Spells and Scones (18 page)

With an effort, I tipped my palm over, but the little
figure didn't seem to want to leave my hand. I felt my eyes go wide, and my voice wavered. “He's a druid.”

“A druid! Not one to believe in the Rule, then. And he's trying to come between you and Declan.”

My eyes met hers. “I didn't think so, but it seems obvious now. He seems pretty determined, too.”

“Katie, you have to get rid of that thing!” Angie said.

I couldn't keep the panic out of my voice. “How do I do that?”

Angie leaped to her feet. Mungo barked. “Water. Do you have any bottled spring water?”

I rose as well, still clutching the furata in my unwilling fist. “Better yet, I have natural live water. Come with me.”

She followed me out to the patio and across the backyard to the corner where the stream crossed my property. “Perfect!”

“Shh,” I warned with a glance at the Coopersmiths' house. “My neighbor has a crazy instinct for showing up when I'm casting out here.”

“Okay, submerse the figurine in the water.” Angie looked skyward. Light clouds skidded across the face of the moon. “Luna is waning gibbous tonight. That will do. Place the furata in the stream and allow the natural water to wash away the spell. Leave it there until the new moon. As the light decreases, it will also take the power of the spell with it.”

I stared at her and said between chattering teeth, “You really know your stuff.”

She smiled. “When it comes to this, I do. Now, go ahead.”

Kneeling by the stream, I put my whole hand into the water. It instantly grew cold, but at the same time I was finally able to open my fingers. The spell figure drifted out. I pushed it down into the mud, sending a request to
the elements of earth and water to strip all power away from it. Mungo leaned against my leg, peering into the stream. I let the mud rinse away from my fingers, then stood, feeling a clarity I hadn't known was missing.

“That
creep
,” I said. “When I get my hands on him—”

A crash out front cut me off. My head whipped around. “What was that?” Dread ran down my spine.

Angie looked suddenly scared, the confidence she'd shown when telling me how to get rid of the furata instantly evaporating. “I don't know.”

Mungo took off for the front of the house. I heard a voice yell and recognized it as
Margie's.

I began to run, wiping my cold, wet hand on my shirt. Angie hesitated, then followed. The front gate latch stuck at first. Frantically, I rattled it back and forth. An eternity later, it slipped open. Pushing through, I rounded the corner of the house and skidded to a stop.

Someone had set a fire smack dab in the middle of my yard.

It was so out of place that I was stunned into inertia. Smaller than a bonfire but larger than a campfire, it crackled cheerily, as if inviting the neighbors to come over and make s'mores. The smell of patchouli swirled up in the smoke, so strong it made my eyes water. It was a scent I always associated with Lucy, but I was instantly certain she had nothing to do with this. Another odor joined it then, sour and rank.

Mungo circled the blaze, keeping his distance, the worry that was etched on his furry little face visible in the flickering light.

“I'll call the fire department,” Margie called from her front walk.

Her voice broke my trance. “No, wait!” I said. “I have a hose right here.”

The last thing I needed was a full-fledged visit with ladder trucks and all the rest, especially when Declan was on shift. I ran to the spigot on the side of the house, grabbed the hose, and unreeled it out to the yard.

Angie rushed over and grabbed the nozzle out of my hand. “I've got this! Turn on the water!”

Soon the spray was hitting the flames, knocking them back and eventually defeating them. It seemed to take a long time. When the fire had been reduced to a few puffs of smoke, Margie approached with Baby Bart on her hip and a flashlight in her other hand. I saw the twins watching out the window.

Margie kept looking at them over her shoulder. “I told Jonathan and Julia to stay inside. There's someone out there, Katie.”

“Out where?” Angie asked.

My neighbor did a double take when she recognized my companion. “What are you doing here?”

“It's a long story,” I broke in before she could get her back up. “Did you see who set this?”

Margie shook her head and glanced back at the JJs again. “No. I heard something knock over my garbage can out by the street. I thought it was probably a dog or a raccoon or something and came out to shoo it away. But I saw someone running away. And that was when I saw the fire.”

“You saw them? What did they look like?”

“Oh, gosh. I couldn't see them that well.”

“Man or woman?”

She shook her head. “I just got a quick look before they cut around the corner. Dark clothes, some kind of hat.” Her brow wrinkled. “Why would someone set a fire in your yard, for heaven's sake?”

My shoulders rose and fell. “I have no idea.” I was
baffled more than frightened. The fire had been out in the open, away from the house, and there was no wind. It probably would have burned itself out if no one had noticed it. There hadn't been any real danger, though I'd certainly have to do something about the ring of charred grass the fire had left behind.

