All the Pretty Witches Page 5

  A parchment envelope had been slipped under her front door. She snatched it up and popped the wax seal with Clover’s symbol pressed into of a blob of purple wax. She unfolded the paper and read the quick note. Clover was going to be in the city and wanted to meet Honora for dinner. That was just the break she needed. Clover suggested they meet at The Gilded Grimoire Café, one of her favorite bookstores in the city that also had a restaurant tucked in the back of the bookshop.

  Honora slipped the note into her jacket pocket so she wouldn’t forget and poured some nuts and dried fruit into Barnaby’s food dish. He mostly dined on rodents alfresco when out on his nightly hunts, but a little roughage couldn’t hurt. She headed to the bathroom to spruce up her braid and wash up. When she glanced in the mirror, she cringed. Dark circles marred the skin under her eyes, which were sadly in need of some concealer. She hadn’t slept well and it showed. Pepper had made her a little pot of Bag Be Gone that worked miracles. Honora dabbed some on and felt a little magical tingling and watched the dark circles fade away.

  As she stood on her window ledge about to fly down to meet the detective, the doorbell rang. Can’t he wait a second? Honora jumped back into her apartment as the doorbell rang again. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” she yelled and swung open the door. She tried to hide her surprise, but the usually pristinely dressed and coiffed detective looked worse than she did. In fact, he looked downright terrible. His shirt and trousers, which she suspected he was still wearing from yesterday, were creased and wrinkled. His skin was ashen, his hair was disheveled, and his dark circles were even darker than hers.

  “I see you haven’t slept since finding the body,” Honora said and opened the door wide. “Come on in and I’ll brew you some coffee. Unless I’m still a suspect.” She smirked.

  He was so hunched over it looked like he’d shrunk from exhaustion. “That would be great. And thanks for the tip on Constance.” He followed her into the apartment and collapsed onto the sofa. A deep sigh leaked from his chapped lips.

  “That bad?” Honora asked as she spelled her copper kettle to brew. She pulled two mugs down from a cabinet.

  “You have no idea.”

  “It can’t be that bad if you took some time off to come see little old me,” Honora said, trying to lighten the mood.

  The comment elicited a weak grin from the detective. “I wish I was here for another reason, but I came for advice. This case has been brutal.” He leaned up and rubbed his hands over his face. “One thing I found out was that the victim was involved with an exclusive flying club.”

  “Witches of a Feather,” she said, stealing his thunder.

  “Why am I not surprised you already know that?”

  “I got curious, so I did a little digging. But so far the name of the club is all I found out.”

  “There’s more. Much more. Constance was in deep. She hadn’t been around her family in months, dropping off the map except for the occasional flyby, as her parents put it. She was acting aloof, distant, non-communicative.”

  “Sounds like a lot of young witches. Maybe it was a phase.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. She spent all her time with the club, so I did a little digging. The club is impossible to reach, no one’s heard of it and if they have heard of it, they aren’t talking. And I’m not the one asking. We had our top flyers in the department doing the inquiry and they turned up nothing.”

  The kettle hissed to life and Honora poured them both a cup of coffee. “Flying clubs are tight-knit. I’m sure the death of one of their members has hit them hard. They’re probably grieving.”

  “Constance’s parents haven’t heard a peep from them either. They have no idea how to reach this club.”

  Honora handed the detective a cup. “I’m sure they’ll reach out. Give them time.”

  “There was one thing I dug up on them and that was another member.” He flipped open his casebook, waved his wand over the page and the image of a young witch appeared. It wasn’t a pretty picture—it was a mug shot.

  “She’s not happy,” Honora said staring down at the image of a witch with thick black curls, heavy brows, and angry eyes.

  “That’s Alana Burr. She’s doing twenty years in the Banishment for selling illicit charms. She’s another former member of Witches of a Feather.”

  The Banishment was Everland’s most notorious jail. It housed some of the most dangerous witches and wizards convicted of the worst crimes.

  Honora sat in the chair opposite the detective. “One dead and one in jail. That’s not a good track record for any club. How can I help you?” She wondered why the exhausted detective was really there.

  He flipped the parchment to a fresh page, uttered a spell, and waved his wand. “What I’m showing you is confidential. I’ve already gotten approval from my supervisors to read you in.” He arched his brow at her.

  He really did need her help. He tapped the book with his wand, drawing her attention to it. The image of the dead witch’s face appeared on the page. He referenced the marks on her neck. “We’ll start here.”

  Cruel bloody slashes ringed the pale flesh of Constance’s throat. Honora swallowed. The pain had to have been unimaginable. And now that she knew the witch was a friend and colleague of Butter’s, the photo was even more gut wrenching. “That’s disturbing. Did you ever figure out what made the marks?”

  “Magic.” He glanced at her with bloodshot eyes.

  “What?” She leaned in closer to get a better look.

  “Cause of death was strangulation by a magical weapon. It seared into her flesh, utterly excruciating.” His brow pinched.

