Convicted Witch: Jagged Grove Book 1 (9 page)

That couldn’t be right. It was still a long time ago, before Angelo was born. Unless he was a warlock, too - they could live for hundreds of years, just like witches.

I haven’t gotten a single magical vibe from him, though. Not once. No hint of the musky sweet peachiness of his warlock magic. “You’re cloaked.”

He doesn’t answer me.

Blakely does, though. He’s delighted to fill me in, ignoring the daggers in Angelo’s eyes. “Of course he is! It wouldn’t do for most of these people to know he’s the most powerful warlock living. He gets it from his father. Also, he’s shy.”

My mind is racing. A warlock can trace magic back to its source, no matter where in the world it is. Witches can, too, but we aren’t as good at it. “For some reason, you zeroed in on Bilda. And me.”

“I only do my job, Trinket. It doesn’t matter.”

“How patriotic of you.” I sound bitter because I am bitter. He might be - mostly - telling the truth about how we ended up here, but he obviously hasn’t shared everything. “Why did you focus on us?”

He doesn’t answer.

I’m suddenly scared, but I don’t know why. Something isn’t right here. Something doesn’t add up. “Why are we here, Angelo? Why us, exactly?”

No answer, and now Tonio is back with our food. Blakely is right, as much as I hate to admit it. The pork is tender and wonderful. It doesn’t hurt that I’m starving in spite of my tense stomach.

And still waiting on answers from Angelo.

We eat and talk quietly for the rest of the meal, and then he takes us to our new home.

It’s beautiful, so pretty that I almost forgive Angelo. Almost. It’s a two-story cottage, set in a grove of evergreens and painted a soft cream color that isn’t quite yellow. A brick walkway leads to the front door, and bright green vines spill from window boxes across the front of the house. Beside me, I hear Bilda gasp and clap her hands.

“I love it,” she whispers.

Angelo smiles down at her affectionately when she takes his hand. “I’m glad. I thought you might.”

Inside, the house is spotless and cozily furnished. Bilda drags me from room to room - living room with a fireplace, dining room with a fireplace, kitchen that is small but looks newly remodeled in stainless steel and black tile everywhere. We go upstairs to find three bedrooms, complete with canopied beds.

The room Bilda chooses is done in pink and lavender, leaving me happily with the sage and soft yellow room. Both have fireplaces, of course, and their own attached bathrooms.

Under any other circumstances, I would love it here.

Our bags are already stacked in the hall upstairs, but I refuse to unpack tonight. I’m exhausted and worried and more than a little curious about the circumstances surrounding Maggie’s death.

When Angelo makes sure that all is well and leaves us for the night, I follow him outside.

Closing the door behind me and leaning against it, I ask, “Will you let me know what happened to Maggie?”

“Yes. Take a few days before you go in to the office again. Get settled. I’ll be around.”

“Thanks.” I pause. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His mouth twists into something that’s not quite a rueful smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

I have to disagree, but not out loud. His cover story isn’t enough - I know damned well he can’t expect to capture every magical being in the U.S. and move them here, and I also know that he’s not picking up every single person who uses magic. This place would be a lot more crowded if that were the case.

That’s all just an excuse. But why us?

I go back inside and close the door, immediately missing his company and trying not to think about the implications of that. Bilda is chattering about closet space and I just don’t have the energy to think any more tonight. I get her settled, dig a pink tank top and matching boy shorts out of my luggage, and go to bed.

I
n my dreams, the townspeople chase me around with pitchforks and accuse me of killing Maggie. I don’t know why, and I can’t see individual faces, so I just run.

I wake to an incredibly warm room and bright sunshine, but I’m exhausted. My skin is sweaty under the heavy quilt. I kick it off, peel my hair off my cheek and go jump in the shower.

By the time I’m finished and drying my hair, my otherwise useless cell phone tells me it’s almost ten. I haven’t slept this late since I was a kid, but I feel refreshed, if nervous about our first full day in Jagged Grove.

My window looks out over our surprisingly large back lawn and beyond that, a pond and then a row of more pretty cottages on the next street over. A few trees dot the edge of what I assume is our property line, and a small red barn-shaped outbuilding sits in the right corner of the lot. It isn’t as big as the house, of course, but maybe the size of my apartment at home. Birds perch on its rooftop. “Just like a fairy tale,” I mutter to Bumper, who isn’t paying any attention to me.

