After the repast, Dorathea pulled into Mallow Cottage’s circular drive. “Shall we meet later?”
“All right,” Sloane said as she grabbed her tote. She was only half-listening. The chatter inside her head dominated her attention. Inside the cottage, she grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator and stopped.
The house was quiet except for a grandfather clock’s tick-tock. “Elvina?” There was no response. Sloane drummed her fingers on the granite, trying to order her thoughts, to make connections among the conversations. What did they have in common?
The answer was Jane.
She bent her head back and stared at the ceiling. She had not checked out the Wests’ bedrooms since she arrived. Not an excellent detective move.
The second floor smelled like her childhood. Incense and old rugs. She opened the first door in the long, narrow hallway. A guest room that lacked any personal touches. She shut the door and walked to the next one. A bathroom.
She immediately recognized Jane’s bedroom behind the third door. Impressionist paintings hung on the walls. Not the masters but decent reproductions. Sloane found Jane’s signature boldly claiming them.
Nathaniel and Mary had left Jane’s room as it was thirty years ago. The bed was made with a plush lavender duvet cover and a stack of throw pillows. A jewelry box and perfume sat on her dresser, books were stacked on her bedside table. The room was a time capsule and hopefully it held some answers.
She paged through each book in Jane’s bookcase and searched the clothes’ pockets in her closet. No hidden love letters. She found a box of family photos with pictures of Sloane, the dog. There were also photos of Jane in a school uniform. And a photo of Jane, Charles, Quinn, and Ken that oddly resembled the Four Musketeer picture Lore had shown her. She flipped it over. Summer 1987. A year before Jane ran away. Whatever had caused her to run happened right before her graduation and had kept her away ever since.
Sloane put the lid back on the picture box and continued her search. Under the bed was clear. She stripped the bedding and examined the mattress. Then she checked under the box spring and around the sides of the sleigh-style frame but found nothing.
Jane’s dresser drawers only held clothes. There were no hidden compartments behind the art on the walls. She lifted up rugs and examined the floorboards. None were loose. Frustrated, Sloane sat on the hardwood floor under one of the room’s mullioned windows.
Jane had always written copious client notes. For everything. So why wouldn’t she have kept journals as a teen? Unless Nathaniel and Mary found her journals and removed them. No, Sloane thought. Dorathea would have told her.
She stared at Jane’s bed. It took up a good portion of the floor space. She shoved the mattress and box spring off the bed against the opposite wall, pushed the bedframe onto its side and rested it against them. The floorboards underneath looked untouched. Sloane tapped her feet on them. A section where the headboard rested was loose. She grabbed a nail file from her tote and pried off the boards, uncovering a hidden space. It was filled with books from the University of Victoria’s library, some material from a heritage archive, and a few books that looked handmade and apparently from a library in a town called Tagridore.
Sloane reached her arm as far as possible under the floor and found a stack of smaller books. Journals. Her heart raced. She sat against the wall and started reading. The books dated from Jane’s first year at school to her last. In the final one, Jane had compiled research about what seemed to be the original Old Denwick families—the Gildeys, Keanes, Reeds, Smalldons, Ilievs, Tindalls, and Emleys. She had starred a few names but didn’t explain why.
Sloane set the journals aside and flipped through the books and archive material—research on the colonization of the Island, historical documents on land grants, business licenses, and old Denwick church records of births, deaths and marriages.
The manuscripts from Tagridore detailed supernatural creatures. As if they were beings we would see walking down the street. All she needed now was to discover vampires and werewolves existed. Witches and Demons do. Why the hell not, she thought and laughed out loud.
Jane hadn’t included any information about her personal life or with whom she was involved when she got pregnant. Sloane was left wondering why Jane had hidden these things. Who would care if she had them in her possession besides the library in Tagridore?
She took the books downstairs, placed them on the breakfast table, and stood in front of the wall of windows, staring into the garden. What would Dorathea have to say about Jane’s hidden stash? She thought about walking to the hobbit house next door and telling her cousin but decided to gather more information.
Dorathea had mentioned the original families were laid to rest in the crypt. She grabbed Jane’s last journal off the top of the stack. “I don’t know where you are, Elvina, but I’m leaving. I’ll be back before dinnertime.”
