Chapter Twenty-Five-Bella
By the time I joined Mira and Petyr on the floor, the rush was in full swing.
We were holding our own until Mrs. Gennaro stormed in like a one-woman tribunal, her purse swinging like a wrecking ball of judgment.
“Oh boy,” I muttered under my breath, steeling myself for whatever she was bringing to my doorstep.
“Miss Strega,” she said, her tone sharp enough to slice a lemon in midair.
“Mrs. Gennaro,” I replied, smile cranked to Customer Service Setting #7: Genuine but Guarded.
“I had to come in personally to tell you the pastries you boxed for me the other night were outstanding.”
My smile faltered. “Oh?”
“Yes. No issues there. However—”
Her eyes narrowed.
Like a hawk spotting prey.
“Since you are part of the Trifecta protecting our town, I am laying this complaint directly on your doorstep.”
“What complaint? We fortified the wards on time—no mess ups—”
She waved a hand, cutting me off.
“Something is wrong, I tell you. And you’d think a complaint filed by the Vice President of the Castor’s Corner Charmed Embers Women and Witches Social Club would be taken seriously!”
“A complaint from who? About what?”
“Ask our illustrious mayor. Who, by the way, is not seeing anyone this morning. Not even me! Seems she’s taken ill, rather suddenly. Faking, if you ask me. Too cowardly to show her face. I swear you young Witches have none of the fortitude of Witches from my time.”
I gritted my teeth so hard I was in danger of grinding down enamel.
Evie? Cowardly? Ha!
The woman had faced down Werewolves, rogue Trolls, Ghosts, Warlocks, Wizards, and a very angry cupcake Golem last spring—okay, that last bit was kinda my fault.
It was a Halloween cake order gone haywire—anywho.
It didn’t matter because no one was going to talk about one of my oldest and dearest friends—my cousin, my shero, my ride or die—in front of me like that!
Then everything slowed.
Mrs. Gennaro’s words sent my brain spinning.
Evie ill? Not seeing anyone?
I’d bet my best piping tips, it wasn’t any regular illness.
“Oh my!” I whispered.
Yep. This was different from a common cold.
This was more like a certain blessing in progress.
And in a few months?
Well, I was willing to bet my Grandma’s secret Easter panettone recipe there’d be a brand new Baby Castor.
Which made me grin. A lot.
I was going to be such a good Auntie Bella!
Well, cousin-by-blood, but titles were flexible when baked goods were involved.
“The stories I could tell you,” Mrs. Gennaro continued, and I realized I’d missed, oh, probably a solid three minutes of whatever she’d been yammering about.
Oops.
Sorry not sorry.
“Anyway, that’s not the issue. The past is in the past, but it’s your behinds not doing your due duty—are you listening to me?”
I blinked.
Was she talking about doody or duty?
Because tone-wise, she could’ve gone either way.
I closed my eyes and silently begged the Goddess for patience.
Dealing with the elderly in Castor’s Corner was never boring, but it was rarely straightforward.
They liked their conversations like they liked their quilt squares—meandering, mismatched, and occasionally sewn together with curse words.
“Now, my Great-Grandfather used to be the Deputy here,” she went on, oblivious to my inner monologue.
“How nice,” I murmured.
“Full of stories, he was. Anytime the town was under attack, the residents would band together under a Castor and run the troublemakers right out! Those were the good old days. When we had leaders with backbone and we knew who wore the pants around here,” she said in a surprisingly misogynistic turn of events.
I scoffed.
She ignored me and continued.
“And then, of course, they’d string up the trespassers. Why, you can still find the purse and book bound in the human skins of those who dared enter our town with ill purposes on their evil little minds—”
“Dear Goddess,” I murmured. “Does she have to keep saying skins and bowels in the same breath?”
My stomach did a little somersault.
I was a Witch who loved sugar, not gore.
You wanted a triple-chocolate mousse cake?
I was your girl.
You wanted tales of flayed invaders?
No, thank you. Please see Evie or Donny.
“Mrs. Gennaro,” I tried, “there haven’t been any trespassers—”
“No trespassers?” she screeched. “Then who do you think has been messing up lawns? Raiding garbage cans and dumpsters all over town? Not to mention, setting fire to your shop on a few separate occasions! Why, my very own Mr. Snugglesby won’t leave my purse!”
She hoisted said purse, inside of which sat a scraggly lapdog wearing two pink bows and the judgmental stare of a thousand ancestors.
