Page 23

Chapter

Twenty-Three

brIDGETTE

I stared down at my phone after hanging up. I didn’t have a clue why I was suddenly dismissed from being used as a knowledgeable expert on the investigation, and I didn’t know if Logan was even allowed to explain it to me. A part of me was furious. Another witch was just killed; now wasn’t the time to be playing bureaucratic games. But the larger side of me was sad.

I looked back out the window at the dark skies and heavy clouds that were threatening rain. I had been staring at the sky in the same way just a few minutes ago, wondering what in the hell I was missing. I had been turning over all the clues and knew we were missing some vital parts when it finally hit me.

Each murder had been during the phases of the moon. The first one was on the night of the third-quarter moon. The second was during the new moon. Last night was the first-quarter moon phase. If what I believed was true, then the final murder and the most important one would be during the full moon.

I opened my phone and looked down at the app I had been studying before calling Logan. The moon was going to be full in six nights from now. We had six days to figure out the bullshit and stop anyone else from dying. I knew in my gut that I was the next witch in line to be killed. I squeezed my hand tightly around my phone as anger bubbled inside me. Let them come. I was more than capable of stopping whoever it was. I’d be damned if anymore witches had to die to appease a power hungry monster. They wanted my magic? Well, come and get it then.

I’d be waiting.

I walked down the stairs and straight through the shop to the front door. I flipped the sign over to OPEN and unlocked it. Turning around, I surveyed Oohs, Ahhhs, and Orbs, seeing the place with a critical eye. I loved my store, the same way my grandmother had before me. It was my birthright, my destiny, and one day, it would be my legacy.

Glancing around, I noticed nothing out of place for the first time that I could remember. Sending out a small wave of magic, I essentially checked the pulse of the shop. Everything was as it should be on the surface, so I dug deeper. There, under the usual thrum of magic, was tension. And an almost palpable fear.

I walked over and picked up Mildred, feeling a slight tremble coming from her in my hands.

“Sweet Mildred,” I murmured and glanced around at everyone else before looking up into the corner to see my beautiful guardian crow huddled watchfully on his shelf. “You have nothing to fear,” I called out. “I will protect everything in this shop. I swear this to you.” I looked back down at Mildred to see her shiver in my hands. I stroked a finger down one of the amethysts that decorated her skull. “I see,” I said sadly. “You aren’t worried about yourselves.” I gently set her back onto her place in front of the door so she could see everyone as they came and went.

I walked around the shop, sliding my fingers along the shelves, caressing my figurines as I did. “I promise, I will be safe. Please do not worry. I’m a Waters witch. I come from a long line of badass women.” I paused as I circled back around to Mildred and touched her cold cheek, smiling at the shimmy of excitement under my fingertip. “The Waters’ have always been the most powerful witches in the area since we moved here more than two hundred years ago, and I carry the most magic that the family line has ever seen.” I leaned forward and kissed the black cheek. “So don’t worry.”

I turned around and strode to the counter, ready to start the day. I pushed away all thoughts of Logan and decreed that I was no longer a part of the investigation. Reaching inside the glass case, I withdrew the athames from the day before and set them gently onto the counter. I gathered my materials and lost myself in the consuming task of polishing every inch of metal and stone.

I saved the newest athame for last. I picked up the sharp instrument and held it to the light, turning it back and forth, watching as the light picked up the facets of the stones. I was more sure than ever that they were garnets. The dark red of the stones looked so much like spilled blood. Garnets were known for the heart, blood, and passion. Some people have referred to them as blood red, and it was easy to see why. What I should not be seeing, though, was the effect of spilled blood swirling inside the stones.

I shook my head at my fancifulness, sure that it was simply a trick of the lighting along with the way the facets were cut. I picked up the bottle of polish that I had concocted myself a couple of years ago and applied a small amount to the cloth. Carefully and meticulously, I rubbed in small circles, careful to reach every groove of the ornate metal.

“I need to call the estate manager,” I murmured to myself. I wanted to find out more about the witch the athame had come from. It was so unusual for a full blooded witch to not have a relative to pass their instruments to. The witch would have at least had the basics to go along with the athame, like a pestle and mortar, possibly a cauldron. They would definitely have had a set of spell books.

While lost in thought, Mortimer startled me by jumping onto the counter. He let out a hiss that I had never heard from him before. It was loud and vicious, one a cat would aim at something they either truly hated, or were terrified of. Before I could do anything other than stare in disbelief at his out of character behavior, he swiped out one large black paw. Instinct had me jumping back, not wanting his murder mittens to maim my hand.

