Witch Upon a Star (A Midnight Magic Mystery)

  Copyright Information

  Witch Upon a Star © 2015 by Jennifer Harlow

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2015

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-4384-4

  Book design by Donna Burch-Brown

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher-Dodge

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  DEDICATION

  For Lydia, the brave

  They are not long the days of wine and roses:

  Out of the misty dream

  Our path emerges for a while, then closes

  within a dream.

  —ERNEST DOWSON

  AGE 29

  GARLAND, TX

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOMMY! I love you!”

  I stare down at the bouquet of three wilting dandelions, a rare sight for mid-February, even in Texas, my five-year-old holds out to me like a turn of the century courtier, complete with blush on his round apple cheeks. I shut my book, a biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine, and beam at my lovely Max. “Oh, my goodness, they’re beautiful,” I coo, taking his offering. “You have excellent taste in flowers, mon cher. I adore them. Thank you.” I peck the top of his towhead. “Now go play. It’s getting dark. We’ll be heading home soon.”

  My baby glances at the smirking woman sitting beside me, shrinks in on himself, bows his head, and scurries back to the sandbox to play alone. Happiest in solitude with only his vast imagination as his companion. At least he’ll never truly be lonely. I move my gaze to my oldest, pushing my benchmate’s little girl on the swing. Seven and already showing a penchant for the ladies. From the girl’s giggles and squeals, the feeling will be mutual. My little heartbreaker. He gets that from his father.

  “It’s your birthday?” the woman beside me queries.

  She’s been waiting for an opening to strike. Eleanor’s kept her at bay for the ten minutes since she and her children pulled up to the park in a beat-up, rusting orange Camaro. The exhaust still saturates the air. This park is technically only for the members of the Valhalla Community, but I always found that rule rather fascist. I’ve said as much at the homeowners meetings but my protests fell on deaf ears. Letting in so-called “undesirables” such as this woman and her adorable offspring is my form of peaceful protest. Every little bit helps. And most days I’d be more than happy to chat with her, even invite her over for tea as the children played, just not today. Never today.

  “Yes, it is,” I say with a gracious smile.

  “Doing anything special?”

  “We’re going to my in-laws for supper.”

  “In-laws.” She fake shudders. “Sounds like hell.”

  “I’ve had worse birthdays,” I say, picking up my book again.

  The woman doesn’t take the hint or if she does, she ignores it. Judging from the pink leopard-print plastic jacket and ripped tank-top showing off her cleavage, I have the distinct impression this woman does her level best never to be ignored whether the other person likes it or not. The last person did not like it one bit. The heavy make-up fails to hide her black eye.

  “God, me too! Last month, when we were living with this guy Buck in Dallas, he took me to a bar to celebrate. Then the bastard spent the whole night flirting with his ex. Should have known then that he was a total loser. Took a smack before I finally wised up.”

  “Sometimes it takes seeing a person at their worst to learn our lessons and force us to change.”

  “Totally. Right on.” After another gracious smile, I return to my book, getting all of a paragraph read before, “Your boys are adorable. How old are they?”

  “Joe’s seven and Max is five. Yours?”

  “Eight and six, seven at the end of the month. Hope we’re settled in by then. We’re off to Nevada, maybe Arizona. Wherever I can find work.”

  Or a man. Hopefully one that doesn’t dole out black eyes. Be it my birthday, the sudden chill in the February air, or the fact this woman reminds me far too much of my own mother, I have the sudden urge to flee. I only wish I could scoop up her children and take them with me. Let them disappear into a new life away from dysfunction masquerading as freedom. It was the best and worst event that happened to me. For the ninetieth time today, his phantasm visits me, overwhelming every sense to the point of suffocation. Literally. My stomach clenches, and I cease breathing. But only for a moment. I mastered the art of exorcising that particular ghost almost a decade ago. The veil is simply particularly thin today. So, though it goes against my breeding, I choose to be rude. After collecting my book and flowers, I rise from the bench. “It was lovely meeting you. Good luck in Nevada.” I step away from the lost soul as I call, “Joe, Max, time to go!”

  “But Moooom,” Joe whines.

  “Say good-bye to your new friends. Come on.”

  Joe sighs but steps away from the swing and his latest girlfriend. “Fine. Bye, Bea. Bye, Brian.” The brown-haired boy on the monkey bars, Brian, nods as Joe passes him. I take Max’s sandy hand, wrap my arm around Joe’s shoulder, and usher them down Winchester Place to our home. “Mom, can’t we stay a little longer? Bea needs me to push her. You’re always telling me I should do more good deeds and stuff.”

  “You should. Just not right now. You still have homework, and we don’t want to be late to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Aunt Donna and your new baby cousin will be there. You can practice your good deeds with them. Maybe you can change a poopy diaper.”

  “Gross, Mom.”

