Midsummer Night's Mayhem (10 page)

11

T
he house was dark and foreboding when Clover got home from the tavern. After finding the concealment spell in the closet upstairs, the sheriff’s department had deactivated all other spells in the house, “protocol,” Juniper said, and Clover had forgotten to reengage the illuma light spells that kept her house warm and glowing. She muttered a spell to light the walkway as she made her way around to the back porch, but the glowing path did little to quell a feeling of eeriness that had taken over her property.

Clover raced up the steps with the peach berries she’d purchased at the farmers market clutched in her arms. The door was locked and it took her a few minutes to locate her wand. Rusty ambled up the back steps and waited for her to open the door. Once inside, Clover dumped the fruit on the kitchen table and brewed herself a cup of tea. Her thoughts were tangled with all the information she’d absorbed from her day trip to Willow Realm. With teacup in hand and a few cookies, she headed into the library to do a little untangling.

She lit some illuma light sconces with a wave of her wand and sat at the thick oak table that doubled as a desk. Rusty curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. With another wave of her wand, a fresh roll of parchment floated down from a top shelf. It was time for her to do a little plot organizing. When she thought about investigating, it was a lot like writing one of her novels, except she wasn’t the all-knowing narrator, but a heroine following breadcrumbs. With the additional information, she hoped to have better luck conjuring new story threads that led to Oliver’s murder.

“Time to line up the breadcrumbs and see where they lead me,” she said.

Clover grabbed a long thin box of quills from another shelf and selected a bony porcupine quill with a sharp tip. Typically she enjoyed using fluffy bird feathers with hollow points, but tonight she needed to sharpen her focus—no frills or fancy daydreams. She dipped the quill into a bottle of ink and organized her thoughts.

Whenever she started a story, she began by setting the scene. She envisioned the midnight solstice party with an inky blanket of stars hanging over a leaping bonfire. Oliver’s death hung heavy in her mind and body. Her
persuasion
felt like a needle pulling a thread through her imagination. She grabbed the story stone and rolled the crystal around in her hand, getting her mind warmed up. She began by scribbling Oliver’s name on the parchment.

In her mind’s eye, Oliver stood in the doorway, snooping around her house, but he was still silent, telling her nothing. She knew his fate and when she imagined the fiery poison pulsing through his veins, she choked on the sensation causing her to cough. When she saw him again, he was slumped against the tree, cold as the grave, dead as a stone and wrote “deadly nightshade” on the page.

The thread of her imagination pulled her along to her suspects. The first names were Austin and Bradley, both for buying the poison, though technically the poison could have been purchased any time, by anyone. The coincidence only added to her suspicion of them. Austin lurked around the library. His behavior over the last few days could be associated with grief and his feelings of betrayal for being written out of the will or it could be his guilty conscience. He stood stiff and awkward, not meeting her eye. He was still too distant for her to understand.

But Bradley was different. When she pictured him sitting next to her at the table, she only smiled. He couldn’t have a motive to kill Oliver Yearling, could he? Her feelings where clouding his image that faded in and out. He hated the labyrinth for some reason to do with his sister. Did something happen to her inside the magical hedge to drive him to murder? Was his motive revenge?

Next Clover wrote down Gwen and Grady and her mind’s eye flew to the darkness outside of the barn. Grady’s withered arm and face haunted her—the pain and humiliation of his own spell backfiring, causing his skin to shrivel and his crops to die. He was a desperate wizard, desperate for land to save his farm and prove to his wife that he was strong enough to do so. She imagined the couple peering into her window, giving Clover a taste of her own medicine, prowling on the edges, watching her, waiting for her to figure out their motives.

And then there was the mysterious witchling, the love of Oliver’s life who will inherit the labyrinth out from under Austin. Who could she possibly be? Was she one of the floating sisters like Belinda thought? Or another witch hiding in plain sight? Perhaps a certain neighbor?

Lastly, Clover pictured the murderer wearing a mask, drifting through a throng of party guests—a real mischief maker—with a glass vial of crystalized belladonna worn around his or her neck, meeting up with Oliver, luring him to the oak, slipping the poison into his beer, then drifting away once the deed was done.

Clover leaned back from the parchment page, now filled with her notes that had appeared as if by magic, her magic, which she would use to catch the murderer, but the crystal only flickered in her palm, the magic not taking hold. She didn’t have enough to create a credible scene, not yet anyway. The tips of her fingers were spotted with black ink. After reviewing her notes, she formulated a plan.

Tomorrow she’d stop by Wilford Rutherford’s office, check the council records on poison in Stargazer City to see who purchased poison in the past, and maybe see if Honora could help her out with details about Mender Corp and their study of poisons in case someone there was involved. Though Clover thought that was unlikely, she wanted to be thorough. She also wanted to get more background information on the Winters and Bradley and see if she could find a connection to Oliver Yearling.

After locking up the house for the night, on her way upstairs to bed, Clover felt something silky under her foot. On the floor she noticed a long black ribbon and picked it up, letting it dangle from her hand. “Where did this come from?” She exchanged a confused glance with Rusty who yawned in response. “Someone from the party must have left it.” It was the only explanation she could think of in her current exhausted state. She’d toss it in the lost-and-found basket tomorrow, but for now she draped the ribbon over the railing to get it off the floor. That’s when she realized her scarf wasn’t in her hair and that she must have left it at the tavern.
Oh, well, I’ll have to stop by and pick it up next time I’m in town,
she thought with a yawn. Her pillow was calling her name.

Clover shivered in her sleep, a gust of cold air streaming into her dreams. Her body tensed, muscles tightening, eyelids twitching, until fluttering open and seeing only the shadowy landscape of her bedroom.