In all the mayhem, my hand clenched tightly around the thin blade. With a hiss of my own, I dropped the dagger to the floor. “Fuck!” I cried out, holding my bleeding hand to my chest and staring down at the athame. “Mortimer! Stop it! I swear I’m going to send you to Grandmother in a crate with no holes if you don’t stop this nonsense.” I shoved him off the counter, and he ran to his tower in the corner with an angry growl. I shook my head at him as he glared at me and began licking his paw.

Worried that one of the garnets might have been chipped or worse, I bent down to pick up the athame. I held it carefully in both hands and inspected it for damage under the light. I didn’t see any chips or breaks, but a drop of my blood caught my eye.

“Damn. Now I’m going to have to start all over again. I hope you’re happy, Mortimer.” I picked up the cloth I’d been using, but as I moved to clean off the blood, I watched as the droplet began moving. In fascination, I stared while it slid up the edge of the blade. When it reached the hilt, it seemed to slide under the metal, somehow being absorbed into the athame itself.

“What the fuck.” As I held the athame, it began to heat in my hands until I dropped it onto the counter with a sharp crash of metal to glass. “What the actual fuck,” I repeated in disbelief.

A voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once echoed eerily around me. “ Oh, child, ” it said, sounding raspy, as if it hadn’t spoken in a long time. “ You’re the one I seek. And I will get two Waters witches for the price of one. How sweet.”

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, looking around quickly, but bringing my gaze right back to the athame, not wanting to take my eyes off of it for long.

“ Don’t worry, child. I will come for you soon. But you have already figured that out, haven’t you?”

“Who. Are. You?” I ground out, my fingers itching to release a spell as soon as I had the witch in sight. Unfortunately, there was no answer, and no one appeared. I lightly brushed a fingertip to the metal blade, but it was once again cool to the touch. I quickly used the cleaning cloth and picked up the athame. After wrapping the fabric tightly around the entire athame, I tucked it back into the glass case, then I sealed it with magic.

Once I was satisfied that the athame was temporarily contained, I brought my bleeding hand to my chest. Then I slowly turned to face my grandmother’s familiar. I pointed one finger at him. “You knew. All this time, you knew .” I looked around the shop in bewilderment. Then I looked back at Mortimer who was busy licking his nutsack. Gross. “You were trying to warn me, weren’t you?” Other than a disgruntled growl, he ignored me, continuing to do what cats do. “Damn it, Mortimer! You’re a fucking familiar! Surely you could have done something other than growl and hiss and yowl!”

I stomped into the back room and turned on the tap to clean the wound. I grumbled under my breath about unhinged cats that needed to learn how to communicate better, the whole time. Once the blood was rinsed away, I grabbed a clean towel to dry my hand with and stomped back into the front, glaring at the cat tower as I passed. Mortimer had moved on to napping in his favorite spot, sprawled on his back as if he were trying to soak up the nonexistent sunrays.

I snatched a healing potion off the shelf and tore the cork out with my teeth, then spit it into the small trash can under the register. As I chugged back the potion, I looked down at the wound on my hand. It was a thin slice, and that blade had been sharper than expected. Most athames didn’t need to be kept sharp enough to slice through fucking bone.

The wound was deeper at the edge of my palm as it sliced diagonally through my hand. As I stood there waiting for it to heal, my heart began to speed up as nothing happened. Blood was oozing from the wound, and I would need to rinse it again soon before the blood started to drip onto the floor.

“This can’t be happening right now,” I muttered to myself as I willed the cut to mend itself. My potions never failed. The blood continued to well up in my palm as I waited, sheer disbelief making me stare at my hand that was still not healed. I watched as if in slow motion as bright red blood rolled over the edge of my palm and down the side of my hand. It made a small splat as it hit the glass.

I stared down at the drop of blood in a near trance, hardly understanding what was happening. In all my life, I had expected to heal from virtually any injury almost instantly. First, it was Grandmother’s potions, then, when she’d taught me, it was my own that took away the pain and hurt. I didn’t usually bother with minor cuts like a papercut, but I absolutely did not hesitate to heal myself when I broke a toe on the stupid kitchen chair a couple of years ago. But scraped knees were always carefully tended to with a wipe down, a potion, and a cookie as I grew up. Never, ever had a potion failed to heal the largest hurts.

I blinked my eyes, realizing that I had been staring so long they had gone out of focus. My blood was still there, a second drop joining the first. The athame, wrapped in the cloth, was directly underneath the bright red, and that was when I realized something I should have picked up on the moment the voice spoke.

Not only was the athame the murder weapon, it had also been spelled. Anything it cut would remain an open wound. I didn’t know if any wound could heal from the damage it caused. I cursed out loud, realizing that I was in deep shit.

Then I froze as I remembered what else the voice of the killer had said.