Witch's Bell Book One, Page 3

  Chapter 3

  Ebony shifted her body from side-to-side, head weaving to-and-fro as the music pumped through her store. Her hair flicked around her like a skirt flaring in mid-twirl. She snapped her fingers in time with the beat and shook her wrists up and down until her copious golden bangles tinkled like triangles.

  She didn’t believe in working without music. Working without music was like working without food: unsustainable, boring, and dull. Whenever she worked, she always made sure she had two things with her – blaring music and a bag full of candies sprawled across the counter.

  Cleaning up the store had been quite a task. Harry had put on a show the other day when he’d taught that new detective a lesson.

  Ebony sighed. Though it had been amusing when it had happened, she was now sick of picking up books and stuffing them into shelves.

  Time for a candy.

  She dumped the three or so books she had in her arms on the ground, dust clouds eddying off the floor as they struck. Sweeping the floor was a task she had never gotten around to doing. It was because of brooms – she hated brooms. Human fiction had gotten that part dead wrong over the years. Witches didn’t fly around on broomsticks all the time, black cloaks billowing in the wind, wands at the ready. Why? Because witches hated house-work, the color black was boring, and wands were for magicians.

  Plus – she reasoned as she flung herself down the old metal spiral-staircase that separated the first-floor from the second – people expected dust when they came into a used bookstore. If the books they were looking for weren’t caked in the stuff, how would they know they were old and used?

  The stairs clunked with rusty creaks as her red, bedazzled high-heels pounded them. This bookstore really was old. It was a large open-plan building, with a high ceiling. It was stuffed to the brim with books and shriveled magazines not a soul had likely ever read. The counter was off to one side, right at the front of the store, near the fire-truck red door. There was an old cash register sitting on top of it next to a glass bowl full of candy and ludicrously colored lollipops. She always offered one to customers after they’d bought something, to sweeten the deal.

  The rest of the first floor was partitioned off with giant, dark, stained, wooden bookshelves. Rather than having them arranged in neat rows with labels and some kind of order, Ebony preferred the hodgepodge method of library cataloging. There were old, red, velvet banana-lounges dotted around the place, their fabric torn and worn with age. Behind the lounges, or to the side, or in front of windows, or wherever she damn pleased – were large bookcases, their shelves overflowing with books of all sizes, colors, and content.

  It was a rabbit warren, as her father described it, a crazy rabbit warren dug out by rabbits on drugs. She’d had always giggled at that description.

  Her mother had a different opinion. A messy mind, Avery Bell always warned, summoned a messy life.

  But Ebony loved the place. Sure, having no actual order meant most people became too frustrated in their search to buy anything. That didn’t matter. For the few people who stuck it out, it was always worth seeing that look of wonder in their eyes. That marvelous glint of achievement as they realized they’d found precisely what they were looking for, despite the sheer chaos of the place.

  Upstairs was a different world. While downstairs resembled a book-cyclone, upstairs was neat. It was a mezzanine level with a large wooden railing from which one could peer down at the store below. Beautiful old bookcases were lined, neat and exact, along each of the three walls. Each was stacked with old books. They were all sun-damaged and pale, but the blue, green, red, and black spines still twinkled under the right light. If you made it close enough, you could even make out the original gold lettering printed on their spines.

  Upstairs wasn’t open to ordinary customers, a rusty chain being hung over the base of the staircase with the word private painted in chipped red-paint on a wooden board. Upstairs was her, ah, other collection. It was a comprehensive set of books on magic, alchemy, witchcraft, wizardry, spells, demons, and anything else you could think of. Unlike the fluff you might buy in an ordinary bookstore, these books were the genuine article.

  The books on the top level formed the backbone of Harry’s original collection. Harry Elbert Horseshoe had been a wizard of some repute during the early twentieth century. He’d traveled the world collecting any magical book he could get his hands on, eventually bringing his whole collection back to his hometown of Vale. Though Ebony didn’t know too much about the old-timer, she did know he’d guarded his collection like a mother hen guards her chicks.

  Ebony jumped off the final step, bangles jangling on her wrists. She intended to trot up to the counter, grab a strawberry lollipop, and continue sorting out the mess, while her stereo system blared.

  To her surprise, there was an actual real customer standing at the counter.

  “Oh.” She jammed her thumb onto the pause button on the stereo-remote in her pocket. “Didn’t see you there, pet.”

