Caspian reclined on the cushioned sofa in the informal lounge that overlooked the back of his house, watching Estelle pace back and forth in front of the unlit fireplace.
The patio doors to the garden were open, and the night sounds carried inside—the hoot of an owl, the tinkle of the fountain, and soft sough of the warm summer breeze through the leaves. Caspian had been waiting anxiously for his sister to return from the Witches’ Council meeting, and he’d been forced to listen to his uncle moaning about their obligations. He’d been too tired to object, and could only hope that Estelle hadn’t alienated everyone. He’d worked hard to make connections over the last year, separate from those of his father. He wanted friendships that were on a more equal footing.
However, Caspian also knew that his Uncle, Maximilian Faversham, resented Caspian’s approach, and so did Estelle. He didn’t care. They could complain all they wanted. He was the head of the family and the business, and he called the shots. Even now, while recovering from his attack.
“Estelle,” he said, more aggressive than he should have been, “you’re making my neck ache. Will you please sit down and tell us what happened?”
Estelle shot him a look of pure loathing. “I don’t know how you stand that group! We don’t need them, we never have! Listening to them planning and plotting all night was excruciating. What do we care about the other covens, or bloody smuggling?”
Caspian couldn’t believe her short-term memory; he was still bloodied and bruised in front of her. “Have you forgotten already, Estelle, that I was half-dead when Avery and Alex found me earlier? If it weren’t for them, there’d be no half about it! And,” he continued when she fixed her steely glare on him, “Avery only came looking for me because of Genevieve!”
Max looked sheepish. “That’s true, Estelle. They do have some uses.” Max was his father’s younger brother, shorter in stature, with a thinning head of dark grey hair. Like his father, he had a mean streak in him, but he was also cautious. Years of doing business had taught him that. He headed up their overseas branch, and spent half of his time in France. Like all of them, though, he was a skilled witch, and his strongest element was fire.
“I should have known you’d take his side,” she said scathingly, before stalking to the drinks cabinet and pouring a stiff gin and tonic. That was a joke in itself, Caspian thought, catching his uncle’s eye. He almost never took Caspian’s side. They both still seemed to blame him for his father’s death.
When Estelle finally turned around, she looked more composed, and she sat down in a deep armchair, opposite their uncle and next to Caspian. “There seems to be some consensus that Cruel Coppinger could be behind this—or should I say, his spirit.”
“The notorious smuggler?” Max asked.
“Yes. It seems he had control of this area, although I can’t see what that has to do with us!”
Caspian gestured to their old family grimoire on the side table next to him, which he shared with Estelle. “I’ve had a cursory look in that, in case there’s any reference to smuggling, but found nothing so far.”
His uncle snorted. “It’s a grimoire! Did you really expect to?”
“It’s possible,” Caspian reasoned. “Spells are annotated in there, suggestions squiggled in corners. There may have been a reference to a useful spell, but,” he fell silent as he considered the vast number of spells in there, and the almost indecipherable writing in places, “I admit it’s a long shot. Tomorrow, when I have more energy, I’ll look in the study. There are some local histories in there that might be of use.” He appealed to both of them. “If our business was threatened, we would have retaliated. I take it, Uncle, that you don’t remember any family stories about smuggling?”
Max shook his head. “None. But you’re right. We would have hit back if our livelihood was threatened.”
“But,” Estelle countered, “we would also have led any smuggling enterprises in this area if there was profit in it. Maybe Coppinger wanted a cut? Or wanted to take over our area?”
Caspian tried not to roll his eyes, and failed. “We were—are—legitimate business men. We couldn’t have been thought to be smuggling! We were rich. We had a position in society to maintain.”
“So how do you explain the Jacksons’ involvement? Avery mentioned that cave today, the one where you killed Gil. They were clearly involved in it!”
Caspian winced, and not from the pain of his stab wound and all of his bruises. “His death was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill Gil!”
“Whether you meant it or not doesn’t matter. The fact is, you did kill him!” Estelle looked at him almost triumphantly, rubbing his nose in something he so deeply regretted. Something he would never forgive himself for.
“You shouldn’t look so pleased about it. I hate that I did—and you should, too.”
“If I was in your position I’d have done the same thing, and been proud of it,” she sneered.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Caspian struggled to sit up and wished he hadn’t as a searing pain pierced his side, and he broke out in a cold sweat. “You have no idea how it feels. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone!”
“Maybe Avery can come over and comfort you,” Estelle said, uncaring as to the pain she was causing him, physically and emotionally. “Although, she actually can’t. She loves Alex, not you. Thank the Gods.”
