Murder Most Witchy (Wendy Lightower Mystery) (9 page)

Ian carefully arranged all the items from the bag on her table. It was certainly an interesting collection, and an outsider looking in would probably have been downright frightened by some of it.  There was everything from an old boot to a knife with a jeweled hilt. Wendy only recognized one or two of the objects, but it was enough.

“Maybe I can help,” Ian said. “I brought some of your uncle's favorite toys.”

In the course of pursuing his investigations, Gerry had created a set of tools, each with its own specific purpose in investigating Ghouls and other magical incidents, by bewitching certain objects and creating others from scratch. Gerry had written the book on charming everyday objects with complex spells - literally. The local magics-only bookstore sold a small printing of his book. Wendy knew that he hadn't revealed all, or even most, of the spells for these objects. Some things Gerry saved for himself.

Set out before her on her polished wood high top table in her very modern kitchen were Gerry's tools in all their paranormal glory. She didn't know what most of them did, but she knew that her uncle usually never went anywhere without them.

“He let you take these?” she breathed, taking in the sight before her. “He loves these tools. They're like his children.”

Ian gave her an odd look. “No, Wendy, that's you.”

Heat rose in her cheeks at the personal nature of the comment and the even more personal look in his eyes. Wendy had no desire to get in a family discussion with someone who wasn't family, no matter how close he seemed to be with her uncle. She decided not to answer. “Amazing. There is nothing like these anywhere in the world, you know.”

“Gerry is the best,” Ian acknowledged.

As Wendy's eyes passed over one object and on to the next, a frown emerged on her face and deepened as she continued her study. “I'm not sure I remember what they all do,” she admitted.

“That's all right. I'm here to help.”

The thought that she needed this stranger to help her with her own uncle's tools left a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Thanks,” she said, but the words lacked conviction.

Ian didn't seem to notice. “No problem. Now, Milton is in on this, right?”

Wendy nodded her head. “He and his partner have the case.”

“Good. That means we'll have access. We can get around Horn,” he added as an afterthought.

“You want to go back to library?” Wendy was sure she should have been following his train of thought, but the fact of the matter was that she was totally confused. She'd seen Benny
in situ
, as it were, and she wasn't sure what they would learn at the crime scene. Surely there was some spell they could be doing here to catch the killer.

When she said as much out loud, Ian just shook his head. “There is no Show Me The Killer spell,” he said dryly. “Sometimes we get lucky with the Last Breath, but if the victim didn't see anything, we have to rely on investigation just like the police.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, “what are we looking for when we get there?”

Ian picked up a box with a metal wand attached to a cord. It looked like some kind of scientific data collection device. “First of all, we'll confirm that there was magic done in that room. This little device measures the residual magical energy in the air.”

“So it's a Geiger counter,” Wendy voiced what she taken the object for initially, “only for magic instead of radiation.”

“Basically,” Ian confirmed.

Wendy thought how to phrase her next thought. “I know Benny was killed by magic, Ian,” she began, “and not just from the injuries to the body or the fact that his killer seemed to be invisible. I can feel it.” She paused, not sure how to continue. “It's like an ache in my bones. Impossible to ignore.”

Ian studied her, his head tilted to one side. Immediately Wendy wished she hadn't said
anything. Clearly he thought she was being fanciful, or worse that she was trying to avoid her due diligence in the investigation.

When he finally spoke, the words were not at all what she expected. “Just like him.”

“What do you mean?”

Ian began packing up all the tools and replacing them in the leather bag. “Gerry always knows, too.”

“He does?” When Wendy had decided to stay away from Lightower Investigations, she was hardly an adult. The teenager in her had rebelled against Gerry and his dangerous occupation, blamed him for the death of her mother. She was realizing very quickly that she had left before she learned anything at all about the way Gerry investigated. Perhaps she didn't really know all that much about
him
either.

“We still confirm it,” Ian explained, “but he always knows.” There was something like awe that always
crept into his voice when he talked about Gerry.

“How long have you been working with my uncle?” Wendy found that she awaited the answer with more trepidation than she expected.

“Almost a year now.”

Wendy reeled like he'd hit her. “A year? Why haven't I ever met you?”

Ian shrugged. “I must not have been there the other times you visited.”

It sounded like such a simple explanation, but the accusation in his tone was unmistakable. Wendy thought back over the past year. There had been plans, many, many plans, between her and Gerry, but she could only remember three times that she'd actually been to see him. He lived only minutes away, but she had always found an excuse to stay away. She had never realized what she was doing, but she had been avoiding him. Avoiding the only family she had left. Shame and sadness threatened to swallow her whole.

“I don't know what to say,” her voice was below a whisper.

Ian had been watching her stoically, but at the pain on her face, he softened. “He understands. He just misses you.”

Wendy made a promise, then and there, to repair her relationship with Gerry. Maybe it was even time to forgive him.

Wendy packed up her own small bag with paper and pencil, her keys, and her cellphone. Her own articles seemed so mundane and normal that she laughed out loud.

“What's so funny?” Ian asked, merriment dancing in his eyes and revealing his desire to join her.

“I was just thinking that it is going to take some time before I'm any good at this. I don't look the part.”

Ian was opening the door as he replied. “I think you look just fine.”

A blinding flash of light pushed them both back a step. Voices shouted and a surge of motion came towards them. Wendy pushed Ian aside, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut with a bang.

