Spooky Moves: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 8) Read online

  Resting my hand on his, I barely dared to breathe.

  "Afghanistan was bad," he said simply, and I knew he wouldn't go any further into it. "It was worse for Nate. He should've never been there."

  Wyatt trailed off, then, staring at my hand on his. I squeezed. "The woman?"

  Nodding, he said, "I don't know her name. My sergeant wouldn't—well, they thought it was best I didn't know. I saw her at a compound we were infiltrating. It was chock full of insurgents, but there were a lot of civilians there too. Family members. Friends." He took a big breath. "Our orders were to go in shooting, take out the leader. They showed us his picture...."

  It was always scary when Wyatt, the most put together person I knew, barely made sense. I hung on and tried to put the pieces together.

  "She got in the way," he said finally. "I think he was her son, and she got in the way. Nate wasn't the same after that. The Army psychologist was going to send him home—honorable discharge." His voice broke. "He hung himself the day before he was supposed to ship out."

  It was the ending I had expected, but I would’ve given anything for Wyatt not to have to say that. We sat in silence for a few minutes, me not knowing what to say. I wished I’d gone to college and had a plethora of fancy words to make him feel better.

  “She’s not a witch,” he said finally. “So while she has every reason to hate me, I doubt she’s the one behind all this.”

  I said nothing, urging him with hand signals to drive us home. The fact of it was, Wyatt was still too close to his pain to see that the Afghani woman was still a viable suspect. He had no way of knowing whether she was a witch, and I wasn’t about to let his guilt get him killed. I needed to watch Madam Mystic and her robed counterpart very closely.

  Unfortunately, one of them could go invisible at will, and I wasn’t sure about the other. Life was so much simpler when the bad guys had solid form.

  Chapter Six

  I was halfway through my tea the next morning when I got a call from Vic. I wondered if I'd be a bad friend for ignoring it on principle and decided I didn't care. Four calls later, though, I answered it just so I could stop the ringing.

  "I'm indisposed."

  "The mayor has called a town-wide meeting about the ghost infestation," she squealed. "My first town crisis."

  I hung up and sat there for a moment. Then, after heaving a big sigh, I went upstairs to put on my big girl pants.

  Just like at the annual dancing competition around Christmas, the whole town was squeezed into town hall, pushing and shoving and trying to get the best bit of gossip. The first person I saw was Fate, who came over to me immediately, biting at her nails. The circles under her eyes had gotten impossibly darker.

  "I keep waking up, because I can feel someone staring at me," she croaked. "But when I open my eyes, no one's there. Have you found anything?"

  I didn't want to tell I'd found zilch, so I just smiled and nodded. "I'm real close. You'll be sleeping peacefully before you know it."

  Carson Smiles got up on a big podium in the middle of the courtyard. His ever-present smile looked especially strained today, and I tried not to take too much satisfaction in that. It was petty to want people to be as miserable as you were.

  He began briefing the citizens on the ghost problem as if everyone hadn't heard about it a week ago. My eyes scanned the crowd for Vic—she was in neon spandex and easy to spot. Leaving Fate behind with a clap on the shoulder, I crept over to my best friend.

  "Not so indisposed anymore," she said, smirking. "Made any progress?"

  I told her about Madam Mystic and the Afghani woman. Unsure of how much of Wyatt's private past to put in the story, I left most of it out, giving her only what she needed to understand.

  "I bet it's the fortune teller," she said finally. "I bet she's getting a whole lot of business because of this. People are becoming spiritual all of a sudden."

  I rolled my eyes. "Wonderful. That's just what I need—more people getting involved with the spirits."

  Vic and I shared a collective shudder.

  Pulling her to the side, I lowered my voice. "They aren't my only suspects, though." I told her about the oil I'd found all over Fate's room that had matched what I'd seen at Leah Anthony's place.

  Pursing her lips, Vic said doubtfully, "I can't see a factory worker pulling some major voodoo like that."

  "Not even one completely out of her mind with grief for her husband?"