Fury flashed out of Caspian, rising up like a cobra, and before he could even think, he had willed her mute. He watched as Estelle struggled to speak, her hand at her throat, and her lips pressed closely together as if stitched by an unseen hand. Her eyes flashed as she tried to hurl a spell back at him. But he was ready for her; his protection spells were strong after what had happened that afternoon, and more than ready for her magic. Estelle moaned, her face contorting as she stood, and her fists clenched.
Max leapt to his feet. “Caspian, stop that now!”
He ignored him and glared at Estelle. “I’ve had enough of your vicious tongue. Say one more word against Avery and I’ll rip it out!” Caspian blinked at the force of his own anger, but he wasn’t about to back down now. Although he couldn’t stand up, power radiated from him, and he noted both Estelle and his uncle took a step back. “You have never known love, Estelle, but one day you will. Then you’ll understand. You’ll know how it feels to have your heart ripped out when you’re rejected because you’re such a miserable, spiteful bitch. I wonder if that will be Barak.” He smirked, even though what he said gave him no pleasure. “I’ve seen him watch you, and you watch him. But he’s far nobler than you can ever be. I hope I’m there to see him break your heart. Now, get out. When I hear your car leave the drive, I’ll release the spell.”
For a moment, Estelle didn’t move, looking at him wide-eyed with utter shock, and then those eyes narrowed with a calculating look that promised revenge. She turned, grabbed her bag, and stalked out. His uncle stood, uncertain.
“You’d better go, too,” Caspian said. “Talk her down from taking her revenge on some poor, unsuspecting bugger. I’ll be fine.”
“I know she can be difficult, but she is your sister. And you’re injured.”
“Go,” Caspian insisted, suddenly eager to see the back of both of them, and realising he could always call Gabe for help. “I need to be alone.”
His uncle gave him a long look, as if about to say more, and then he shook his head, put his glass down, and left. Caspian waited, tense, listening to the sound of slamming doors and the whine of retreating engines as they drove down the drive. When silence finally fell, Caspian dropped back against the pillows behind him, releasing the spell on Estelle.
What had he done? He’d crossed a line, and he doubted that Estelle would ever forgive him. He recalled the fury in her eyes. Would he have to protect himself from her now?
And all because she’d taunted him about Avery.
He thought he was over her. That he’d buried his feelings too deep for them to hurt him again. But he was a fool. Love didn’t work like that. And it was love, as much as he hated admitting that to himself. He had never said the word aloud, especially not to Avery, but she knew. She had to. He’d hidden it for months behind flirting and sarcasm, but the night of the Crossroads Circus, it had broken free, and he couldn’t help himself. He looked out at the dark garden, but he saw only Avery, swirling in the centre of the crossroads, majestic with power. And he saw her pity when she looked at him. No, not pity. Sorrow. She loved Alex; that was obvious. There was no place for him in her life. Another time, another place, maybe.
What burned more than that, though, was the fact that Estelle knew of his feelings! And Alex knew, too. Alex looked at him with wariness and resentment, maybe fear too, at the possibility of losing Avery. He shouldn’t, he was sure of that. But at least he didn’t crow about his victory. Alex was too classy for that.
And that meant that probably everyone knew how he felt. Caspian hated that. He felt exposed, raw. And the only way he could deal with it was to embrace the pain of his rejection. At least he knew he was alive.
He shook his head and sipped his whiskey, feeling its warmth softening his despair. At least he had something to distract him now. He wanted to solve the mystery of why his family had earned the enmity of unknown spirits, and how they were strong enough to have breached his very strong protection spells.
With the help of his uncle, Caspian had layered them again on his return, making them stronger than before, and adding in specific protection against ghosts. But he should do the smart thing and call Gabe. Extra help wouldn’t go amiss, and maybe he should add additional security to the warehouse, too. It was a huge place, stocked with all manner of shipments and equipment—and his staff. If he’d been targeted here, they could be, too. He reached for his phone.
“Sorry about yesterday,” Avery said to Sally. “Everything went a bit mad after I called Genevieve.”
They were in the kitchen of Happenstance Books, making their first coffee of the day, and as Sally pulled the mugs from the cupboard, her face was etched with worry.
“I’m just glad that you’re okay,” Sally said. “But I’m sorry to hear about Reuben. It sounds like he had a lucky escape.”
“Very! Caspian wasn’t so lucky.”