The amulet around her neck glowed warmly against her chest—the trouble teller.

A sound caught her attention—a grating, scraping sound followed by a rattle and groan. Her pulse raced. She lay motionless, listening, sensing what was happening. She’d locked all the doors and windows before coming to bed and cast the security ward, which she rarely used. And yet…

A strange odor wafted into her room—musky, thick, and cloying—a cross between decay and a wild animal scent. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breathing quickened. Suspecting some sort of covert magic was at play, Clover scanned the room in the haunting glow of the amulet and inched her body toward the side of the bed, not wanting to make any sudden moves.

That was when she saw black smoke seep under the doorframe, puddle on the floor, and then take the shape of a hooded creature rising into the air. In a second, she flew into action, jerking out of bed, and dodging the coil of black smoke that sailed toward her with a hissing moan. She fell to the floor and crawled wildly for the door. Leaping to her feet, she raced out into the hall and down the stairs to the first floor.

Something gritty crunched underneath her bare feet in the foyer. “Illuma light!” she yelled but her house was shrouded in darkness. She spoke the spell again this time into her palm and held out a small glowing orb of light in her hand. Clover bent down and touched a trail of black ash that lead to the front door. Her pulse pounded. Her nose twitched. The acrid stench of brimstone burned her nostrils. The groaning sound poured down the stairs and enveloped her in an aching wash of emotions.

She spun around. Her thoughts whirled. It began to add up—a spell had been cast in her house using black magic. Bile rose in her throat. That thing in her bedroom was a specter, and it was coming for her.

Specters were tortured souls that had taken ghostly form. Ash from gravesites was used in tandem with black magic conjuring to pull souls from the afterlife and task them with a haunting. Clover had to think quickly, but it was too late, because the ghostly spirit glided down the stairwell in a wave of coldness. Her whole body trembled. She threw the ball of illuma light she’d been holding at the specter, raced for the library, and slammed the door behind her.

Clover conjured another ball of light, tossing it in the air above her head where it hung like a lonely moon. She snatched up her wand where’d she left it on the table and with a flick she cast a basic ward on the door, keeping the ghostly creature out for now. She stared at her shelves, her fingers dancing over the spines, trying to find a reference book on breaking the black magic. Groaning sounds grew closer and the door rattled in its frame. She was woefully ill-prepared to battle a specter. All she could remember from her Haven Academy classes on black magic was that she had to break the bond between the witch who cast the spell and the specter, but she had no idea how.

The fireplace was cold and dark. A shadow whined on the floor. A lump rose in her throat when she realized it was Rusty. The fox had been tied up and left on the hearth. She flew to him and gently pulled at his binds. Her heart raced as her fingers pulled at the silky bonds. Instantly she knew what it was—the black ribbon! The one she’d found on the floor earlier that night.

Magic done from afar needed a conduit for the witch or wizard to connect with. Whoever was doing this had purposefully left the innocent-looking ribbon as a way of forcing magic into the house without actually being there. Unable to untie the knotted ribbon, Clover launched her body toward the shelf and dug for a pair of shears, whispering a severing spell as she cut the ribbon.

Sparks popped with each snip until the spell was broken. Rusty squirmed and wiggled free of the bonds. He barked at something behind her and Clover spun around. The ward on the door collapsed and black smoke seeped around the edges. Suddenly she was face to face with the ghostly spirit. Long tentacles of smoke coiled around her arms and legs freezing her in place.

Cutting the ribbon had only freed Rusty. It hadn’t broken the black magic and now she was at the spirit’s mercy. “What do you want? Who sent you?” she asked, unable to hide the tremble in her voice. Her entire body quivered. She gritted her teeth to keep them from rattling in her head.

The specter eased closer. Beneath the smoke, the outline of a face appeared—long crooked nose, deep-hooded eye sockets, and gaping mouth of a long dead wizard looming in smokiness.

A gravely voice filled the room. “Stop your meddling. Stop your searching. Questions will only do you harm in the end. Leave the dead alone. Leave Oliver Yearling alone or you will be sorry. You will be pulled into a grave of your own making.”

Chills raced up Clover’s spine. The stench was unbearable. She gasped as a wash of achingly cold air enveloped her body as if penetrating deep into her bones. “Who sent you?” she asked through clenched teeth. Clover didn’t appreciate being threatened in her own home by some black magic witch or wizard too cowardly to face her. Rusty growled from behind her.

“I’m sent as a warning. An enemy or a friend sent me. A friend if you heed the warning, but an enemy if you do not. Look no more for you will only find your own demise.” A flood of rancid breath roiled over her face, making her eyes water. She struggled against the magical bonds the specter used to hold her, burning into her skin.

Then it occurred to her that the ghostly creature hadn’t been sent to hurt or kill her, but to scare her.
Job well done
, she thought, but maybe she could twist the spell around. The specter was under the charge of a witch; therefore, she could return it back to its master with a task, freeing herself in the process. She hoped.

“Leave my house!” she yelled. “I order you to deliver a message back to whoever sent you to never threaten me or my familiar again or they’ll find out what the Mayhem sisters are made of.” Fear pulsed through her entire body, but she held the eye of the ghostly creature.

The specter tightened its grip and howled with such a force that vibrated Clover’s entire body. Suddenly, she was thrown to the ground and the black shadowy creature whooshed around the room and out into the hallway. Clover jumped to her feet and chased the specter as it seeped under the doorframe to make sure it left her house for good.

As the danger receded, she dropped to her knees, gasping for breath. Rusty raced to her side, and she hugged him close, her hands trembling. “Looks like we’re on the right track, boy. We’ve made someone very angry with us.”