A Little Bit Witchy (A Riddler's Edge Cozy Mystery #1) Page 9

  ‘Oh.’ I’d forgotten to take the ring off, and Detective Quinn had never asked for it back. ‘Yeah, Detective Quinn said something about witch enclaves being different. Like, you need to be one of them, or to wear some magical jewellery to enter there.’

  She nodded. ‘Exactly. Now, you’ve met Dylan, so you know that there are also unempowered witches. Witches born to witch parents, but who don’t have any power themselves.’

  ‘He said he was a dayturner,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Ah. Yes. Well, now he is. But he was born an unempowered witch. And I had you pegged an unempowered witch, too. Right up until you told me you could see my power through the Aurameter. You got all of it spot on. I have an average amount of power, hence the golden glow. Roarke is just barely empowered, so his glow is far fainter. And you saw that. All of it. And now, of course, there’s the matter of the cat.’ She gave me a funny smile. ‘Can you hear him, right now?’

  I looked down at the black cat. He was looking up at me and purring. ‘Yeah, he’s like a little motorboat, isn’t he? I see what people like about cats.’

  Grace blinked. ‘That’s all you hear? Him purring? Because I hear him talking.’ She looked at the cat. ‘All right, I’ll tell her.’ She sighed and turned back to me. ‘He says that there’s no need to put any signs up. He told me that you are most definitely his. He also says to tell you his name is Fuzz. Not the most elegant name in the world, but …’

  I gawped down at the cat. ‘Fuzz?’

  The cat nodded.

  ‘And you’ve decided that I’m yours, have you?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Ash, Dylan and I … we didn’t want you here,’ Grace went on, striding to her sunken couch and beckoning me to follow. ‘We didn’t want to run this trial, because we have already run three trials, with three other women hired by Arnold. And it didn’t bother me that none of those women were witches. They were excellent journalists. It’s not uncommon for humans to work in our world, as long as they know how to keep a secret. Whether you were an unempowered witch, or a human … no matter what you are, no matter what any of the other reporters were, it didn’t matter to me. But it does matter to Arnold. He’s looking for something specific. Someone specific. I think it’s safe to say that you have some power, even if I can’t see it through the Aurameter. But … I can’t promise you that you’ll be what Arnold is looking for. At the end of this week, he might still try to do his memory spell. You might forget all of this ever happened. I shall argue your case, of course, but … I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to stop him.’

  The cat had come over to the couch too, and I lifted him up, feeling somehow comforted by his presence. ‘I’m not okay with that. But if you have magical powers and you still don’t think you’ll be able to stop Arnold, then there’s probably not a lot I’ll be able to do about it, either.’

  Her eyes watered a little bit. ‘No. Probably not. But in the meantime, I’d like to continue with this trial. I’d like you to do a real piece on Bathsheba’s murder. A piece for the evening edition.’

  13. The Evening Edition

  On the surface of it, there was little difference between the Daily Riddler’s daily and evening editions. They both covered the same stories, and they both included a crazy amount of puzzles.

  But when you looked closer, you saw that the two were nothing alike. The whole job of the daily edition was to come up with an explanation for the strange things that happened in Riddler’s Edge.

  One story featured an explosion that took place on the beach. It had been caused by a wizard – a friend of Greg’s, in fact – who underestimated the power of a magical shell he’d found on the strand. In the daily edition, the article talked about some careless tourist letting a camp fire get out of hand on the beach, whereas in the evening edition, the true story was told.

  There were some differences in the word puzzles too, but that was just sensible. I can’t imagine many humans would have known the answer to questions like: It’s a substitute for lurpwart in a popular cold remedy. It’s also the name of a famous vampire opera singer.

  As well as finally letting me see the evening edition, Greg had given me the passwords for the paper’s network. He’d also given me the password for the search engine that supernaturals accessed online. He gave me books to read, too, so I could swot up on the Irish supernatural world.

  Once he got me acquainted with the real newspaper, we got to work on the story Grace had asked me to write. Greg showed me Grace’s own reports on the previous Night potion murders, and how to pull up all the reports the detective had submitted. I read over every single word as many times as I could. Seeing as I was going to be questioning Gunnar Lucien the next day, I wanted to be prepared.