Angie, though, looked quite shaken. Her eyes searched the shadows, then returned to the still-smoldering pile of . . . what?

“Margie, could you direct your flashlight over here?” I asked.

Instead, she handed it to me. “Take it. I need to get back to the twins. Be sure to lock your door tonight, Katie.” Her gaze raked the street in front. “Whoever it was might come back.”

Well, that was a cheery thought.

“Thanks, Margie. You, too.”

“I think you should call the police.”

“It was probably just teenagers,” I said, remembering Declan's earlier reference to how many people misbehaved during holidays.

With one last concerned look at Angie, my neighbor trotted across to her house and went inside.

I turned the beam of the flashlight onto the little pile of wet charcoal. “I wonder if we
should
call the police.”

Angie kneeled and pulled out a length of ribbon. It was satin and had started out shiny white. Now it was smudged with ashes. The patchouli scent had lessened, but now a spicy clove scent rose into the air. She continued to pull until the ribbon came free. It was about a yard long.

“What the . . . ?” I bent down beside her as she reached into the ashes again.

This time the ribbon she pulled out had started black and was smudged lighter in some places by the ashes. Only eight inches of the fabric hadn't been consumed by the flames.

And finally, she pulled out the remnants of one more ribbon. Careful inspection revealed it to be dark red.

She looked over at me, her big eyes haunted. “This was burning magic. A binding spell.”

Magic? But the only magical connections to this case were Angie and, if she'd been serious about the tarot deck I'd seen in her things, perhaps Dr. Dana herself. Was there another player?

“Binding who?” I wondered out loud. “You or me?”

Angie pointed at the red ribbon. “This ribbon represents the one to be bound. It's likely you.”

I blinked.

“It's your house, for one thing. Not many people know I'm here. But I'm also guessing the red represents your hair.”

A thought occurred to me. Slowly, I rose to my feet. “Could Steve have done this?”

She stood as well, her mouth set in a grim line.

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh, no. You really think this was him?” The twinge of sorrow that had tempered my anger about the furata unfurled into a deep regret for my friend. “Holy smokes. He's really gone to the dark side.”

And he directed that darkness against
me
.

My anger surged back, hot and tinted with fear. “Could the spell have really worked? Am I somehow bound in a way I don't know about?”

Angie came over and gave me a hug. “You're fine, thanks to your observant neighbor. You put the fire out before the spell could be completed.”

*   *   *

We decided against calling the police. What were they going to do? Without understanding the fire was a burning spell, they'd put it down to pranksters, shake their heads, and walk away. Also, I could see the idea of dealing with the authorities made Angie nervous.

So we gathered what was left from the fire and put it in a metal bucket, which we then filled to the brim with water from the stream. After one more dousing of the blackened grass in the yard, we went inside.

“The police might not be able to help,” I said, “but at least there are a few things I can do to protect this house.”

Up in the loft, I edged around the now-open futon and removed a few items from a cupboard. First, a bundle of white sage to give my little abode a thorough smudging. Then I dug out a vial of four thieves vinegar—this batch infused with black pepper, cayenne, rosemary, and thyme. Legend had it that a similar herbal vinegar had protected the four thieves who had been sentenced to bury plague victims in medieval France. Finally, I grabbed a bag of small quartz crystals. They rattled together as I went down the stairs.

Without any discussion, Angie stepped in to help. As we burned the sage and walked the periphery of the house, I could feel her power. It was considerable. Afterward, I opened the French doors to let some of the smoky smell escape. Keeping a sharp eye out for any movement in the shadows, I went out and retrieved the besom from the gazebo. Back inside, I used a stepstool to hang the ceremonial broom over the back door. A decorative woven bag filled with cumin, lemongrass, and dill already protected the front door.

Then we shut the doors and checked the locks on the
windows. At each one, I placed a small crystal on the sill with a request for protection, and Angie placed drops of the four thieves vinegar on the corners of the glass with her fingertips. Finally, she went one more step and sprinkled some kitchen salt on the floor in front of the doors.

“I think that should do it,” I said. “If anything can get past all that, we'll have to do battle using other methods.”

Angie turned from where she was drying her hands in the kitchen. “What do you mean, ‘battle'?”

“Just an expression,” I said, not wanting to get into the whole lightwitch thing. “Want some more tea? We never did get to finish.”

“Ha. We never even got to start. Is it always so exciting around here?”

Yip!

I gave Mungo a look. “Nah.”

“Well, I've got to tell you, I'm beat. Do you mind if I go to bed?”

“Of course not. Feel free to turn the television on up there.”

Her lips tugged up in a tired smile. “Thanks.”

“I have to go to work really early, you know. So when you wake up, I won't be here. You can hang out, though.”

