Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (13 page)

“I fall in the middle,” Cookie said. “Like Bianca, I
like the ritual, but sometimes you need to tailor a spell to very specific needs,
and she gives advice on how to do that.”

Voices drifted up to the open doorway. Male voices. For a moment I thought Declan
had come over to watch the game with Ben, then realized he was still on duty. Besides,
my uncle wouldn’t have invited him when the spellbook club was meeting upstairs.

“I need to see them, sir. I’m sorry, but no, I won’t wait. Are they up here?”

“Now hang on there,” Ben said. “Who do you think you are? Wait!”

Footsteps followed, and we all came to our feet as a man burst onto the garden terrace,
with Ben right on his heels.

The newcomer was about my height. Skinny. How had he managed to get past Ben? His
eyes were magnified by glasses with black plastic frames. I guessed his age at forty-three
or forty-four, and if nerdy was the new cool he was about as cool as it got. His head
jerked nervously as he looked around at us.

“Please. I need your help.”

Jaida stepped forward. “Andersen, what’s going on?”

“I need your help,” he said again. “Someone killed Larry.”

My stomach swooped. We all exchanged looks.

The man noticed. “I see you already know that.” Then he focused on me. “You.”

I could feel the color drain from my face, but I held my ground. “Me?” I wished the
word had come out an octave lower.

“You’re the one Heinrich was telling us about.”

Us?
I looked at Jaida, who nodded slightly. This was
her druid client? “You’re a member of the Dragoh Society, then,” I said.

“Andersen Lane.” He stepped toward me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ben take
a step, too. “At your service.” The smell of bourbon drifted through the air between
us. Of course, with the wine we’d been sipping, everyone except Bianca probably had
some kind of alcohol on her breath.

Which actually made it more notable that I could smell it coming off Andersen. With
reluctance, I shook his outstretched hand. “I think we’re okay up here, Ben.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” My uncle stood with his arms crossed, eyes glinting at Andersen
from behind his rimless glasses.

Lucy went over to Ben, took his elbow, and turned him away from the rest of us. I
heard her murmur. A pause. Then more murmurs. Finally his shoulders drooped and he
turned back.

“Okay, I’ll give you your privacy. But I’ll be right downstairs.” He looked down at
his wife, his affection for her obvious even under those circumstances, and said,
“And I’ll be back to check on you.” He gave Andersen a hard look, then spun on his
heel and went back inside.

So much for going to the firehouse. Still, it made me feel better to know Ben was
nearby. I had no idea what this guy really wanted.

I turned back to Andersen, alarm and curiosity warring under what I hoped came across
as a calm demeanor. The air fairly crackled with potential now, but potential for
what, I didn’t know. Magic? Violence? Both? I looked around the group to see if they
noticed it.

But they all seemed focused on our visitor. Lucy looked worried. Mimsey frowned, as
unhappy as I’d ever seen her. Bianca nervously fingered her bracelet as if the charms
on it were rosary beads. Jaida’s unsmiling brown eyes bored into Andersen as if she
were trying to read his mind. Not that that was possible, of course. Cookie was the
only one who didn’t seem upset. She leaned forward with frank, rapt attention.

Andersen looked at Jaida. “Please, Ms. French.” Then at me. “If Larry’s killer isn’t
found, an unspeakable evil could be released into the world.”

We all looked at each other with alarm. The air vibrated with unasked questions.

Andersen Lane sank into a chair and eyed the open bottle of wine. No one had offered
him any. Finally he drawled, “May I?”

I handed him Bianca’s unused glass, which he promptly filled to the brim. He took
a long swallow and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The gesture was at odds
with his geeky facade.

Ah. Yes. It was a facade, I realized. Good to know.

“Tell us why you’re here,” Mimsey said. Her words were abrupt, and not terribly friendly.

“I couldn’t think of anyone else to go to,” he said. “Ms. French already knows I’m
a member of the society. I let it slip once during our…professional association.”

Which confirmed she’d defended him in court. I was itching to ask what legal line
he’d crossed.

“Heinrich told us about you, Katie. How you found Larry yesterday morning and then
started asking a bunch of questions. I thought maybe you all could help me ask some
more.”

