Bricking It (A Wayfair Witches Cozy Mystery #2) Page 5

  I tapped Melissa’s arm like a crazy person, pointing furiously at the werewolf who had started the whole thing. He was standing against the window of Luna’s Gúnas, arms crossed at his chest, sniggering at the weredog’s predicament. ‘His isn’t on show. He’s got it tucked under his T-shirt.’ True, the werewolf’s T-shirt was so tight that you could easily see the outline of the pendant, but that was hardly the point.

  Melissa looked like she felt just as annoyed as I did, but she turned back into the shop. ‘What about this one?’ She picked up a bright pink wand.

  ‘Fine,’ I huffed. ‘It’ll have to do. Let’s just ring it up so I can go buy some more mangoes. It’s long time I got home to Dizzy.’

  Melissa followed me to the till. ‘Speaking of Dizzy … has he told you yet? Who his witch was?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m starting to think he never will.’

  6. The Lesser-Known Mango Bat (AKA Dizzy)

  Despite how much I was enjoying spending time with my coven again, I had chosen not to move back to Wayfarers’ Rest. After spending so many years living in various rented places around Dublin, I wasn’t sure I could cope with so much family time – no matter how much I might love them all. Also – and more importantly – I didn’t want to abandon my housemate, a weredog called Max.

  When I turned my key in the door of our shared house at Three Westerly Crescent, I called out, ‘Max! Max, I found a new vegan pizza place! They use cashew ricotta!’ Yup, Max was not only a weredog, but a vegan weredog. Turns out it’s quite a common thing among his kind. For three days of every month they eat whatever they find hanging around parks and restaurant bins. Unsurprisingly, they choose the healthier option the rest of the time.

  A voice that was equal parts sleepy and squeaky drifted down the stairs. ‘Max isn’t back from work yet.’

  ‘Hi Dizzy! Glad you’re finally awake. I’ll be up in a minute with your mangoes.’

  I set the pizza box onto the kitchen table and took the mangoes out of my shopping bag, quickly slicing them into the tiny little sections that Dizzy liked. That done, I went up the stairs to my bedroom. As I opened the door, I couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘Can I open the curtains?’

  ‘If you must,’ said Dizzy. ‘But just a little bit. I’ve only just woken up.’

  Sod that. I liked Dizzy. He was cute, for a bat. He had this little squidgy blackish-brown body and face, and once he got enough sleep and ate enough mangoes, he was also a great laugh. He, Max and I had spent many an evening in the living room, watching TV together. Dizzy loved bad horror movies, the gorier the better. And his idea of a comedy was any old vampire movie where the vampire would transform into a bat.

  ‘That’s so not how they make their transformation,’ he would tell us with a roll of his eyes. ‘Good Gretel, these humans can get nothing right.’

  But right now, all the cute in the world was not going to satisfy me. I needed answers. So I ripped the curtains apart, and even pulled up the blinds behind them, letting in all of the evening light.

  Dizzy – who was currently hanging upside down from the light fixture in the middle of my bedroom ceiling – squeaked in protest, covering his eyes with his wings.

  ‘Sorry.’ I felt instantly guilty, and drew them shut just a little bit. ‘But I need you wide awake, Dizzy. It really is about time you answered my questions.’

  Dizzy flew down to the plate of mangoes I’d set on my bedside table and began to nibble. ‘You sound like the Gestapo,’ he said through a mouthful of food. ‘I’ve already told you – I can’t remember anything.’

  I crossed my arms over my chest and eyeballed him. When Dizzy arrived in my life a few weeks ago, he had told me he needed me to find his witch. Because apparently, that was my thing.

  When a witch dies, their familiar usually chose to die along with them. But since I became empowered, it seemed that things were changing.

  Dizzy was the second familiar who had decided to stick around and seek me out after his witch was murdered. The first had been a rat called Dudley, the familiar of the murdered witch Maureen O’Mara – the one who’d paid for my moonlight gown and cloak. But whereas Dudley had been only too glad to fill me in on whatever information he could, and thus help me track down Maureen’s killer, Dizzy was proving a little more reluctant.

  He insisted it was because he had lost his memory. But when he landed at my feet in Luna Park a few weeks earlier, he had known exactly why he was there. His exact words to me at the time were, ‘You’re going to help me solve my witch’s murder.’

