Chapter 9 #2
“Of course, dear. I don’t have a need for it anymore. I’m sure another witch will help you with it.”
It wasn’t a bad idea to remove the grimoire from her possession.
Gwen shuffled toward her bedroom. “Wait. I think it’s in the attic.” Her face scrunched into a ball of concern. “Do I have an attic?”
Some homes in the Neighborhood did, but not all. “Let me check your bedroom.”
Sure enough, there was an access panel with a string dangling from the ceiling of the master closet.
I pulled down the ladder and climbed to the top.
The attic smelled of dust and old paper.
Three quick sneezes followed my observation, as though proving my point.
I crawled across the warped floorboards—the ceiling was too low to stand.
There, in a wooden box packed carefully in tissue paper, was Gwen’s grimoire. I retrieved the weighty tome and carried it back down the ladder.
Gwen’s eyes grew round when she spotted the book in my hands. “I haven’t seen that book in years.”
“You took excellent care of it.” The grimoire was in good shape. No yellowed or torn pages. Humidity had a way of wreaking havoc on books if you weren’t careful.
“Feels like a lifetime ago.”
I held out the book to her. “Would you like to look through it?”
Gently, she pushed the book back into my arms. “I don’t think so, dear. The time for magic has passed. Consider it yours now.”
I felt a pang of guilt as I accepted it, but I reminded myself it was akin to revoking someone’s driver’s license who was no longer fit to drive. With magic at her fingertips, Gwen was a danger to herself and others.
“Thank you, Gwen. I’ll take excellent care of it, just like you did. I promise.”
She patted my hand that rested on top of the book. “I know you will, dear. You take such good care of everyone here. I don’t know what this place would be like without you.”
I hated to ask my next question, but it was time. “How would you feel about moving into the assisted living center?”
“You think I need assistance?”
“I do.”
She mulled it over. “Could I take a look before I commit?”
“Of course. We want you to be comfortable wherever you are.”
“I wouldn’t mind someone preparing my meals. I keep worrying I’ll leave a burner on and wake up in flames.”
Nobody wanted that. “I’ll speak to Justine on your behalf, if that’s okay with you.”
“Do I know Justine?”
“The HOA president.”
“Oh, right. I remember her now. Serious woman with the permanent scowl.”
“She has a tough job.”
“I suppose so, but I think it’s the measure of a person—how they handle those tough jobs. You don’t have to respond with the same kind of energy.”
I kept quiet. I was the last person that should judge Justine or anyone else.
I waited until I was safely ensconced in my cottage to thumb through the grimoire.
You could tell a lot about a witch from her grimoire.
It was like looking through someone’s scrapbook.
I saw pieces of Gwen in every spell. There wasn’t a petty or retaliatory curse in the bunch.
My pulse accelerated when I spotted a spell entitled Memory Brew.
It wouldn’t give Jinx the power of speech, but it would allow me to form a mental link with her.
Based on the handwritten notes in the margins, Gwen used this spell during her time at the shelter to determine any medical issues when an animal was first admitted.
My stomach clenched thinking of the emotional labor involved in accessing an injured or abandoned animal’s memories.
Gwen walked with a steel spine beneath her soft exterior.
Jinx regarded me with suspicious green eyes as I prepared the spell.
“I won’t do this without your permission. Meow once for yes and twice for no.”
Jinx meowed once.
“I can’t promise this will be a pleasant experience for either of us. I’ve never done it before, so I have no clue what to expect.”
Jinx’s tail flicked back and forth.
I arranged the ingredients in a careful circle on the floor: sprigs of fresh rosemary for remembrance; dried mugwort to open the mind's eye; a handful of chamomile for calm; and three drops of lavender oil on a clean cloth. At the center, I placed a copper bowl half filled with spring water.
I crushed the rosemary between my palms and let the remnants fall into the water, followed by pinches of the other herbs. The mixture began to swirl on its own, though there was no breeze in the room.
Jinx’s ear twitched.
“Memorium aperire,” I whispered. “Per herbas et aquas, ostende mihi. ”
Magic pulsed from the bowl. To her credit, Jinx stayed put. I worried she might flee once she felt the magic.
“Okay, I need to rub this behind both of our ears. Once we’ve finished, there’s a can of tuna with your name on it.”
This seemed to motivate her. She sat as still as a statue while my fingers brushed the soft fur behind her ear. Then I rubbed the mixture behind my own.
My head spun. The living room floor disappeared, replaced by blades of grass slick from a recent rainfall. I was strangely low to the ground. It took me a second to figure out I was viewing the world through Jinx’s eyes. Not in real time, though. This was a memory.
Finally, a breakthrough.
A sudden influx of scents threatened to overwhelm me and I paused, taking a moment to adjust. All my senses seemed heightened.
The tang of earthy aromas hung in the air.
I saw water droplets clinging to the bright green blades.
I heard the steady thrum of golf cart engines in the distance.
The rain-soaked grass smelled like childhood—crisp, clean, and fresh.
My own nostalgia mingled with the cat’s memory.
Much like Jinx, I’d spent as much time outdoors as possible as a kid, mainly to avoid the drama that happened indoors.
I would flee outside while the final raindrops were still falling and splash in puddles.
I still loved rain; it washed the world clean, although in this case, it probably washed my crime scene clean as well.
The barn came into view, and I sauntered toward it, my tail swishing with each step. Then I caught sight of the first chicken. And the second. Both dead.
I tried to follow, but the scent of chicken blood was too overpowering. Instead, I entered the barn and smelled a strange stench. I walked toward a familiar bale of hay. I’d already witnessed this scene in my human form and had no desire to repeat it.
I fled the barn and scoured the ground for any clues the killer might’ve left behind.
I picked up a whiff of scents that I hadn’t smelled with my own nose.
Petrichor, wild mushrooms, moss, tree bark.
A hint of violets. None of those smells originated at the Farm.
They were clustered together, like the scent of a perfume.
In the distance, I saw a figure marching toward me, a black silhouette against the sun, then a flash of ruby red. Edith.
The vision shattered like glass.
I opened my eyes and was greeted by a rush of tuna breath as Jinx released an angry hiss.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I warned you it might be unpleasant.”
Jinx stared at me with knowing green eyes and I understood; as uncomfortable as it was, she’d wanted to share that with me.
“You liked Judd, too, didn’t you?” Werewolves and cats didn’t typically get along, but Jinx never once hissed or swiped at Judd when she saw him. Tolerance was basically “I like you” in cat language.
I swept the herbs and the bowl off the floor in defeat. “Me too,” I told her. I was a rainy Monday morning personified. Another spell and I was no closer to the truth—and one week closer to death.