Chapter 1
“You need to summon a familiar of your own,” my grandmother Bronwen said. Her voice was easy to recognize, despite the fact that it emanated from a small, amorphous cloud of energy hovering above my new computer. Both she and my mother had been steadfast in their refusal to buy into the technology age, so when she popped out of the ether that morning, I expected a tirade against the computer that now occupied the desk behind the counter. It took me a few seconds to realize that my recent purchase wasn’t the subject of her visit. I briefly considered telling her the computer was my familiar, but I didn’t think she would see the humor in it.
“Hand-me-downs never work properly,” she went on. “Surely we’ve taught you better.”
“Besides,” my mother chimed in, from a second cloud that appeared beside Bronwen’s, “my Sashkatu is ancient, and the five others aren’t worth the cost of their kibble.”
“Morgana!” my grandmother scolded, “you mustn’t write them off that way. You summoned them and they came. They’re our responsibility now. I mean Kailyn’s,” she muttered. “I keep forgetting that we’re dead. In any case, it’s entirely possible the problem was more yours than theirs anyway.”
I held my breath, hoping my mother might finally realize that arguing about such things was pointless. I’d thought death would mellow the two of them, but so far they’d proven me wrong. Maybe the sudden, unexpected nature of their passing had left their souls on edge, and once they adjusted to their new circumstances they’d put their earthbound bickering behind them. Then again, maybe not. I’d always suspected they enjoyed the verbal sparring far too much to give it up.
“What exactly do you mean it’s my fault?” my mother asked indignantly, dashing my hopes. “You didn’t have any better success at restoring our mojo than the cats or I did.”
“I’d been semi-retired for three years,” Bronwen sputtered. “You’d taken the reins of the business!” The chimes over the front door jangled like a bell ending a boxing round.
“Hey, we have company,” I hissed at them. “Make yourselves scarce!” They vanished without a second to spare as a middle-aged couple ambled up to the counter. I was grateful I didn’t have to explain the presence of clouds in my store.
The woman’s eyes were flitting around the shop with anticipation, but her companion looked like a child who’d been dragged to the dentist. I made a mental note to buy a comfortable chair for the men who were coerced into making the trip.
“Welcome to Abracadabra,” I greeted them, trying to shake off the negative energy my family had left in their wake. “Take your time browsing. If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. There are some baskets at the far end of the counter to make shopping easier.” I’d talked my mother and grandmother into buying lovely wicker baskets instead of the ubiquitous plastic ones available in all the grocery and drugstore chains. They cost more, but they were more fitting for our shop.
The woman thanked me and went to take one, her husband grumbling, “How much do you plan on buying here?”
“Well, I’m sure you don’t want to drive up here again anytime soon,” she said sweetly as she started down the first of the four narrow aisles. I’d heard the warning in her undertone, but I doubted that he had. Back in my early teens, I’d realized there were certain subtleties of mood in women’s speech that often eluded men.
I sat down behind the computer to finish setting up my online banking account. Although the shop wasn’t large, it took most people half an hour or more to browse through all the lotions, potions, unguents, and creams with intriguing names and mystical purposes. Until about fifty years ago, the inventory had been smaller, meant specifically for those who were practiced in the arts of sorcery and witchcraft, but that was before tourists discovered our quaint little town of New Camel, New York. My enterprising grandmother had seized the opportunity to add a line of the health and beauty products our family had been whipping up for our own use as far back as anyone could remember. It didn’t take long before word of mouth brought a steady stream of customers to our door. The other merchants in the town prospered as well. A couple of bed and breakfasts opened to accommodate visitors who wanted to spend the night. One local resident was able to drum up enough financial support to open a small ski resort nearby. Snow is never in short supply around here in winter.
When the couple returned to the counter, the woman was beaming with success. Her husband was carrying the basket, now piled high with our most popular products. He looked as close to dying of boredom as anyone I’d ever seen. He yawned widely, without bothering to cover his mouth.
“You ought to have a website so people could order your products online,” he groused as I rang up his wife’s purchases. “You’re way out here in the boonies, no public transportation, hard to get to from everywhere. It’s a miracle you have any customers at all.”
Not a miracle, I wanted to say, just a little magic. But that was one secret ingredient we never talked too much about. “Thanks for the advice,” I said instead. “I’ll definitely look into it.” I had considered going ahead with a website after I inherited the shop, but although Morgana and Bronwen were deceased, they hadn’t totally passed on. The thought of arguing with them about it on a daily, if not hourly, basis quickly shut down my enthusiasm for the project. Besides, I was still euphoric about finally having a computer on the premises.