  She walked up to the counter, teeth pressing into her lips in a cheeky smile. “I really should invest in a bell I can hear over my music – oh,” she said suddenly as she rounded the back of the counter, “It’s you.”

  Detective Nathan Wall smiled back, though you couldn’t call it a smile. It was more a bare twitch of acknowledgment. “I don’t think there is a bell on Earth that could be heard over that din,” his voice dripped with sarcasm. One arm rested lightly on the counter, the other pressed two books into his chest.

  “You,” she cocked an eyebrow, pursed her lips, and blinked, “Are wearing a different suit.”

  Nate looked down, expression bland. “Great detective skills. I can see why the police department consults you now.”

  Ebony plucked a red lollipop from the bowl by her side and gestured toward Nate with it, as if it were some kind of wand. “You are sarcastic, rookie, and that’s all that can be said about your personality.” She unwrapped the lollipop, letting the wrapper fall to the counter.

  “Hmm, and you dance like a kitten on speed, which I think kind of sums you up too.”

  Briefly, she was horrified this buffoon had seen her dancing upstairs. The blighter had obviously been here for some time and hadn’t had the manners to announce himself.

  Ebony shooed away the embarrassment, choosing to smile mysteriously instead. “First you come in here and insult my music and now my dancing. Tell me, Detective Nate, is that how we make friends?”

  “Who said I was trying to make friends? What I’m really here to do,” he placed two books he was carrying neatly onto the counter, “Is return these books.”

  “Hmm, I see,” Ebony pulled them away from him, making a show of checking them over completely for any sign of damage or misuse, “And did you actually manage to read them?”

  Nate flattened his tie. “You’d be surprised, but literacy rates amongst homicide detectives are actually on the rise.”

  Ebony cooed. “Oooh, you can talk and you can read. Next you’ll be finding manners. Then you’ll be a real man.” She placed the books behind the counter with a satisfied smile.

  Nate’s grin stiffened. “I think you might need to look up the definition of ‘man’ in the dictionary, you might find it illuminating.”

  She ground her front teeth together. Now, now, wasn’t this detective sharp? She had to admit, she much preferred this man when he was frightened. He was too much work to handle, otherwise.

  “Hold on, you wouldn’t actually have a dictionary around here, would you? You know an actual useful book?”

  She straightened up, pulling the lollipop from her mouth with a pop. “It depends if you like paper weights, Detective Nate. Are you telling me you didn’t find those two books I lent you useful? Would you rather learn all about the witches, the Pact, the Portal, demons, and such – by being thrown into a graveyard at night during the witching hour with nothing but your blazing wit to save you? Because if you’d like, I can take you down to the Portal right now
and introduce you to a mind-sucking demon-fly. But only if you’d like.”

  Nate’s expression was, as usual, unreadable. “The books were fine,” he changed track, reverting to his usual officious tone. “In fact, I’d be interested in more, if you have any.”

  Ebony drew a loop in the air with her lollipop. “Are you asking if I have any more books? Look around, rookie – I have a whole store full.”

  Detective Nate was obviously done playing. “Specifically, I was wondering if you had anything pertaining to that Portal of yours, especially anything relating to the Portal Prophecies.”

  She blinked, shocked. “You actually read those books, didn’t you? And it’s not my Portal,” she corrected with a laugh. “You think I’d be working in a second-hand bookstore if I had my own tamed space-time anomaly?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Nate appeared to ignore her attempts at humor, “But much of the relationship between the police and the Coven is due to the Portal, right?”

  “I guess you could say that,” she said carefully, caught off-guard by the detective’s insightful questions. “The Portal is incredibly powerful. It allows things to happen in Vale that couldn’t happen elsewhere. As such, it can be dangerous, unless properly managed.” She suddenly sighed, not knowing where to begin. There was so much about magic and Vale the detective didn’t know, let alone the Portal. How was she supposed to explain it all to a man who looked dumber than a cardboard cut-out?

  Nate stared at her evenly, obviously waiting for his answer.

  “Okay, here’s the low-down. Like I said before, the Portal is usually closed. Actually, it’s always closed. It’s been a really long time since anything tangible has come through it. Just energy and the occasional thermic cloud—”

  “Hold on, are you saying that nothing can come through the Portal? Nothing but energy, that is?”