Bumper’s cage is beside my bedroom door, so I open it as I go by. He’s used to having the run of the house, at least when nobody is around. As I walk through the doorway, something bangs against my temple, and I look to see that Bilda is already at it - a clump of dried sage hangs in the corner of the door. I groan and swat it away.

The house has been transformed. More sage, in small bouquets, sit on vases in every room - an herbal protection. I check a couple of windows and see that she has made small flag-like marks in the corners - runes of good fortune and love. Pretty stained-glass pentacles hang from the curtain rods, throwing sharp color into the softly-hued rooms.

Somehow it makes me feel better, but I’ll never tell Bilda that.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I find her dressed and making omelets. She smiles and hands me a cup of coffee.

“Where did you get the eggs?” I look around her. “And cheese? And...ooh, are those mushrooms?”

“They are. That nice man in the house behind us brought them around seven this morning.”

“What nice man?”

She squints a little. “I think he said his name was Jones.”

Jones...Jones... Oh. “The heartbreaker from the Salty Hog last night.”

“Well, he can break my heart if he wants.” She waggles the spatula at me.

“Stop it.” I shake that visual out of my head and lean against the counter beside the stove.

She smiles her prettiest smile at me. “He asked about you, especially.”

“No. No, no, nope. Not. No.”

“I could cast a-.”

“
NO!
” I’m shaking my head so hard that my hot coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug onto my hand. “Ow.” I lick it off and aim my dirtiest look at her. “This is what-.”

A knock at the door interrupts me, but I take a moment to point a finger at her. “No spells!”

The last time my mother dabbled in love potions, she missed. Aunt Louise and the mailman were joined at the hip for three days. In light of my revelation last night, I now wonder if she isn’t just nervous without a coven’s power behind her. Maybe they gave her confidence to be the strong witch she’d been before. Maybe without others, she scared.

I answer the door to find my new best friend standing there. I can tell she’s my best friend because she’s holding a dozen donuts with chocolate icing on them. I smile, but can’t take my eyes off the box. “Hi.”

The box moves to my left slowly, and then to my right. The woman laughs, and I finally look up at her. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she says.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “Those look wonderful.”

“They are - I made them.”

I throw the door wide, realizing too late that my shorties might not be the best attire for receiving visitors. The woman standing in the doorway is about my age and wearing jeans, a t-shirt and hoodie, along with really nice pink Nikes. I consider apologizing for my lack of clothing as she steps inside and looks around, but then I just go with it. “I’m Trinket,” I say. “Want some coffee?”

She has flawless dark skin and an exotic tilt to her turquoise eyes. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Handing me the box, she says, “Sure. I’d love some.”

“Come on.” I lead her through to the kitchen, where Bumper has planted himself on the dining table and Bilda is dishing omelets onto plates. When she turns and sees that we have a guest, she almost drops one. “Oh! Hello.”

Bumper just stares at all of us with great suspicion.

I pour coffee while the woman introduces herself to us as Imala Rhodes and tells us that she is a secretary at the courthouse. She’s a witch, like us, and her magic feels strong to me.

“Such a pretty name for a princess,” Bilda says shyly. “You’re so beautiful.”

Imala laughs, a sparkling sound in the small kitchen, and takes the mug from me. “Thank you.”

“Would you like an omelet?” Bilda asks.

“You can have mine,” I offer. I can’t quite take my eyes off the donuts. They call to me.

“OK, if you’re sure.”

I nod, and we all sit.

“I’m your almost - neighbor,” Imala says, cutting a bite of the omelet. “Two doors down. I thought I should come and say hello.”

“How nice of you. We’ve only just gotten here, but we’ve met the nicest people already,” Bilda says. “Just this morning a man named Jones brought us eggs and bread for toast.”

Imala rolls her eyes. “I’m sure he did,” she says, laughing.

“What do you mean?” I’m sitting with both arms wrapped around the donut box in front of me, just smelling them.

