The Bewitching Miss Blair (The Society of Scandalous Witches #1)

Chapter 1

The man’s spirit lingered, anguished and alone. Clio Blair could sense his jagged energy, sharp as the metal tang of blood tinging the air.

Viscount Beachley’s maids had done their best to clean the entryway.

The Aubusson rug where his body had been discovered no longer graced the grand entrance to his resplendent Mayfair mansion.

Dark mahogany wall panels had been polished with lemon oil and beeswax.

The parquet was scrubbed and swept. Carpets on the stairs winding up to the first floor were brushed to burgundy finery.

But death still settled in the cracks like dust and clung to the shadowy corners as sticky as cobwebs.

She turned a slow circle and waited for her magic to fill in some of the blank spaces in Superintendent Lachlan MacDougal’s story.

One thing was certain: Uncle Lachlan would be relieved the victim’s ghost remained.

It was impossible to determine whether a soul would move on or stay.

In this case, Viscount Beachley was most assuredly still in his house, in spirit, if not in body.

Which meant Clio could help her uncle with the case.

Lucky me.

Sir Robin Goodfellow, Clio’s feathered familiar, clacked his beak and adjusted his perch on her shoulder. Sleek raven feathers brushed against her cheek as she noted a scuff mark on the wainscoting that lemon oil couldn’t remove.

Uncle Lachlan had sent a missive requesting her presence at his office far too early that morning to discuss the case with her in hopes she might accomplish three tasks.

One: determine if Viscount Beachley’s spirit had remained earth-bound.

I can tick that off the list.

Two: win the trust of the spectre.

Decidedly more difficult.

It could take days, weeks, or even months to win over a ghost. Until a spirit trusted her, they would remain hidden.

Once she could prove she intended to help, often the ghosts would show themselves, but that didn’t come without risk.

A corporeal spirit, while not able to harm most of the living, could harm Clio if it wished.

She hadn’t quite worked out the why of it.

She could see them when no one else could, so perhaps that connection allowed them to interact physically with her.

It was why Aunt Rowan hadn’t allowed Clio to help Uncle Lachlan until her twenty-first birthday – seven times three – when her magic was fully fledged.

Even then, her protective aunt was reluctant.

Four years and eight cases later, Clio had managed to help all but one soul make peace with their passing.

A particularly vexed marchioness had wanted the impossible: vengeance.

That was something Clio could not provide.

Anger was a common emotion among wronged spirits, but when Clio refused to help the dead woman, her rage eclipsed anything Clio had encountered.

She had needed her entire coven – her sister, her cousin, and her aunt – to help cast the binding spell, imprisoning the spirit within a talisman where it could do no harm.

Clio could not force a ghost to transition, but she could contain the soul in an object until it was ready to move on.

It was akin to holding them in a prison cell with only one key to freedom.

Passing from this plane to the next, wherever that might be.

Binding spells were dangerous magic. Taking away any creature’s choice was not the craft she and her coven practised unless they must, and as with all power, it required sacrifice.

It had taken Clio weeks to feel strong enough to leave her bed after the ordeal, and her right arm and torso bore scars from the battle she waged with the woman.

Aunt Rowan strictly forbade her to work with any more ghosts, but her gift was connected to fire, the element that transformed physical objects into heat and smoke.

Her witchfire was designed to aid in transition, and she could not turn away from helping those who were trapped in a world where they no longer belonged.

It wasn’t impossible for a witch to reject her magic, but it was incredibly difficult.

And incredibly stupid.

Something Clio was decidedly not. So, she hadn’t told Aunt Rowan where she was going that morning when she left the house and drove herself in her smart little cabriolet to 4 Whitehall Place to speak with Uncle Lachlan. Why borrow trouble before she even knew if the ghost lingered?

But now I know he remains, and he needs my help. I cannot refuse to take this case.

Which brought her back to Uncle Lachlan’s last task.

Three: find the murderer.

Easy as you like. I’m sure to have this buttoned up by teatime.

After listening to Uncle Lachlan summarise what Scotland Yard knew about the death of Viscount Beachley, it was clear facts wouldn’t be enough to solve his murder. This crime needed more than just investigative skills; it needed a little bit of magic.