  And I was really supposed to believe that, between then and now, he’d had a sudden bout of amnesia?

  ‘This isn’t exactly fun for me, you know.’ I pulled the plate of mangoes from his reach. ‘I mean, you’ll only eat ripe mangoes. Nothing else. Just mangoes.’

  ‘But … I’m the Lesser-Known Mango Bat,’ he squeaked. ‘Of course I can’t eat anything but mangoes.’

  ‘Of course.’ I sighed. ‘And I was perfectly prepared to go out and hunt down ripe mangoes for you each and every day back when I didn’t think that I’d be doing it forever. But you’ve been here for weeks now, Dizzy, and yet you haven’t even told me who your witch was. How can I solve a murder if I don’t even know who’s been murdered?’

  ‘It’s hardly a garden of roses, you know. Witnessing a murder,’ Dizzy protested. ‘It’s traumatic, that sort of thing. It can bring on serious psychological conditions. It’s lucky it’s only amnesia I’ve got. Could be much worse. Could have turned into an axe murderer, so I could.’

  I pulled the curtains a little wider again. ‘If you don’t remember anything, how do you know you witnessed anything?’

  Dizzy curled up into his wings. ‘Oh. Right. You have a point. I suppose I just can’t think straight because of how hungry I am. I’m wasting away here, Wanda. Come on. Give me back my mangoes. I’m sure once I get them inside me I’ll be able to think more clearly.’

  I pushed the plate of mango slices back in his direction. Yes, I am a doormat. But what else could I do? Starve the information out of him?

  ‘Look.’ I spoke more softly. ‘I know how close familiars are to their witches. I can’t imagine anything sadder than losing someone you’re so attached to. But if you don’t help me, then I can’t help you. Dizzy, the sooner we track down your witch’s murderer, the sooner you can join him or her in the afterlife. You can be with your witch again.’

  Dizzy’s little eyes grew bigger and he pushed the plate away (it is possible, trust me – magical bats are stronger than they look). ‘I told you, Wanda. I don’t remember anything.’

  I sank onto my bed, looking carefully at him. ‘Y’know, I’ve spent the last few weeks scouring the death records, but there’s been nothing that looked like it could have been a murder. I thought that your witch might be one of the many witches who have gone missing. But today … today, Dizzy, one of those missing witches turned up again.’

  Dizzy’s dark little eyes filled with panic. ‘That’s impossible!’

  I picked him up, staring at him. ‘Oh, really? And why is that, Dizzy?’

  His tiny chin wobbled. ‘I … I … a wheelbarrow came for you!’

  He pointed to the corner of the room. True to her word, Melissa had magicked my books straight to my bedroom.

  ‘Stop changing the subject, Dizzy.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll answer your questions. Where was this witch? How was he – or she? In good health or bad health?’

  ‘You’ve just asked me a load of questions, you haven’t answered any of mine.’ I let out a little squeal of frustration, setting Dizzy free at the same time. He fluttered in circles around the room, making a series of terrified squeaks as he went.

  ‘Well, the witch didn’t turn up alive,’ I told him sadly. ‘And I barely saw the body before it turned into a skeleton. But I saw enough to recognise who it was. It was Franklin Lovage, the guy who ran Franklin’s Familiars. He turned up at Luna’s Gúnas today, when I was trying on m
y initiation outfit. But I know he wasn’t your witch because I know that his familiar was a python.’

  ‘Luna’s Gúnas? That’s awfully close to–’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To … to … to here?’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Look, Dizzy, I–’

  ‘I have to go out!’ he squeaked, interrupting me. ‘Unless you want my guano all over your lovely new bedspread then you’d better let me out right now.’

  I couldn’t even summon the energy to sigh. Instead, I opened my bedroom door and went into Max’s incredibly neat bedroom at the back of the house, opened his window, and let Dizzy out into the back garden.

  Dizzy had arrived into my life in Luna Park, a park across the road from my house (and nothing to do with any of the Luna coven, as far as I knew). Since then, he’d never once returned to the park, and hadn’t ventured any further than our tiny back garden. He would go and do his business, and fly back in as quick as was humanly (or battily?) possible. Dizzy was afraid of something. I just wished to the goddess that he would tell me what.

