Chapter 16 Wood, Lies, and Sausage Rolls
WOOD, LIES, AND SAUSAGE ROLLS
Didi stared at me as if I’d just suggested a naked moonlit sabbath.
It was the morning after the Council of Elders meeting and we were having a strategy summit in the main conference room at Hawthornes & Associates.
“The Marchefords were seen buying helium balloons, streamers, crepe paper, face paint, and sausage rolls,” the witch repeated flatly. “And the Council of Elders thought this was worth mentioning because…?”
“Because it’s strange.” I grimaced. “The Marchefords’ coven status got revoked. They apparently haven’t attended a community event in decades. And now they’re clearing out the general store in North Amberford like they’re prepping for a supernatural rave.”
Gavin’s horns popped out. He shoved them back down with both hands.
“The Marchefords were connected to the Thornwicks,” he said nervously. “What if they’re involved in whatever happened to the Lincoln sisters?”
“Barney said they were pawns,” Didi reminded him. “Not masterminds.”
“Pawns can be reactivated,” Gavin countered.
This was a surprisingly astute observation from a man who’d set another complaint form on fire that morning because it startled him.
Bo’s head appeared above the edge of the table.
“Face paint and sausage rolls are classic luring tools,” the Husky said in a confident tone.
We all looked at him.
“I can’t believe I’m actually asking this, but according to who?” Didi asked dully.
“The Discovery Channel.” Bo’s ears pricked with authority. “There was a whole segment on cult recruitment. Step one: establish a welcoming environment with food. Step two: create a sense of spectacle.” He wagged his tail, his eyes bright with morbid delight. “Step three: mind control.”
“That was about a county fair in Ohio,” I said tiredly.
Bo licked his chops. “Still, the parallels are chilling.”
Samuel rubbed his jaw where he’d been leaning against the window with his arms folded.
“It’s worth checking out.” He met my gaze across the room, the mate bond humming warmly between us. “I’ve got the Alliance quarterly review this afternoon, so I can’t come. Take Didi and Gavin. Keep it low-key.”
“Low-key is my middle name,” I said.
Samuel’s face suggested he had compelling evidence to the contrary.
“Nigel can run comms from his closet,” Didi said, rising from the table. “We can brief him on the way.”
Fifteen minutes later found us in a car headed north.
Didi drove. I’d learned early on in my new job that questioning this arrangement led to a silence so pointed it could draw blood.
Gavin sat in the back with Bo and had wedged himself against the door like a dragon newt who’d drawn the short straw and knew it. He’d brought three fire extinguishers and was arranging them on the seat beside him in descending order of size.
“Is the third one really necessary?” I asked, eyeing them over my shoulder.
“It’s a backup for the backup,” Gavin said. “You can never be too prepared when witches are involved.”
“Ex-witches,” Didi corrected absentmindedly. “They’re not supposed to be practicing any magic. Not even cantrips.”
Bo pressed his nose against the window and huffed a mournful sigh that fogged the glass.
“What’s the matter with him?” Didi asked irritably.
“I’m wasting away,” the Husky declared before I could reply.
I narrowed my eyes at him in the rearview mirror. The extra dietary restrictions I’d imposed after catching him red-pawed at the Council’s sandwich cart had apparently triggered a personal crisis of historic proportions.
“You had breakfast two hours ago,” I said coldly.
“A measured breakfast,” Bo countered glumly. “With portions.”
Didi grimaced. “That’s generally how meals work.”
“Not my meals.” Bo’s tail drooped. “My meals used to have freedom. They used to have soul.”
“Dear God,” the witch muttered in disgust. She flashed me a look that somehow combined contempt with pity. “I bet he’s a riot to live with right now.”
Bo ignored the witch’s sarcastic barb.
“Did you know that Huskies have a genetic predisposition toward food insecurity?” my dog said in the somber tone of a public service announcement about an execution.
Gavin blinked. “They do?”
I sighed heavily. “No, they don’t.”
My dog subsided with the dignified suffering of a martyr and returned to fogging up the window.
North Amberford was quieter than the main town.
The streets grew narrower as we left the busier commercial district behind.
Old oaks lined the roads, their branches forming a latticed canopy overhead.
The buildings here were mostly small workshops, independent stores, and residential homes that looked like they’d been standing since before the town had a name.
Didi finally slowed and turned onto a street called Oakvale Lane.
“That’s it,” she said, jerking her chin.
The Marcheford woodcarving business occupied a converted barn at the end of the lane.
A hand-painted sign above the entrance read Marcheford & Sons—Bespoke Woodwork Since 1980.
Carved animals, decorative signs, and pieces of furniture were displayed beneath an awning out front.
The whole setup looked about as threatening as a craft fair.
Didi parked behind a plumber’s van two buildings down and killed the engine.
“Now we wait,” she said.
The waiting, as it turned out, was deeply uneventful.
