It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (3 page)

Lightning flashed in the distance, highlighting dark cloud cover. I shuddered. I hated electrical storms with every fiber of my being.

Focusing on what Harper had said, I knew I’d be a fool to ignore her instincts—­they were finely tuned—­ but I thought this village was exactly where we needed to be. So much had gone wrong over the last few years in our lives, from my divorce to Harper’s brushes with the law.

“It can’t be worse than where we were, right?” I said.

“It was one little arrest, Darcy. Six months ago,” she added impatiently. “Can we let it go now? I don’t really want my arrest record to follow me around for the rest of my life.”

She should have thought of that before she was caught shoplifting a puppy. Harper swore up and down it was the first and only time she’d ever stolen something, and I wanted to believe her, but didn’t quite. Ever
since she was little, she was always getting into some kind of trouble. In elementary school, it was writing on the bathroom walls about the injustices of processed cafeteria food (she was always too smart for her own good). In high school it was mostly silly pranks on the class bullies (sneaking into the locker room and putting itching powder in jockstraps). In college she’d been the lead suspect in setting free dozens of lab rats in a science lab (not enough evidence to file charges). As far as I knew, she was currently on a straight and narrow path, her misguided attempts at activism in check. Hopefully a change of scenery would keep her on that course. I really didn’t want to see her go to jail.

“Hey, what’s one more secret?” I completely agreed we should keep her past quiet. People could be terribly judgmental.

She laughed. “I think the witchy wish thing trumps my misdemeanor.”

I smiled at the thought of Miss Demeanor, aka Missy, the gray and white Schnoodle (half Schnauzer, half Poodle) who was now part of our family. The dog was the only silver lining that had come out of Harper’s arrest. Well, okay, all right. There had been the fact that Harper’s arrest had sparked an investigation that led to the dreadful pet store and three puppy mills being closed down (which was why the judge was lenient with her, giving her community service instead of jail time). Be that as it may, Harper still didn’t mind getting into all kinds of trouble if she believed she was fighting for a just cause.

I tried not to worry too much about Missy’s slight personality change since our arrival to the village. She’d gone from a wild puppy with crazed frenetic energy to one who had more of a controlled enthusiasm. And one who had suddenly become an escape artist, running away as often as she could. Thankfully, she always returned, but it was exhausting searching for her, and fory
some reason, I couldn’t figure out how she kept getting out of the yard. Was hers the normal progression of puppy behavior? Or was I just overreacting? After all, the move had been an adjustment for all of us. New house, new town, new everything. Even still, I wondered whether I should take her to a local vet for a checkup. Just to be sure.

I slowed and took a left turn down the road that led to the Enchanted Village. “I needed the change, too,” I said so Harper wouldn’t feel like this move had been all about her. “You know, because of the divorce.” It was the truth. It was good to get away, to not have to see my ex with his brand-­new family around town. The jab in my heart told me I still wasn’t completely over what had happened, despite my attempts to convince myself other­wise.

An elaborate iron trellis covered in dripping vines and vibrant white night-­blooming moonflowers marked the change from the paved road into a cobblestoned lane that twisted narrowly through the woods that surrounded the village.

As I drove along, the branches of mature yew trees stretched overhead, entwining to form a natural tunnel. The dark, shadowy passage stirred recollections of enchanted forests from old storybooks where pixies played and hollows hid mischievous trolls.

It was likely that in these particular woods pixies and trolls still played. I’d come to believe
anything
was possible in the Enchanted Village. After all, I was a witch.

Only four months had passed since my father’s death, which had been the catalyst to my and Harper’s lives changing drastically. Till that point, I’d been working at Dad’s dental practice as an office manager. With his death the practice closed, and I lost my job—­no more throwing myself into work to forget my painful divorce. No more pretending everything was just fine in my life.

Harper, a recent college graduate who hadn’t had any job offers, had turned to activism to occupy her time.

