Here’s the thing. Magic is real. Witches are real. Spirits, demons, fae, vampires, shapeshifters—a lot of stuff people dismiss as fairy-tale nonsense is real. That doesn’t mean we talk about it a lot, though. Well, some of us don’t. It’s easier that way. Besides, since I wasn’t much of a witch, I never really thought there was any point in being open about it.
Loreton is a big city, and just about every kind of life happens there, including the supernatural kind. I hadn’t known any other witches growing up, except Quentin, and we’d kept our magic a secret from all of our foster families. Whenever any of them suspected, it meant a new foster home was always just around the corner.
As we got older, and Quentin started reaching out to other witches, I was honestly surprised how many supernaturals there were living in the open, and that was only in our corner of the city.
By the time we were old enough to live on our own, Quentin was out and proud, supernaturally speaking, but his skills were always a lot better than mine.
“You keep doing those fun little tricks of yours, Bella. No point in looking for a real coven to practice with when you don’t have any real magic,” Quentin had said to me more than once.
When Quentin left, I locked my magic down deep. But in the first few weeks of being in Blackthorn Springs, the magic had started coming through me more strongly.
At first, I hadn’t thought much of it. Maybe it was the clean mountain air. Who cared, really? Whatever was happening, no one needed to know about that side of me. And given what had happened with Quentin, it was something I myself wanted to ignore. But as the weeks passed, it was harder to tune out. It was like my powers wanted to be used. There was no harm in the little tricks I would try now and then, but as for the rest of the supernatural world and everything I’d experienced in Loreton, I refused to think about it. Seeing a death curse in high-res gory detail right outside my home was something I couldn’t ignore, though.
It was almost lunchtime, and there hadn’t been a single walk-in customer since Abbi. Business online was okay, though I couldn’t focus on orders and shipping with the thought that there was a supernatural killer in town whirling through my mind. My days of pretending that world didn’t exist were apparently over.
“I think we should take the rest of the day off,” I said. It would be a totally acceptable cover to close the store for the day, given my next-door neighbor had just died.
Lila sat on the stool, stroking Hemlock’s back and staring at an empty space in front of her. She shrugged.
“I don’t mind staying if you want to leave early. I can lock up at closing.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll just mope at home. At least I can feel useful if I’m here. If anyone comes for you, I’ll explain. They’ll understand.”
“Thanks, though I can’t imagine anyone would come looking for me. But if you do need me, I won’t be far away.”
“Right upstairs.”
I nodded. I would be upstairs later that afternoon, but there was something I needed to take care of first.
The Blackthorn Springs sheriff’s office was a log building two blocks behind Main Street. With the rows of potted daisies along the front of the building, it looked more like a child’s playhouse than the center of law enforcement for the town.
Once upon a time, the young me would have never voluntarily gone near a police station of any kind. Growing up as Quentin and I had done, with no money, no one to watch and no one to care, I admit, the occasional petty crime had come my way. Light-fingered shoplifting, mostly. A few times I’d broken into neighborhood houses just to see if I could. It was never anything serious—I just liked to snoop around, look in drawers, closets, and attics, explore the hidden corners of people’s lives where they thought no one could see. I never stole anything of real value, and no one ever got hurt. And then there was the time I was caught trying to break into a former foster house to retrieve the snake pendant Quentin thought he might have accidentally left there. Our former foster parents had pressed charges, and no one had listened to my side of the story.
Even though I’d closed the book on that life a long time ago, willingly entering a sheriff’s office still put me on edge.
Standing tall and trying my best to look like an upstanding citizen, I tapped the bell on the deserted front desk and waited.
Margie came through the swinging door, eating a granola bar.
“Belinda, nice to see you again,” she said, her mouth still half-full. “What can I do for you?”
I cleared my throat. “Is there somewhere private we can talk, Margie? It’s about Kenny Langdel.”
Margie swallowed her mouthful. She placed the granola bar down on the desk, straightened her tie and motioned for me to follow her through the back door.
We went into a small room empty of anything but a table, two chairs, and a security camera mounted on the wall. It was the kind of place I imagined would be used for suspect interrogation, if such a thing had ever happened in the sleepy little town.