Sally’s face tightened with disapproval. “Well, as you know, I’m not a fan of Caspian, but I am sorry he was injured. But,” she reached for the milk, “I’m so sad to hear about Inez Walker. Poor Newton. Is he okay?”
Avery sat in a chair at the table, recalling his anger the night before. “Not really. He blames himself, which is ridiculous, but also understandable. I would, too.”
Sally finished their drinks, and bringing the cups to the table, sat down next to her. “You really have no idea what could have attacked her?”
“I keep coming back to spriggans—you know, the ghosts of giants I talked about with Dan. But, it’s just a theory. Did you know,” she leaned closer, “that Shadow sees piskies on the moors?”
“No!” Sally’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s amazing. Then the stories are true!”
Avery grinned, pleased to see her friend seemed to have forgiven her for the flash of magic that had scared her the other night. “I know. Briar is going to call her to see if she’s seen any other faerie creatures. She could help us find out what Newton’s mysterious attacker was.”
“Good.” Sally blew on her coffee, sending an eddy of steam up, and then sipped it, closing her eyes briefly. “Oh, that’s lovely. Just what I needed. I must admit, I didn’t sleep too well last night. Events seem to have escalated very quickly.”
“They have,” Avery admitted. “Three attacks in one day, three deaths, and other than vague guesswork, we’re still in the dark about why. And of course, Helena is still missing, imprisoned somewhere in the spirit world.” She rubbed her face, overwhelmed by the sum of it all. “I didn’t even know that was a thing!”
“I’m not magical, Avery, so it has me worried, for me and my family, and Dan. If Reuben and Caspian were attacked, despite their magic, we would have no chance.”
Avery reached forward and grabbed Sally’s free hand. “I genuinely don’t think you need to worry. The spirits seem to be targeting specific people, for now.”
“What about the man walking his dog?” Sally reminded her. “He was just going about his business, and now he’s dead.”
“Wrong place, wrong time.”
Sally shook her head, releasing her hand from Avery’s hold. “And that could happen to any of us, too.”
There was no denying that. Sally had an excellent point. “You’re right. He didn’t stand a chance. But we’re working hard on this.”
“Do you think it’s Cruel Coppinger, like Mary and Fred said yesterday?”
“It’s certainly possible, but still just a theory. I’m going to help Reuben search his library today. I may know more then.” She smiled at Sally with what she hoped was a reassuring expression. “I’ll go mid-morning, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” Sally said, rising to her feet. “I’ll go and open the shop up, and hopefully Dan will be here soon. As far as I’m concerned, Avery, you take as much time as you need, because I think this violence is only the start.”
El stood in front of a glass cabinet, looking at the objects displayed within it: evidence of White Haven’s rich history.
Strictly speaking, White Haven Museum was more than just educational. It was situated in a Georgian building on the hill looking over the town, and in addition to displaying White Haven’s history, it housed an art gallery, a gift shop, and a very busy café. The artwork they displayed was a mixture of paintings, watercolour and oil, charcoal and pencil drawings, and prints, all depicting the surrounding countryside and Cornwall in general, and mostly created by local artists.
The room El was currently in was an exhibition about the local industries. It featured archaic farming implements found in the soil in the hills around the town, old fishing equipment, and black and white photos of the farming and fishing communities. White Haven had always been a fishing village, and of course a trading one. Compared to some of the other museums in Cornwall, this one was small, but its displays were impressive, and it was a popular attraction.
The room was bathed in morning sunlight, and as it warmed her, El took a deep breath, feeling the heat ease the knots in her shoulders. The knots of anxiety that had accumulated by worrying about Reuben. She wasn’t just worrying about his stab wound; she was also anxious about his lack of confidence in his magic, and the nearing anniversary of Gil’s death. Reuben, despite his confident swagger about many things, was deeply unsure of his magical abilities, and although he’d made great headway over the past year, was still nowhere near as proficient as he wanted to be. Or should be, considering his family. A couple of months ago she thought that was all in the past, but it seemed not.
El shook herself out of her worry, and looked around the room once more. It was pointless being in here, interesting though it was. It shed no light on smuggling, or anything pertaining to their current problem.
She decided to find Alex. They had arrived together about half an hour ago, but had split up to search the exhibits. She headed through the stately rooms converted to exhibition halls, finally arriving in the art gallery, and found Alex looking at a large painting of a stormy sea, on which a rigged ship with tattered sails floundered. Huge waves crashed on a rocky beach, and men clustered on the sand, watching and waiting. Smugglers, waiting to plunder the wreck.
