Witch at Last: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 3 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) Read online

  WITCH AT LAST

  A JINX HAMILTON MYSTERY - BOOK 3

  JULIETTE HARPER

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Also by Juliette Harper

  About the Author

  Copyright

  “I am not afraid of storms

  for I am learning how to sail my ship.”

  ― Louisa May Alcott

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First to the readers, who have believed in Jinx from the beginning. There is no magic without you. Special thanks to our beta readers, Brenda Trimble, Larry Trimble, and to our faithful and patient proofreader, Sandra Jackson. To Delia Ruth Williamson for the ongoing fairy dust. And to Jennifer Radcliff, for her paging and design work and for being our first and constant friend in the self-publishing world.

  1

  “What did you do over the summer, Jinx?”

  Oh, you know, the usual. Found out I was a witch, talked to some dead folks, caught a serial killer, released an immortal sorceress and then had to figure out how to put her back. Nothing exciting.

  That summer when all those things happened? I would have given almost anything for a good healthy case of boredom. Or even just a return to the normal summer days of my childhood. Back when I spent hours putting fireflies in Mason jars, digging worms to go fishing at the creek, or reading books up in the tree house I shared with my BFF, Tori.

  When I had to write those “what I did during summer break” essays on the first day of school, I tried not to describe our actual family vacations in detail. Short version: Dad is a Type A driver with a good vocabulary.

  That same editorial caution applies to the events of the summer before my 30th birthday. Depending on my audience, the truth might land me in the psych ward. I’m counting on you all to be a little more open-minded.

  That was the summer when everything changed.

  At first the revelations were more or less personal. The news that you’re a witch with real powers carries plenty of life altering bang for the buck. Foolishly, I thought I might be able to keep that behind closed doors. Yeah, not so much.

  When September rolled around, I really did head back to school, but not in a way the PTA would ever support. I don’t want to get ahead of myself though. We have a lot of ground to cover. For now, let’s just say that by summer’s end, I found out the whole world was different than I had ever imagined. Let me give you a few highlights so we’re all on the same page.

  Aunt Fiona died in the spring. She left me her store in Briar Hollow, North Carolina, a sleepy little burg off the Blue Ridge Parkway. I quit my job waiting tables at Tom’s Cafe, loaded up my four cats, and moved into the apartment over the shop.

  That first night, half awake and feeling sentimental about my aunt, I muttered something about wanting her magic. People had believed my kind, eccentric aunt was a “witch woman,” but I was thinking more along the lines of fairy godmother.

  (We’ll get to the real fairies before we’re done. Just be patient.)

  Maybe there was no pumpkin coach pulled by four white mice, but Aunt Fiona did leave me everything she owned. The inheritance elevated me from being a minimum-wage-plus-tips waitress to owning a small business.

  My head reeled with gratitude, as it should have, but when I said that little bit about wanting her magic, I didn’t realize it was a complete “be careful what you ask for” moment.

  Trust me on this. Do NOT go rubbing a lamp if you’re not ready to deal with a genie.

  The next morning my four cats woke me up demanding breakfast. I wasn’t fast enough, so they resorted to coercion. Winston jumped up on the dresser and sent a figurine crashing to the floor -- or at least he tried.

  I caught the fragile object -- with my mind. Yep. I levitated that little porcelain duck right back up on the dresser while the cats watched with studied disinterest.

  At the time, I told myself that I really wasn’t awake and it was all just my imagination. Until I walked into the kitchen and had a conversation with my dead aunt’s ghost. My unthinking request from the night before had been granted. I was a witch, with no way to refuse membership in a club I wasn’t anxious to join.

  I have since discovered that there are two kinds of witches in this world, and I don’t mean the “good witch vs. bad witch” question. When we consider that part of the math, the equation gets more difficult, but we’re not ready for abracadabra algebra just yet. Let’s just stick with the basics.

  First, we have folks who practice a religion called Wicca. They self-identify as witches for spiritual purposes. Their worldview centers on principles like taking personal responsibility for your actions, living as you like so long as it harms no one, and healing the planet. (Also, it looks like the casseroles at the Solstice potluck are pretty fantastic. Who knew you could do that with tofu?)

  Then there are people like me. We’re hereditary witches. Magic is in our genes. It’s not so much something we create, as a force we access from the world around us. Sometimes even ordinary people can tap into that force by accident if they’re scared enough or so focused on an outcome nothing will get in their way. You know those stories you read about mothers lifting cars off their kids after an accident? Those incidents always get written off to adrenaline, but that’s the easy, pat answer.

  Let me give you another example. Say your Uncle Willie is a big Tarheels football fan and he’s convinced the team won the opening game of the season because he was wearing a particular pair of socks. For the rest of the season, he won’t let Aunt Maud wash those socks no matter how much they stink. Do the socks actually help the team win?