  I left him to do his thing in private and went downstairs. I could hear Max’s key in the door, and I went to greet him.

  ‘Is that pizza I smell?’ he asked as he stepped into the hall.

  ‘Yup. Another new place opened up.’

  Even though he grinned and thanked me, his expression fell somewhat flat. As he shrugged off his jacket and made his way to the kitchen, I followed him and asked, ‘Rough day?’

  ‘Did you just ask me if I’ve had a woof day?’

  I clicked my tongue against my teeth. ‘No, as if I would. I didn’t say woof day or anything else designed to slag you off for being a weredog. As if I would.’ Ahem. Okay, so I’ll admit it (to myself). When I first discovered Max was a weredog, some jokes might have presented themselves within my mind, but I kept them to myself. And after seeing the way that weredog had been treated in Warren Lane this afternoon, I felt pretty bad about the jokes I’d made in the past.

  He slumped into a chair. ‘Well, it’s always a woof day at the kennels,’ he deadpanned. Max worked in a dog kennels. Again, I must emphasise – no jokes. But although they took in pampered pooches while their owners were away, they used the money to fund a shelter for ill-treated dogs. I’d visited it a few times with Max, and I had promised him that as soon as my schedule cleared up, I was going to volunteer there a couple of times a week.

  ‘But today was super rough,’ he went on. ‘You wouldn’t believe how some people treat their dogs, Wanda. You just wouldn’t.’

  I fetched plates from the cupboard and opened up the pizza box, while Max went to the fridge and grabbed two beers.

  Neither of us said anything for a while. We were both quite keen on our food, and dinners together didn’t usually involve a lot of conversation. Tonight, though, Max was chewing slowly. I’d already polished off two slices before he got through one. He finally picked up a second slice, but soon dropped it again. Max off his food? This was bad.

  ‘Max, are you okay? I thought you’d be looking forward to full moon tomorrow night. Isn’t Lassie coming up to go for a run in the Phoenix Park with you?’

  He banged his head on the table. Unfortunately, his slice of pizza was in the way. When he lifted his head up again, his face was covered in pizza sauce and vegan cheese. ‘Lassie phoned me today,’ he said as he wiped his face. ‘She’s not coming back for full moon. She’s not coming home at all.’

  I pulled awkwardly at the label of my beer bottle, trying to think of a reply. Lassie was Max’s cousin, and also a weredog. Her boyfriend, a witch, had been another of Alice Berry’s and Basil Valentine’s murder victims. Lassie was one of the people I was with when we were almost killed in Alice’s Inferno spell. I could understand why she’d felt the need to leave Dublin for a while. She’d moved to Riddler’s Cove – well, to a weredog enclave just outside the town, anyway. When she first left, she had promised Max she’d return once she’d had enough time to grieve.

  ‘Are you sure she doesn’t just need a little more time?’ I said eventually. ‘I mean, it’s not been that long since she lost Connor, has it?’

  Max took a long drink. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It hasn’t. But she said she definitely wasn’t coming back and that I could rent out her room if I wanted. She’s taken out a six month lease on a flat, and she’s rented a spot in Riddler’s Cove Market and everything. They’ve issued her with a long-term Pendant of Privilege so she can get into the market every day. She’s going to set up a jewellery design business down there.’

  ‘Oh.’ This time, I really had run out of things to say. I’d only met Lassie briefly, because she was in hiding from Alice Berry when I first moved in with Max, but I could tell how close they were. For his sake, I had really hoped she’d return.

  We finished off our pizza and beer in silence, until Dizzy flew into the room. ‘There’s a Hammer Horror movie on in a few,’ he said. ‘Wanna watch?’

  7. Fiddle Strings

  I spent the rest of the day studying at the kitchen table. I would have rather worked at the desk in my bedroom, but Dizzy had the room in total darkness once again.

  Even though I had Mr Albright’s notes to help out, I decided to read through as much of the material as I could. The thought of cheating – no matter how justified – was making me feel physically sick. And I was actually interested in all of the Tall Tales, too.

