9. Callum #2
She tilts her chin down toward the cat. “And that’s where you come in.”
Jett lets out a long, heavy-hearted sigh. “I know, I know. My dignity is cheap today.”
“If Callum starts struggling to keep her distracted, you do whatever you have to do,” Winifred instructs him. “Knock over a display of incense, fake a hairball, pee in a corner—anything. The world is your oyster, Jetty boy.”
Jett fixes her with a flat, yellow-eyed glare. “Pee in a corner? I am refined, Freddie, not a feral raccoon. If I’m forced to commit an act of public indecency for this endeavor, you owe me an entire tin of smoked sardines.”
I open my mouth to ask if she’s actually trusting a cat to execute a diversion, when a clear voice cuts through the morning air.
“Fred! Wait up!”
I turn on my heel. A woman is jogging lightly across the cobblestone street toward us, clutching a leather portfolio under one arm.
She’s got warm caramel skin and light brown curls bouncing around her shoulders, dressed in a tailored navy business suit that looks like it belongs in a downtown firm rather than a town full of warlocks.
Winifred’s face brightens instantly. “Stells? What’re you doing here?”
Stella catches her breath as she reaches the curb, smoothing down the front of her blazer. “I figured you could use some backup for this before you end up in a town cell.”
Winifred lets out a bright, incredulous laugh. “Stella Dashwood, breaking the municipal code? Somebody call the paper!” She gives Stella’s shoulder a playful nudge with her elbow. “Oh, wait. You are the paper.”
Stella rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at Winifred before turning her gaze directly onto me. Up close, I notice a jagged white scar cutting cleanly through the arch of her left eyebrow. Her eyes are kind, observant, and taking in every single detail of my jacket, my boots, and my face.
She holds out a slim, manicured hand. “I’m Stella Dashwood. Freddie’s best friend.”
I take her hand, giving it a firm shake. “Callum McKinley.”
“He’s the detective,” Winifred interjects, resting her hand on Stella’s shoulder and looking over at me with a victorious little grin. “And lucky for you, Aria absolutely adores Stella.”
Stella lets out a small laugh. “Unfortunately. She thinks I’m ‘a lovely young lady with proper manners,’ which mostly means I listen to her rant about whatever the hell she wants without rolling my eyes too hard.”
Winifred brows furrow slightly, looking her friend over. “Wait, don’t you have a deadline today? I thought you were stuck at the news desk until four.”
“I told Nisrine I was slipping out to grab her an iced oat milk latte from the bakery,” Stella says, tossing her brown curls over her shoulder with a quick wink. “Which I will do. Right after we make sure you don’t get arrested.”
“You are an actual lifesaver,” Winifred says, slinging an arm around Stella’s waist and squeezing tight. “I owe you one forever and ever.”
“Damn right you do,” Stella says, smoothing her blazer with both hands. “I wouldn’t make it five minutes in jail. Unlike some people.” Her green eyes flick pointedly toward Winifred.
Winifred shrugs without a hint of remorse. “I want to be offended, but honestly I’d probably do fairly well for myself in jail.”
I press my lips together, hiding a faint smile. I like Winifred’s quick humor. It’s sharp and unfiltered. It’s made me smile and laugh more in the last couple of days than I have in a long time, even if I don’t want to admit it.
Since Rory.
My chest tightens just a fraction at the thought, the sadness anchoring itself back into my ribs, but Winifred doesn’t notice.
She turns to face the two of us, keeping her voice down to a whisper.
“Okay, team. Let’s go. Also, I kind of feel like we’re our own version of the Avengers or something.
Which I’m totally fine with, because Bucky Barnes is ridiculously hot. ”
“Move it, Rogers,” Stella says, rolling her eyes and annoyingly pushing Winifred by the shoulder right through the front door.
I follow them inside, and the sudden shift in temperature and sound catches me off guard. The air in The Raven’s Quill is thick, almost humid, and smells overwhelmingly of old parchment and lavender.
I quickly scan the space, immediately assessing the layout and mapping the exits in case this absurd fucking plan goes south.
There’s the oak front door we just came through, and far across the room, past rows of dizzyingly tall bookshelves, I spot a narrow service door near the back wall.
Two exits. Clear sightlines, though the towering rows of leather-bound volumes create a hell of a lot of blind spots.
The place is massive—far bigger on the inside than it appeared from the street. Books are stacked from floor to ceiling, rising up two full stories along rustic spiral staircases.
Behind an antique mahogany counter near the front, an older woman sits hunched over a brass ledger.
