Wicked Ways: Death at the DuMond (A Cozy Witch Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

I drew a triangle on the floor in chalk. Then I set a blue candle on each corner. It felt a little strange after not performing magic in so long. But it also felt good. Like I was getting back to my true calling.

When it works, triangle magic is extremely powerful. It’s better suited toward offensive maneuvers. If you need protection, or need to contain something, by all means use a circle. The circle is a perfect form and virtually impenetrable. But triangles are great for focusing energy.

I put the tennis ball in the center of the triangle, along with a hand mirror and a  gemstone. I sprinkled an herb about the triangle. I’m not going to say which herb, that’s my little secret. And I drizzled bits of the herb over each candle flame. It sizzled and cracked as it vaporized. Wafts of blue smoke rose into the air. The room filled with a spicy aroma.

I wrote a spell on a piece of paper. The key to making a spell work is to clear your mind and focus your intention. Any stray thought in your mind could weaken the spell. Thinking about your to do list, homework, or bills that needed to be paid would definitely affect things negatively. 

Too much distraction and unfocused thought, and you might end up in a worse situation. You might find yourself with double the amount of homework tomorrow. Your to do list might grow. Someone might even feel obligated to raise your rent. You might turn someone into a troll. 

It’s a lot like mindful meditation. Once my head was clear, I made sure to only focus on the things that I wanted to find. Charlotte’s Rolex watch, and her engagement ring. I didn’t bother to focus on the $50 in cash that was supposedly stolen. That could send me off in all kinds of directions. The same for the cell phone. Too many of the same models floating around. Specificity is the key to any successful spell.

I had a good mental picture of her Rolex, and her engagement ring.  Charlotte was always more than happy to show off her jewelry. She had shown me both items on more than one occasion. Always sure to note how much each item cost. If I recall correctly, the value suspiciously increased each time she showed off her jewelry.

 I chanted the spell over and over again until the words became meaningless. A rhythmic cadence of sounds. I burned the slip of paper in one of the candles and dropped it into the triangle as it turned to ash.

Bancroft watched me do all of this.

Slowly, an image began to appear within the mirror. Very faint at first, then growing stronger until it became bright and vivid. Looking into the mirror was like looking at a three dimensional glimpse of a location.

It was an old building somewhere downtown. I picked up the mirror, and as I a looked from different angles, I could see more of the street and surroundings. I didn’t recognize the building, but the architecture and the neighborhood looked vaguely familiar. 

I peered into the mirror from the side, at almost a 180° angle. I could see down the street a little ways. I squinted and put my eyes as close to the mirror as possible, trying to see farther down the street. I could barely make out the street sign:
32nd and Vermont
.

I smiled at Bancroft. “We’re in business.” I looked up the cross streets online. The pictures of the building looked very similar to the image in the mirror. I was excited. Not only because we were making progress on the crime, but because my spell actually worked. 

“Are you ready, Banksy?”

“You’re not thinking about going now are you?”

“Why not?”

“It’s already after dark,” he said. “And that’s not exactly a great part of town.”

“We’re just going to go take a look. That’s all,” I said. “I promise, no dangerous stuff.”

Bancroft rolled his eyes. “You want to go looking for stolen merchandise? At night? In a neighborhood that even I wouldn’t walk through in the day?” Bancroft shook his head. “And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m already dead.”

“Stop being overly dramatic.”

“What do you plan to do? Knock on every door in that building asking for the thief who stole a Rolex?”

“If I have to.”

“I’m sure that will go over well,” Bancroft said.

Bancroft knew me well enough to know that once I set my mind  to something, there’s no talking me out of it. I grabbed the mirror and the gemstone, and we caught a cab over to 32
nd
Street and Vermont.

 The cab driver kept eyeing me through the rearview mirror. Not that I totally minded. He had piercing blue eyes, dark hair, and chiseled features. He wore a white tank top, and I couldn’t help notice his well toned arms flex when he turned the steering wheel. He looked somewhat perplexed, mixed with a bit of concern.

“Lady, are you sure this is where you want to go?” the cab driver asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you meeting someone there?”

“No, not really?”

“And you just want me to drop you off at the corner?”

“Yes, that will be fine.” I said. “I’ll throw in an extra $10 if you come back and pick us up in 30 minutes.”

“Us? I thought you said you weren’t meeting anyone?”

“I meant, me.”

He furrowed his brow, then shrugged to himself. 

Bancroft rolled his eyes as he watched me attempt to not ogle the driver.  He was good looking. What was a girl to do?

 We drove another several blocks in silence. The driver kept staring at me. I began to wonder if I had a big zit, or something unsightly on my face. Why did he keep staring at me? He looked increasingly bothered as we got closer and closer to the neighborhood. 

We finally pulled up to the corner at 32
nd
and Vermont. The cabbie’s eyes darted around nervously, like he was expecting someone to jump out from the shadows at any minute. 

“Look, lady, it’s none of my business, but I’m 6’3”, 250 pounds, and I don’t feel safe around here.” 

“I’ll be fine,” I said, feigning confidence.

He shook his head. “You’re braver than I am.”

I stepped out of the car and handed him the fare through the passenger window. I gave him a nice tip as well. “Can you pick me back up here in a half hour?”

“Lady, you’re crazy if you think I’m coming back to this part of town. I actually value my life.” 

The cab driver sped away from the curb. Above me, the pale orange glow of the streetlight flickered. The entire block was dim, and there was hardly a soul stirring. A homeless man was curled up in a nearby doorway. The buildings were dingy and covered with graffiti. 

