Secrets of the Frostbound Cottage (Witchlight Magical Mysteries)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

It was probably wrong to wish for a murder or a proper kidnapping, but at that point even a decent burglary would have beaten the heartbreak of yet another adulterous spouse. If I hadn’t grown up watching my parents’ disgustingly soppy, rom-com level love story, I’d have been a full-blown cynic by now. Instead I was stuck in this awkward limbo – half cynical, half optimistic … and fully frustrated. Either way, the glass was half empty, and I wasn’t even tipsy.

As a PI, I enjoyed being out and about on surveillance, following up leads, knocking on doors and getting to the bottom of whatever I’d been hired to investigate. What I loved was the mystery; once I knew the truth, proving it was the boring part. I didn’t like being stuck at the computer, scanning through surveillance photos or scrolling through pages of credit-card transactions hoping to find some hidden clues I’d missed. Yet the grinding drudgery was all I’d done for the last couple of days and it was soul-destroying. I’d spent virtually the entire day at home, and the walls were starting to close in on me.

Lately, I hadn’t even had time to fit in teaching self-defence. Martial arts don’t have to be formal or boring, and I loved teaching other women how to kick ass. My classes were often filled with laughter and, as I surreptitiously inhaled the wisps of others’ friendships, their flashes of affection and humour supported me. I didn’t need my own friendships if I could experience theirs. Or so I told myself.

My students were human, so I couldn’t pick up on their emotions as deeply as I could a magic user’s – and it took a tonne of effort – but the brief bursts of warmth were enough. Of course, those had to be balanced with the occasional student who came in jangling with fear and an edge of desperation. When too many emotions were whirling around, it was hard to tell who was feeling what. It got … overwhelming. I was the worst empath ever.

I might have been a magical dud, but I was a great teacher. However, much as I loved the group sessions I ran, it was the one-on-one coaching that showed me the real benefit of what I was doing. Half of my students came to me scared of their own shadows and they needed more than a group class could provide.

I always felt proud when I knew I’d replaced an anxious, fear-filled mindset with confidence and self-belief, and I could usually do it through a couple of weeks of intense mentoring. No one should feel scared to be out walking alone. I saw it as a privilege to empower my women, especially the ones that carried that fear.

Like the fear I still carried deep within me.

I shifted my numb butt on the sofa and stared at my laptop screen. My red hair swung across my face and I tucked it impatiently behind my ears as I tried to focus on my job, my proper job.

I was currently juggling two cases, but one just needed me to write a report then I could strike it off my to-do list. Mrs Morgan had hired me to follow her husband for two weeks, but it had only taken a few days to discover that his lunch-hour ‘gym’ visits were actually ‘Jill’ visits.

I’d taken a few photographs, so it didn’t take too long to finalise the report. I agonised over every marriage-destroying word and tried to couch it in the most diplomatic terms possible, but even so the photos would devastate Mrs Morgan. Jill Swan was one of her best friends; this was going to sting like a bitch no matter how nicely I phrased things. In the end I stopped prevaricating and worrying about the wording. I knew my report would hurt, but I wasn’t causing the pain – that was her husband’s callous affair.

I knew a couple of PIs who would have dragged out a case like this, milking it to earn more money, but that wasn’t my deal. My parents hadn’t raised me to con anybody; they’d raised me to protect people.

I was the seventh generation of a line of guardians, and the urge to protect was so strongly ingrained in me that I wanted to shield Mrs Morgan from my own report. But that wasn’t my job, so I wrapped it up and emailed it to her with a mumbled apology.

Now that Mrs Morgan’s case was tied up with a bow, I could send her an invoice and file it as closed. With that onerous job completed, there was only one other active investigation on my books: a possible dognapping.

It was very early days; the dog – BonBon – hadn’t even been missing for twelve hours, and there had been no viable clues so far. I’d spent much of today reviewing the doorbell CCTV that her owner Rowena had sent me. To be honest, I hadn’t dismissed the possibility that Rowena had simply left the side gate open because there was absolutely no sign of forced entry and she swore she’d last seen her dog in her fenced-off garden.

