17. Panic! At the Holiday Inn
Panic! At the Holiday Inn
But now Jasper found himself in a dim, quiet library after being shoved into what looked like a magician’s coffin. This was definitely new territory.
“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room. “Mr. Magnificent? Is this... part of the act?”
The only sound was the distant revelry of the Saturnalia banquet filtering through the walls. Well, he thought, that’s a relief anyway. Wherever I am, I’m still at the inn. The notion of being somehow teleported far away from Delilah didn’t sit well at all.
Jasper adjusted his glasses and took stock of his surroundings.
Books lined every wall, leather-bound tomes with gilt lettering catching the soft glow from the fire in the stone fireplace.
A large wooden desk dominated one corner, its surface organized with the kind of meticulous precision that made Jasper’s heart flutter.
Everything was perfectly aligned, every pen and paper exactly where it should be, as if placed according to some internal geometry that only made sense to its owner.
Still, though. Something was off about this room. It took about five seconds for Jasper to grok what it was.
The architecture was different from the rest of the inn.
Not just, oh, a bit of a change in here .
No, it was jarringly different. Where the hotel featured Victorian craftsmanship, everywhere ornate moldings and decorative ceiling roses, this room was stark, almost severe.
Simple exposed beams crisscrossed the ceiling, their rough-hewn edges speaking of a far, far earlier construction date.
The dentil moldings where walls met ceiling were mathematically precise but devoid of ornament.
Clean lines and unadorned symmetry that would have made even the most stern of Puritans nod in approval.
Puritans, he thought. Yes, that’s it exactly. This room belonged to an entirely different era.
Jasper ran his fingers along the edge of a bookshelf, feeling the smooth wood worn by generations of hands. This wasn’t a reproduction or some themed room designed to evoke the colonial era. This was the colonial era, somehow preserved within the walls of a Victorian inn.
“Well, that doesn’t make a damn bit of sense,” he said aloud.
Though at this point, architectural anachronisms were the least of his concerns.
He’d already accepted that he was in a mysterious town where witches temporarily surrendered their powers to celebrate an ancient Roman festival.
A room that was over a century or so out of time was practically mundane by comparison.
His gaze drifted to the fireplace, where flames danced merrily in the grate. Above the stone mantel hung a portrait that made Jasper freeze.
“It can’t be,” he whispered.
The woman in the portrait stared back at him with keen, knowing eyes.
She wore the simple, severe clothing of early American colonial gentry, her hair pulled back under a white cap, her expression one of unflinching determination.
A quill pen rested in her right hand, poised above what appeared to be an open ledger.
Jasper knew that face. He knew it as well as his own reflection. A smaller version of this portrait hung on the wall of his archive office. She was his daily companion, her intense stare urging him toward greater precision and care in his work.
The first county archivist.
But what was her portrait doing here, in a hidden town that supposedly no one from the outside world remembered? The plaque at the bottom of the gilt frame read “Agnes Bartlett, Founder of Oak Haven Archives, 1693””.
“Agnes wasn’t just the first county archivist,” he murmured, putting pieces together. “She was a witch .”
The implications sent his mind spinning. If Agnes had been from Oak Haven, if she had been a witch, then she must have been immune to the forgetting spell. She would have remembered this place even while working in the outside world. And if she had been the county clerk...
“She could have used that role to hide Oak Haven’s existence from official records,” he realized. “I wonder if that’s why she took the job in the first place. To protect the town.”
Jasper stepped closer to the portrait, searching for any additional clues.
The ledger in Agnes’s painted hands was open to a page filled with elegant script, but the words were too small to read.
On the desk beside her elbow sat a large piece of parchment, etched with symbols that momentarily appeared to be the Latin alphabet but, upon closer inspection, was absolutely not.
It was no alphabet Jasper had ever seen before. What language could that possibly be?
“What were you up to, Agnes?” Jasper whispered.
A sudden commotion from outside caught his attention. The distant sounds of a festive party had transformed into something else entirely: raised voices, cries of alarm, the unmistakable soundtrack of panic.
Something was wrong.
Without a thought, Jasper bolted for the door. Agnes Bartlett would have to wait. Right now, Delilah might need help.
