It was nearly dark when I pulled into my driveway. I paused after turning off my Bug, listening to the tick of the engine cooling and savoring the simple welcome of light shining from the windows of my small home. The soft, yellow glow gently outlined the dark leaves of the magnolia by the corner and cast the delicate ironwork of the porch railing into relief.
Declan’s big pickup truck was parked in front. We’d been spending far more time at my place than his lately, partly because my air-conditioning worked better. We also spent many evenings, after the worst heat of the day had faded, working in the gardens. I was a bit proprietary about the herbs and certain other plants with magical uses, but Deck enthusiastically tended the vegetables and kept the lawn manicured, saying he missed having a yard since moving into his apartment. Now he was puttering around in my little kitchen, and I wanted nothing more than to settle in for supper and tell him about my weird, weird evening.
Mungo bounded to the ground as I gathered my tote bag from the passenger seat. As he gamboled across the grass, pausing to do his business, a half-dozen fireflies began to blink, gathering around him from all over the yard. I’d learned they were his totem, much like my dragonflies.
“Well, I’ll be! Thought those lightning bugs were all done for this summer.”
I turned to find Margie Coopersmith striding toward me from her house next door. Her towheaded five-year-old twins trailed behind, leading their wobbly baby brother between them.
“But they sure do love that little dog of yours.” Margie’s white teeth flashed in her summer-tan face. But when she got close enough for me to see in the light from the windows, she looked tired. Blond wisps straggled out of a sloppy ponytail, perspiration soaked her hairline, her cotton shirt was wrinkled, and her shorts had a mysterious mom stain by the hem. Behind her, the back hatch of the Coopersmiths’ Subaru was open to show a couple of bags of groceries.
I set my tote bag on the grass and gave her a big hug. “I haven’t seen you around much these days. What have you all been up to?”
“Camp!” the twins shouted, their combined volume impressive. Mungo ran over, and they dropped to their knees to pet him.
Margie gave me a wan smile. “Like they said, camp. All of us, it turns out, which is not what I had in mind when I signed these little darlings up. But one of the leaders at Happy Hands Day Camp bailed on them at the last minute, so guess who’s finger painting and Zumba dancing with a dozen five-year-olds instead of just two?”
“Holy cow,” I said. “You are a saint.”
“Saint Margie,” she snorted. “You betcha.” But she sounded so low, I wanted to hug her all over again.
“Is Redding gone?” I asked. Her husband was a long-haul truck driver for a national transport company, and was sometimes gone for over a week at a time.
She sighed as the kids reached us, then forced a smile as she looked down at them. “Daddy’s on the road for another four days, huh, guys?”
Jonathan and Julia, known as the JJs, nodded as a single unit. “He calls us on the computer,” Jonathan said, and Julia added, “Every night.”
Margie looked down at her watch. “Lord, I didn’t realize how late it is. He’ll be calling any minute, and these two need to brush their teeth and get into their jammies before they talk to Daddy.” The JJs pouted in response to her pronouncement, but she waved them toward their house. “Better hurry.”
They took off at a run as she swooped Baby Bart up into her well-muscled arms. “Come on, big guy. You’re due for a bath.”
He giggled.
“Redding reads those two hellions to sleep every night he’s on the road,” she said, affection in her voice.
“He’s a good man,” I said. “I know it’s hard sometimes, though, with him gone so much.” Truthfully, I was in awe that Margie wrangled three kids by herself with such aplomb.
She allowed a small grimace to cross her face. “Well, heck. I did think I’d given myself a little break by unloading my kiddos at camp during the day, but it just didn’t turn out that way.” She shrugged and then straightened her shoulders. Bart regarded me with solemn blue eyes. “First-world problems, you know. We’re lucky as anything, and we know it. They’ll be in school pretty soon, and I’ll probably miss them like the dickens.” She turned toward her car, then paused. “You want to get together some night after bedtime? I sure wouldn’t mind a real conversation with a grown-up.”
“You bet! Let’s set something up.”
She opened her mouth to say something when a dramatic wail came from the interior of her house. Rolling her eyes, she started across her yard, yelling, “I’ll call you,” over her shoulder.
I waved my agreement and stooped to pick up my bag. The porch light flicked on as I strode toward the carriage house, Mungo trotting at my heel.
Declan met me on the threshold, along with a blast of cool air and so many scintillating scents that I couldn’t identify them all. Shutting the door behind me, I breathed deeply. But before I could ask what was for supper, Declan cupped my chin in his palm and brought his mouth to mine. I ran my fingertips through his dark curls, and my body molded to his muscular frame. Everything flew out of my mind except the tart taste of apples on his lips and the intense safety I felt in the arms wrapped so firmly around me.
Then Mungo yipped his own greeting, so loud we started to laugh in the middle of our kiss. Declan stepped back and met my gaze with the half smile I found so sexy. I blinked, distracted by the cocktail of hormones rushing beneath my skin. Then the smells from the kitchen reached my brain again.
“What have you been cooking up, mister?”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“You can’t expect me to stand on ceremony after a greeting like that,” I said. “Now I am sorrier than ever to get home so late. I’m starving.” And not just for supper.