  I was particularly interested in finding out more about the original Wanda the Wayfarer. Since I came into my power, both Dudley and Dizzy had referred to me as a Wayfarer, rather than just a plain old Wayfair. Apparently, being able to communicate with dead witches’ familiars was one of Wanda’s talents. But I only had Dudley’s word for that. There was a reason why there was more about Wanda the Wayfarer in a Tall Tales class rather than a Magical History one. Tall Tales was basically myth and legend, fables and fairy tales all rolled into one. It was where young witches (or slightly older witches like me) were told tales that were supposed to inspire and teach. They didn’t have to be true, necessarily, to achieve those aims.

  No one source seemed to agree when it came to the original Wayfarer. It was said that she had numerous special talents, but what they were changed from story to story, and all of them were taken with a pinch of salt. I remembered a story where it was said that she could talk with ghosts, but nothing about familiars.

  There were some mentions of her in the history books, but because so little was agreed upon, the chapters on Wanda tended to refer to monuments which were built to honour her, or to discuss the history of the Wayfairs and how they laid down the original magical laws.

  But there had to be some wheat among all the chaff – right? Somewhere in all of these stories, there might be something that would be of use to me.

  I found a book titled The Tall Tale of Betty and the Wayfarer, and opened it. It contained mostly pictures, with a couple of lines beneath each. I turned over to the back cover: For ages six to seven.

  Oh well, never let it be said that I discriminate, I thought as I began to read:

  Betty was feeling very, very blue, because her beloved cat, Sprinkles, had gone missing. She looked everywhere for him, but poor Betty couldn’t find Sprinkles anywhere. So Betty clasped her hands, and looked at the sky, and said a prayer to Wanda the Wayfarer.

  No sooner had Betty finished her prayer, than a knock came to her front door. Betty opened it, hoping that it was someone coming to bring her news of Sprinkles. And in a way it was. Because standing at Betty’s front door, tall and strong and mighty, was Wanda the Wayfarer.

  ‘You asked for me,’ said Wanda. ‘And so I came. You’re looking for a cat called Sprinkles, I believe. Where did you last see him?’

  With a tear, Betty replied, ‘In the hat shop. But I’ve been back and asked Mr Mop, and he’s seen no sign of Sprinkles. In fact, he couldn’t even remember us coming in. But we did.’

  Wanda narrowed her eyes. ‘Come on, Betty,’ she said. ‘We’re going to
visit Mr Mop.’

  Betty followed Wanda, struggling to keep up with the Wayfarer’s long, strong strides. At the shop, Mr Mop told the Wayfarer what he had already told Betty.

  ‘There ain’t no cat here,’ he snarled. ‘Now get out, you’re frightening off me customers.’

  Wanda stayed firm. ‘I think you do know something,’ she said. ‘I see it in your eyes. You’re a bad little man, Mr Mop. I can always tell. So if you don’t want to feel my wrath, tell me what happened to Sprinkles.’

  There was something about the way Wanda spoke, something that made Mr Mop very, very scared. He began to cry, and in a shaky voice he said, ‘The cat was ancient. What harm could it do?’

  Wanda grabbed him by the collar. ‘What harm could what do, Mr Mop?’

  ‘I s-sold him,’ said Mr Mop. ‘I sold him to Leroy. The fiddle maker. I needed some money, and he bought it off me because he couldn’t afford proper catgut. We thought … we thought a cat’s guts might do the job instead.’ He turned his eyes on Betty. ‘You should have bought a hat! I wouldn’t have sold your cat if you’d only bought a hat!’

  ‘Well, Mr Mop,’ growled Wanda. ‘No one will ever be buying a hat from you again. Take us to Leroy. I’m taking the two of you to Witchfield and I don’t want to have to make two trips.’

  Wanda marched Mr Mop along the street to the fiddle shop, with Betty at her heels. When they got there, it was too late.

  ‘It’s too late!’ cried Leroy as he dangled in Wanda’s grip. ‘I’ve already used the cat. He’s in that fiddle over there.’ He nodded his head to a shiny new fiddle on the shop counter.

  Wanda said a quick spell, and Mr Mop and Leroy disappeared together. ‘I’ve sent them to Witchfield,’ she told Betty. ‘Bring me the fiddle. Leroy is wrong. It’s never too late.’

  Betty handed Wanda the fiddle, looking on in shock while the Wayfarer turned the instrument in the air, whispering an incantation that Betty couldn’t hear.