  Detective Quinn agreed to the interview the second I called him to ask. Instead of being delighted by his change in attitude towards me, it was making me feel a little hopeless. No one thought I was going to make it through this trial. They were just pandering to me in the meantime. Of course, even while being helpful the detective had still managed to irritate me – because being a big giant pain in the rear was his default setting. Just before I hung up he said, ‘You know, he’s not going to talk to you. Gunnar, I mean. But if you want to waste your time, go for it.’

  ‘He’s probably right, you know,’ Greg said, overhearing the latter part of the conversation. ‘These Vlad’s Boys don’t talk. Ever. Y’know, unless it’s to smear some vile graffiti about dayturners on every wall they find.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I want to be extra prepared,’ I said, slamming the office phone back onto the receiver. ‘I’m sure there’s something among all this I can use to irritate Gunnar into talking.’

  Greg grinned. ‘That sounds like something Grace would say.’

  ‘Hey.’ I scooted closer to him and lowered my voice. ‘Speaking of Grace, what’s with all the fifties glam? I mean, don’t get me wrong – her apartment looks almost as amazing as she does but … she’s a witch, right? Not a vampire?’

  ‘You’re surprised she’s a witch? You expected her to be a vampire because of how she dresses? So … what? You think vampires spend their lives stuck in some fashion time warp from the decade they were turned?’ Greg almost spat out his coffee.

  ‘Don’t they? I mean, I’m still wearing the same outfits I wore in the early noughties. You find something you like, you stick with it. Well, if you’re lazy like me you do, anyway. That’s why I’m confused about Grace. I figured maybe a vamp would enjoy dressing the way they did in their heyday, but Grace is only forty or so, and she’s a witch. So she couldn’t have been around in the fifties. Could she?’

  Greg popped a lollipop in his mouth and kept his eye on what he was doing. The guy seemed to have an endless supply of snacks. ‘Vamps aren’t the only ones who can live long lives. Witches can be pretty old, too. Some look younger because of glamour spells. Some stay physically young forever because of dark magic.’

  I glanced up towards the apartment. ‘So which is it with Grace?’

  Greg kept sucking his lollipop, and shrugged. ‘I’ve never met anyone who dared to ask her, so I’ve no idea.’

  I wasn’t so sure I’d be brave enough either, I thought, continuing to leaf through one of Greg’s books. It was all about vampires, and their seemingly endless powers.

  ‘They can move things with their mind?’ I asked. ‘For real?’

  ‘Some can. Remember the pager I was waving around yesterday? Well, it wasn’t a pager.’

  ‘Oh gee, really?’

  He gave me a sheepish smile. ‘Yeah, I kind of figured you hadn’t fallen for my brilliant ruse. Anyway, it was a telekinetic scanner. It basically lights up if there’s been a lot of telekinetic activity in the area – like, if a vampire has been using their mental powers to do things we couldn’t see them do with the naked eye. They can move really quickly, and vaporize themselves so we can’t see them. They’re super strong, and the older and more powerful among them can move thing
s with the power of their mind. Oh, and a rare few can read minds, too. Like Pru and her family.’

  Oh dear. I’d have to learn to think quietly while I was in the Vander Inn.

  ‘And your scanner thingy was flashing green,’ I said, forcing myself to stay on track. ‘So that means there was a vampire doing some of that on the train. But … for what? So they could add the Night potion to Bathsheba’s smoothie and get rid of the evidence without being detected?’

  Greg nodded. ‘That seems to be Dylan’s working theory. But scanners will only tell you so much. Luckily, a scanner isn’t the only tool I use. I’ve been developing some better tech. It’s still experimental, but it allows me to see the actual patterns of the telekinetic activity.’

  With an excitable look on his face, he popped a flash drive into the computer, and I found myself looking at photos of the train carriage – except they were not average photos. It was as if a coloured wave had been superimposed onto each picture.