“Would you like some tea? Coffee? Dalt had some soda yesterday. I can see if there’s still a can in the fridge.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I said, sitting.
Margie sat down at the table opposite and pulled out her notepad and a freshly sharpened pencil. “We’re on the record,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Actually, I’m not sure what I’m about to say should be on the record.”
Margie looked at me keenly, one eyebrow raised. She placed her pencil slowly down on the table.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not sure anyone will believe me.”
She smiled warmly, a face I might be able to trust just enough to say what I needed to. Maybe.
“It might not seem like it, Blackthorn being such a small place and all, but I’ve seen a lot, Belinda. Why don’t you try me and then I’ll decide whether to believe you or not?”
I cleared my throat. I didn’t have to give myself away. I only had to tell them what I knew: that there had been a crime. It wasn’t like I had done anything wrong. Not recently, at least.
“I think…” I paused. I had to spit it out. I took a breath. “Kenny Langdel was killed. Murdered.”
Margie steepled her fingers, her elbows on the table. I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but it wasn’t one this calm.
“I see,” she said. “That’s a serious allegation, Belinda. What makes you think this?”
“I just know it. Even if the autopsy does show natural causes. I just wanted to give you a heads-up about what you’re dealing with here if you don’t already know.”
“What sort of thing do you think we’re dealing with?” Margie didn’t meet my eyes when she spoke.
I inhaled slowly, deeply.
“Witchcraft,” I said as I released my breath. “Specifically, a Mortis curse.”
Margie picked up the pencil again, tapping it to her notepad but still not writing any of the exchange down. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
At last, she spoke, still not looking at me. “Some people like to talk about strange things in these parts, get up to some strange hobbies. And that’s fine. I’m not one to tell anyone how to live if there ain’t no laws being broken. But you’re talking about a man’s life here. Obviously, the examinations will be conducted in Loreton, ruling out any foul play—of which I’m sure there’s none—and that will be the end of it. Natural causes. I know it looked real weird, but you’d be surprised what a heart attack or stroke or the like can do to a body. That’s all. A man’s death isn’t the time to be spreading rumors about fairy tales and ghost stories.”
“It’s not a rumor. I’m just telling you what I know,” I said. My heart raced as heat crept into my cheeks.
Margie’s eyes flicked about the room. She scratched her nose. When I’d first started running the Book Nook, I had helped the deputy pick out a birthday present for her son. It was a book about medieval knights, and every time I’d seen her since, she’d beamed, telling me how much her boy had loved his gift. Her eyes went too wide, her voice rising up into a nervous high pitch. She always touched her nose. Anyone could see Margie was not a good liar, and she was proving it to me again.
“And how do you know about these things?” the deputy continued. “What does the nice lady from the book shop know about death curses and murders?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with Kenny’s death, Margie. I swear it here and I’ll swear it in any court under any oath and on any polygraph test. As I’ll also swear that Kenny was killed by a curse. I’ll stake my own life on it.”
Margie took her pencil and wrote a few lines I couldn’t read.
“I’ve noted your input,” she said. “Leaving out the weirder details to protect your reputation. I’m telling you now, the Blackthorn Springs Sheriff Department will not be investigating any claims of…” She swallowed noticeably. “Witchcraft.”
Margie closed the pad and stood, offering her hand to shake. I shook it reluctantly. The deputy’s palms were hot and moist.
“There are a few people in town I might have expected to hear this kind of hooey from, Belinda. You’re not one of them.”
I cursed myself on the walk back home.
What had I expected? For the sheriff and the whole team of deputies to rush out of the station, sirens blaring, calling a public witch hunt? Of course, a witch hunt was not at all what I wanted. I only wanted justice for an obvious crime. Margie was clearly lying when she said she didn’t believe in this stuff? What did that mean?
I walked down Main Street. I was lightheaded, my entire body quivering from the inside. I passed by the little arcade leading to Henry’s music shop, Tones. Henry had a symphony blaring, which usually meant the shop was empty.
He had been so upset that morning, and he did tell me to come and see him. It was either that or go back to work, or worse, sit at home alone, fretting over the darkness that had fallen over the sleepy little town—a darkness only I seemed to be aware of.
Tones used records and CDs was right next door to Josie Dawn’s Dawn Flames candle shop. A few weeks after I had moved in, I’d learned Josie and Henry were a couple.