He motioned toward the kitchen, to the left of the postage-stamp living room. “Then by all means, let’s plate up.”
Mungo trotted eagerly after him.
“I’ll be right there,” I said, reaching to close the shutters on the front windows. As I turned back, the sound of rattling dishes drifted from the kitchen. The fringed, vintage floor lamp illuminated my purple velvet fainting couch against the peach-colored back wall. Small wingback chairs faced it across the Civil War–era trunk that served as a coffee table. To my right, a built-in bookshelf held a few volumes and various knickknacks. Beside it, a tiny hallway led to the bedroom and three-quarter bath, and steps led from the main living area up to the dark loft above, where I kept a small television, a folding futon, and the secretary’s desk that hid my altar from view.
As I walked across to the kitchen, my attention was drawn to the table on the covered patio outside the French doors. Declan had set it with a checked cloth, my mismatched Fiestaware dishes, candles, and a bottle of red wine, already open to breathe.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t had a chance to drink any wine with the spellbook club before Dawn Taite had started pounding on the door. I just managed to stop myself from going out then and there and pouring a glass.
“Wow,” I said, joining Declan. “Pretty fancy doin’s for someone who likes to eat in front of the television with the game on.”
He smiled and gestured toward the slow cooker on the kitchen counter. “Pork chops smothered in fried apples.” Handing me a plate, he went on. “With savory corn pudding, tomato and cucumber salad dressed with feta and basil vinaigrette, and chilled watermelon grown by moi. In your garden, but still.”
“You had me at pork chops. Holy mackerel, Deck. This is amazing!” I stepped over and lifted the lid of the slow cooker, inhaling the fragrant steam that curled up from the interior. “And a tablecloth? Candles? How romantic.”
He waggled his eyebrows à la Groucho Marx. “Glad you noticed.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What did you do?” I teased.
Laughing, he started dishing tender pork, tart salad, and rich corn pudding onto plates—two dinner-sized and a small one for Mungo. “Grab the watermelon out of the fridge and open the door for me, woman.”
Happily, I did as instructed.
As I walked by my tote bag, which I’d flung on the sofa, my cell began to ring. I opened one of the French doors for Declan and returned to put the bowl of cold watermelon down on the coffee table.
“Come on—do you really need to answer that?”
I glanced at the display, then up at him. “I’m sorry. It’s Lucy.”
He frowned, but took our plates outside.
I answered the call. “Lucy? Did you find anything out?” Before we left the bakery, she’d said she’d try to get an update from the hospital.
“Katie, honey, it doesn’t sound good.” I could hear the sadness in my aunt’s voice.
My heart sank. “But she’s still alive?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Declan’s head jerk up.
“So far,” Lucy said.
“Did the hospital tell you anything more? Like what’s wrong with her?”
“The hospital didn’t tell me anything at all. You know how careful they are about patient information. But after I told Ben about what happened, he checked with Peter Quinn, who gave him the update.” As Savannah’s former fire chief, Uncle Ben had known and worked with Detective Quinn for several years—long before Quinn had wrongly suspected him of murder.
“Right,” I said. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”
“Are you all right?”
I shrugged, but she couldn’t see that. “I don’t know her. We did the best that we could tonight. But of course it bothers me.”
Declan now stood in the doorway, blatantly listening.
“As for Franklin Taite, I already knew he was dead. Still, hearing it’s actually true from Quinn is more upsetting than I expected.”
His eyes widened at that. I tried a smile, but felt it slide off my face like warm butter.
“What are you going to do?” Lucy asked.
I sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Katie, it’s pretty obvious you have to do something.”
“Just let me sleep on it, Luce. Okay?”
“Of course, honey. Say hello to Declan.”
“Will do. Good night.”
I hung up and joined Declan in the doorway. Together we moved to the patio, and he absently held out my chair. “Lucy says hi,” I said, as he moved around to his own chair and sat down.
“That’s not all she said.” Leeriness and curiosity warred in his tone.
“Um, no.”
“Katie! Spill! What happened at your book-club meeting?” Even though he knew full well what the spellbook club was, he refused to call them that. “Or does this have to do with why Detective Quinn wanted to talk to you?”
I’d taken a big bite of pork chop and had to wait until I swallowed to answer. “Both, actually.” In between enjoying every morsel of the fabulous meal Declan had prepared, I filled him in on what had happened with Dawn Taite, about her cryptic message, and how Peter Quinn had shown up afterward with his own bombshell.
He ate slowly, listening. His face revealed little. When I was done, he said in a flat tone, “This has something to do with you being a lightwitch.”
I took a swig of wine. A big one. The conversation was about to get sticky. “I suspect so,” I admitted.
“Of course it does.” The words came out harshly, but immediately Declan’s expression turned tender. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I know this is what you do.” We’d had a few difficult conversations since he’d learned I practiced spellcraft, but, for the most part, he was quite supportive—at least when it came to the hedgewitchery Lucy and I worked at the Honeybee. However, he wasn’t too happy when I was drawn into murder cases that involved magic. I couldn’t blame him.