  We live in what my father-in-law calls an eclectic neighborhood, but he just means the architecture of the houses, most of which he developed or sold himself. Our white two-story rests between a ranch starter home and a gray-stone five-bedroom. We have the distinction of a white picket fence surrounding our palace, with a stone path up to the door, lined with pristine holly bushes, thanks to my husband’s green thumb. When I told Nathan I always dreamed of living a suburban, white-picket-fence lifestyle, he took me at my word.

  The outside of the house is his domain, but inside is mine. In the blink of an eye I went from squalor to riches, and the d
écor reflects both experiences. Hardwood floors, ivory walls with prints from Van Gogh and Matisse in frames, bookcases filled to the brim in every room, but the furniture is all secondhand, from estate sales or auctions. The importance of preserving history and its stories was drummed into my consciousness beginning at age nine, and I carried the lesson with me even after I abandoned its teacher. Of course having boys makes the preserving almost impossible. I couldn’t get the cleat marks out of my eighteenth-century end table when Joe tossed his shoes on it last week. Boys. I feel as if I spend half my time wiping mud and snot from everything. Good thing I adore my hellions more than life itself.

  The phone rings in the kitchen when we walk in. “Joe, take your brother upstairs, then start your homework. I’ll be up shortly to help you.” As I make my way thought the living room, I hear their thumping footfalls on the steps. The machine is just about to engage when I grab the portable from the stand. “West residence.”

  “Hey there, birthday girl,” my husband says in his usual Texas twang. My favorite accent ever, and I’ve heard quite a few. Our boys inherited that from him along with his long lips and pointed chin. Thank the universe the bushy eyebrows gene passed them by. “How are you doing?”

  “Some moments are easier than others. I’m better now I’ve heard your voice.”

  “Naturally,” he quips. “Are you still up for supper? We can always cancel.”

  “I can grin and bear it for a few hours. Besides, I mixed that pain potion for your mother’s arthritis this morning.”

  “Is it any wonder why she likes you more than me?”

  “Well, my stock will be plummeting considerably tonight. I’ll be lucky if I can muster a smile, let alone mirth and elation. I keep … you know. He’s everywhere.”

  “I know, Annie,” Nathan says soothingly. “But hey, just remember: I met you on this day too. It’s ours now, not his. I ain’t sharing you with him, especially not today.”

  Oh my goodness, it’s our ten-year anniversary. “I’m all yours, Mr. West,” I say with a private grin.

  “Damn right, Mrs. West. And you can prove it to me in a few minutes. I’m leaving the office right now. Need me to pick up anything from the store? Champagne? Edible panties?”

  I laugh for the first time today. Without fail that man always brings a grin to my face. “No, just get your cute buns home fast.”

  “You got it, Mrs. West. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  We hang up. My smile slowly crumbles. I completely forgot today was the day we met. What kind of wife am I to forget a thing like that? A wretched one. I have officially spent as many birthdays with my husband as I did … him, yet the father of my children has garnered only a momentary thought today. It’s usually not this difficult to keep him at bay, even on this date. In the past year I’ve gone days, weeks even without conjuring his image or a memory, even with the usual triggers. A red rose, the color of his hair in soft light. A classical music piece he used to play on the piano as I pirouetted around him. Dvorak’s Symphony #9 came on the radio last week, and I could actually listen to the very end. But today …

  My self-flagellation is cut short but the low creaking of the floor behind me in the laundry room. Oh, I hope the mice haven’t returned. The banishing spell shouldn’t have worn off yet. Of course there is another possibility. Once a Federal Agent, always one. I stand as still as the stone Galatea before Pygmalion’s love brought her to life, even closing my eyes to listen for further disruptions. No breathing. No more movement. Still, I’m taking no chances. Not today. I grab a butcher knife from the wooden block before cautiously padding toward the open room. Nothing in the tiny cell but the pile of whites I’ve neglected. I lower the knife. Old age is making me batty. With a sigh, I put the knife on top of the washer, add the whites, and wipe down the kitchen counters before going to check on my little men. Homework, baths, and dinner attire next. They’ll fight me all the way. They get their fighting spirit and stubbornness from me. Like with most things about motherhood, this makes me proud, terrified, and exhausted all at once.

  I slog from the kitchen back into the living room. Be it the day or perhaps there’s something in the air, my tension fails to wane with every slow step. No, this will not do. I cannot face my children when I’m amped like a live wire or I’ll electrocute them. Their father does that more than enough. This must be how Nathan feels all the time. Our poor electronics incur his wrath on his off days. We just replaced the last television he fried after a shopping center development deal fell apart. A massage usually helps, though I receive static shocks every ten seconds until he calms. The things one endures for love.

