Witch's Bell Book One (22 page)

They were happy, and somehow it worked
out. But as for whether Ebony would like to go home now? There
wasn't a chance.

“
No, I'm busy,” she said, voice
stiff.

“
Busy?” her dad looked over at
her with the same piercing gaze that had cut through more criminal
lies than Ebony had sucked down sweets. “You got great plans to sit
on your couch and mope for the next month?”

“
Look,” Ebony didn't fancy
having her intentions pried apart by the ex-detective, “she almost
let me bleed to death,” Ebony's voice peaked. “And she shackled
me,” Ebony brought up both her wrists. “I can't say I'm looking
forward to having a cup of tea with her.”

“
Now, Eb, don't you be that way.
You know the rules of the Coven, good enough. Your mother did what
she had to—”

“
Had to? I didn't get a chance
to defend myself, dad, there wasn't any due process. They'd
convicted me well before they'd dragged me underneath the earth,”
Ebony turned away to stare concertedly at a passing building, as if
it offered far more interest for her than the current
conversation.

“
Look, I ain't saying you
shouldn't be angry. But be smart and angry. Your mother did what
she had to – I know you know that. But I also think you know that
there is no point shutting her out. She's your mother, that doesn't
change just because you have some more jewelry to wear for the next
month.”

“
More jewelry?” her voice was
high. “These are powerful charms that prevent me from summoning any
magic. And she didn't even try and hear my side of things,” the
emotion started to crack through Ebony like heat over ice. “There
was something up with that woman in the crypt, dad, something
really weird.”

“
Okay, Eb, that's a place to
start from. And I always taught my daughter to go by her instincts.
You think there was something up – then you find out just what that
is, and when the time comes, you tell your story—”

Ebony flung up her good
hand.
“I was
ready to tell them, but they wouldn't listen.”

“
Because you didn't have any
evidence,” her father said flatly. “It's all about evidence, Ebony.
You think I haven't been dragged up before the commissioner, or
before a judge, and been raked over the coals for a mistake I knew
I didn't make?”

Ebony just flicked her hair over a
shoulder, pulling it out from behind her to play with it
sullenly.

“
Because I have. And now you
have. But there's only one way to go from here. You get your
evidence, and then you make your case again. You think there's
something up with this woman, Eb, you think you've been unfairly
punished? Alright then, you prove it. Now Ben's already called me,
and I know you'll be working down at the department for the
month—”

Ebony rolled her eyes, even though she
didn't mean it.

“
Okay,” her father just kept on
going, “you've got an opportunity. You have a month to find out
what really happened. You stay late if you have to, but you do it.
Now,” he turned to her as he drew up at a set of lights, “you do
not, under any circumstances, go looking for trouble.”

Ebony huffed, but still kept
quiet.

“
But you use the opportunities
that present themselves to you, and you find your case.”

“
How am I going to do that if
I'm locked up inside that department all day long?”

“
During the day, you use what's
at your disposal. Start with Frank, start with the files – and then
move on. Most police don't realize this, but most crime repeats
itself. In those files, somewhere, will be what you need, trust me.
Then there's the phone, Eb, and it's a great invention.”

“
Hardy ha,” she intoned dryly,
“but surely I can only get so much done by sitting around and
staring at paper.”

“
Well, you knock off at 5:30.
What you do after that is up to you.”

Ebony suddenly turned to face
her father, surprised at what he'd just said.
“You aren't suggesting I go and
investigate this woman at night—”

“
No, I am not suggesting you
break any police rules, any Coven rules, or in any way put yourself
in danger. What I'm suggesting is that you use your imagination to
find another way. There's always another way. You just have to find
your way.”

Ebony took a breath, finally
turning back to the window. With a sudden shock, she realized her
father had just turned down the street that would take Ebony to her
childhood home
– and right to her waiting mother. “Dad!” she protested
loudly.” I told you not to take me home!”

“
You've got to find your way –
but right now, we're going my way.”

Chapter 10

Ebony awoke suddenly, with the
distinct impression that there was something she had forgotten to
do. She lay there for several minutes, surrounded by her many
plush, painted-silk cushions, her hair in a muddle as she tried to
sift through her memories.

It was Monday, wasn't it? Or was it
only Sunday?

She clutched at her wounded shoulder,
muttering to herself a quick, but entirely ineffectual curse at the
man who'd done it. It was taking quite some time and quite some
effort to adjust to not having magic. While Ebony hadn't always
been a powerful witch, and there had been ample times growing up
when her magic simply hadn't been up to the task, never in recent
memory had she felt so lost.

She was having to relearn how to do
the most basic of tasks. It was as if she'd lost the use of both
her legs and her arms, she'd told Ben, who had just snorted at the
very idea. Which was the other problem: no one seemed to appreciate
how very hard this was for Ebony.

They all thought it would be a
breeze
– a
simple walk in the park. No magic for a month? What's the big
deal?

The big deal was Ebony didn't know how
to decide anything anymore. And it sounded strange, but it was very
real. All through her adult life Ebony had used magic to help her
decide what she wanted, what she felt like doing, what she really
needed. In the morning it helped her decide what to wear and then
it would help her decide what to do throughout the day. It would
help her decide what the weather would be. It would help her decide
which streets to walk down. It would help her decide which friends
to drop in on. It would help her decide what to buy and what to
eat.

And now she didn't have a scrap of it.
What was she meant to do? Ever since she'd returned from the
hospital she'd been loafing around in the same sweat pants and
t-shirt, eating exactly the same meal all day long (pizza from the
takeaway across the street), and simply sitting on her couch and
watching TV. By the end of the month Ebony half-fancied her friends
and family would instigate a search to find her cuddled up among
the sofa cushions, crushed by a mountain of pizza boxes, but still
with one defiant hand on the remote.