I had never made friends easily, or even willingly, but from our first conversation, I’d liked Henry, and we had become close, even with a twenty-year age gap between us.
“Henry?” I called out, my voice straining over the music. I pushed open the door to Henry’s office and poked my head through. “Henry? Are you in here?”
Henry was leaning over the back of another man, seated in a high stool, holding what looked like a small guitar. The other man was much younger, darkly handsome. Henry bent over his broad shoulders, his face close to the younger man’s neck. It looked like he was teaching the other man to play the instrument, and it looked a whole lot more intimate than that too.
“Belinda,” Henry said. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He stepped away from the man in a hurry.
Neither of them met my eyes, and I too looked down to the worn carpet.
“I’m not surprised with this music playing so loudly,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“I was just giving Iain here a quick lute lesson,” Henry said, smiling awkwardly.
If that’s what they were calling it. It was none of my business, but I couldn’t help but think of Josie right next door.
“I should introduce you. Belinda, meet Iain, my new helper.”
Iain’s smile matched my own awkwardness as we shook hands quickly. So, this was Lila’s famous Iain. He was in his late twenties, closely shaved head and a neat business shirt and pressed slacks. If I hadn’t just walked in on what I was sure was infidelity, I would’ve thought everything about his look said harmless nice guy.
Henry turned the music down to a conversational volume. Iain smiled sheepishly and set down the instrument on the bench beside me. “I turned the music up so no one could hear my terrible practice,” he said.
I nodded, not knowing what to say. I looked at the lute, a delicate wooden thing. A strange feeling radiated from the instrument.
“I should get back to work,” Iain said and left Henry and me alone in the backroom.
“How are you feeling?” I said, trying to clear what I’d witnessed from my mind. “You looked terrible earlier.”
“It was a terrible thing to see,” he said. “I guess I was shocked. Are you alright? You look a little off.”
“Shocked too, I suppose,” I said.
Henry’s eyes flickered to my pendant.
The first day we had met, Henry had commented on the necklace with obvious interest.
“That’s a curious amulet,” he had said. “Where did you come by it?”
“I can’t remember. It’s just a trinket,” I had said, not wanting to mention my brother or anything about my life to a stranger. “I’ve had it since forever.”
“Some people believe snakes to be guardians of the spirit world,” Henry had said.
“Do they?” I smiled. Quentin had said that exact thing when he had given it to me.
With Henry still looking at my neck, my hand went automatically to the charm.
“I think we all could use some spiritual guidance after this morning,” Henry said.
I nodded. I wasn’t imagining the intensity coming from the lute next to me on the table. Was there magic in this room? Could I tell Henry of my suspicions about Kenny’s death? Or was I picking up on a different kind of tension?
“You look like there’s something on your mind,” he said.
“Do you believe in things, Henry?”
“Things?” He leaned against a shelf containing box sets of opera recordings and crossed his arms.
“Unexplained things. Things you can’t see.”
“Do I believe in magic?” he asked.
The door opened, and Josie came in holding two steaming mugs of peppermint tea.
“Hello, Belinda,” she beamed. “If I’d known you were stopping in, I would have brought a fourth cup. I’ve just given Iain his. Let me nip back next door, and I’ll brew one up. Or here”—she offered one mug to me—“you can have mine.”
I would’ve preferred a stiff whiskey at this point, but I was still touched by the gesture.
“Thanks, Josie, but I’ve gotta get going.”
“You’ve only just arrived,” Henry said.
I was honestly grateful the interruption had given me a chance to get out of there, and not only because I felt instantly embarrassed and unfaithful to Josie after seeing the two men embracing.
“Thanks, Josie, but I have to go,” I said. “I’ll see you both soon.”
“How about next Monday evening for our Scrabble rematch?” Henry said.
“Sounds great. I’ll call you before.” I hurried out of the room.
“If there’s—” Henry started.
I had already closed the door before he finished his sentence.
What was I thinking, asking Henry about magic? I couldn’t reveal my truth to anyone, especially someone I liked and respected. He would think I was crazy. Or worse, dangerous. Still, there was something in that room, something about that instrument, and it was another layer of a mystery I was falling facefirst into.