I sat back down. Slowly, the others did the same.

He looked around. “I’m afraid I’ve not made the acquaintance of you other lovely ladies,
though.” He stopped at Cookie, and something like a leer curved his lips.

Her mouth turned down.

“Andersen,” I said, dispensing with the niceties of using his last name. “How did
you know where to find us this afternoon?” I was afraid I already knew the answer.

“Your boyfriend told me.”

Boyfriend indeed. I was going to throttle Steve. How dare he tell this tipsy druid
where to find our coven?

“And why would he do that?” I asked.

“Well, for one thing he wanted me to give all y’all something.” Andersen reached in
his pocket and pulled out a small pouch made of light blue silk. I sensed rather than
saw the aura surrounding it.

I blinked and tore my gaze away. “What’s in the bag?”

“Apparently you’re in need of a little protection from a protection spell. At least
Steve and I think that’s what you ran into yesterday. Literally ran into, I understand.”
He laughed.

My eyes narrowed as I tried to get a read on him. My phone call to Steve last night
resulted in this visit? “Do tell,” I said.

His smile faded. “We have a sort of a general protection spell, to keep anyone from
finding out about us. You were magically attacked last evening, weren’t you?”

Jaida, Bianca, and Cookie all turned to look at me. I ignored them.

“If you mean having a bunch of pumpkins almost concuss me—or worse—then yes.”

“What?” Jaida leaned toward him. “Andersen, what’s the matter with you? Protection
spells aren’t supposed to hurt anyone, only…protect.”

“Let’s just say the Dragohs are fond of rather, um,
proactive
protection. If you know what I mean.” He held his hands out. “Hey, stop looking at
me like that, ladies. I brought you these.” He fished into the pouch and withdrew
six silver circles in varying sizes. Each was thin as a wire, but they glinted madly
in the sun, sending off shards of reflected light that made me squint. He stood and
handed one to each of us.

“Wear these and you’ll be safe. At least from spells like the one you attracted with
all your questions, Katie.”

“How do you know that’s what happened?”

He grinned. “Have you been up to something else to attract the attention of magicians?
Negative attention, I mean? Because I can certainly see how you’d attract attention.”

Oh, brother.

I sighed. “Well, I guess you’d better have your say.”

Mimsey shifted in her chair.

“Right,” he said. “Okay, so you all know who the Dragohs are, right?”

Silent nods all around.

“And you know Larry Eastmore was one of us.”

More nods.

He paused. Took a sip of wine. The red liquid sloshed as he set the glass back on
the table.

“He was also my very good friend. Not all of the others appreciate me, you know. In
fact, none of them ever really liked me, except for Larry. When my dad died and I
took my rightful position in the society, he
took me under his wing.” Another sip, and his eyes filled with tears. He blinked them
away.

“Anyway, Larry was an expert in occult books and ephemera.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lucy nod in agreement.

Andersen had locked onto me, though, as if I were the only one there. I waited, trying
not to show my impatience.

He leaned forward. “One of his books is gone.”

“A valuable one, I take it?”

“Precious indeed, but not necessarily in a monetary sense. I doubt any auction house
would know what to do with it. But I do believe someone killed him for it.”

“Why?” breathed Lucy.

He flicked a glance in her direction, but answered as if I had asked the question.
“It’s a small volume that contains the Spell of Necretius. It’s a particularly dangerous
spell.”

“What does it do?” Bianca asked.

This time he directed the answer at her. “It’s a spell for summoning a spirit—a very
dark spirit named Zesh.”

The spellbook club exchanged blank looks. The name seemed innocuous, even silly—but
repugnance slithered through me when he said it.

“This spirit, this entity, is said to have the power to bring great worldly success.”
He licked his lips, considering the drink on the table beside him. Didn’t pick it
up. “Problem is, Zesh cannot be contained. In the past, once it has been given entry
to this plane it has always turned on its summoner.”

“Maybe that served them right,” Bianca said. She
could be a bit of a Goody Two-shoes when it came to magic.