  He pointed to one of them. It was of the table closest to the door joining the dining carriage to the carriage behind. I could see a haze of red and green, leading from the table to the kitchen. He brought up two more photos, all with a similar colour pattern.

  ‘This activity is what I caught through one of my camera filters after each murder. The colours you see are telekinetic activity. But there would have been no reason for the waiters on the train to use their vampire powers. People like service to move slowly on the Riddler’s Express. The whole old-fashioned vibe it has going on is part of its charm.’ He brought up a fourth photograph. ‘And this is what my filters caught after Bathsheba’s murder.’

  He chewed on his lollipop stick, looking troubled. I could see why. There was a haze of red and green again, but this time there was a lot more red than green. The pattern was haphazard, drifting all over the carriage, much less organised than the previous murders.

  I pulled up the detective’s reports, checking quickly through them all. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘Gunnar wasn’t even on duty for the first of those murders. But … then why do the first three look the same, and the last one is the one that looks different? If Gunnar was the one who killed Bathsheba, then surely it ought to be the other way around.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been wondering the same myself. But there’s something else you need to know about vampires, Ash. They can turn into a bat and fly. And when I say they can fly, I mean they can fly really fast. Gunnar could have murdered Bathsheba without anyone knowing he was on the train. Flown in and out, then kept himself vaporized while he was on the train so no one would notice him. Or it could have been another member of Vlad’s Boys. It doesn’t change the fact that Gunnar is a member of a gang who have sworn to kill dayturners. Even if he didn’t do all of the murders, he probably did this one, while someone else did the first three. Maybe this one was his first – the haywire telekinetic activity would be explained if it was his first. Nerves, inexperience … but Ash, whether Gunnar committed one of these murders, or all of them, he is one of Vlad’s Boys. Dylan did right to arrest him. That gang is scum. One of them off the street is better than nothing.’

  I sat back, looking at it all from a distance. Sometimes a less concentrated eye helped me pick out things, see patterns that I wouldn’t have otherwise. But no matter what way I looked at it all, the patterns of activity were the same for every murder except Bathsheba’s. And yeah, it could be explained by Gunnar being inexperienced. But I just wasn’t sure.

  We kept working together for the rest of the day, (albeit with plenty of breaks for snacks). Greg was so much fun to work with that I barely noticed the time passing.

  ‘I didn’t know what happened to the others, you know,’ he told me as we packed up our things at the end of the day. ‘Arnold told me to act evasive, not give anything away, see what they figured out for themselves. I had no idea he performed a memory spell when he let them go. I really don’t want the same thing to happen to you.’

  ‘What will be will be, I guess,’ I said, doing my best to appear nonchalant. ‘But on a positive note – you definitely handled the whole evasive thing well.’

  He gave me a rueful smile. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Listen, I’m going to head off and get a good night’s sleep for our little trip tomorrow. Can I give you a lift back to the Vander Inn?’

  I shook my head. ‘Thanks, but it’s only a five minute walk. Hey, should I do anything else to prepare for this trip to Witchfield?’

  He plucked a stick of liquorice from behind his ear. ‘Maybe pick up some travel sickness pills,’ he suggested as he began to chew.

  14. Fish Fingers

  Fuzz had disappeared halfway through the day, but as I was walking out of the office he met me by the door and leapt into my arms. ‘I was going to go straight home,’ I said to him. ‘But it’s just occurred to me that you’ve had quite a busy day – which means you’re probably hungry?’

  I felt him purr against my chest.

  ‘Okay, so.’ I patted his head. ‘We’ll take a little trip to the shop before we go home. See if there’s anything there that takes your fancy. I could do with a bar of chocolate myself. A big one. Actually, a huge one.’

  The shop was busy, as always. Now that I knew a little more about the supernatural world, the wide variety of vegan food for sale suddenly made sense. Almost all weredogs, apparently, were vegan. Greg told me it was because they ate out of bins for three nights every month, and preferred to be healthy the rest of the time. I was a little bit afraid to ask Edward, the Daily Riddler’s only weredog employee, if that was true. Either way, I’d definitely seen Edward drink a lot of chocolate soymilk.