  Ebony rolled her eyes, not liking to be interrupted, especially by someone so darn keen. “No. I mean, technically no. Things from our side,” she patted her chest, “Can occasionally go through the Portal, but nothing comes through to this side. Nothing but energy—”

  “But what about the Prophecies? You said nothing ever comes through the Portal, but if that’s the case, then why do most of your books refer to it as a door? Doors are usually two-way. And the Prophecies specifically mention creatures coming through the Portal, so why dismiss it?” As Nate spoke, his voice was easy, but precise. Ebony realized for the first time that he actually sounded like a detective. His questions were exact, to the point, and probing. Worse, he sounded in his element – in control.

  “Okay, whatever. Yeah, the Portal Prophecies mention that creatures from the Other Side can occasionally hitch a ride into our world. But you have to understand, Detective, that these Prophecies pertained to a time long past. A time when people knew more about magic, but less about risk control. A time when some dumb-diddly of a wizard thought it would be a neat idea to try to communicate with inter-dimensional beings, regardless of the consequences.” She took a breath. “Look, magic is closely regulated these days. It needs to be. You think it’s especially easy keeping something like magic secret in this technological age? Of course it isn’t. So, for the benefit of magical creatures, and for the benefit of humanity as a whole, magic is kept under control. Maybe in the past it would be possible to open up the Portal and invite some nice old dimensional-alien around for tea, but it just couldn’t happen anymore.”

  Nate hardly seemed impressed by her reassurance. His face was so set, she fancied not even a barrel of diamonds would impress the man. “The reason I insist,” he said clearly, obviously wanting Ebony to pay attention, even if he thought she didn’t seem capable of understanding him, “Is because the Portal seems to be at the center of the relationship between the witches and the police. It also seems important to the variety of crime you experience in Vale. That, Ebony, makes it important to me.”

  She stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “There isn’t much to tell, Detective, honestly. The Portal just is. Trust me. Nothing is going to come out of it any time soon. That’s really not what you have to worry about here. You want to understand crime in Vale? Then your major culprits are idiot kids and the Internet, accidents, petty-theft of blessings, the occasional neighborhood hexing – nothing of inter-dimensional importance, not by a long-shot.”

  Nate hardly seemed pacified, but he did nod his head. “So, do you have any books for me, or what?” he repeated his original request with the same steady, unnervingly precise tone.

  She liked to look like she took everything in her stride. It was part of her blazing personality. She was now realizing, however, that she didn’t like it when other people did the same. This man was coming across as arrogant in the extreme, too eager to control, and too damn capable. He’d just found out magic was real, and now he was having a serious argument with her about the possibility of directional material-transport through a magical inter-dimensional space rift. How dare he?

  The tick of Harry’s old clock filtered through the room. It felt like the heartbeat of the place, the background reminder that things were never as they seemed. It also reminded Ebony she could hardly stand here and fume at the man. He was a detective, and there was the Pact to think about. Part of her job as consultant witch for the police force was to keep their officers up-to-speed. She was obliged, but she didn’t have to smile about it.

  Damn, sometimes she hated the Pact.

  “Fine. I have a book relating to Portal dynamics,” she said quietly. “I’ll just go find it.” She walked around the counter, trying to keep her back straight, but hips swaying.

  She bit her lip with annoyance when she realized Nate was following her.

  “So what is a Portal? Are there Portals elsewhere on the planet? If it produces energy, then why haven’t scientists picked up on it? If it’s inter-dimensional, then doesn’t there need to be a balanced flow of energy into and out of the Portal, in order to maintain the thermal equilibrium of both systems?”

  She felt like she was being followed around by a pesky child who had more questions than friends. “Thermal equilibrium? What kind of question is that?”

  “It’s a smart question. You should try asking them sometime. Then, in the event that you meet someone smart, you might not sound so dumb.”

  One of Ebony’s eyebrows rose like a puff of smoke. “Really? Very nice.”

  “Seriously though, there has to be more to this Portal, and I’d like to know it,” his tone and his expression both returned to normal. He was capable of switching between sarcasm and efficiency in the blink of an eye.

  “Look,” she put her hands on her hips and pressed her lips into a pout, “Do I look like a walking dictionary? You seem capable of reading, so why don’t you do that?”

  “I’d rather it comes directly from the witch’s mouth, so to speak.” He flattened his tie again, something he did at every opportunity.

  “Listen,” she picked her way past a banana-lounge drowned under books, “Obviously, I can’t tell you everything about magic and the Portal, because obviously, you simply wouldn’t understand.”