“Possibly,” Andersen agreed. “But it has always happened with violent results that
rippled far beyond the spell caster.”

Our stunned silence was broken only by Bianca’s sharp intake of breath. A raw gust
of cold air whipped the cocktail napkins off the table and tugged at the sweet potato
vine twining up its trellis. It seemed to blow straight through my veins, stealing
my body heat and leaving me with goose bumps despite the warm air.

Then it was gone.

A feeling of doom had settled across my shoulders at Andersen’s words. “What do you
think we can do about it?” I asked. The summoning of dark spirits was wa-a-a-y beyond
my lessons in Witchcraft 101.

“If you can find Larry’s killer, then we might be able to stop him from casting the
summoning spell in the first place.”

“Prevention,” I said slowly, thinking out loud. “Yes, much better than trying to fix
the problem after the big spooky is invited to this plane.”

“And I happen to know you successfully solved a murder in the not-so-distant past,
Katie. With the help of these ladies, no doubt.”

“No,” Mimsey said. “I’m sorry, but Katie can’t help you with this. We can’t.”

“I agree,” Bianca chimed in. “We should stay away from anything to do with such dark
magic.”

I looked at Lucy, who was looking at Mimsey. She nodded agreement with her mentor.
In fact, the older woman was really mentor to us all. What Mimsey said carried a lot
of weight.

“I’m sorry, Andersen, but I agree with the others,” Jaida said. “This isn’t our fight.”

“How can you say that?” Cookie jumped up and began pacing. “Katie’s right. If we can
keep something horrible from happening, we should. Even the Wiccan Rede supports that,
Bianca.” She looked around the group. “Do you really want to have to deal with the
evil once it is here? Because I’ve seen true evil. And I don’t want to ever again.”
She looked into a distance that wasn’t there and hugged herself. I could almost see
the emotion rising off of her.

“There’s more,” Andersen said.

Cookie stopped pacing.

“The spell is most potent on Samhain. The killer would know that and cast it then.”

Halloween.

Three days away.

“Why can’t you Dragohs handle this yourselves?” Mimsey demanded.

“Because there are only four of us left now,” he said. “And because it’s likely that
one of the other three is the killer.”

Stunned silence fell over the group. I got up and retrieved the wine bottle from the
table beside Andersen Lane. Though I’d taken only a few sips, I topped off my glass
and set the now empty bottle on the tiled floor by my feet. In my peripheral vision,
Mimsey squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“Why do you think Eastmore was killed by one of the other Dragohs?” I asked.

He glanced at his empty glass and frowned before his gaze flicked up to meet mine.
“Because to the best of my knowledge no one outside of the society knew about the
Spell of Necretius.”

“No one?”

He shrugged. “As I said, to the best of my knowledge. Surely at some point in the
past others knew. But Larry’s collection has been in his family for generations. They’ve
been the caretakers of those books for centuries, before the society existed, indeed
before Eastmores ever came across the pond from England. Possibly even before England
existed.”

“But you knew about the Spell of Whatshisname.”

Andersen looked impatient. “We all did. The Dragohs have always been allowed access
to the Eastmore archive.”

I looked around at the curiosity, skepticism, and fear on my friends’ faces.

Mimsey nodded slowly. “All right, Mr. Lane. Lawrence Eastmore, you, and Heinrich Dawes,”
she said. “Who are the other members of the Dragoh Society?”

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose you’ll need to know.” He grimaced. “All right, then. In for a
penny and all. Victor Powers and Brandon Sikes.”

“Oh!” Cookie said.

Mimsey shot her a look, and Cookie’s lips closed on whatever else she had been about
to say.

I’d heard of Powers, of course. Everyone with a television or radio or who read the
newspaper had heard of him. He was on a fast track to the U.S. Senate and his campaign
ads were all over the place. Sikes’ name seemed familiar, but it took a moment for
me to realize why: In my Internet travels the night before, I’d seen that he was a
frequent guest lecturer at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Apparently he was
quite a renowned artist in his own right.

“That makes five,” I said. “There were six of you, right? Why only four left after
Eastmore’s death?”

Andersen nodded. “Lars Sandstrom was the sixth.”