  Vic shrugged. "If my ex-husband got killed, I'd be too busy trying to beat the murder rap to bring him back to life—and kill him again."

  "I think I'd just retire young and sleep around if Wyatt died."

  "A valid suggestion. You'd have his life insurance."

  That reminded me of something unpleasant. Lowering my voice even more than when I'd been accusing Leah of witchcraft, I said, "He wants to share a bank account."

  "Oh, how horrible. You'd think the two of you were getting married or something."

  "Your compassion is staggering."

  I saw Wyatt then, and I bid Vic goodbye. Standing off to the side in a suit that just screamed law enforcement, he smiled slightly as I walked up to him. I knew he didn’t want to talk about Nathan or the Afghani woman, so I picked another subject.

  “Notice a certain heavily robed woman who’s not in attendance?” I asked, peering around the crowd. “Or maybe she is. We haven’t seen her face.”

  “She’s down on the corner giving Melanie Gross a reading,” he said automatically.

  My face twisted in disgust at the name of my least liked person in Waresville. “You’re keeping track of her?”

  He just smiled and tapped a finger to his badge.

  The mayor was just entering the part about being wary of the new visitors—something the majority of the town didn’t want to hear. He impressively kept his smile on throughout the boos and screams that he was “anti-supernatural,” which, in Waresville, is just about as bad an insult as it gets.

  Like it was scripted, the woman in Afghani garb appeared on stage. Wyatt tensed beside me, grabbing me by the arms when I would’ve charged up there to ask her nicely to stop terrorizing my fiancé.

  Carson Smiles went as pale as half the ghosts I’d seen, hand going to his throat. The woman said something, but I couldn’t hear it, because just then, every ghost in town had materialized in the small courtyard. The screaming started a second after that, people throwing themselves into walls and each other to get away from the cold spots and the deathly stares.

  A man with a large belly and too much hair appeared next to me, grabbing for my arm. I felt only the barest brush of cold, dead flesh before Wyatt was pulling me out of the way, but it was enough to make me gag.

  Everywhere, ghosts started picking up lawn chairs, benches, and people, throwing them around and turning the courtyard into a demonized version of a ball pit. The doors to the inside on either side were sealed shut, though hordes of people were pulling and pushing on them. I could hear the hinges giving way, but even after the telltale pop, the doors wouldn’t open. They were held by something more than metal.

  Then, the spirits started speaking all at once—a chant that drowned out all the screams from the living.

  “This town is ours now. This town is ours now. This town….”

  Shuddering, I pushed my way through the crowd with Wyatt’s help, getting to the glass doors. I caught Oliver’s eye through the chaos and nodded to the entrance on the other side. He was gone the next instant, and I wasn’t sure he got the message.

  Pulling my magic out was hard. Harder than it’d ever been before, and I’d been in some harrowing situations. The noise coupled with the severe jostling I was getting was only the beginning. In the air, I could feel a power other than my own, and it was creating some intense interference.

  Latching onto Wyatt’s arm, I centered myself through him. I took a deep breath, reached down inside myself for the magic that was always there—no matter if I wanted it to be or not—and push
ed.

  The glass doors all around me shattered, shards exploding inward and outward. A couple sliced right through me, the blood flowing quickly. People closest to the doors dove away for a second to avoid getting more cut up. A scant moment later, people realized the doors were clear, and the stampede began.

  Wyatt and I crushed ourselves against a nearby wall as people poured past us. A couple tripped, and Wyatt was the first one diving in head first to rescue them. Conversely, I picked the pockets of people I disliked as they passed. Since I was using my power, these were billable hours, and I was intending to collect.

  By the time the dust and people cleared out, the ghosts were gone. Wyatt was completely disheveled, hair messed and dirt streaked over his suit. I was in little better condition, but as I counted the bills from my haul, I realized I'd made a good amount of money this afternoon.

  While I was counting and organizing my loot, Wyatt came by and snatched the bills from my hands. "We're returning all of this."

  I cocked an eyebrow. "That's practically an honest wage. I performed a service and collected on it."