  Most of the time, no, but if the Tarheels haven’t won in ten seasons and then someone finds Uncle Willie’s magic socks, wears them to a game, and the Tarheels decimate the competition? Then you might have an object on your hand that’s been imprinted with magic.

  Ninety-nine percent of all good luck charms out there have no actual power, I’m just saying don’t rule out the one percent. You’ll see why by the end of my story.

  So, back to hereditary witches.

  We do have one thing in common with the Wiccans, however, which is a belief in The Rule of Three. The concept is simple. Whatever energy you put out in the world comes back to you three times. Karma to the third power.

  Sure enough, before that summer ended, I experienced three major events that moved me toward real acceptance of my status as a brand new witch -- setting myself up for the next batch of three, but of course I had no way of knowing that then.

  If I had? I might have booked it out of there triple quick.

  In the immediate aftermath of finding out that I’m a witch, Tori and I nabbed us a serial killer. That was major experience number one. It was my first opportunity to see that the powers I was resisting could be used to help other people, and it broadene
d my understanding of the power all living beings have to communicate with one another.

  Dealing with a stone-cold insane killer was not on my bucket list, but I did come away with some new friends. Granted, they’re all dead, but that condition is not as self-limiting as I once imagined.

  The really important takeaway from the experience was being able to give the spirits of two murdered women a measure of peace. No matter what else I might have been feeling at the time, helping them was a positive and humbling accomplishment that made me more open to seeing my powers as a potential good thing.

  If I’d stuck with the humble part alone, all would have been well. Instead, I got a swelled head and tried to do something I was in no way qualified to do. That put us in the position of dealing with a resurrected sorceress with a really big chip on her shoulder.

  Cut to Jinx’s Really Big Summer Adventure, Scene Two. Throwing water on the Wicked Witch.

  Okay. Not really.

  We zapped her with blue lightning, but the effect was similar -- or so we thought.

  A number of things happened along the road to major event number two, including my acquisition of a 2’ tall “minion” named Darby. He’s officially a brownie, who has become the chief barista of our new espresso bar. He blends the beans, calibrates the grinds, and maintains the place at a level that makes Mr. Clean look like a slacker.

  All the while staying discreetly invisible.

  Literally.

  Invisible.

  It’s a cool trick I wouldn’t mind mastering, but that one doesn’t seem to be in my witchy skill set.

  Oh. The espresso bar. I almost forgot. Let’s go ahead and cover that one.

  Tori is in business with me now. We’ve wanted to be entrepreneurs since we were kids running our first lemonade stand. Aunt Fiona’s generosity has made that dream a reality as well.

  Without Fiona’s personality, the store lacked focus. Not that I would necessarily call Fiona a paragon of concentration, but she was really the reason people came through the front door. While her approach to inventory might have been haphazard, Fiona knew how to help people with a gentle word, a cup of herbal tea, or a crystal to wear to soothe their worried minds.

  I can almost hear you asking, “So was she just being a kind old lady, or was she working magic?”

  Here’s a little insight for you.

  Kindness is a form of magic.

  Inheriting the store was the easy part. Making it my own was harder.

  When I was at a loss about how best to proceed, Tori came up with the idea for an espresso bar. She put up half the money for the equipment and renovations, which included adding a micro apartment behind the store where she now lives.

  It’s good having Tori here, especially after the whole Wicked Witch thing.

  We can get back to that now.

  The Wicked Witch, also known as Brenna Sinclair was a gift that just kept on giving.

  In trying to get rid of her, we found out that Brenna is Tori’s great-great-great-something grandmother.

  Which is kinda okay, because I’m the great-great-something granddaughter of a Cherokee witch . . . who was also Tori’s great-great-something-grandmother.

  Which makes me and Tori related.

  But only in the South where genealogy has been raised to a sacred art form.

  Confused about the exact nature of the relationship? Good. So are we, which is why we stick to the all-purpose term “cousin.”

  Obviously we didn’t figure out all those details by ourselves. Myrtle helped.

  Who is Myrtle?

  Well, the better question might be “what” is Myrtle.

  She’s my store.

  Or potentially a fairy queen.

  Or currently the older woman who oversees the hidden lair in my basement.

  Actually, she’s all of the above. And, yes, there is a lair.

  Let me explain. We were about to learn more about Myrtle’s true nature and her origins, which made all those disjointed pieces fall into place. Going in, however, we were pretty much operating on the same level of information you now have.

  So what were the lessons of major event number two? Knowing who your “people” are really does matter in life, everybody needs a little help from their friends, and when someone you love is in danger, you find the courage to face the wicked witch.