Luckily, Clio had both. She would use all of her abilities to help win the ghost’s trust and use his eyewitness account to find the culprit who murdered him.

Once Viscount Beachley knew his killer would face justice for the heinous deeds committed, she hoped he would transition peacefully.

If he had any other unfinished business, she would do her best to help.

Aunt Rowan wouldn’t be happy.

But when is she ever pleased about one of us working with Uncle Lachlan?

Clio, her sister, and her cousin all lived with Aunt Rowan in a townhouse not far from Viscount Beachley’s Mayfair mansion in Grosvenor Square.

As the last living matriarch of their family, Aunt Rowan had very particular feelings about her nieces and their activities regarding Superintendent Lachlan MacDougal.

He wasn’t Clio’s real uncle; she didn’t have one of those any more.

But her family had known him from their childhood in Scotland, and he was the only male Aunt Rowan trusted in London. Even if she hated him in equal measure.

Whatever caused the ire between Aunt Rowan and Uncle Lachlan sparked many a late-night discussion between Clio, her sister Eleanor, and Cousin Helena. But not even their combined magic was strong enough to combat Aunt Rowan’s shielding spell on her thoughts regarding Uncle Lachlan.

Infuriating.

Clio hated when she couldn’t achieve her goal. But delving into family secrets was a problem for a different day. Today, Clio needed to begin winning over the trust of a rather grumpy ghost.

She crouched as Sir Robin flapped his wings and landed gracefully a few feet away, hopping in the adorable way ravens had as he conducted his own explorations.

He was awfully good at finding lost things.

Especially shiny objects like rings, coins, and necklaces.

Occasionally, he found them when they weren’t lost at all, but Clio was working with him on his habit of ‘borrowing’ items.

She tugged off her gloves and tucked them into her pocket, her bare hands hovering over the patch of wood where the rug had been.

Sometimes, it helped to touch where the body had lain.

The sensory connection could help focus her visions of the past. Wide skirts hindered her movements.

Her tight corset constricted her ribs and dug into her full hips as she leaned further forward.

‘Blasted fashion,’ she muttered to Sir Robin.

‘Blasted fashion,’ he replied in his uncanny mimic. It was a trait that shocked most people when they first heard him, but ravens were cunning birds, and Sir Robin was especially brilliant.

Clio might hate corsets, but she did love a daring dress.

Today’s ensemble was fuchsia with bold ebony stripes and black lace trimming.

The bright colour brought some much-needed cheer to a dreary, grey February day.

It also highlighted her pink cheeks and midnight hair, contrasting nicely with her amber eyes.

An enterprising fool recently described their light colour as honeyed gold, earning himself a swift exit from her presence.

‘The only gold he’s interested in is what’s in my pockets. Fortune hunting basta—’

Before she could finish her assessment of the impoverished lordling, the front door crashed open.

Sir Robin cawed in alarm and hopped closer to Clio’s skirts.

A large man in a black greatcoat, tall hat, Hessian boots, and dark trousers stood in the doorway.

Wind tangled his coat tails, making the fabric twist and swirl behind him like bat wings.

His sharp gaze found Clio almost immediately.

Black brows pulled low over piercing green eyes.

Pointing the silver handle of a beautifully carved walking stick directly at Clio, he could have been a dark angel sent to steal her soul.

‘Who the bloody hell are you, and what the bloody hell do you think you are doing here?’

For a surreal moment, Clio froze, her shrewd mind trapped in stasis, her hand still reaching out to touch the floor.

A rogue image flashed of the man’s face, in a different time.

The lines bracketing his lips were gone, his hair cut in a fashionably short style, impeccably combed.

His eyes were stricken with grief, his beautiful mouth twisted in pain.

Then it was gone, as swiftly as lightning disappearing in a black sky.

Holy Hecate. What was that?

Clio had visions of the past, but they were only ever linked to the dead. Never the living. Blinking, she forced herself back to the present and slowly rose. As she did, Sir Robin took the opportunity to flap back onto her shoulder.

‘Bastard!’ Sir Robin’s timing was impeccable as he finished Clio’s last sentence.

The man’s eyes widened in shock, and she took a measure of satisfaction in unsettling him.

‘Did your bird just call me a bastard?’