  Oliver, his cape ripped to shreds, came over with a smaller stack than mine. "How'd you make out?"

  Making an exasperated noise, Wyatt went to tend to the people on the floor, seeing if anyone was seriously hurt. I couldn't really bring myself to care as they'd all tried to run me down only minutes before.

  One of the people left behind was Leah Anthony. Still covered in oil from the factory, she had a crazy look about her, eyes flickering every which way. Though her ankle was swollen to the size of her face, she hobbled over to me, ignoring Wyatt's warning to stay off it.

  "They're not going to blame the ghosts for this, are they?" she asked.

  "Oh, no, I'm sure it'll be my fault. It always is."

  She seemed assured by this, breathing more evenly, color returning to her cheeks. I left her. There's only so much crazy I can deal with in an hour.

  Just when I thought it was all over, I heard a scream from inside town hall. Wyatt and I were instantly on the move, sprinting to where we heard the noise. A damp sweat had broken out over my body. I knew that voice. It was Fate.

  We saw her just as she was being dragged around the corner, her fingers bloody from scratching at walls and floors, trying to find something to give her purchase. Her eyes were frantic, but her voice was little more than a croak by that point.

  Grabbing her hand, Wyatt planted his feet and pulled, stopping Fate's momentum. Without missing a beat or having to communicate with my partner, I whipped around the corner, ready to do battle with whatever had Fate in its clutches.

  But, of course, nothing was there.

  Unfortunately, whatever wasn't visible was still pulling on Fate, digging into her exposed calf so hard that deep bruising was already starting to form. Her leg was going to be all kind of colors in the morning.

  Thinking fast but not fast enough, I threw myself at the space where an attacker would be. Too late, I realized that if I could go through ghosts in the courtyard, I'd go through them here too. I collided with the wall in an explosion of sound, colors, and the stars I could see behind my lids.

  I rolled back to my feet unsteadily, my cheek on fire and my eye not opening quite right. There was a literal ghost of a laugh, and the force redoubled on Fate, eliciting a groan from her. Wyatt dug in, but sweat was pouring off him, and his arms were shaking. He wouldn't be able to hold on for much longer.

  If I thought it was hard reaching my magic in the midst of the earlier chaos, I should've tried with a head injury. Every time I got close to that feeling of invincibility, of absolute, all-consuming power, I lost track of it and ended up ordinary, old Harper.

  The ghost's laughing continued, getting high and more gleeful. It really pissed me off, frankly, and I reached back inside myself one more time, body shaking and mind unsteady. Finding the inner magic once again, I threw it from me with as much force as I could muster. It went through the ghost, eating into the dry wall like a chemical fire, but the laughing finally stopped. Fate's leg went slack, and Wyatt was able to let go.

  "Good work, team," I slurred, the world taking on a slanted quality. I reached out for the wall. "Too much..."

  The last thing I remember is the thumping sound my head made against the linoleum.

  Chapter Seven

  “You’re not the boss of me.” I stuck my tongue out at Cooper as he blocked the door to my hospital room. “As a matter of fact, I’m the boss of you.”

  “My dad—“ he puffed his chest out with pride as he said it, “put me in charge while he was gone.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Children,” Wyatt said, appearing at the door with a bag of take-out. “Do I need to ground the two of you?”

  Grabbing the bag from Wyatt, I shoved some fries into my mouth and allowed myself to be dragged back to my hospital bed. “He was after my morphine,” I told Wyatt. “Your kid’s on dope.”

  Cooper turned up his nose. “I was just following orders.”

  Groaning, I threw a fry at him. “How did I come to live with two stiffs?”

  “Destiny.” Wyatt pressed a kiss to my unbroken cheekbone.

  He hadn’t slept since I got out of surgery for the broken cheek. Despite the doctor’s assurance that there wouldn’t even be a scar, and that the concussion was minor, there were grave lines carved in his face. I just hoped they weren’t permanent.

  After surgery on my cheek and time to get over my concussion, the doctor said I'd be like new. Well, his exact words were more along the lines of "if you keep landing in my ER, I'm going to put you in a medicated coma for your own safety." Doctors were so funny that way.