Dad had left us a nice inheritance, sure, but we quickly found out that money didn’t buy us the happiness we were sadly lacking or suddenly reveal our purposes in life. We were grieving, at loose ends. Not sure what to do with our lives. Until Aunt Ve visited us and made her big revelation. We were witches, something our father had known all along and hadn’t told us. I was still trying to comprehend why he’d kept us in the dark, even going so far as to make Aunt Ve promise never to tell us while he was still alive.

Never in a million years would I have guessed I was a witch before Aunt Ve broke the news. I wondered how my life could have been different if I’d known about the wishing spells when I was growing up. How I would have been different…

I shook the thoughts aside. There was no use dwelling on what-­could-­have-­beens. It was time to focus on our futures. “Has the meeting started?”

“Not yet. Everyone’s waiting for the grand hoo-­ha to arrive.”

“Has there been any talk about why the meeting was called?”

“Not a peep—­people are too busy interrogating me.” Desperation caused a hitch in her voice as she added, “How soon will you get here?”

Harper had always preferred books to people, hated crowds, and, most of all, detested answering questions about herself. This meeting had to be torture for her.

“Another ten minutes or so. I need to stop at the house and change.” I’d already shimmied out of the tutu and wings and put on a pair of jeans I’d had in the car. I used some wet wipes to take off the heaviest makeup, but I still wore the frilly pink bodysuit, and the glitter was being stubborn.y

“What? No! You don’t have time. I need you here, Darcy. Or there may be nothing left of me. Please?”

That was low. She knew I couldn’t say no to her when she asked nicely. “Okay, fine. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

I hung up as the natural tunnel widened, and I slowed at an ornate welcome sign at the side of the road, crowded with colorful flowers at its base.

I looked ahead, taken away by the beauty and charm before me. The village square was aglow in fairy lights and sparkling lanterns hanging from tree branches. Gaslights cast circles of light onto the stone sidewalks and threw shadows along the connected storefronts and individual shops that lined the main square.

Awnings shaded large plate-­glass shop windows, and ivy trailed from flower boxes bursting with bold-­hued annuals. A few tourists remained, walking hand in hand along the sidewalk, window-­shopping—­most of the shops closed at nine on weeknights. Windows glowed in the apartments above the storefronts, and specks of lights twinkled from the streetlamps along the lanes of the neighborhoods beyond the square.

Neighborhoods where magic lived.

The Enchanted Village had prospered by focusing on all things magical. Tourists loved it. But what the mortals didn’t know was that magic was truly present here in the form of witches. From the time of the Salem Witch Trials in the late sixteen hundreds, this land had been a haven. A safe place for witches to hide until it was safe to practice their Crafts publicly once again.

That time had never come. There were still too many
who didn’t understand the magic, the powers, and they feared what they didn’t know.

So the decision was made to hide in plain sight. By creating the Enchanted Village as a tourist area, the Craft could be practiced under the guise of commercialism.

The Spellcrafters opened the Spellbound Bookshop—­where I was headed for the meeting. The Herbcrafters opened Natural Magick Tea Shoppe. The Colorcrafters opened both the Magic Wand Salon and Just an Illusion Art Gallery.

Some of the shops in the village were owned by mortals, who had no idea they worked side by side with Crafters. To many, this was just a cute tourist destination and a quaint place to live. But to the Crafters, this village was their heritage—­and a way to keep it alive.

Lightning lit the western sky as the road narrowed. At the center of the village, I slowed and turned right, heading toward the bookshop.

All the diagonal parking spots in front of the store were already taken, so I parked down the street, in the lot of the Pixie Cottage, a small B&B. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I hurried down the sidewalk, fighting against the strong breeze, fighting against the apprehension within me that arose with every storm. Across the village green, I spotted the brightly lit As You Wish sign swaying on the arched portico of a beautiful Victorian.

Home.
I liked the calm and peaceful feeling the word created within me—­serenity had been hard to come by since my divorce.