  I put Fuzz under one arm and picked up a basket with the other. ‘Now, I know I can’t understand you,’ I said in a low voice as we headed for the tinned fish. ‘But if you could just let me know what you like to eat, it’d be great. Do you like tinned salmon?’

  Fuzz shook his head.

  ‘Tuna?’

  He nodded enthusiastically, and I picked up a few tins, then grabbed some chocolate bars from another aisle before heading to the cash register.

  Norman’s mother, Norma, was there. She had a red glove on one hand, and was knitting another. ‘What a lovely little cat,’ she said.

  Fuzz purred.

  ‘I have six little girls myself. There’s Princess Preciousbottom, Queen Swishytail, Lady Lightpaws, the Duchess of Riddler’s Edge, the Dowager Queen, and the Lady in Waiting. What’s this little fella called?’

  ‘Fuzz.’ Sure, it seemed less fancy than the names of Norma’s cats, but at least it was his choice. But what did I know? Maybe Norma’s cats liked their names.

  Norma looked the cat in the eyes as she scanned my purchases. ‘Well, Fuzz, the door to my little ladies’ cat flap is closed to any cat who doesn’t have a special collar. So if you want to court them, it has to be under my supervision.’

  Judging by the way his purrs increased, I had the sense he would be taking that as a challenge.

  ≈

  Pru and Nollaig had told me to treat the Vander Inn like a home from home. I didn’t bother telling them that to do so would require me having an actual home in the first place, because really, who wanted to know about the barrenness of my tiny flat, a place that I’d never added so much as a cushion to?

  For all its Victorian quirks, the Vander Inn already felt like more of a home than my Dublin rental, so I felt perfectly comfortable to head to the kitchen when I got back. I knew that Pru and her mother were asleep, so I did try to curb my usual clumsiness as I washed Fuzz’s morning bowl and prepared him a fresh feed. He did his part too, bless him – if you call wrapping his way around my legs and almost tripping me up helping.

  I was just throwing the empty tuna tin into the bin when a shadow fell over the room. The hair on my arms and on the back of my neck stood to attention, and my spine grew ramrod straight.

  ‘You must be Arnold’s latest,’ a husky voice said in a London accent.

  I turn
ed to look at the person who had spoken. He was a little taller than me, with bleached blond hair and ice-blue eyes. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt and blue jeans, and had an amazing thin-but-toned body going on. As he crossed the kitchen and extended a hand, my head began to feel a little empty and fizzy, and my throat went dry.

  ‘I … I have fish fingers,’ I said, keeping my hand pasted firmly by my side. Fish fingers? Oh, Aisling, however have you managed to work as a wordsmith all these years?

  He smiled, slow and broad, looking at my hands. ‘They look like perfectly acceptable fingers to me.’

  My throat was still dry, and I could feel that my cheeks were flaming red. His smile was even broader now, and he was shining those ice-blue eyes right into mine. A shiver worked its way down my spine, and he said, ‘Cold? I can turn up the central heating.’

  ‘I … no, I’m not cold. I … need to wash my hands. I was feeding Fuzz.’

  He looked in interest at Fuzz, who was already halfway through his supper. ‘Since when do we have a cat in the house? Cats hate us.’

  ‘Us?’ I rushed to the sink and concentrated very hard on scrubbing my hands. Maybe if I didn’t look at him, I wouldn’t feel so … so … so what? I thought about the guy on the train with the long hair who asked me to sit next to him. My supernatural swotting had told me he had to be a werewolf. Apparently, they had some pheromone thing going on that made them wildly attractive. But this guy said us. Did that make him a vampire? ‘Are you a guest here?’ I asked.

  He moved right beside me, plucked an apple from a bowl and tossed it in the air before taking a bite. Oh, dear goddess, why was that so sexy? And what was with me saying dear goddess? Was I so easily influenced? And … did vampires even eat apples? Whatever this guy was, he was crunching into that fruit with gusto.

  ‘I’m Jared,’ he said between crunches. ‘Nollaig’s son.’