  “That’s awful.” Honora’s stomach seized and she set her cup down. “What about the black magic? I’m afraid to ask what kind of spells they performed on her.” She had a terrible feeling things were about to get worse.

  The detective waved his wand over the page and another photo of the witch appeared, this time from behind. There was a deep flesh wound in the middle of her back surrounded with a black seared mark. The word backstabber was cut into her flesh above the mark. There were red imprints of a chain around her waist and down her legs as if she’d been wrapped in scorching chains that burned her skin.

  Honora gasped. “Looks like revenge,” she said. “That’s torture. Magic should never be used like that. Do you think someone in her club did this?” Honora bit the inside of her cheek. It was unimaginable. “I can’t believe they would turn on one of their own. It’s not done. Clubs were originally formed to protect flyers.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, a headache coming on.

  “Go on. Tell me more about clubs.” The detective leaned forward.

  “It can be difficult having a powerful persuasion. Young flyers have it rough. It’s hard to make friends, to fit in, and be accepted. The clubs are bonds. They’re like a family, a very protective family. They wouldn’t.” She stopped short and rephrased her thoughts. “You should investigate them, but also look outside the club for her killer.”

  “We’re looking at everyone. We have theories, but nothing is conclusive. It’s still early in the case, but I know enough to realize that I need help.” His gaze was both sad and intense. She felt like a captive. “I’m here because I’d like to hire you as an investigator to assist me with the case. I’ve gotten approval to put you on the payroll at your normal fee. What do you say?”

  Honora leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. Her mind raced, already ahead of herself. It took barely a second for her to consider his offer and decide. “I’ll do it, but you’ll need to put down a good chunk of gold as a retainer. Sawyer and Jenny are busy for the next week, so it’ll just be me.” Technically she would have done it for free. The case had gotten under her skin, but a job was a job and she didn’t mind getting paid for hard work, especially since she was already kind of working
the case. Now she turned an intense gaze at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “That sounds serious,” he said with a lopsided smile. The detective really needed to go home and get some sleep.

  “I’ve got a lead on the club.”

  He jerked back. “Already? How’d that happen? Or more importantly, why did that happen? What’s going on, Honora?” His tone sharpened.

  She sat on the edge of a chair. “I couldn’t let it rest, okay? Seeing that witch dead in the alley with my business card really did a number on me. I had to do something. I was going to tell you, I swear. But I wanted to see if I could get in with them first.”

  “What exactly did you do? And you’re going to need to put all this down in your first report you submit to me.”

  “Sure. No problem.” She waved him off. “I went to a bar called Soar. A lot of flyers hang out there and I knew they would know all about the club.”

  He edged forward on the couch. “Did they?”

  “I talked to the manager, Sasha, and she played it coy, but she took my card and told me if she sees them, she’ll pass it on. I said I was looking for a new club to join.”

  “I thought you loved your club.”

  “I do, but they don’t need to know that. I needed to get their attention. I’m a good catch. Witches of a Feather would be lucky to get me,” she said, parroting what Harper had told her. Then why did she not believe it?

  Corder jumped to his feet, life flooding his worn-down body. “This is awesome, better than I expected.”

  “Really? Nothing’s definite.”

  “Do you know what this means? If they take the bait, you can go undercover.” He grabbed her by the arms. “We’d have someone on the inside of the club. This is just the break we needed.” He spun around, lost in thought, and ran his hands through his hair.

  “Like I said, nothing’s happened yet. But, yes, if they contact me and we think it’s necessary then I could go undercover.” A spark of excitement flared in her chest. It’s exactly what she needed to escape her own life. “I could definitely do that.” Now she really hoped they contacted her.

  “Good. I gotta go.” The detective scrambled for the door.

  “What you need is some sleep. Do yourself a favor and take a long nap. The case will still be there when you wake up.” She was worried about him. She’d never seen him this out of sorts. Why was he losing his cool? She’d keep her eye on him as a friend.

  “You’re right. Send me a message if you hear anything. Try and be discreet. And don’t forget to submit a report to me by the end of the week with everything you can find out.”

  “I’ve done this before. Don’t worry. You hired me, remember?”

  The door banged closed behind him. Work called to her. Now that Honora had a paying customer, she wanted to crank it into high gear.

  Tucked into a cozy window seat, Clover Mayhem was swaying to the rhythm of the magical Silver Train gliding above the tracks on her way to Stargazer City. She’d planned to have dinner that night with her sister Honora, which gave her just enough time to do what she really came to the city for—research. Whenever she got stumped for ideas for one of her novels, she delved into the depths of the real world and the lives of real witches and wizards. And where was the best place to do that? At the Witch World Daily archives.

  The train car glided to a stop and the door swept open. Clover swung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and stepped out onto the platform. The hustle and bustle of the city washed over her, infusing her with energy. Coming here had been a great idea thanks to her trusty assistant, Derek, who was back at her house filing paperwork. She shuddered at the thought. But some wizards liked that sort of thing. Luckily he was addicted to organizing and helped her get her paperwork in order. Now Clover just needed something to write about.