“What was that?” Ian demanded, clearly shaken by the experience. A green flicker at his fingertips drew Wendy's eye. Ian noticed her staring and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Wendy stammered out the answer, her mind no longer centered on the mob on her
doorstep, “Reporters. They think I'm investigating an occult murder for the police.”

Ian's somber face stretched into a grin. “You are.”

Wendy shook her head. “I know that. I just don't know how they know that.” She didn't wait for him to answer. She really didn't want to talk about reporters. “What's happening to your hands?”

Ian turned his face away, his eyes downcast. The grin disappeared completely. “I wish you hadn't seen that. I'm still learning to control it.”

“What are you learning to control?” She was insistent, even in the face of his obvious discomfort.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets. They were perfectly normal looking, no sparks anywhere in sight. “It's a power I have. It's just a reaction, really. I don't really know how it works.”

“What does it do?” She didn't really need to hear his answer. She already knew.

A shutter fell down over his eyes. “I don't want to talk about it.” He turned away and moved back towards the kitchen. “I guess we're stuck here.”

There was no hiding that he was very uncomfortable now. She could see him itching to get away from her.

“Ian,” she called out.

Reluctantly, Ian spun around to face her. His eyes popped open, and his mouth worked up and down as he tried to form words.

Wendy had her hands spread out to her sides, her fingers wide. Blue sparks crackled from one fingertip to the next, sizzling in the air and emitting a flashing blue glow. The electricity surged through her body, and she felt it everywhere, out to ends of her hair which was spread out around her like a halo. She held onto the power for a few seconds, then the sparks sputtered and went out, leaving Wendy exposed and exhausted.

“How?” he gasped. “I've never... How?”

He looked so dumbfounded that Wendy laughed. “You thought you were the only one?”

He nodded, his mouth still hanging open from his last attempt at speech.

A moment ago, Ian had seemed
light-years ahead of her in the witch department. Wendy found herself enjoying the fact that he didn't know as much as she thought. “Close your mouth,” she smiled, “or you'll catch flies.”

Ian lifted a hand to his chin and rubbed his jaw. “It seems we have a lot more to talk about.”

Ian looked like he needed to time to gather his thoughts, so while he puttered around in the living room, Wendy brewed coffee and whipped up a batch of scones. She didn't have her uncle's flair for baking, but she did make a decent scone. As she was pulling the pan out of the oven, she was struck by the absurdity of this typical domestic scene in the face of what she had just done.

Her laughter, and perhaps the smells of coffee and orange scones, drew Ian into the kitchen.

“Sit,” Wendy said, setting a plate and mug at one of the places at the table. “We have some time.  I don't think those vultures are going anywhere anytime soon.”

Ian shrugged off the reporters, “We'll be able to get rid of them. What just happened?”

Wendy countered with a question of her own. “Does Gerry know about your ability?”

“I've never told him, but with Gerry, that doesn’t mean much.”

“True,” Wendy acknowledged, “but I would be willing to bet he knows. That's why he picked you.” Wendy felt a huge sense of relief at understanding why her uncle had chosen to befriend this stranger, even if it didn't make her jealousy completely disappear.

“What do you mean? I sought him out.”

“I'm sure he let you believe that,” Wendy replied. She may have been smiling; it felt good to understand her uncle in a way that his 'heir apparent' did not. “He's good at that.”

Ian took a big bite of his scone and washed it down with a slug of coffee. “Enough about what Gerry does or doesn't know. I know him well enough to realize that I will never know him. I want to talk about what I just saw.”

Wendy wasn't sure where to begin. Being a witch was something that she had grown up with, and even after she turned her back on magic and Gerry, it had always been there, waiting for her. She had always felt the power flowing through her veins, her limbs, her soul.  The only place to really start
, she decided, was at the beginning.

“Are there any other witches in your family?”

Ian shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“There are two kinds of witches,” she explained. “Some are just practitioners. They need spells, familiars, and potions to make magic happen. Without these tools to focus energy, they are regular people. You and I are different. We still use spells and potions most of the time, but we have a power that needs no outside help to manifest itself. We can tap into all the power in nature that surrounds us without even thinking about it. We're more rare, but we're certainly not alone.”

Ian wasn't looking at her, but she could see him processing and assimilating what she had told him.

“I'm surprised my uncle never explained any of this to you.” Wendy couldn’t understand it at all, in fact. It was completely unlike Gerry, who reveled in being a sort of mentor to the young and magically gifted. She knew that from personal experience.

“I never asked,” Ian explained. “I've always known what I am, but I've never talked about it much. Your uncle helped me understand so much of what I am, but I never told him about... you know.” Even now, even knowing, he didn't want to talk about it.

Wendy could see the strain in the hard lines bracketing his mouth. Her heart ached at the thought of Ian having to grow up with magic and having no one to help him understand. Her heart filled with gratitude for Gerry; at least she had always known what she was.

“He was probably waiting for you to be ready.”

Ian propped his elbows on the table and dropped his face into his hands.

“There's something more,” she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me.”

Maybe it was that she understood his power, or perhaps it had to do with the fact that she was a relative stranger, but when Ian started talking, Wendy knew it was a story that he had never told before.

“The first time I can remember being different, I was seven years old. When I got angry or upset, I felt this buzzing inside my body, and I couldn't control it. It scared me. I started avoiding people, staying by myself a lot in the woods behind our house. It felt safer somehow.”

Wendy stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.