I pulled out the mirror and studied the image that still persisted in it. We were definitely standing on the same street corner. The building we were looking for should be several hundred yards to the south on Vermont. 

Most of the street lights were out in that direction. It was a dark, desolate city block, lined with dilapidated buildings and blind alley ways. 

I was starting to feel like this was a mistake. Bancroft looked at me, admonishingly.

“Not a word, Banksy. Not a word.” 

“Sixteen murders. Forty-five robberies. Fifty-two felony assaults. Eighty-nine grand larcenies,” Bancroft recited.

“I said
not a word
.”

“I didn’t say
a
word. I said thirteen words.”

“I suppose those thirteen words are the crime statistics for the last year?”

“No. The statistics for the last month. Just on this particular block, I might ad,” Bancroft said. His tone was unnervingly calm.

The hair on the back of my neck stood tall, and a chill ran down my spine.

CHAPTER 14

BANCROFT AND I walked down the gloomy street. We were standing in the exact location where the building should be, but it was gone. As in, demolished. I was sure we were in the right place. Both the buildings to the right and to the left matched the image displayed in the mirror. But the gemstone in my pocket was cold. It should have been hot. Almost too hot to touch if we were close by.

“Well, I guess we can go home now,” Bancroft said.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” I held up the mirror, looking from the image to the empty space where the building once was. “They must have just knocked this building down.”

“That, or you’re not very good at location spells.”

“I never said I was an expert.”

The image in the mirror began to fade. All that was left was a normal reflection. In that reflection, I saw two shadowy figures behind me across the street. I slowly turned to look at them. They were staring back at us.

At the end of the block, where the cab dropped us off, two more shadowy figures were heading our way.

“I think we should start moving.” My voice was shaking a little.  

Bancroft looked around. The figures were closing in on us. “I agree.”

We started a brisk walk south on Vermont, into the darkness. The two men across the street paced us, stride for stride. Every time we marched faster, they sped up as well. I looked over my shoulder. The two men following from behind were gaining on us. This wasn’t looking good. Maybe I should have listened to the cab driver.

The street was desolate, apart from the brutish men closing in on us. It seemed that most people had enough common sense to stay off these streets at night. I was beginning to question my sanity.

A chase always starts out the same way. The predator pretends they aren’t following you. You rationalize that you aren’t being followed—it just happens to be coincidental that big scary men are walking behind you, in the same direction. You walk faster, they walk faster. 

At this point, you are still deluding yourself that you’re not being followed. You’re holding out hope that this is all just your vivid imagination. Panic sets in. Your heart races. You start to sweat. Your fight or flight instinct kicks in. Adrenaline courses through your veins. But you don’t run. Not just yet.

If you run, it will insight an obligatory chase. The predator doesn’t want to run just yet because it might spook you. So, the inevitable chase looms overhead with unbearable tension.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore, and you launch into a full on sprint. Which is exactly what I did. 

I ran as hard as I could. And so did the predators. My heart was thumping. My pulse was pounding. I sucked air in and out of my lungs until they hurt. My thighs burned with lactic acid. I ran faster than I had ever run before. But it wasn’t fast enough. I craned my neck, looking back over my shoulder. The four brutes were closing in. 

My legs were starting to feel like mush. I was gasping for air, but it wasn’t enough. Up ahead, at the next block, traffic rambled by. An orange vapor light illuminated the street. If I could make it out of this darkness, to the corner, to the traffic, I might have a chance. Surely no one would mug me with witnesses passing by? Surely a passing car would stop to help, wouldn’t they?

But I never made it to the corner. I was tackled by a figure lunging out of the darkness as I passed an alley. I felt like I had gotten hit by a linebacker. With the wind knocked out of me I gasped for breath. But it was like my lungs didn’t understand the concept. I was telling them to inhale, but they just said
no
.

Rough hands dragged me into the pitch darkness of the alleyway. Suddenly, I was surrounded by all five goons. I tried to scramble to my feet, but my face crashed into a massive fist. The punch felt like slamming into a concrete block. The force of the impact spun me around, back down to the ground.

My lip was split, and my nose was trickling blood down onto the grimy concrete. In all my years, I had never been punched in the face before. My head throbbed, and I was seeing two of everything. I was dazed and it took a second for my eyes to refocus. When I could see straight again, my eyes fixed on a shiny silver blade gleaming in the moonlight.

It dawned on me that I had never really been scared before. Sure, I had been startled, or worried, or unnerved. I’m a wimp when it comes to scary movies. But I had never been in fear for my life before. Not like this.

For the first time in my life, I became painfully aware of my mortality. I wasn’t entirely sure that I was going to make it out of this alleyway alive. In fact, I was quite sure that I wasn’t.

Bancroft was punching and kicking and swinging at my attackers. But it wasn’t doing any good. His punches passed right through them. They hardly reacted at all—occasionally swatting, like a bug was buzzing around their ear. Nothing Bancroft could do would stop them.

The blade in front of my face was a large hunting knife. One edge was beveled and razor-sharp. The back edge was jagged. The knife was attached to a thick, meaty hand. The hand was attached to a thick, meaty forearm. That forearm was attached to a massive bicep and broad shoulder. A thick neck supported a square head. He reminded me of an ogre, only less attractive—if that’s even possible. 

 “Your money and your jewelry,” the blockhead’s gruff voice grumbled.

 I nodded, but my body was shaking so much I don’t think it registered with him.

He said it again, “Your money and your jewelry.” His anger was brewing.

I handed him my purse, then pried the rings from my fingers. I dumped them into his massive palms.