As he raced down the corridor, the cries grew louder, more frantic. By the time he reached the banquet hall doors, his heart was pounding not from exertion but from a cold, creeping dread. Whatever had happened in there, he was already too late.
The banquet hall was in chaos. Witches were frantically trying to summon powers they’d willingly surrendered, guests were crying out in confusion and fear, everyone talking over one another.
In the midst of it all, Delilah and Scarlett stood frozen on the stage, staring in horror at a pile of ash where magician’s coffin had been.
“What happened?” Jasper rushed toward them. “I was in the library, and I heard—” He stopped, taking in the scene, the panic, the expressions on their faces. “Where’s your mother?”
“Gone,” Delilah said, the single word containing all the fear and rage she couldn’t express. “The magicians took her.”
“Is it possible she’s still in the building?
” Jasper could see the exasperation on the women’s faces, but he kept on anyway.
“Maximillian just sent me to the library. Could she be somewhere in the inn? We don’t know how powerful their magic even is, right?
Maybe this was all just to scare everyone. ”
“That is a huge long shot,” Scarlett said.
“Agreed,” said Delilah. “On the other hand, we don’t want to run around like a bunch of headless chickens only to find out later that she was locked in the walk-in freezer the whole time.”
Her sister nodded. “Okay, you have a point. You two, turn this place upside down, just to make sure. I’m gonna track Luna down... oof, and I’m doing this without magic, somehow. Shit, how do I find somebody without a spell?”
“Maybe try using your phone?” Jasper offered.
Scarlett’s eyes glittered with anger. “Are you being a dick right now?”
“No, my God!”
“Simmer down, sis,” Delilah said. “He’s just trying to help.
” She nudged Jasper and said, “Luna doesn’t have a phone.
She’s probably the last holdout on Earth.
Scar, last time I talked to her, she mentioned New York.
Some mind-reading coven in the subway tunnels.
Why don’t you start asking around? Some witch in Oak Haven has got to know some witch in New York. ”
“Okay.” Scarlett nodded anxiously. “Okay, sure. Sorry, Jasper. You two double-check that Mama isn’t trapped here somewhere.
I’m gonna find our kid sister.” She nodded once more, as if convincing herself, then marched out of the banquet hall with purpose, calling out to anyone in earshot.
“Who here has contacts in the Big Apple?”
Delilah was already moving to the back of the banquet hall. “Let’s start with the kitchen. Maybe Zahir saw or heard something. He has an uncanny ability to know what’s happening at the inn even when he’s elbow-deep in béchamel.”
The kitchen was a study in suspended animation.
Several dishes sat mid-preparation on counters, as if their makers had simply walked away mid-task.
A pot of something rich and aromatic bubbled unattended on the stove.
The contrast between the cheerful feast preparations and the current crisis created a dissonance that made Jasper’s skin prickle.
“Zahir?” Delilah called out, scanning the room. “Are you in here?”
A muffled thump came from the walk-in freezer, followed by a string of creative curses. The heavy metal door swung open, and Zahir emerged, clutching a tray of what appeared to be elaborately molded ice sculptures in the shape of various woodland creatures.
“ There you are,” he announced, as if Delilah was the one who’d gone missing.
“Would someone please explain why half my kitchen staff just abandoned their stations? I’ve got crème br?lées waiting to be torched, a sauce that needs constant attention or it’ll separate, and—” He finally registered their expressions. “What? What the hell happened?”
“The magicians took Mama,” Delilah said, the words still feeling unreal as they left her mouth.
Zahir’s face went slack. The tray of ice sculptures tilted dangerously before he caught himself. “What? How? When?”
“Just now,” Jasper explained. “During Maximillian’s performance. A woman in burgundy appeared and?—”
“The one from the casino,” Delilah interjected. “She shoved Mama into that magic cabinet and then both of them disappeared.”
Zahir set the tray down with deliberate care. “What are we doing about it?”
“Scarlett’s trying to locate Luna, bring her back to help,” Delilah said. “We’re checking the inn to make sure Mama isn’t still here somewhere. You know, like Jasper was in the library.”
“Sorry, what?” Zahir’s eyes narrowed. “The library?”
“Yeah, Maximillian put me in the box first,” Jasper explained, “and somehow zapped me to the other side of the building. So maybe...”