I’m a good judge of character and, despite her assurances, she’d given me total space-cadet vibes. Then there was the barest hint of uncertainty when I’d questioned her about the side gate. She said she closed it but, when I’d pressed her, she’d admitted woefully that she wasn’t completely certain. She’d explained that she’d hit that age where menopause was doing its thing and wrecking her memory.

I could still remember Mum swearing about the hot flushes. Menopause had hit her young. She hadn’t had a chance to grow old.

Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I strode into the kitchen. A glass of wine would wash down bitter memories that refused to stay in the dark recesses of my mind. Focus on the work. I opened the fridge and poured out a generous measure of my favourite Sauvignon Blanc, Oyster Bay.

I took the glass back to the sofa where my laptop was waiting. I’d reviewed all Rowena’s doorbell security, but her neighbours had helpfully given me theirs too so I had a few more hours of CCTV ahead of me. Still, at least if I had to do tedious jobs I could do them with a glass of Oy Bay in my hand. Working for yourself was the best.

I sat on the sofa and raised the glass to my lips at the exact moment that my phone blared into life. If it was an unknown number – and therefore likely to be a new client – I always tried to answer as quickly as possible. I liked to think that gave the impression that I’m an efficient professional, which is what a client wants in my line of work. But when I looked at the screen it showed a familiar name, so I took a very large gulp of my favourite fermented grape juice before I answered.

‘Rowena,’ I greeted my dognapping client. ‘I’m afraid there’s no news yet.’

‘It’s been nearly twelve hours,’ she wailed. ‘And it’s always the first forty-eight hours that’s most important in a missing person’s case, isn’t it?’

I squelched down a grimace. I wasn’t sure that the forty-eight-hour thing applied to dogs, though I didn’t point that out. Instead I said vaguely, ‘Yes, ordinarily…’

The thing was that this wasn’t a normal missing person’s case. It was a missing dog , a missing – in her words, not mine – ‘pure-bred miniature Schnoodle Bon’. I had since learned that was a mix between a miniature Schnauzer, a Poodle and a Bichon Frise, meaning there was absolutely nothing pure bred about it. Rowena had herself a very fancy mutt.

Not that I was going to say that. My client was definitely the sensitive type, and her emotions had jangled on my nerves. Given how muted normal humans’ emotions are to me, that was saying something. She was in real distress and I felt for her, but I was doing everything I could – including working into the evening to review more CCTV footage. That was the downside of being self-employed: time-off is more of a dream than a reality – but hey, I lived to work so who needed time off anyway?

‘Well, have you got any leads yet?’ she demanded tearfully. ‘I thought you’d have something by now.’

‘I’m just waiting to hear back from some of my associates,’ I replied truthfully. After reviewing Rowena’s CCTV footage and calling her neighbours, I’d spent the afternoon ringing around my contacts. I was sure one of the tugs on the line would lead to something. ‘The minute I hear anything, I’ll follow it up immediately. I promised I’d do everything I could to get your BonBon back and I will.’

‘And you’ll let me know if any of your sources contact you?’ she pressed.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘ If I think they’re giving me a viable lead. I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily.’

Finding her dog wasn’t my only job: I also needed to manage her expectations. If she really had left the side gate open, finding him would be a needle in a haystack.

I’d already called the Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, as well as a few local dog charities and vets. I’d sent them all a picture of BonBon. If he’d wandered off, finding him at one of the charities was the best-case scenario.

Rowena made a ‘ hmm’ noise that told me she was the type of client that wanted an update every second of the day, hopes be damned. She went on, ‘I was thinking, Beatrix. Maybe they left some clues around the house that I missed? Should we hire a forensic team? We can do that, can’t we? Money is no object.’

I took a deep breath. There had been no sign of a break-in and nothing on her doorbell cam to suggest there had been intruders. The camera didn’t have a complete view of the area, so access to the house was still possible but it was highly unlikely. It was far more likely that BonBon had slipped out of the garden and taken himself for a frolic.

I was taking her concerns seriously because her anxiety was real. She insisted that he’d never wandered off before; unfortunately, though, there was a first time for everything.

Rowena was convinced that BonBon had been taken and ferried away in one of the cars captured on her footage, but she lived on a busy street. To say the list of vehicle registration numbers was extensive was a wild understatement – and I hadn’t even started going through the neighbours’ CCTV.