* * *
Sloane arrived at the Old Denwick cemetery and climbed over the locked, weathered gate, landing hard on the other side. The crows cawed and shattered the silence. It was late afternoon, and the sun had slipped behind the Garry oak canopies, leaving the headstones in shadows.
Sloane walked past Harold’s grave, now marked only with the casket spray. The air was still thick with turned soil. She took a dirt trail covered with slippery ivy and decaying leaves. It diverged from a stone walkway and weaved around towering trees to the back of the cemetery and up a hill, ending at the opulent mausoleum. One name was chiseled above its door. GILDEY.
“Nice digs for the dead,” Sloane said. She pushed on the door, and it creaked open. The waning sunlight entered the room through slit windows, revealing white marble walls and ornate plaques. The Gildey family’s dead peopled the walls.
Sloane stopped in front of a wooden-slat door in the back of the room. It opened to a stone passageway and staircase leading down. It was pitch black, and a musty odor wafted up from below. She turned on her phone’s flashlight and headed down to a second door opening into the crypt.
She stepped onto soft earth, and nothing moved in the room’s total darkness, not even the air. Maybe, she thought, just maybe, the crypt could help her understand what Jane had been investigating before she left Denwick. She moved the light around. Four sarcophagi were placed in the center of the tiny space, and arched niches from top to bottom in the walls housed simple caskets.
Reading aloud the names from Jane’s journal, Sloane searched for them on the walls. She found the Keanes, Ilievs, Tindalls, Reeds, Emleys, Smalldons, and the Wests. Except Jane had not included the Wests in her research. She examined the nameplates under each family name, the newest were still shiny gold-plated. Alice Emilie Reed , Nathaniel D. West , and Mary L. West . The last niche’s nameplate read, Beloved Daughter, Jane West, 1970– . She touched her mother’s name. Was she supposed to add the death date now? She had never been superstitious, but the idea that her ancestors were looking down on her was unsettling.
She turned and pointed the light at the three stone coffins in the center of the room. A name and date were etched into the lid of each. They predated those on the walls, but the families were the same—Emley, Iliev, and Keane.
Sloane walked around a coffin and tripped. Her heart raced, and she steadied herself, aiming the flashlight at the ground. The dirt dipped several inches in the shape of what looked like a missing sarcophagus. She wondered if it was a fourth coffin, the original Gildey, now at rest upstairs away from the commoners. She gave a snort of derision, then imagined Jane sneaking around in the dark crypt, playing detective, revealing its answers. But Jane had never been brave like that, never took chances, at least not the Jane Sloane knew.
She shone the light into the back of the crypt. No niches. The wall was a solid light gray stone streaked with white crystallized material. The veins spread out from the center like tree limbs. Sloane smoothed her hand over the cool-to-the-touch rock, feeling several notches.
Jane’s pendant warmed against her chest, and she pulled it over her head and held it in her hand. The silver star inside the glass bead began to glow. As she moved her hand closer to the wall, the star shone brighter. As if by instinct, she pressed the bead into the rock’s indentations. After a few attempts, it slipped into a notch. A perfect fit. The cavity filled with light, and the veins around it luminesced.
The wall tremored, creaking.
“Jesus Christ,” Sloane said, stepping back.
The crystalline mineral deposits transformed into shimmering branches reaching up and out, forming a solid tree whose trunk vanished into the malodorous ground. The wall gleamed like a silver veil. Sloane inched closer, holding out her hand. It trembled as she neared the wall, and she plunged it through. The air was crisp on the other side.
“Holy hell.” Without hesitation, she stepped through the middle of the tree. Shocked, Sloane stood at the rear of a tall building in a laneway. She faced the stone wall from whence she came. The glowing tree had disappeared.
“No, no, no.” She moved her hands over the wall and stepped back until she could see tree limbs etched into the stone. “All right. No problem. I got this.” She ran her hands over the tree and searched for notches, but she could only see a wave, a pulse in the air, surrounding her.
Jane’s pendant was back around her neck, warming against her skin, and it made her break out in goosebumps.
When she looked back at the laneway, she saw a man watching her. He disappeared around the building’s side as soon as she made him.
“Hey!” She chased him to the front of the building, but he vanished into a crowd on a broad, brick road. There were no cars, no noisy honking or sirens, only people. She could chase down the man, but she didn’t know where she was. Sloane looked up at the bright red awning above her and read, Silas Lamps, Enchanted Lighting for Discerning Tastes. Whichever direction she decided to go, this was where she needed to return.