We could see into the workshop through the car windows. Two figures moved around inside—a short, stocky man planing a piece of timber and a tall, thinner man sanding what appeared to be a very large wooden chest. Neither of them looked like they were plotting the downfall of the Amberford covens.
I stared. “Are they arguing about sandpaper grit?”
“I think you’re right,” Gavin reported, his nostrils smoking nervously as he peered through the camera he’d brought. “The tall one keeps pointing at the wood grain and the short one is ignoring him.”
“Riveting,” Didi murmured.
Twenty minutes passed. Then forty. The Marchefords continued woodworking. A woman who I assumed was also a Marcheford appeared briefly, handed them both mugs, and disappeared into a back room.
My earpiece crackled.
“Base to Field Team, do you copy?” Nigel’s voice was hushed, like he was conducting espionage from the depths of his closet. Which he was.
“We copy, Nigel,” I said.
“I’ve been monitoring local network activity in the area and I’ve detected something unusual.”
I sat up straighter.
Didi’s expression sharpened. “What kind of unusual?”
“Someone on Oakvale Lane is streaming an abnormal amount of data.” The boogeyman paused. “Oh. Wait. It appears to be a competitive woodworking show. Season four.”
Didi dropped her head on the steering wheel and muttered something unsavory under her breath.
“Thanks, Nigel,” I murmured. “Keep monitoring.”
“Copy that.”
Another twenty minutes crawled by.
Bo shifted and began breathing heavily into the back of my neck.
“It will be lunchtime soon,” the Husky observed morosely.
I was beginning to question every life choice that had led me to sitting in a parked car watching strangers sand wood while my dog pretended to be wasting away when my wolf stirred.
Didi stiffened. “We have movement.”
The workshop door had opened. The stocky Marcheford emerged carrying a stack of flat cardboard boxes. Behind him, the taller one was maneuvering the large wooden chest through the doorway with visible effort.
The woman reappeared, lugging several bulging bags. Something brightly colored poked out of the top of one.
My shoulders knotted.
“Are those—” Gavin started.
“Streamers,” Didi confirmed quietly.
A fourth Marcheford materialized from inside. He was younger than the others and was carrying what looked like a rolled-up banner under one arm and a cardboard box under the other.
I could smell sausage rolls from a distance.
They loaded everything into a battered white van parked alongside the workshop. The stocky one slammed the rear doors shut and climbed into the driver’s seat. The other three piled in after him.
The van’s engine coughed twice before turning over.
Gavin’s nostrils sparked. “Are we following them?”
Didi started the car. “We’re following them.”
The Marchefords drove like people who were in no particular hurry and had no idea they were being tailed. Which either meant they were innocent or very good at pretending to be.
Didi kept two cars between us at all times.
The van meandered through North Amberford’s back streets, took a left at a gas station, and headed toward a neighborhood I didn’t recognize.
“Nigel, can you track a white van heading east on Birch Road?” I said into the comms as the vehicle disappeared around a corner.
“Already on it,” the boogeyman responded. There was a short silence. “Street cameras have them turning onto Autumn Crescent.” He paused, his tone turning puzzled. “That’s a residential area. Mostly young families.”
My wolf’s unease prickled my skin. What business did four members of a disgraced coven have in this kind of neighborhood?
Didi’s car crawled onto Autumn Crescent. The street was lined with modest houses, chain-link fences, and the universal suburban markers of ordinary life—sprinklers on lawns, a basketball hoop in a driveway, a kid’s bicycle abandoned on a sidewalk.
The van slowed and pulled to a stop outside a single-story house with blue siding and a tidy front yard. There was a line of cars parked on the road opposite it.
Didi cruised past without stopping and pulled over farther up the road. We watched in the side mirrors as the Marchefords climbed out and began unloading the van.
Confusion danced through me from my wolf. My gaze locked on the front of the house.
There were balloons tied to the mailbox. A cluster of them in garish pink and purple, bobbing gently in the breeze.
I started to get a sinking feeling. “Does anyone else see the—”
“Balloons on the mailbox.” Didi’s tone had shifted from suspicious to perplexed. “Yes.”
The front door of the house opened. A woman in jeans and a flour-dusted apron greeted the Marchefords with a harried smile and ushered them inside. She didn’t look alarmed.
In fact, she looked relieved.
Gavin lowered his camera. “That doesn’t look like somebody welcoming a coven of dark witches into her home.”
As if to confirm this theory, the younger Marcheford reemerged from the van carrying one final item. He hefted it onto his shoulder with a grunt and headed for the house.
It was a box that honked when he adjusted his grip.
The front door opened again and the stocky Marcheford stepped out. He’d removed his work jacket. Underneath, he was wearing a shirt covered in bright polka dots.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out something round and red, and stuck it on his nose.
Bo wagged his tail hesitantly and pressed his face against the glass so hard his breath formed a perfect circle of fog.
“Is that a clown?”