  “Obviously.”

  “But I can tell you this,” she ducked around a pile of teetering boxes, her moves graceful and elegant, “The Portal itself, while important, isn’t what you should be concentrating on. You need to know about magic first.” Ebony sighed, hating this impromptu lecture more and more. She hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin schooling this brat. “Okay, we’ll start with this.” She pointed to herself. “I am a Summoner Witch,” she said slowly. “Now, the first rule of summoning is to become.”

  “And how does this relate to the Portal? Not that it isn’t fascinating,” he added drolly.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, listen to me. You are jumping ahead. Magic is where you need to start this story, Mr Detective. If you want to understand why the Portal is important to Vale, then you have to understand that it is not because of the Portal itself, but because of
how it affects magic here. Magic is everywhere. In fact, it is as ubiquitous a force of nature as Death, Truth, Movement, and Light.”

  “None of which are forces of nature,” he pointed out, his voice toneless.

  She ignored him. “Magic isn’t zipping around on brooms, waving wands, and waking the dead. Magic is a part of reality. It’s the part of reality, in fact, that makes the unlikely likely, the impossible real.”

  “You mean delusion?” He cleared his throat.

  “No, I mean chance. Look around you – notice anything? Books, shelves, maybe some dust – nothing unusual, right?”

  “I don’t know, I would hardly call you ordinary.” He offered a sarcastic grin.

  “It’s a Labor of Hercules trying to teach you something, Detective. And if you interrupt once more, I shan’t tell you a thing.”

  He put his hands up, as if in submission. “Please, go on. Magic is chance,” he prompted her.

  “Not exactly. Magic is simply a type of Movement. It’s one of the forces of reality that make things happen. Magic simply pertains to the unlikely, the impossible, and the apparent never-can-be’s. If you manage to do the impossible once, we call it a miracle. If you manage to do the impossible every day, then you are magical.”

  He crossed his arms. “So people who know magic are mini-gods then?” He looked at her carefully, obviously not believing his conclusion for a second.

  “If I could smite you right now, darling, I would. But it doesn’t work like that. Sometimes if you know enough about reality – about the real reality, and not that nonsense they teach you in science class – you can affect a change. There are two truths, detective, and two paradoxes. We are told anything can happen, that anything can become, right? We are also told that whatever occurs is brought to be through laws and regularity. Chaos and Order. Now, magic sits between these two.” She sniffed, happy at her explanation.

  Nate’s expression grew even less impressed. His eyes pressed together, and he wore a tight frown. “That tells me nothing. This doesn’t make any sense. I ask you to explain the Portal, and you get sidetracked trying to explain the impossible—”

  Ebony harrumphed and crossed her arms. “Teaching you is like teaching a stone.”

  “Perhaps you should try harder then. I don’t need to know the inner workings of your world, believe me. What I do need to know, is all about the Portal. Now, are you going to tell me, or what?”

  She’d never dealt with a man like this. To say he was dogged, was an understatement. Nate was impossible. “Okay. Time for the three-year-old version. Magic is real. It works. It’s regulated. It also can’t be understood by thick-headed detectives who ask too many questions, but don’t have any insight. The Portal is a doorway between worlds and serves to increase the incidence of magic within Vale. I’m a witch, you’re a detective – and now we have to find a way to work together.” She ended by cocking her head to the side and smiling sarcastically. “Got it?”

  Nate, eyes still narrowed, opened his mouth to ask a million more questions, but the mobile in his pocket rang. He grabbed it up and snapped it open in a flash. “Detective Wall here.”

  Ebony could make out the muffled tones of the person on the other end of the line, but found it far more interesting to watch Nate’s expression instead. The man had obviously grown up on too many movies of knights in shining armor. He simply couldn’t puff out his chest any more, or jut out that jaw any farther.

  Chevalier. She rolled the term around in her mind. Idiot Chevalier.

  “Ah ha, got it,” he said quickly, his tone even. “Corner of 22nd Street and Matriarch’s Place.”

  Ebony looked up. She knew that place – old antique store run by a peevish old woman who always wore too much floral.

  “Yep, don’t you worry, I’ll go and find our official witch liaison now.” Nate looked over to her and nodded his head. “We’ll be there in 20.”

  She clapped her hands together. “We have work, don’t we?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How lucky for you that you just happened to be here,” her tone could only be described as luscious – dripping with enough chocolate and honey to catch any fly.