On the other side of the street, a woman stood inside the front window of a whitewashed building with a lavender canopy. The sign on its awning read Steeped Café. She stared at Sloane, holding her gaze. She needed answers, and maybe the woman in the quaint café was up for some questions.
The ambrosial scent of bread dough filled the air, and customers sat at every table except one. The woman turned from the window and walked toward Sloane. She was tall and lissome, moving gracefully through the intimate space.
“Who are you?” Sloane asked as the woman approached her.
“It’s Freya, pet,” a voice answered from behind her.
Sloane startled and turned. “Jesus, Dorathea.” She held a hand to her chest. “Why are you here?”
“Freya summoned me.”
“You are the hidden one,” Freya said, standing a hair’s breadth away from Sloane’s face.
“Yes, dear. This is Jane’s child.”
Freya swept Sloane’s hair to one side. “I know who she is, my love. I’ve been expecting her.” Her sensual voice smoothed over Sloane’s nervous thoughts. She breathed deeply at the nape of Sloane’s bare neck, across her chest, down her back, and back up to her trembling lips. Sloane’s breathing quickened. She clenched her hands into fists, and when Freya’s closeness overstepped her comfort threshold, Freya drew back.
“So quick to anger,” she whispered.
Sloane shook her hands loose and glared at her. “Are you kidding me?”
“Please keep your voice down,” Dorathea said. She looked at Freya. “Well then? What about the spells?”
“The concealment spell is strong. The protection charm is new. Yours I presume,” Freya answered in a somber voice. Then, she turned and walked away.
Dorathea nudged Sloane to follow. They stopped at the open table and sat in overstuffed, orchid-purple chairs. “Is the older one impregnable?” Dorathea asked.
“I’ll need time to discover its roots.” Freya stared at Sloane’s clothes. “The Nogical is buried, I suppose?” Her tone was gentler.
Dorathea nodded. “This morning.”
“My condolences. I’ll bring us tea and scones.”
Sloane waited for Freya to disappear into the back of the café before dropping her tote on the side of the chair. She leaned as close as possible to her cousin. “Who is she, and why the hell did she smell me like that?”
Dorathea looked up and shook her head. “Are you at all capable of remaining phlegmatic?”
“Sure, when I’m not being accosted.”
“For goodness’ sake. You were no such thing. Freya is Elvina’s mother.”
“Her mom?”
“Yes. She is one of the wisest familiars and sensors of magic or evil in our world.”
“She was sensing me? Like a cat does? Why? Did you ask her to?”
“I asked Freya to discern the concealment spell that had kept you and Jane hidden from us. We do not know its origins or why it is so powerful.” She held Sloane’s eyes. “Are you always so prone to anger?”
Sloane sat back. “Probably. I do tend to go from okay to anger fast.”
“What did your mum do about this?”
“Well, now I know she used her abilities on me, getting inside my head. But she’d just calm me down. We’d sway, side to side. Sometimes in front of the Moulin de la Galette . I can still hear her. ‘Relationships are like the dancers at the Galette, pet. You think you’re safe in another’s arms, but no matter lover, friend, or family, the light shifts and your understanding of it all changes.’ By the time she was done talking, I had usually forgotten what I was mad about.”
Sloane looked out the window. Across the street was a Beaux-Arts building that resembled NYC’s Grand Central Terminal, except it was surrounded by an expansive lawn and gardens. “What’s that building?” she asked.
“We are in Tagridore. The capital of magical communities in the Northwest Quadrant. That building is our Quadrant Hall, Héahreced .”
Sloane turned back to her cousin. “What are quadrants?”
“Imagine the Earth flat, divided equally into four areas. We are in the Northwest Quadrant.”
“All right. Makes sense. What’s inside the Hehareeceed?”
“The Héahreced? Our Grand Coven and various Interspecies officials work there. The Grand Coven governs all laws of the Northwest Wiċċan.”
“So, who are the other Magicals?”
“There are many creatures in our world. Each has its defenders, like us Protectors.”
“Creatures like what? Fairies? Elves?”
Dorathea glanced around the café. “Lower your voice.” She leaned closer to the table. “If you’ve learned about a creature in a myth or fairy tale, it probably exists. But we can only detect our own kind.”