Alex looked lost in thought, and she gently nudged him. “It’s impressive, isn’t it?”
He looked at her and grinned, looking slightly piratical himself with his long hair and swashbuckling goatee that he was currently sporting. “It is. Very atmospheric.” He turned back to it. “It depicts smugglers, though. I’m wondering why it’s here, if they’re setting up a smuggling exhibit.”
“Maybe they plan to move it?” El stepped away from him, idly looking at the other artwork. She stopped to admire a watercolour of White Haven in bold purple, black, and grey, thinking how good it would look on her wall. “Did you see the entrance to the new bit?” She jerked her head towards the other rooms. “It will be in the room at the back of the building.”
He nodded, and pushed his hair away from his face, wrinkling his nose with annoyance. “I did. It doesn’t give much away, does it?”
“No. But we could ask someone.”
“Before we do, come and see this.”
Alex led the way across the gallery to the image of a man with a scowling face, a heavy beard, red-rimmed eyes, and dressed in old-fashioned sailor’s clothing. His hair was as black as night, and he stood on the deck of the ship, staring, it seemed, right at El.
She shivered. “He’s unpleasant looking.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised. It’s Cruel Coppinger. Or an artist’s representation of him, at least.” He pointed to the small printed card on the wall.
“Wow.” El looked at the image with new appreciation. “So that’s the demon pirate. I feel he’s looking right through me.”
“Maybe we should talk to the local artist. It’s the same one who’s done many of the seascapes, including the one I was just looking at.”
El looked at him, perplexed. “I suppose we could, but why?”
“They might have done some research that could help. Could save us some time.”
El shrugged. Avery and Alex loved their research, but she was a bit more like Reuben. She found it time consuming and annoying. But, Alex was normally right about these things. “I guess we could try,” she conceded.
She saw movement in the corner of her eye and turned, momentarily alarmed, to find it was an older woman in a museum shirt. She smiled at them. “I notice you’re interested in our painting of Cruel Coppinger. It’s brooding, isn’t it?”
Alex stepped back to allow her room. “It is. We were just admiring the artist’s other work—like the seascape over there.”
The gallery assistant nodded. “Anthony Carter. He lives quite close to here. He’s kindly agreed that we can display these in our new exhibition that opens next week.”
“We were wondering about that. Will Cruel Coppinger be part of that exhibit?”
The woman smiled, excited. “Oh, yes. The curator has been doing some wonderful work!” She bounced on her soles, a curiously childish gesture, El thought, for a mature woman. “We actually had a remarkable find a few months ago when we cleared out some of our basement areas. I’m sure you know that many museums have so much stock that they can’t possibly display it all?” They nodded, wondering where she was going, but she ploughed on. “We found more documents about Zephaniah Job working with Coppinger, which was amazing, because it was presumed that it had all been lost, as well as some other items I’m not familiar with! We can’t wait for it to open. This painting will move at the end of the week.”
“Wow,” Alex said, eyes wide as he glanced at El, and she knew he was trying as hard as she was to hide his excitement. “So you actually found new material?”
“Yes! Such good fortune, and we were so lucky that Ethan was released to help us!”
“Ethan James?” El asked, recalling his name from the photo she’d seen the day before. “Did he assist with Jamaica Inn’s Smuggling Museum, too?”
The woman looked surprised. “Yes, he did. He’s well known for his expertise on the subject, so it was natural to ask him to help us. He’s actually based at Helston’s Shipwreck Treasure Museum, so he’s here only for a short time, you understand. It means he could incorporate some items that haven’t made it into the other museums, too.”
El nodded at Cruel Coppinger. “So, he’s a big figure in our local history, then?”
“Absolutely! He caused so many problems for everyone. Incredibly headstrong, by all accounts.” Her eyes darkened as she looked at him. “And cruel, of course. That’s why he got his name. There was a bounty on his head, but of course, everyone was terrified of betraying him.”
“I’m not surprised,” El said.
The assistant continued, unabashed. “Actually, the anniversary of his disappearance, as near as we can work out, is this weekend, so we timed the opening to coincide with it. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it, but there are some leaflets about the new exhibit in the gift shop and by the entrance, so feel free to pick them up before you leave. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
El watched her walk across the gallery and then looked at Alex. “New material? That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Perhaps not. Coupled with the anniversary of his death, it all sounds ominous to me.” Alex checked his watch. “Coffee time. I’ll treat you to cake in the café, and we can chat then.”
“You’re on. And I’ll get a leaflet to look at.”