  That pretty much catches you up to the eve of the third big event, which is where we’re starting.

  Two things happened that day.

  First, I opened the front door of the store early that morning to get the Sunday paper and found a little white box waiting for me on the doorstep.

  When I opened it, I found a coffee cup with a picture of the Wicked Witch of the West astride her broom from The Wizard of Oz. The caption read, “Fire burn and cauldron bubble, this witch needs coffee or there’ll be trouble.” The nestled letter card in the box read, “Good luck on your new espresso bar. - A satisfied customer.”

  When I showed the cup to Tori, she laughed and said, “We should start an in-house collection of funny cups. I’ll put this one up on the shelf behind the counter.”

  Lowering my voice, I said, “Don’t you think it’s a little creepy that the ‘satisfied customer’ chose a cup with a witch on it?”

  “Come on, Jinksy,” she laughed, “it’s just a coincidence. Not everything is some big conspiracy.”

  Let me commend to you the immortal words of Joseph Heller from Catch-22. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”

  Right on the heels of finding the cup, I worked up the nerve to put in a phone call to my mother, Kelly. Her BFF is Tori’s mom, Gemma.

  With everything else I’d learned from the day I inherited the store right up to that morning, the one thing that hit me like a 2x4 was discovering that my good Southern Baptist mother had known about the family magic all along and kept the truth from me on purpose.

  What the heck was she thinking?

  It’s one thing to not tell me when a guy she didn’t like called to ask me out, but I could have used a few years of junior witch league before getting tossed in the middle of a metaphysical sorority formal with no idea which wand to use at supper.

  That Sunday when I picked up the phone and called Mom, I was already annoyed before she even answered. For the record, Mom wasn’t thrilled when I moved to Briar Hollow, giving up my job of 11 years to run “Crazy Aunt Fiona’s” store.

  “Norma Jean!” Mom exclaimed cheerfully. “How are you, Sugar?”

  Wincing at the unwelcome use of my Southern double name, I said, “We need to talk.”

  An ominous silence filled the next few seconds, and then Mom, drama queen that she is, said, “Is it cancer?”

  “What?!” I spluttered. “No! For God’s sake, Mom!”

  A hurricane-force sigh of relief blasted through the receiver. “Oh, thank God. Do not scare me like that!”

  “How can I scare you when you haven’t even let me say anything yet?” I asked crossly.

  “Well, fine,” Mom huffed in return. “What is it?”

  Steeling myself for what I assumed would be vehement denial, I seized the proverbial bull by the horns, and waded in.

  “I know the truth about our family’s magic,” I said. “I know about Knasgowa and Alexander Skea. I know about Brenna Sinclair. And I know that you know, so don’t you dare lie to me anymore.”

  Sorry to keep backtracking on you, but we really do need to pause for station identification.

  Alexander Skea was a Scotsman who came to America in 1786, just a few steps ahead of his great-grandmother, Brenna Sinclair, an immortal sorceress who had recently escaped from 108 years of imprisonment in a cave on the Orkney Islands.

  Brenna gained her magic by cutting a deal with a dark power. She gave up her ability to have children along with her humanity. When she became pregnant by Hamish Crawford in 1679, Brenna was more than a little surprised.

  She did, however, see the pregnancy as a
n incredible opportunity to establish her own line of hereditary witches and, I assume, engage in some evil plot to take over the world because that’s pretty much what evil sorceresses do.

  By the time I heard the story about Brenna and her baby daddy, Hamish, a couple of centuries had obscured many of the details and I wasn’t ready to sit down and clear up the specifics with Brenna herself. Which I could have done, since I’d just released her from her second imprisonment in a grave right smack in the middle of the Briar Hollow cemetery.

  How the heck did I manage that? Good question.

  Back in 1697, Hamish, and a local Druid, Duncan Skea, trapped Brenna in the cave so Hamish could escape, leaving Duncan to raise the child, Alastair, as his own.

  In time, Alastair fathered Angus, who was Alexander’s dad. When Brenna escaped, Angus sent his son to America with Darby (my new brownie minion) as his personal servant. Alexander intended to pull a disappearing act, but he met and fell in love with a Cherokee woman, Knasgowa, who was herself a witch. She protected him from Brenna until 1853. Then, dying of cancer, Knasgowa managed to imprison Brenna again -- in Knasgowa’s own grave.

  Enter Genius Girl, a.k.a. “me.”

  The plan was to free my ghostly friends who were, for some reason, trapped inside the walls of the local cemetery. In trying to do that, I turned Brenna loose. And I also raised the spirits of all the people in the graveyard I didn’t know. The ones who were usually peacefully dead, not enjoying an active afterlife.