Sloane sat back, frustrated. “So, unless our murder suspect is a witch teaming with a Demon, how do we find our killer?”
“We request the Grand Coven’s permission to pursue other magical beings.”
“Permission?”
“I am sure it is not an unfamiliar concept for you. You are aware of warrants and court orders, are you not?”
“Yeah, intimately acquainted.”
Sloane scanned the room, unsure what she was looking for. Nothing struck her as out of the ordinary except for how everyone dressed in jewel-toned cloaks and capes over matching tunics. Although after two days, her cousin’s unusual outfits had grown on her.
“So you have to live in Denwick your entire life?”
“No. But Nogicals are quite fragile when faced with those who are different. We live among them, but it is an exhausting way to be. By our seventies, we go home and leave our covens to the next generation.”
“But you’re still living in Denwick.”
“I had no choice. I have no successor.” Dorathea peered out the window.
Sloane felt the familiar pull of a follow-up question, but she understood her cousin wasn’t going to elaborate. She thought about the crypt and four generations of Wests. “Do you want me to put Jane’s ashes with the others?”
Dorathea’s brows drew together. “No, pet. Our ancestors are not in those tombs.”
“Wait? You said they were. The niches have their names on them.”
“I said no such thing. If you remember correctly, I said in a sense they were. You failed to question me further.”
Sloane put her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Fine. Then where are they?”
“They are all buried in the Northeast Quadrant, our ancestral roots.” Dorathea folded her hands. “We only buried your great-grandparents last year. Of course, they had lived in the magical world for years.”
“Seriously? They’d have to be well over a hundred years old.”
“We live a bit longer than Nogicals. I am unsure how your mum expected to explain that to you.”
“I don’t even know what to believe anymore.”
“Well, I can assure you I am not a fabulist. You would be wise to trust me,” Dorathea said.
Freya stole upon them unnoticed and placed a tray on the table. Sloane started. “Relax.” Freya laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe with me.” She placed a package next to Sloane. “Give this to Elvina, please. It’s her favorite.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sloane put the warm package in her tote.
Freya turned to Dorathea. “Your favorite blackcurrant and thyme scones and Earl Grey tea.” She placed a teacup and dessert plate in front of her.
Dorathea smiled and held Freya’s free hand. “They smell delicious. Thank you, dearest.”
They seemed to escape to another place, staring into each other’s eyes. Sloane helped herself to the tea service trying not to interrupt their moment. When Freya walked away, Dorathea turned to Sloane with soft eyes. “I’m impressed you found your way here.”
“Don’t be.” She retrieved Jane’s pendant from under her shirt. “I was in the crypt, and this thing pretty much told me what to do.”
Dorathea raised an eyebrow. “Why were you in the crypt?”
“I was going to tell you why this evening.” Sloane poured milk into her tea. “After you dropped me off, I searched Jane’s bedroom. And under her floorboards, I found some library books about Denwick’s original families and a few from here about magical creatures. She also hid a stack of her journals. One was full of her research.”
Dorathea set her teacup down. “We searched her room, every inch, for those.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. They weren’t hard to find.” Sloane sipped her tea.
“Your mother had caused tension with the Grand Coven with that research.” Dorathea bit into the end of the scone. “Mmm. My favorite, indeed.”
“The more you tell me about Jane, the less I think we are talking about the same woman. The Jane who raised me worked for the FBI for God’s sake. She was a stickler for the rules.”
“Age and experience change us. Sometimes into completely different people than we once were.” Dorathea looked at Freya as she glided around the other tables, and the thought lines across her forehead smoothed. “Did you find any information about your father?”
“No. The early journals were about school. Friends. The last one was about whatever she was researching.”
“That is regrettable,” Dorathea said. “I know how important finding him is to you. Which is why I will help you in any way I can.”
“You can start by telling me if you think my father put the concealment spell on Jane and me.”
Dorathea turned her head, looking at Freya again. “We will know more soon.”
Sloane stared out the window. A man was standing across the street under a lamppost. He looked like the one watching her earlier when she came through the Tree of Life. She jumped to her feet, and the man slipped into a shadow, disappearing down the side of the Silas Lamps building.
“What is the matter?” Dorathea followed Sloane’s gaze outside. “Do you see someone?”