“Well, it’s only part of what I do,” I protested. “It’s not like being a lightwitch is my whole life.” Or was it? How could I know for sure? I didn’t even know for sure what being a lightwitch was. “And it’s not something I chose, either.” I didn’t like how defensive it came out.
He smiled and reached over to squeeze my hand, which was resting on the tabletop next to my very empty supper plate. “I know. I get it. I’m on your side.”
He was telling the truth about getting it, at least. He wasn’t a witch and didn’t practice any kind of magic, but he had his own unwanted “gift” to deal with. I ached to ask Declan about his uncle Connell, and whether he might be able to help. I held my tongue, however.
We didn’t discuss Connell.
I’d tried a few times, after Declan declared he accepted that his uncle had taken over—taken over his body, that is. Connell was long dead, and there was some question in the Declan’s family lore as to whether or not he had even been human. My boyfriend, Mr. I Think It’s Cool That You’re A Witch But It’s Not My Bag, had had his mind suddenly wrenched into a different awareness when he had inadvertently, and most unwillingly, channeled his ancient ancestor during a séance.
Then it had happened again. Luckily, that time Connell had helped save our lives.
Declan said he was okay with it, but it turned out he wasn’t—not really. Every time I brought it up, he got defensive, and that led to enough tension between us that we ended up arguing about something else entirely.
So I’d stopped trying.
Now as we spoke, he seemed to shrink into himself, growing somehow smaller and tentative. I saw something in those eyes I loved that saddened me: fear. My big, brave firefighter was downright scared of the paranormal aspect of my life—and now his. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe he was afraid of the not knowing, of the inevitable mystery of magic. I felt the same way sometimes. A lot of times. But I knew at least some of his trepidation had been sparked by the things he’d seen since getting involved with yours truly, as well as some pretty frightening stuff he’d experienced himself.
Like that time when I’d almost killed him.
Anyway . . .
Then the fear was gone—or overcome—and my old Deck was back. Relief coursed through me as he stood and pulled me out of my chair. He drew me to him and held me close for several seconds in silence.
“It’s just that I worry about you,” he finally said, stepping back. “But I also love you and love who you are. The whole package. Got it?”
I felt my lip quiver and clamped it between my teeth. I nodded.
He grinned and ran his thumb along my cheek. “Okay. Now, what are you going to do to get to the bottom of this latest mess?”
“You really think I should get involved?” I wanted to hear him say it.
Declan laughed. “You were thinking you might just sit this one out?”
“It’s closer to home than Quinn’s other cases,” I admitted. “And I want—no, I need—to understand what the heck is going on.” I turned to gather the plates from the table. “After all, whether or not Taite was really dead when Ursula passed on his message to me—something I’m going to be calling her about, believe me—it seems that now he sent me another message, this time truly from beyond the grave, via his niece.”
“The stuff about the talisman.” Declan gathered the half-full bottle and wineglasses.
I nodded and started toward the kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes. “Apparently I’m supposed to find it, whatever it is. And it’s not an ordinary talisman, like Lucy gave me when I first came to Savannah.” And later Steve Dawes, I thought, mentally fingering the metal ring resting near the hollow of my throat. “It’s a voodoo gris gris. And whatever that is seems to have upset Cookie.”
“Voodoo.” He put a lot of warning into the single word. “So, what’s the first step, Detective Lightfoot?”
We’d reached the sink, and now I bumped his hip with my own. “Very funny. But without more information about what happened to Taite, I think the obvious thing to do is find the voodoo queen Dawn mentioned.” I started loading dishes into the dishwasher.
He frowned. “I don’t like that part of it. Not at all.”
Straightening, I wiggled my fingers in the air like spider legs. “Spoooooky voooodoooo.”
Declan grabbed my wrists without smiling. “Do not take it lightly. Just don’t. You remember the fire on the Southside last year.” A glimmer of that fear I’d seen during supper crossed his face again.
I sobered.
“A woman died in that fire, Katie, and in the end, the police proved it was a voodoo ritual that started it.”
“I remember,” I said. “But, honey, that fire wasn’t started by voodoo. It was started by an overturned candle. An accident. Something like that could happen during one of the spellbook club’s rituals.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Or if the wind were to whip up right now? We left those tapers burning on the patio table.”
“Oh!” His eyes widened, and he ran out of the room.
Of course the candles were fine. Mungo, who was still lounging in his patio bed, would have let us know if anything had gone even slightly awry during our few minutes inside. But it did speak volumes about my firefighting boyfriend’s state of mind that he’d forgotten the basic rule to never leave a candle burning unattended.
Hopefully, my words would put his mind to rest. However, I wasn’t taking anything about the voodoo element of this situation lightly. I didn’t know much about that flavor of magic, but I’d seen the expression on Cookie’s face, and remembered Lucy’s admonition.
I don’t know what happened to her father, but it had something to do with him being a voodoo priest.
Cookie’s father had died when she was nine, right before the rest of his family had moved to Savannah.