“I can't think of anything better,” she said. “I haven't felt this safe in a long time.”

It was only ten o'clock, but I went to bed, too. Curling up with Mungo on the blue patchwork quilt Lucy had given me, I texted Steve.

Discovered what your gift really was. I never would have believed you capable of such a stunning violation of trust. But your little love spell failed, and so did the creepy binding spell. This time you went
too far. I can't trust you ever again. Our friendship is OVER.

Turned out that was a mistake, because seconds later he was texting me back with a series of denials and apologies. I thought about confronting him, but I was so angry that I knew the exchange would deteriorate into nonsense. Besides, after he crossed the line like that, there was really nothing left to say.

I blocked his number.

The text tones on my phone stopped. Blissful quiet. Never mind the pang of loss I felt. Steve had meant a lot to me.

How could he have done that?

I called Declan. Of course, when I really, really wanted to hear his voice, he didn't answer. I had to assume he was out on another call, and first sent a hope for his safety, and then one that he'd have a chance to get some sleep that night. I sent a text asking him to call when he could.

The phone rang in my hand. I didn't recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Katie, please listen to me,” Steve pleaded.

He called from someone else's phone? Holy cow!

“I don't know what you hope to gain from all this,” I said. Mungo bounded to his feet. “Right now the last thing I want to do is talk to you.”

“Katie—”

I hung up.

Almost instantly, my phone rang again.

“Stop calling me,” I almost yelled into it.

“Katie!” The voice that reached my ear was quite different from Steve's.

“Oops. Sorry, Mama.”

“What on earth is going on there?”

Stroking Mungo's ears, I settled back into the cocoon of pillows on the bed. “Another murder,” I said. “And Mungo's ex-witch is the prime suspect. She's staying with me right now. Plus Steve is back in town and tried to cast a love spell on me—not to mention a burning spell in my front yard tonight. Oh, and Declan asked me to marry him. Other than that? Not much.”

A few beats of silence, then she said, “Well. I guess I'd better get another cup of decaf. This sounds like it might take a while.”

I imagined my mother sitting in the living room of the house I'd grown up in. Her red hair, still bright thanks to a bottle of color, would be piled up on her head. She'd be wearing her long flannel nightgown and fuzzy slippers, and her face would be freshly washed. Still, she would have expertly reapplied her lipstick. Even if Fillmore, Ohio, had a population of only 564, not a single one of those citizens would catch my mother without her lipstick, whether she was wearing her bathrobe or not.

I filled her in on what had been going on the last few days. Over the last several months, she and Daddy had become used to my involvement in murder investigations. I didn't always tell them about the dangerous bits, but they probably guessed. Still, being my mother, she was most interested in the news about Declan.

“I can't believe you didn't call me right away. Have you set a date?”

“Hmm. Not exactly.”

A pause. “You said yes, didn't you?”

“Actually I didn't.”

“What? Katie, I was just starting to hope again, after
what happened with Andrew.” She wouldn't come right out and say it, but deep down Mama had blamed me when he'd bailed on our wedding.

“I didn't say no, either. I'm still deciding.”

There was a long silence. I heard her take a sip of her coffee, which by now must have been growing tepid. “Do you love him?”

“Yes. But there are a lot of things to work out. Practical matters.”

“Of course there are. That's how it works.” Surprisingly, her frustration seemed to have abated. “Listen to me, sweetie. You've blossomed and grown so much since you moved down there with my sister. I know I fought it at first, but you've truly come into your own. I know you're a strong and capable woman. You'll make the right decision about whether to marry Declan or not.”

My mother was perpetually full of surprises. “Thank you,” I breathed, realizing on some level that if Mama had urged me to marry Declan—or anyone else—I might have decided against it just to be contrary.

We said good night, and I set the phone on the nightstand. The velvet box sat next to the lamp, its plush fabric absorbing the light. I opened it and took the ring out. It was heavy—not white gold, but platinum. Declan knew I wasn't a diamond kind of woman, and he also knew I used my hands a lot—kneading bread, doing dishes, rubbing cold butter into flour. The bright sapphire was set deep into the filigree, stunning and utterly practical at the same time.

He knew me.

Do you want to be with Declan McCarthy, forever and ever, so mote it be?

I slipped the ring on my finger. It felt nice. Solid.

Right.

Mungo nudged at my arm. I held out my hand, and he nosed the sapphire. Looked up at me with a question in his eyes.

I ruffled his ears, slid the ring off, and returned it to the box. Getting off the bed, I turned out the light and went to the window. The moon was still bright outside, and a swath of its silvery light cut through the glass and into the room. I placed the open box on the sill, in the moonbeam, and muttered a few words over it.