“Yeah, a guy. He was standing across the street, watching us. I think I saw him earlier, too. He knew I’d spotted him and ran down the alleyway.”
Dorathea narrowed her eyes. “Sit. You are not going anywhere.”
Sloane looked at her cousin. “Can Demons get into Tagridore?”
“Only if a wiċċan has given them access.” Dorathea continued to stare out the window and said in a low voice, “We must be careful, pet. Even Tagridore will be dangerous for us now.”
* * *
Sloane and Dorathea returned to Denwick through the Tree of Life and walked back to Mallow Avenue down quiet streets in the crisp night air. They added nothing to the silence until they reached the cottage.
“I’m meeting with Charles Huxham in the morning. About the estate,” Sloane said. “But I’m also questioning him. He has as much motive as anyone else to kill Harold and me. Maybe more.”
Dorathea nodded. “I suppose he does. Which is why you must be careful.”
“Isn’t that what Elvina’s for?”
“She is not a bodyguard.”
Sloane chuckled. “All right. I’ll be careful. See you later.” At the front door, she put the key into the lock, but it inched open on its own, and she jumped to the side, peeking in.
Nothing moved.
She slid her fingers along the foyer wall and flipped on the lights before slipping around the doorframe. Elvina sat before her, tapping the tip of her tail on the floor. “Jesus Christ. Why’d you scare me like that?”
It’s a bit late, and I don’t have the hands to make my dinner.
Sloane slammed the door.
You might feel differently about me now, but while I’m protecting you in this form, you’ll need to feed me at the very least.
“I’ve had a mind-blowing day. So can you find some patience?” Sloane pulled out the parcel wrapped in brown paper. “If you’re done complaining, we can eat.” She held out the box.
Elvina’s pupils enlarged, the yellow-green of her eyes vanishing. You traveled to Tagridore.
“Yeah. And I met your mother.”
Yes, I know, dear. That’s my favorite dish.
“I found the tree in the crypt.”
You did? Elvina leaped onto the kitchen island.
“Yeah.” Sloane pulled out the necklace from under her shirt.
Jane’s key.
“It guided me to the lock. And the tree opened.”
Then it truly is your key, or it wouldn’t have given you access.
Sloane tucked the necklace inside her shirt and unwrapped Freya’s package. She placed it on a dish and slid it over to Elvina. “So what is it?”
Three-meat pie. Elvina sashayed across the island and tried to bunt Sloane’s chin, but Sloane backed away. Oh, I see. No more affection? Elvina sat on her haunches. It’s cramped in this body, and along with feeding me, I need you to pet me and scratch my chin, regardless of how you feel. It’s only fair.
“Fair?” Sloane opened a bottle of whiskey and poured a double. “I don’t have a problem with you being a familiar. I’m pissed that you lied to me for all these years.”
Elvina padded back to her pie. I didn’t want to, but I had no say in the matter.
“Yeah. Right. Because you were bound to do what Jane ordered.”
Yes.
Sloane’s voice grew angry. “Do you know why she ran away from Denwick, and you’re just not telling me?”
Elvina continued eating. Jane never told me.
“Did she order you to never divulge who my father is, too?”
Elvina looked up. Your mother, my best friend, is dead. I’m no longer obligated to her orders. If I could stop your hurt and give you these answers, I would. She hesitated. Why are you staring at me like that?
“You’re obligated to me now?”
I’m not a genie, but yes, I’m entirely your familiar.
Sloane leaned against the island. Her anger slipped away. “That’s very interesting to know.”
I’m sure I’ll regret letting it slip.
“So what form will you take when you’re done protecting and training me?”
I have no idea. But I know I should have finished my duties many years ago when your mother came into her full powers. For your sake, it’s a good thing I didn’t.
Sloane continued to stare at her familiar. “Your mom’s a beautiful woman.”
Yes, she is. Elvina lapped up more of her meat pie.
“She’s also scary as hell.” Sloane sipped her drink.
Again, you are correct.
Sloane chuckled and held out her glass. “Enjoy your mother’s meat pie. I’m taking my dinner to bed. I’ve got an early appointment with Charles Huxham.”
Elvina raised her head and licked gravy from the sides of her mouth. Try not to get angry and kill him, dear. We’ve all had enough death.