“You can eat one, if you like,” Imala says. Bilda slides a plate full of egg in front of her and she pauses to take a bite. “Jones is just behind you, on the next street over, and if he got a look at you he’ll definitely be visiting often.”

I pause in trying to rip the top off the box. “Is that bad?”

“Not as long as you don’t fall for him,” she answers around a mouthful of eggs. “Sorry. I’m hungry.”

I wave a hand at her. I’m busy licking my now-liberated donut. “I’m not going to fall for anybody.”

“Ooh, then he’ll see you as a challenge.”

“Trinket has a fiancée,” Bilda informs her.

“That has never once stopped Jones.”

It didn’t stop Bilda, either. Wasn’t she just offering to cast a spell on Jones?

“Sounds like a real treat, but I’m not interested.” I’ll be too busy trying not to kill somebody this year, but I don’t say that out loud.

“Just warning you - he’ll try.”

“Thanks.”

Imala eats quietly and quickly, then pushes her empty plate back and groans. “That was so good, Bilda. Thank you.”

Another knock at the door makes us all jump. I get up and answer it, only to find Angelo standing there. “Come join the party,” I say. I’m glad there are others around - I still feel bad for hurting his feelings last night. Also, I don’t want him to yell at me.

“You’re already having a party?” he asks, stepping past me and then following me to the kitchen.

“Ahh! It’s the
ASS
man!” Imala exclaims when she sees him. It’s nice that I’m not the only one who isn’t googly over him.

OK, I’m a little googly, but he is definitely on my
no
list, regardless of how sexy he is the jeans and black t-shirt he’s wearing this morning.

I laugh. Bilda looks confused. Angelo’s face goes red.

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he mutters, then looks over at me. “Are those donuts?”

I pull them toward me and stick my tongue out at him.

Bilda smacks my arm. “Share, young lady.”

Now it’s his turn to stick out his tongue. “Yeah, Trinket. Share. I’m a guest.”

I reluctantly slide the box back to the center of the table.

“So...do you like it here?” Angelo asks. He’s mostly asking Bilda, but I answer. “It’s a busy community, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, yes. We’ve already met Imala here - isn’t she pretty? - and earlier this morning the man named Jones brought us breakfast.”

Angelo looks at me and frowns. “Were you dressed like that?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t even awake yet. Didn’t meet him.”

“You will,” Imala and Angelo say in unison. Angelo still doesn’t look happy.

Sheesh.

“I came to talk to you about the...,” Angelo looks around at all of us, “...what happened yesterday.”

“You mean Maggie’s murder?” Imala says. “That’s why I really came over, too. Figured she had the details.” She looks at me. “No offense.”

“Maggie wasn’t murdered,” Angelo says. “That’s what I came to talk to her about.”

“I think she was.” Imala’s chin comes up.

I do, too. I can’t explain why I do, but I do.

“She wasn’t. It was an unfortunate event, but it wasn’t murder.” He’s staring at only me now, and he’s staring hard.

I fight the urge to stick my tongue out at him again. “Who is that Sither person that Blakely mentioned last night?”

Imala’s turquoise eyes move from me to Angelo. “She was with Sither? That’s weird.”

“Why?” I look at Angelo and he looks down at his half-eaten donut. “Why is that weird?” I ask again.

“Sither is the coroner here in Jagged Grove,” Imala says.

“That is weird.” I wrinkle my nose.

“Why is that weird?” Bilda asks, completely confused now.

“Because,” I say, “That means she was dancing with him one day and then he was cutting her insides open the next day. That’s creepy weird.”

“It really is,” Imala says. “Especially when you throw in the fact that she hated Sither’s guts.”

“Really?” This is news.

“Girls!” Angelo yells. We all look at him.

“I came to ask you,
Trinket
, to please not go around spreading rumors about this. It wasn’t murder.”

“Who am I going to spread rumors to? I don’t know anybody.”

“Well, you’re doing a good job of it anyway.” He looks all glary again.

“How can you discover information if you never ask any questions?” I ask.

“We don’t need any information that the coroner won’t give us. Until then, please keep all of this to yourself.”

I sigh. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong. Maggie was a sweet girl. Nobody would kill her.”

I roll my eyes at his logic. “People kill sweet girls all the time, Angelo. Don’t you read the news?”