  “Lucky.” Nate returned the phone to his pocket and tucked the book under his arm. “Let’s go.”

  “I mean, don’t you find it strange.” She fluffed her hair out from her face. “Because I certainly do.”

  “Find what strange?” Nate shifted his feet, half turning to face the door, but still keeping an eye on her.

  “Oh come on. Why didn’t you admit you were already here?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Hmmm,” Ebony made an appreciative sound as if she’d just come across a buffet cram-packed with delicious desserts of every kind. “You said you’d just go find me, rookie, why didn’t you admit you already happened to be here?” She winked.

  He cleared his throat. “Does it matter?”

  She looked wistful. “I think it—” Ebony suddenly looked up. A book had somehow found its way to the edge of the bookcase just behind Nate. In the extended, drawn out time a witch enjoyed during periods of danger, she saw the thing fall off the edge and angle toward the detective’s head.

  She lurched forward, without a moment to lose. She planted a foot right next to his own, pressed a hand onto the shelf behind his hip, and reached up in time to catch the book.

  The thing clunked into her palm, time returning to normal in a snap. “Oooph,” she said, realizing how heavy the tome was. She promptly tumbled backward, right onto the ground.

  She lay there, the considerable tome resting on her chest, a stack of magazines digging into her back, the swirls of her gypsy skirt surrounding her like clouds.

  “What the—” Nate managed, facial expressions running the full gamut of open-eyed shock to mild amusement. “What are you doing on the floor?”

  Ebony groaned, righting her skirt and pushing to her feet. “Harry,” she muttered under her breath, “That’s very rude.”

  “Harry? You mean – you mean your store is still trying to kill me?” Nate hooked a hand onto her elbow and helped pull her up, taking the heavy book from her as she righted herself. He glanced at the cover. “Your store is trying to kill me with this? The Illustrated History of Man Bags? What is a man bag?”

  Ebony chortled, trying to rub the pain from her back. “Well, I’m glad Harry still has his sense of humor.”

  “Your bookstore just tried to kill me, again,” Nate’s words were quick and sharp, his teeth clenched, “And you’re making jokes?”

  “I saved you, what’s the big deal? Plus, we have to go to Matriarch’s place, remember? We have a job to do.”

  As they both walked out of the store, she was somewhat amused to see the extra-careful look on Nate’s face as he surveyed every shelf and box. Gone was the arrogant competence, and back was the boy who’d just found out magic was real.

  By the time they reached their destination, Ebony was ready to scream. Twenty minutes in a car with Nate was like a lifetime of driver’s Ed lessons. He would stop well before each light, put his hand-brake on when paused in traffic, pause to let people into his lane, even slow down to let bikes past.

  “You drive like an eighty-year-old preacher,” she spat as she hauled herself out of his car, patting down her skirt and flaring out her hair.

  “No, I drive like you’re meant to. I obey the rules, something wrong with that?” Nate waited until Ebony had slammed her door before he locked the car. He did a quick sweep of his surroundings, those camera lens eyes of his picking up and documenting every single detail in sight. “So, apparently we’re looking for—”

  “Cursed rocking chairs.” She shot an appreciative grin at a handsome man that walked past. “Or maybe cursed arm chairs – depends what the fool has been up to lately.”

  “Sorry, cursed rocking chairs?”

  “Hmm.” She played with her earrings, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on her back and hair. “Flora Wheatly,
” she pronounced the words clearly, turned around with a flutter, and started to march off down the street. “We’ve warned her before.”

  “Ben just said something about an antique store and curses—” once again, Nate appeared at Ebony’s side, matching her pace without the slightest effort.

  “Mmmm, it’s Flora.” She rounded the corner into Matriarch’s Place. It was an open arcade, dotted with shops: spice stores, booksellers, cafes, and one lonely antique store.

  Flora’s Antiques was an old, dingy building. The once-white sign above the door was missing so many letters, you could only make out “ra – nts” by now. Which, Ebony thought with a smile, was incredibly fitting when it came to Flora.

  Ben was standing outside, sharing the shade of the awning with a uniformed officer. His face was drawn and tired. “Blimey, Eb,” he said as soon as she came within ear shot, “This is doing my head in. It’s the second cursed rocking chair in a month!”

  She shook her head knowingly as she marched up to him. “I know – the fool is insane.”

  Ben nodded at Nate. “Isn’t there anything the Coven can do?”