She has bright, shock-violet hair pinned up in an untidy bun, a sharp, beak-like nose, and thick-rimmed circular glasses that magnify her brown eyes to twice their natural size.
She’s using a small silver quill that’s floating in midair to record something, while her actual hands carefully slice the stems off dried bundles of what looks to be black sage.
As the bell above the door chimes to softly signal our arrival, the woman looks up over her thick frames.
Winifred immediately drops Jett to the hardwood floor with a soft thump.
Aria’s oversized eyes lock onto Winifred, narrowing into dangerous slits. “Winifred Rowley,” she rasps, her voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across pavement. “You know precisely how I feel about bringing heinous animals into my establishment.”
Jett lets out a vicious hiss, his tail swelling to the size of a bottle brush.
“We won’t be here long, Aria, I promise,” Winifred says, flashing an utterly fake smile that wouldn’t fool even a rookie cop.
Aria’s gaze flickers past Winifred, landing on Stella, and her scowl instantly vanishes.
Her face splits into a wide, beaming grin that reveals a row of startlingly long, slightly yellowed teeth that look a little too sharp for comfort.
I try my best not to grimace as she folds her hands over the ledger.
“Stella, my dear!” Aria croons. “How are you?”
I glance behind me out of the corner of my eye. Winifred is already retreating, casually drifting toward a display of velvet-bound journals while keeping her eyes locked on us. The second Aria’s back is half-turned, Winifred gives me a nod, silently urging me forward.
Right. Throw myself to the lion.
Stella steps up to the counter with a bright grin. “I’m doing wonderfully, Aria! I was just showing Callum here around some of the best spots in Amberhollow.”
Jesus. Stella is good at this. She’s laying it on thick, her posture relaxed, her smile completely disarming.
Aria turns those massive, magnified brown eyes onto me, her sharp-toothed grin widening.
“Is that so?” She leans over the counter, pressing closer.
“I heard we had a stranger wander through the fog. You’re the talk of the town right now, young man.
We haven’t had this much excitement since the Mayor’s goat accidentally ate a batch of laughing-gas orchids back in ‘08!”
I clear my throat, adjusting my stance to block her view of the main aisle. “Is that right?”
“Where is that accent from?” Aria asks, tilting her head like a curious bird. “It’s quite charming.”
“My family’s originally from Scotland,” I say, pulling out the easiest, most harmless piece of truth I have. “Highlands.”
Aria lets out a delighted gasp, clapping her hands together. “Oh, Scotland! The ley lines over the lochs are simply divine! My second husband was a warlock from Inverness—terrible temper, but he could brew a whiskey that would make a ghost weep!”
She launches into a rapid-fire story about Scottish ley lines and enchanted peat bogs. I nod at appropriate intervals, letting out a polite “mhmm,” but my eyes flick over my shoulder.
Winifred is gone.
Scanning the far aisle, I spot the small wooden side door near the back corner—the one that probably leads straight into the restricted archives. Standing right beside the frame, looking completely nonchalant as his black tail flicks back and forth against the wall, is Jett.
“So, Inverness,” I say, keeping my voice smooth and measured while Aria prattles on about her ex-husband’s peat-whiskey recipe. “Must have been a hell of a place to study, what did you call it? Ancient ward mechanics?”
Aria’s magnified eyes light up behind her thick lenses. “Oh, you have no idea, Detective! The ley lines up there are simply—”
A deafening chorus of shrieking showtunes suddenly explodes from the back aisle.
I snap my head around. Jett is perched precariously on a top shelf, looking completely unbothered as a leather-bound volume titled Aunt Agatha’s Animated Drinking Songs flaps its cover like a wounded goose, bellowing a 1920s ragtime tune at top volume.
It hits the floor, knocking over a rack of self-shuffling spell cards that scatter across the rug like panicked birds.
“My first edition!” Aria screeches, dropping her silver quill. She scurries around the counter with surprising speed for a two-hundred-year-old witch, waving her hands wildly. “Silence! Silencio! Shut your leather mouth!”
Jett catches my eye from his high perch, mouthing you’re welcome.
I turn toward the back archive door and Winifred is stepping out of the dark hallway, a massive, iron-clasped tome tucked under her arm. But as Aria lunges after a squawking pamphlet, the heavy archive door slams shut behind Winifred with a loud, echoey BANG.
Fuck. We’re all fucked. I look over at Stella and her eyes have gone wide and panic-y.
Aria freezes mid-cast. She whips around, her beak-like nose twitching as her gaze locks directly onto the heavy book in Winifred’s hands.