“My friends all swear by your products,” the woman said with a smile. “So I had to try them for myself. I told Robert here that we’d make the trip into a bit of a vacation, but for him if there’s no golf, it’s not a vacation.” She sighed and searched my face for some empathy. I nodded and smiled back, though I was finding it hard to relate to her problem. She could have left Robert home and driven here alone or with friends. Maybe it was simply the difference between her generation and mine. Had it been me, I would have preferred to make the trip alone. But then, I’ve had strong, self-sufficient women as role models all my life. My father left when I was five, and my grandfather, years before my birth. Morgana and Bronwen had carried on as if they’d never really expected their spouses to make the final cut.
Robert took the shopping bag I held out to them. “We should have been on the road fifteen minutes ago,” he said to his wife, who was looking at a display of candles infused with healing oils.
“I love your shop,” she said as he hooked his arm through hers and propelled her out the door. He pulled it shut behind them so hard that he startled Sashkatu, who’d been sleeping in the spill of sunlight on the windowsill behind me. The cat regarded me with regal contempt as if I’d been the source of the disturbance. Although he was fifteen, his black coat had kept its luster, and his emerald eyes were as sharp and bright as ever. If he pined for my mother, he kept it to himself and slept right through her visits from the other side. When he was done glowering at me, he sighed and laid his head down on the tufted goose-down cushion Morgana had made to ease his arthritic joints. Fortunately the five other cats didn’t seem to mind being left back in the house during the workday. I didn’t want to think about the destruction they could wreak on the shop’s inventory with one high-energy game of chase. If I were to follow Bronwen’s advice and summon my own familiar, there would be seven cats to deal with and a bigger bill for cat food and other feline necessities. I kicked that decision to an already-crowded back burner in my mind and prepared to close up for the night.
I was ready when my Aunt Tilly came through the connecting door from her shop, Tea and Empathy. She was my mother’s younger sister and my one remaining relative, aside from a few distant cousins somewhere in the wilds of Pennsylvania. Although I loved Tilly dearly, she tended to be a bit scattered and eccentric. According to my grandmother, she was hands down the best psychic our family had ever produced.
She padded up to the counter in one of the frothy Hawaiian muumuus she’d taken to wearing after menopause settled in with some extra pounds. Her ballet flats dangled from her left fingertips and the turban she often wore at work was still perched on her head. She thought it lent her an air of mysticism. I thought it made her look like a Hawaiian swami with identity issues, but I would never tell her that.
“Did you want to wear the turban to see the attorney?” I asked, because I’d never seen her wear it outside the shop.
“Oh my,” she said, plucking it off her short red hair and giggling. “Silly me—I forgot I had it on.” I laughed too, because even as a child I’d thought of her as Silly Tilly. She plopped the turban onto the counter and finger-combed her curls. I beckoned my purse from the shelf behind the counter and was actually surprised when it popped up and floated into my hand. These days my magick was far from a certainty.
While I set the security code, Tilly slipped on her shoes. My little blue Prius was parked outside at the curb. Tilly climbed, or more accurately fell, into the passenger seat. I tucked in the edges of her dress and shut the door, before hopping behind the wheel.
Jim Harkens, who handled our family’s legal matters, shared a small, one-story office building with the town’s only dentist. It was less than a three-minute drive from our shops, hardly worth taking the car. But Tilly had arthritis in her hips and corns on her feet. My mother had tried everything in her bag of tricks, but the ailments had proven impervious to her spells and potions. So we drove to our appointment.
When we pulled into the parking lot behind the building, Jim’s big white SUV was the only vehicle there. I pulled into one of the diagonal spots and helped my aunt out of the car. Jim’s office suite was off the short common hallway on the left. We opened his door and walked past Ronnie’s unoccupied desk. She was Jim’s receptionist, secretary, and paralegal all rolled into one. Since she only worked until four, we saw ourselves down to Jim’s office. I knocked on the closed door. There was no response, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d found him asleep, his padded chair angled back and his feet propped up on his desk. Although he was on the brink of fifty, he’d confided to me recently that early retirement was beckoning with a Siren’s call. I knocked again, then tried turning the knob. Since it was unlocked, I walked in, Tilly right on my heels. The room was dark, bits of sunlight creeping in around the edges of the closed blinds. When I stopped to let my eyes adjust, Tilly slammed into me and sent us both sprawling. If Jim had been awake to see our little vaudeville act, he would have enjoyed a good laugh. But he must have been sleeping soundly.
“Are you okay, Aunt Tilly?” I asked, doing a quick appraisal of my own condition. My left knee had taken the brunt of the fall, and although it hurt, I didn’t think it was broken.
“I’m okay, dear. Just had the wind knocked out of me,” Tilly said. “Guess I have more than enough padding these days.”
Unfortunately she’d landed diagonally across my lower back and legs, softening her fall, but grinding me into the coarse, commercial-grade carpeting. As my eyes accommodated to the darkness, I could see that Jim’s chair was empty. Maybe he’d gone to use the bathroom in the outer hallway. I was gathering myself to stand up, when I realized he hadn’t gone anywhere. He was inches from where I lay, and even in the dim light I could see what looked like a dark bloody halo around his head.