  She hurried along the city street, swept up in the flow of the crowd like a little fish. Clover tried to pretend that there was nothing wrong, that everything was fine, but truth be told her imagination had run dry as a bone. As a word witch, her magic was rooted in her ability to bring stories to life, to infuse the page with magical tales, but lately she couldn’t even string a few sentences together, or when she did, the stories puttered out. The characters were lifeless, the plot lines were stale, and the dialogue was forced and rigid.

  How could this happen to her? Normally, she had dozens of competing ideas battling it out in her mind’s eye and couldn’t get the words down fast enough. Now it seemed the well had run dry, and it scared her a little. She stood gawking in front of one of the oldest institutions and main news source for all of Everland—Witch World Daily. The building was a massive expanse of stone with huge columns flanking the etched glass doors. She hadn’t been there in ages, but it felt like home when she pushed through the heavy door and hurried inside, craning her neck in awe.

  In the center of the vestibule stood a bronze statue of a group of witches and wizards holding up rolls of parchments stacked high with a huge unfurled copy of the first Witch World Daily balanced on their raised arms. Huge bronze ink bottles and quills sat at their feet. The statue was really quite impressive. The first floor of the building held the reception desk, community office space, and the massive archives. The reporters’ bullpen occupied the second and third floors and offices went up from there. No one was allowed upstairs without an appointment, which Clover didn’t have, even though she knew many of the reporters on staff.

  Clover checked in at reception and received a day pass to use the archives. After grabbing a pile of recent editions of the newspaper, she tucked a rogue blonde curl behind her ear and found her favorite nook—a desk wedged behind a giant column and rows of shelves crammed with books and parchments. The archives reminded her a little bit of a messy library mixed with a beaver dam, so much stuff—parchment sheets and rolls, copies of the paper, and files were packed into the massive space. It smelled like the oak of the dried paper, the moldering of old leaves, and the lingering perfume of ink. In a word, it was comfort.

  Clover settled down in a high back chair covered in a worn tapestry and began skimming through the huge stack of parchments. There had to be something to pique her interest and fire up her creative juices. Clover flipped from page to page, scanning the stories. Nothing jumped out at her. There was a story about a witch who had a flock of butterflies as her familiars. That was interesting, but where would the story go? The butterflies went with her everywhere. That swarm would be hard to manage. There was a story about a wizard who had a grimoire hidden in his attic filled with secrets he’d bought and sold over the years. Now that had promise.

  Clover continued to scan the pages, still unsure what she was looking for. She would know it when she saw it, she told herself. She flipped past the old weather reports, admiring the weather witch’s accuracy. Spring showers could be so unpredictable. She could write a story about a weather witch. She exhaled loudly. Now that was just desperate. She dug through the parchments and left the weather section behind. Maybe there was something scandalous in the crime section. She peered down the page and was disappointed. It was mostly filled with petty crime—a broken shop window, a dog destroying some flowerbeds, and a rash of stolen broomsticks. It was pretty tame as far as crime went. There was nothing there. She was so disappointed in the lack of recent treachery in Everland. She would have to ask Honora when she saw her at dinner.

  Then Clover saw a recent photo of a sparkling necklace with the caption Lady Raider Strikes Again! Her heart skipped a beat and she read on.

  The notorious jewel thief has claimed another prize. The penthouse of esteemed power couple Mindy and Bronson Pewter was broken into and a diamond necklace was stolen out of their safe, leaving the couple and the police baffled. The thief left the telltale calling card of a white r
ose in place of the necklace.

  Detective Mince said, “The wards on the safe were top of the line and the security in the building is impeccable. We suspect she could be a flyer and came through the window, but they too were warded with complicated spells. We’ve no idea how the Lady did it this time. If the public saw anything, please contact the tip line.”

  Clover was hooked. She read on and searched for as much information as she could on the elusive jewel thief. Apparently, the stolen necklace was her fifth heist. The police suspected that she was working alone, and only learned she was female when a witness spotted a witch sheathed in black, her blonde ponytail bouncing along behind her, making a fast exit out of a window of another penthouse apartment. The press dubbed her the Lady Raider.

  Clover’s imagination went wild—a character jumping to life. Clover craved details. Was she really a flyer or was she escaping another way? Was she an expert climber using ropes? Or maybe that was her persuasion! She could scale buildings with her own hands and feet. But how was she breaking the wards? Clover smirked. Derek could tell her that. His persuasion was spell breaking and he could break almost any spell. Wards were more difficult, of course, but with a little hard work it could be done. He told her when he was young, seedy types wanting him to sell them spell breakers approached him all the time, but he’d refused. The last thing he’d wanted or needed was to get locked up in the Banishment for aiding criminals.

  The Lady Raider might know someone or perhaps she was breaking the spells herself. A tingle sparked in Clover’s imagination. The story of a pretty, clever, magically gifted jewel thief was just the spark she was looking for. It practically wrote itself.