Smiling, I picked up my pace before the storm hit. Every shop I passed was closed up tight. The only businesses open this late were the Cauldron (the local pub) and the Sorcerer’s Stove (a family restaurant with the best burgers in the village), but they were located on the
other side of the square. I rushed past the Spinning Wheel and the Witch’s Brew Coffee Shop, and paused ever so slightly at the Bewitching Boutique. Its window display highlighted a gorgeous blue flowing gown, perfect for a romantic night on the town.

Romance. It was a nice thought—­for someone else. Though I’d come to fully believe in magic, to me love was a complete and total fairy tale. A bad one at that.

The sulfury scent of rain hung in the air, and lightning flashed brightly, a flickering warning to take cover. I was almost to the bookshop when I spotted a man approaching from the opposite direction, his gait sure and steady. Confident. Thunder echoed as we reached the door at the same time.

He was tall, dark, and dangerous with his don’t-­mess-­with-­me attitude. I’d never seen him before, though if he was attending the meeting, he must be a local.

Mortal or Crafter? I wondered.

No way to tell.

Even within the Craft world, there was no way to know unless the power was revealed through the eye twitch or through word of mouth between Crafter families. We all had to be very careful what we said. Revelation of our powers to a mortal, even accidentally, meant risking the loss of our gift forever.

I smiled politely and reached for the door handle. He beat me to it. My right hand landed on his left, and I felt a jolt of energy clear up to my shoulder. I dismissed it as a result of the electricity in the air and drew my hand back and waited.

But he didn’t open the door. In fact, I was pretty sure he was holding it closed.

Great.

“I don’t think I know you,” he said, his voice deep, curt, and oddly mesmerizing. “Are you new in the village?”

“Fairly new.” I glanced at the door, willed him to
open it. I wanted to
wish
it, but I couldn’t grant my own wishes. Unfortunately.

He had a look about him—­a keen, assessing dark gaze, the square of his shoulders—­that screamed law enforcement of some kind. As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything wrong tonight—­other than almost scaring a little girl to death—­so I wasn’t sure why I suddenly felt like a suspect.

“Nick Sawyer,” he said, holding out his right hand, his left still firm on the damn door.

“Darcy Merriweather.” I reluctantly held out my hand.

He surprised me by smiling. “Ve’s niece?”

I nodded, hating what his smile was doing to my stomach. Making it feel all soft and gushy. I tugged my hand from his. Why was my mouth suddenly dry? And why did I suddenly notice his left ring finger was bare? “We should be getting inside, don’t you think? We don’t want to miss the meeting.”

“No, we don’t want to do that.” He was blatantly staring at me, making no move to go inside.

“The door?” I resisted the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.

“Right.” Again the smile. “Nice to meet you, Darcy Merriweather.”

“You, too,” I said as sweetly as I could muster. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so uncomfortable.

He (finally!) held open the door, and I rushed forward, so very glad to be free. But I suddenly ran into a solid wall of muscle. Nick had sidestepped in front of me, blocking my entrance. Surprised, I reached out before I fell backward.

Unfortunately, I latched on to
him
. Gripping his shirt, I could feel his muscled chest beneath my hands. His heartbeat, too. It was strong and steady, pulsing under my fingertips.

I backed off. Way off. I tucked my arms behind me, linking my fingers together tightly.

A sly smile pulled on his lips. “Just wanted to say…”

His gaze swept slowly over me, making me heat from the inside out. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I hadn’t let myself get this close to a man since my divorce—­when I’d sworn men off altogether. I couldn’t let this instant attraction go any further than this doorway.

I didn’t want to be hurt again.

“Yes?” I said with a hint of steel.

He held the door open wide. “I like your tiara.”

“D
arcy, dear, this is Sylar Dewitt, owner of Third Eye Optometry and chairman of the village council.” Aunt Ve linked arms with the man. Her cheeks colored as she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “He’s also my beau.”

Sylar shook my hand heartily, a wide grin splitting his doughy face. He was short and pudgy with kind blue eyes, a shock of spiky white hair, and a white mustache that curled upward at its ends. A pair of round glasses perched precariously on his bulbous nose. “Pleasure to meet you, Darcy. I’ve heard much about you from Ve.”