  “She’s not a witch, Ben,” she said softly. “She’s not a normal woman,” she added as an afterthought, “But not a witch.”

  Ben laughed abruptly. “So, rookie, how’s the morning been?”

  Nate’s expression didn’t waver. “Barrel of fun.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been hanging out with Eb. Anyhow, we’ve got to find some way to deal with this one, it’s driving me insane.” Ben turned back to Ebony.

  “What’s the story—” Nate began, but quickly corrected, “What’s the case?”

  “Cursed rocking chairs, so comfortable you just can’t escape.” She peered through the dingy windows of the shop, trying to catch a glimpse of the awful Flora.

  “Sounds… terrible. So, if we know she’s been selling them, why don’t we just go in and arrest her?”

  “Not so fast, cowboy.” Ebony caught sight of the old woman sitting behind her counter, her menacing eyes glinting out at the world. “Ever heard of the word warrant?”

  “Are you serious? You need a warrant to make an arrest for magical crime? I thought only the police force was bound by the Pact? How do you ask the local magistrate to sign off on arresting someone for cursing rocking chairs without being locked up for wasting the Court’s time?”

  “Witching Warrants are kind of different.” Ben shrugged. “Same premise though. You’ve got to have a reasonable case before you can arrest someone. You can’t just swan around throwing every kid with a Wicca book in the lock up – you’ve got to have a case before you arrest.”

  “And we don’t have a case? You said you knew it was her, what more do you need?”

  Ebony sighed heavily. “We’ve brought her down to the station before. She just claims she didn’t knowingly import cursed-furniture, and nor did she knowingly curse the chairs herself. Says the wood the chairs are made from came from a cursed forest.”

  “A cursed forest?” Nate was looking at her askance.

  “It happens.” Ebony shrugged. “Point is, we can’t prove it. If she’s right – which she isn’t, because she’s a rotten little liar – but if she was right, and the chairs were actually harvested from a cursed forest, then we wouldn’t have grounds for arrest. She could and has complained that she ordered those chairs from a legitimate, ordinary supplier. And if they were cursed, it’s only the unusual magical environment of Vale that is bringing out the full power of that effect.”

  “You see,” Ben had found some kind of chocolate bar in one of his pockets and was nibbling it, sure to keep it well out of Ebony’s reach, “If the cursed chairs had been bought anywhere else but Vale, the curse wouldn’t have manifested properly. The worst the owners could expect is a couple of splinters and maybe the chair would fall on the cat once – nothing too bad.”

  “But because it’s in Vale,” Nate interjected, keen eyes sparkling with annoying competence, “The curse comes out in full. But if this Flora woman didn’t curse them herself and imported them legitimately, she can’t be held accountable for any damage caused, right?”

  “She can be held accountable,” Ebony said passionately, curling one hand into a fist and shooting Flora a defiant look from behind the glass, “Because the stupid woman obviously cursed the darn things.”

  Nate scratched his neck. “I don’t get it. So we can’t charge her, but surely we can get her to stop selling the chairs and recall the ones she’s already sold?”

  “We did.” Ben stowed his chocolate bar. “I slapped her with the warning myself. But now she’s claiming she’s switched suppliers, and much to her horror,” Ben’s voice was staccato and sarcastic, “It looks as if these chairs are cursed too.”

  “Cursed rocking chairs,” Nate repeated dully. “This really is different to my previous job.”

  Ben slapped him on the back. “You’ll love it, in time.”

  Ebony looped her hair behind her ears. “Alright, I’m going in,” she snapped at Ben. “I’ve had enough of this idiotic—”

  “Eb,” Ben warned, “Don’t be too fiery now. There’s the law, remember.”

  She arched an eyebrow, snorted like a bull, and shoved open the glass door of Flora’s Antiques.

  “You know,” she heard Ben whisper to Nate behind her, “Most of this job is controlling Eb.”

  She almost whirled around to swear at Ben, but caught sight of Flora. The old devil was perched on a white wicker-chair behind the counter, beady eyes staring out over floral-rimmed glasses.

  “Dear,” Flora intoned in a creaky voice that sounded like a rusty weather cock shuttling around in the wind, “It’s dear little Ebony.”

  Ebony drew to a halt at the counter. She rested one long hand on the wood and started to drum her red fingernails with a steady beat. “Don’t you call me dear.”

  Flora looked up with a fake, meek, little smile. “Oh sorry, darling.”

