We specialize in miniature desserts.” He held up the tray again. “Are you Darcy or Harper?”

I took a tiny cheesecake. “Darcy.” I popped the cake in my mouth and moaned. “So good. Sullivan? Are you related to Starla?”

Perky blond-haired, blue-eyed Starla Sullivan was the owner of Hocus-Pocus Photography. I looked around but didn’t see her. I did, however, spot village lawyer Marcus Debrowski in deep conversation with Alexandra across the room. Business or pleasure? I couldn’t help wondering.

“Thank you,” Evan said, tipping his head. “Starla’s my twin. You’ve met, then?”

“Technically, our dogs met first.”

“Have mercy, you met the beast.”

The “beast” was a two-pound bichon frise mix named Twink. “He’s ferocious.” I ladled punch into two cups. “Is Starla here tonight?”

About my age, Evan was average height and slight in build. His blond wavy hair was cut short and gelled to stay in place. His clothes were impeccably pressed, his shoes shined, his tie neatly knotted. He was adorable.

“Working. She had an event to photograph. Ve’s been talking about you nonstop for weeks now,” he said. “I was beginning to think you and your sister were figments of her imagination.”

“We’ve been lying low, trying to get adjusted. We’re not exactly the social sort.”

He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “That will change now that you’re living here. I guarantee it. Starla will have you signed up on committees with her before you know it. The Midsummer Dance
is
coming up in a couple of weeks.”

I thought about Harper at a village dance and knew she’d be suddenly sick as a dog that day to avoid going. “The dance is a big deal around here, then?”

“The biggest event of the year.”

I thought of the beautiful blue dress in the Bewitching Boutique window. It would be perfect for a Midsummer Dance. I’d buy it in a heartbeat if I were going. Which I probably wasn’t. Someone had to keep Harper company that night.