  I just need a few moments. The pictures on the fireplace mantel are slightly askance. In a fit of nervous energy I cleaned the house top to bottom earlier. Nothing should be out of place today. I move to the fireplace to line them up. My friend Audrey from next door once observed there was nary of photo of me from childhood on display anywhere—that it was as if I didn’t exist until my wedding. I told her they were all destroyed in a fire. Not a total lie.

  This. This is what matters.

  I stare at the picture of me teaching Joe to walk in our backyard, my blond hair blowing in the breeze with a proud grin on my face. Then at the photo of Max’s first Christmas with three generations of the West clan sitting around the tree ripping open gifts. Last year’s trip to Niagara Falls. Me demonstrating at the barre the arabesque position to my ballet students. Joe receiving his soccer trophy. Me hugely pregnant with Max as both Joe and my husband kiss my belly. Our wedding …

  That one brings the widest grin. I pick it up. I wear a simple off-the-shoulder cotton dress for a simple wedding thrown together in two weeks. I didn’t want a big to-do and I found out later my fiancé was petrified I’d change my mind if we dawdled. As if I ever would. He was my best friend. The man who brought me back to life with patience, kindness, and love. Who gave me everything I never knew I wanted. He still is, and always will be. My gift from the universe. Okay, I’m ready—

  In the glass’s reflection, the man materializes from nothing. One moment I’m alone, the next a man in a black ski mask holding something in his hand is inches behind me. There isn’t even a moment to be afraid. Long dormant instinct awakens like a roaring giant, ready in that millisecond it takes for me to spin around and catch the intruder’s wrist before he lowers the object into my body. A needle. By the time that fact penetrates my consciousness, I’m already raising my knee to his groin. I hit nothing but air. As fast as he arrived, that’s how quick he vanishes. I stare at the space he inhabited, hand curled around nothing and leg up. I take one second to think. Teleporter. Danger. The boys.

  My babies.

  I grab the nearest weapon, a fireplace poker, and dash toward the archway. I make it one step through the threshold to the foyer before he pops a foot in front of me. He’s almost as tall as my 6'3" husband, but with a medium build and dressed in all black, the only flesh visible being his gray eyes. I also take in the gun holster with pistol on one side and pouch on the other. He lunges needle first, but I swat the hand away with the poker. With a grunt, he drops the syringe in my hallway. Momentary victory. As I raise the poker once more, he teleports away. Once again I lose a precious second to adjust my strategy. Less than. Just as I realize he’s gone, strong arms wrap around mine from behind in a bear hug. My forearms cross my chest as if I were in a casket and very well could be soon.

  “I don’t want to hurt—” the man says in French.

  The back of my head walloping his nose and jaw silences him, save for the groan of pain. He releases me. Poker first, I pivot around to find my assailant stumbling back into the living room just out of reach of my metal baton. He uses my missed attempt to his advantage, taking one step forward and kicking me square in the stomach hard enough to stun. For a few seconds there’s nothing in the universe save for agony and suffocation. But he doesn’t attack again. He simply stands there and in French says, “I don�
�t want to hurt you.”

  “Mom?” Joe calls from upstairs.

  Whatever pain, whatever terror I’m experiencing vanishes when I hear my son’s concerned voice. The man’s attention turns toward the voice. Through the pain, through the fear, one word shrieks through. Fight! As I raise my poker again, I charge him, bridging the ten-foot gap. This time his hand wraps around my wrist. With one quick movement, he jerks my arm downward, my elbow twisting unnaturally, almost 180 degrees. The shooting pain and violence of movement forces me to lose the poker. It clatters to the floor. My legs still function though. I pivot on my right foot to sidekick him in the stomach with all my might. He releases my arm and backs into the sofa. He’s in a perfect position for the front snap kick, which I deliver right to his sternum. Thank you, F.R.E.A.K.S. training. The bastard flips over the couch but doesn’t complete the trip. He teleports out of sight. Merde.

  “Mom, you okay?” Joe asks.

  “Get your brother and hide!”

  “Mom!” Max shrieks in terror.

  He’s upstairs.

  I’m about to reach for the poker but cannot make the journey. The man reappears to return my kick. His foot connects to my chest, and I collapse backward to the floor. My already sensitive cranium thumps against the hardwood, stunning me for a moment. My opponent uses my weakness to remove another syringe from his holster. At least it’s not a gun. “You are making this more difficult than it has to be. He gave strict orders not to harm you or the children.” He uncaps the needle. “Please do not—”

  I raise my finger, pour all my fear, my anguish, and my power into its tip and shout, “Lapsus!”

  A blast of magic siphons through my body, smashing into him with tidal wave force. As if shot from a cannon, the man lifts off the floor and flies backward fifteen feet into the bookcase. Even over the clattering and thumping of objects colliding, the distinct sound of snapping bone and tendons can be heard as his neck hits an oak shelf. The bastard’s head snaps back as his throat arches forward at an unnatural angle. Broken. He collapses in a heap, books raining down and around on him. He’s too dead to notice. Damn it.