  Ebony snorted. “Look here, we know what you’re doing. It’s got to stop. If you have some strange fetish about furniture that hugs you to death, keep it to yourself, for crying out loud!”

  Ben drew up beside Ebony, Nate taking position on her other side. She suddenly felt hemmed in – or contained, maybe.

  “Officer Tate,” Flora smiled up at Ben.

  “It’s Detective Tate.”

  “You have a new friend,” the old woman’s voice was soft and deceptively friendly.

  “I have a new partner,” Ben corrected. “And you, apparently, need a new warning.” Ben produced a folded-up piece of parchment from his pocket. “And here it is.”

  “Oh, Detective Tate,” the old woman teetered on the edge of her dirty white wicker-chair, “But I didn’t know, honestly. It was just another accident.”

  “Yeah okay,” Ben’s voice was strained, but even, “Don’t let it happen again, Flora.”

  Ebony’s palms curled, her fingernails digging ceaselessly into her flesh. They were just going to let the fool get away with it again, weren’t they? So a couple of weeks down the track she’d sell yet another cursed chair and some poor old grandfather would get quite a shock while nodding off in front of the news. Sure, Flora hadn’t killed anyone yet, but it was precisely misuse of magic like this that annoyed Ebony more than anything else. It was so pointless.

  “Now you listen to me,” Ebony’s voice became darker. The clouds outside began to block out the sun, casting long shadows into the store. “You may not be a witch, Flora, so you won’t have to deal with the Coven. But there are worse things, Flora, much worse.”

  “Eb,” Ben hissed sharply in her ear, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Ebony ignored him. “You keep practicing magic, especially magic like this – magic without a purpose, magic without a story – and you’ll attract things, Flora, horrible things.”

  She was satisfied to see Flora’s bottom-lip quiver a touch.

  “But I’m not practicing magic, dear,” Flora sa
id quaintly.

  “Oh, of course you aren’t, I’m just saying, hypothetically, if you were – then I’d watch out. You can curse all the chairs you want, getting whatever bizarre kick you get from it. But sooner or later something stronger is going to sniff out your magic, pet, and latch onto it like a tentacle in the dark.”

  Ben now hooked a hand over Ebony’s arm and pulled her back.

  Flora’s face was growing as off-color as the chair she sat on. “You get out of here, witch. You can’t touch me.”

  As Ben pulled the fuming Ebony back, Nate stood in front of her, right between Ebony and the counter. He set himself down with the finality and weight of an anchor. “You have your warning, ma’am. Be sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Flora’s aged and inexpertly lipstick-clad lips beamed out a smile. “Oh thank you, dear. Aren’t you a sweet one?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Nate said expressionlessly. “But I suggest you take this warning seriously. It’s an official document—”

  “Of course it is. I’ll take it very seriously.”

  “Be sure you do.” Nate turned and gave Ebony what could only be called a devastating look. It said clearly that he couldn’t believe she’d had an outburst like that. “I see what you mean,” he whispered to Ben, “She does need controlling.”

  Ben, hand still latched around Ebony’s elbow, tried to head for the door.

  “That’s it, Detective Tate.” Flora rocked on the edge of her chair, grin showing her teeth. “You get rid of that little witch. Horrible warty little hag!”

  Ebony’s face paled. “Why you little—” she began to shriek.

  “Alright,” Ben practically picked Ebony up and wrestled her out of the door, “I really wouldn’t go saying things like that, Flora, not if you want to stay this side of the law,” while Ben’s tone wasn’t overtly threatening, it had the weight of a judge’s gavel.

  When Ben finally managed to get the erupting Ebony through the door, he swore like a sailor. “Why that stupid old woman.” He finally put Ebony down. “The department is really going to have to do something about her.”

  Her top teeth dug so hard into her bottom lip, the flesh turned white from lack of blood. “Errgh!” She stamped the ground. “How dare she!”

  “You handled that situation very well, I thought.” Nate rounded on Ebony.

  “Oh get—” she began.

  “Alright then, that’s all done,” Ben clapped his hands together loudly. “Time you and me get back to the station, rookie. I’ve got an in-tray of ordinary crime and two doughnuts sitting on my desk.”

  “So, we’re done here then?” Nate shot a careful look at Ebony.

  “No, we’re going to go back in there and hex that stupid—” Ebony began.

  “Yep, that’s a wrap,” Ben said, his tone strong and hard.