I’d already done a load of leg work, interviewing and discounting her neighbours and her gardener. One of the number plates she’d given me had been her husband’s car, which was apparently so new that she’d flagged it up in error. Still, I’d done my due diligence, gone through all the plates I could verify easily and identified the ones I couldn’t. Now, I was waiting to hear back from my contacts at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency and the police to see whether any of those were leads worth pursuing.

‘I told you about his collar, didn’t I?’ Rowena pressed. ‘I’m sure that’s why they stole him, because of the rubies on it. But I don’t care about that. You can have them as your bonus if you get him back.’ Her voice was wheedling. ‘All I want is my little BonBon back.’

Rubies. On a dog collar. I wondered if BonBon had wandered off to protest about being forced to wear jewellery worth more than my car.

‘I know, Rowena,’ I said gently. ‘I get it, I really do. And I’m trying, I promise. I won’t give up.’

My mum’s voice rang in my mind, Never give up, Bumble Bea.

I won’t, I promised back silently as I always did.

Rowena sniffed down the phone and I felt bad for my annoyance at her repeated calls. She’d phoned me every two hours since I’d taken the job, but her dog was family to her and I knew better than anyone what it was like to lose family.

‘I’ll ring my contacts again now.’ I tried to sound reassuring. ‘I’ll hurry them up a little.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was warm and relieved. ‘I really do appreciate it, Beatrix.’ She was still sniffling when she hung up.

Missing cases, whether human or animal, are never easy. I liked to think I could detach myself, that I didn’t get pulled into the emotion of it all, but if someone’s feelings were strong enough I couldn’t help picking up on them. And whenever missing family was involved, there was a lot of emotion flying around ready to hit me in the gut.

Wanting to stay true to my word, I scrolled through my contacts list and gave both of them another call. Neither answered so I left messages.

I was reaching for my glass of Oy Bay when there was a knock at the door.

I froze, fingers brushing the glass stem. It was starting to feel like there was a conspiracy to keep me from drinking my favourite glass of heavenly nectar.

I licked my suddenly dry lips. The only person who ever knocked on my door was my landlady, Trini, usually to remind me about the rent despite the fact that I’d paid it on time every month since I’d moved in more than six years ago. But it couldn’t be Trini because I’d paid her last week. So who was it?

I didn’t have friends who dropped by whenever they fancied; I’d not had many friends at all, not since I’d left Witchlight Cove. Sure, I had a couple of friendly acquaintances, but they didn’t know my address. I didn’t give my address to clients or my martial arts students, and even though I’d had some guys over once or twice, I’d made it perfectly clear that I didn’t expect to hear from them again unless I called. Which I never did.

So who the hell was it?

When you’ve been brought up to fight the way I was, the average person wasn’t a threat. My concern was that this might not be an average person…

My heart thundered. Had my grandmother found me?

I gritted my teeth. Hiding wouldn't answer the question. And maybe it was just a door-to-door salesman. There was no need to freak out.

I stood up and went towards my front door, but before my hand even touched the handle I was hit by a wall of emotion so strong that it took my breath away. Fear: pure fear. Not my grandmother, then, because she feared nothing other than her own mortality.

Relief rushed through me and helped to counter the overwhelming feeling of terror and desperation coming from the person on the other side of the door.

The feelings washing over me were so strong that I knew without a doubt that the person on the other side of the door was from the hidden magical world. My empath magic didn’t connect as strongly with humans; I could pick up their feelings if I tried, but they didn’t hit me over the head with a sledgehammer like this person’s were doing.

Whoever it was, they weren’t going to hurt me – I knew that much straight away. They needed me, really needed me. Their fear was rattling my bones and making my heart race.

Their angst was so visceral and strong that it was a real effort to open the door but I did it anyway – and found two wide, red-rimmed eyes staring up at me.

‘Please,’ the young girl said, her voice trembling as she took big rasping breaths. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her waist. ‘Please,’ she repeated desperately. ‘I think you’re meant to help me.’

She was looking up at me so entreatingly that I knew, whatever she asked, I was all in.