Okay, I might have been just a little concerned before, but her list of weirdness made my pulse kick.
Because, messed up lawns? Dumpster raids? That sounded like a problem for the Sheriff, Parks & Recreation, and possibly the Sanitation Department.
But arson? Setting fires to businesses where anyone could have gotten hurt?
Now that was something else. And it was starting to sound suspiciously like my recent bakery mishaps weren’t just bad luck or prankster teens.
What if someone really was targeting me?
“Okay,” I said, pasting on my responsible business owner smile. “Come with me to my office. Mr. Snugglesby can have a treat while you, um, explain.”
She puffed up like I’d just announced her as guest of honor at the Winter Solstice Ball.
“It’s about time I be treated in a manner befitting my station.”
Behind her, Mira caught my eye. The poor girl was trying to ring up a latte for a customer while silently mouthing, Save me.
I mouthed back, Call Evie and Donny.
A quick nod, and I ushered Mrs. G and her geriatric fluff ball toward my office.
I conjured a peanut-butter biscuit for Snugglesby (note to self: launch a pet-treat line) and settled in to hear her out.
She didn’t disappoint.
Out came a binder the size of a grimoire, filled with grainy, black-and-white security footage printouts.
Then a laptop.
Then, I kid you not, taped testimonies from other cranky old-timers in town.
What was this woman’s purse made of? Narnia leather? Remnants from an English Nanny’s old carpetbag?
“Don’t be rude,” she snapped, catching me peering into the bag.
My cheeks went hot like I’d been caught stealing cookies from my own bakery.
A few minutes later, Donny bustled in with Mrs. Fox in tow (mid-hair foils), followed by Evie looking about as green as pistachio gelato and clutching a bucket.
“Oh my Goddess, Evie, sit down! You look like hell,” I shot up, trying to push a chair under her before she fell.
“I can’t keep anything down,” she mumbled miserably.
Mrs. Gennaro sniffed like Evie’s vomiting was somehow a personal insult.
“Guess you really are sick.”
“Um,” I tried again, “Mrs. Gennaro, these are my cousins—”
“They know me,” she cut in. “I’m Vice President of the Charmed Embers Women and Witches Social Club.”
Donny and Evie exchanged blank looks, then nodded like bobbleheads.
Mrs. Fox, however, didn’t get the memo.
“Who?”
“Shh!” Donny hissed.
“Mrs. G seems to think we’ve been, um, lax in our duties.”
Snickers all around.
Because we were mature professionals.
Totally not laughing at the insinuation of laxatives and doodies.
Mrs. G rolled her eyes.
“Let’s get on with it.”
She hit play on her laptop, and we all crowded in.
The footage was garbage quality, but even through the static, I saw them.
Little, furry, not-of-this-world critters darting around in the dead of night—chewing plants, knocking over bins, and, oh look, setting trash alight like it was the Vampire’s Midsummer’s Eve Rave & Rotisserie Weekend.
“No way,” Donny whispered.
“They can’t do that,” Evie gasped before bolting for the bathroom again.
Mrs. Fox narrowed her eyes.
“Those furry little cretins! I knew it wasn’t my Johnny eating my marigolds.”
I stared at the screen, my gut twisting.
This could be the connection.
Maybe all my so-called “bad luck” wasn’t random after all.
And if that was true, I had a much bigger problem than burned aprons and broken glass display cases.
When Mrs. G finally swept out with Snugglesby in her tote, I turned to Donny and Evie.
“I think we need some advice from the big guns.”
“I think you’re right,” Donny said grimly.
“What’s going on?” Evie asked, holding a towel to her head.
“I’ll explain after. Right now, I think we better set up a Swoosh call from your place, Evie.”
We joined hands, ready to teleport, and for the first time in a long while, I felt steady.
Like the ground under my feet wasn’t just mine—it was ours.
My besties, my cousins, my girls had my back. And I had theirs,
It felt good to know that. And then I felt even better because maybe—just maybe—I was finally ready to let Conrad in. To let him have my back, too.
He wasn’t Jameson Vorhees or any of the other losers who’d made me feel small.
He was patient. He was protective.
And he had literally wrapped himself around me like he was keeping me safe from the whole damn world.
If these critters wanted to burn down my bakery, run amok in Castor’s Corner, well, they were in for a fight.
Because I had magic, my girls, and one very determined smexy Snake Shifter who wasn’t going anywhere.
This was my town, and I was going to do everything I could to defend it.