  As a condition of my release, I was supposed to go everywhere in a wheelchair, since I kept toppling over every time I tried to stand on my own. Far from put off by this rule, I asked Wyatt if he could paint racing stripes on the side of the chair. I was still trying to figure out why he'd said no.

  When we got home—wheelchair and all—Cooper was waiting for me on the front porch, along with all the animals. He handed me a cup of my favorite tea, kissing me on the cheek. From Biscuit, I received a whole lot of drool and hair on me. Not to be outdone, Whale jumped up on my lap, setting his fat, furry butt in the least comfortable way.

  "I think they missed you," Wyatt whispered in my ear.

  It was a little too much sentiment for me, so I pointed at Cooper. "You, boy, get into the kitchen and put a pizza in the oven. Chop chop. My love can be earned, but it's difficult."

  Even that little bit drained me. I'd put too much magic into all those blasts, but I hadn't had much of a choice. Without a specific spell in mind, that was the only kind of magic I was proficient at. I'd been feeling it for days after, though, as a punishment.

  Speaking of punishment, Gran had called me that morning in the hospital. Her message had been brief: "You're a young fool. And young fools rarely live to be old ones."

  Unfortunately, Wyatt had heard most of the conversation, or lack of, and his face had clouded over. Even now, there was a shadow there behind the happiness. It made him look older and a lot less happy. With a flash of fear and regret, I wondered if I'd done that to him.

  Since I was supposed to stay awake for a couple more hours still, Wyatt wheeled me up to the kitchen table, while Cooper ran to get a board game. For the rest of the night, I tried to sneak sips of Wyatt's beer, and Cooper would laugh outrageously when I'd fail. They let me win every game. I called them on it, but they denied. It was enough to make you forget there were ghosts just outside these walls.

  I was dead on my feet by the time Wyatt's phone went off, telling him it was safe for me to sleep. About ready to pass out in the chair at the thought of the stairs, I was relieved when Wyatt slung me up into his arms and carried me to the bed.

  As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was asleep. Vaguely, I remember Wyatt moving about the room, cleaning up and changing into his pajamas. The next,
I was the candy queen in a land made entirely of ice cream. It was very cold, and my people had yet to invent the sweater.

  The next real thing I knew was Wyatt gasping and being ripped from bed.

  It was dark, and I swung my arm out, feeling nothing but cool air around me. I sprang from the bed, falling on my ass but getting back up again. Across the dimly lit room, Wyatt was pressed against the wall, an invisible hand around his neck. His feet were off the ground, and a horrible gurgling noise was coming from his throat.

  I tried to reach inside myself for my magic once again, but an earsplitting pain to my head that almost took my consciousness made me think better of it. Blinking against the pain, I realized the Afghani woman was standing in the corner, watching as Wyatt struggled.

  "What do you want?" My voice sounded small and desperate. I didn't like that, so I put a little more attitude in it. "Release him or I'll shove my flaming shoe up your—"

  Her head whipped towards me, and she laughed. "You?" She looked me up and down. "You're completely drained."

  I was surprised she could speak English so well, though there was a definite accent. A moment later, she switched to Dari, the words more like chanting than carrying on an actual conversation.

  When I looked back at Wyatt, he was breathing shallowly, and the hands holding him had taken corporeal form. The face was no longer kind, but the big nose was unmistakable.

  It was Nathan O’Hara.

  That quickly, Wyatt wasn't struggling anymore. His eyes drank in his friend like it was his first glass of water in years. My own eyes teared up when a single drop of salt water rolled down his cheek—and neither of us are criers. Whatever else might have happened in this mystery, I knew I was going to hurt whoever did this to Wyatt.

  "Harper Beck and Wyatt Bennett," she said gravely, with none of the personality she'd had before. "This is a warning. Stay away from this case."

  The woman walked up to Wyatt, her dress flowing. Running a thumb over his cheek, her expression was both detached and murderous. It hurt to look at.