Ebony usually never watched TV, only
owned said sweat-pants and t-shirt because she'd somehow
mysteriously found them in her wardrobe, and only ate pizza when
her tempestuous fridge decided to turn down its own thermostat and
freeze all her vegetables.

It had only been several days, and
she'd already changed so much, Ebony realized with a
shiver.

But none of this was helping Ebony
remember precisely what it was she was meant to do. She pushed at
her wall of decadent cushions, causing them to spill out onto the
floor of her spacious bedroom. She stared over at the clock her
father had given her when she'd gotten out from hospital.
Ordinarily Ebony didn't need a clock. As a witch, she knew enough
about time to know what time it was. But not anymore. So her father
had shoved the clock in Ebony's hand, muttering something about
remembering to set the alarm.

She stared at the clock, hoping
it would jog her memory. It was a squat little thing, with
bucket-like
‘50s styling. It was made out of a hideous orange plastic
that probably pre-dated Ebony by a good thirty years. It was the
same clock her father had used all his life to make sure he was
never late for work. Ebony could still remember the incessant
shrieks of its alarm from her childhood.

Oh.

The memory came back to Ebony like a
hand suddenly slapping against the window.

Work.

This was Monday morning, wasn't it?
And according to the clock, it was 7:55.

Ebony lay in bed for just a few more
seconds, the slow realization of the impossible dawning on her. She
was meant to be at work in five minutes. The Police Department was
half way across town.

She pushed herself up, more cushions
falling by the wayside. She swung herself around, feet hitting the
plush carpet of her bedroom with soft thuds.

Something strange was happening, Ebony
could tell. There was this weird tightness knitting around her
stomach. It felt expectant, in an entirely unpleasant
way.

She was going to be late,
really late. And while that prospect never usually bothered Ebony,
it was having a strange effect on her today. In the past, if Ebony
had found herself munching on a pastry too late, and had only an
impossible amount of time to make it to an important
appointment
– she would have just felt ahead with her magic, clearing
herself the perfect route to get wherever she had to go.

Now she was on her own.

Ebony found herself dancing
from foot to foot for a bit, staring at the clock as it flicked
another minute by. She'd never seen time count down like
this
– push
ahead like it was a mean old grandmother trying to get to the front
of the line. It was enough to make her gulp, her throat growing
ever tighter with nerves.

“
Ummm,” she said to the room at
large, “ahhh – eeek?” It was as if she was asking her bedroom if
this was the correct response to the current situation. When faced
with the prospect of being horribly late for your “first” day in
the office, were you meant to be nervous, ashamed, irritated,
unsure – and whatever other mix of emotions was shaking up in
Ebony's stomach in a cocktail of desperation?

The room didn't reply. So Ebony just
made up her own mind. She ran over to the wardrobe, her face
pressing into the kind of twisted expression you have before you
get hit by something hard, heavy, and painful.

She just grabbed at whatever
clothes came to hand. First, a blouse that looked like it belonged
in a rendition of an
‘80s musical, with kaleidoscopic colors and
sleeves so puffy you could comfortably hide whole sandwiches in
them. Then she grabbed at a skirt, a svelte little thing that was
cut just above the knee out of a beige satin. It looked more like
it belonged on a bed in a questionable hotel, and less like a
functioning piece of clothing, but Ebony didn't have time to
question it. She didn't have time to question anything. She just
threw on the clothes, stooping down to grab a pair of shoes on her
way. Her shoes were surprisingly low, manageable, careful little
items, that looked like, and probably were, hand-me-downs from a
grandmother somewhere. They were low, brown, and had a small fake
crocodile skin insert running down to the toe. They were, however,
exceedingly comfortable.

Ebony didn't have time to look in the
mirror after she'd thrown on her curious ensemble. If she had,
she'd have probably thrown up. But she did think to herself how
curious it was that she even owned these clothes. She didn't
remember buying them. It was as if things were now popping up in
her wardrobe, unbidden, from some great resting place of hideous,
unloved clothing.

But once again, Ebony didn't have the
time, or magic, to imagine the possibilities.

She thundered down her stairs,
wondering what she'd do about breakfast. Did she have time to go
the pizza place? Would they even be open? Ebony just shook her
head, flying towards her door and pulling it open. She really
needed to move on to cooking again. She was, after all, an
excellent cook, all witches were. Ebony would make the kinds of
soups, stews, sauces, puddings, cakes
– and various other delights – that
would set a person's mouth watering, and heart overflowing. She
could cure your cold with a pancake, give you a good night's sleep
with a chocolate brownie, and mend a broken heart with a full glass
of home-made lemonade.

But that was all magic stuff, Ebony
assured herself, and she simply wouldn't know where to start now.
So she'd stick with pizza, for now, and maybe branch out to various
other take-out cuisines later in the week.

She'd try and steal whatever she could
from the police station, she assured herself. Ben always had
various chocolate bars secreted about his person and his desk, like
a squirrel preparing for winter.

Five minutes after Ebony had
flung herself out of her door, and down the street, she was back
again, face a picture of ashen annoyance. With teeth biting into
her make-up free lips, Ebony went back for her wallet and her house
keys. With the frustration making her want to punch a rubbish bin,
Ebony locked up her house. It wasn't something she ever did, as a
witch. Why use a lock as a deterrent when you could cast a proper
protection spell on the place? And the same with her wallet. She
very rarely carried it unless she knew she was going to do
human-style shopping. For the day to day business of a witch, Ebony
didn't need the ordinary currency of people
– the magic world had a far
more direct system that didn't involve silly paper notes and
plastic cards.