To Catch a Witch Read online

  To Catch a Witch

  A WISHCRAFT MYSTERY

  Heather Blake

  For my family, with much love.

  Chapter One

  February in the Enchanted Village, a tourist-themed neighborhood of Salem, Massachusetts, was as delightful and charming as it was snowy and cold. A fierce wind sent snowflakes whirling along rustic cobblestone streets and through leafless, twisted branches. Delicate fairy lights strung on the trees created colorful pinpoints in the murky darkness of the breaking dawn.

  It all seemed so familiar to me that it was hard to believe it was only my second February in the village. This coming June would mark two years since Aunt Ve had convinced my sister and me to move here from Ohio to embrace a heritage we had known nothing about until that point in time: the Craft, a hereditary form of witchcraft. My sister and I were witches.

  Snow pelted my cheeks as I glanced around the village and marveled at how most people had no idea that there were thousands of witches who lived and worked here. We coexisted secretly with mortal villagers who were clueless about residing in such a magical world. Here, Crafters of all varieties were able to practice their magical gifts under the appearance of capitalism—and without the fear of being discovered. Witches were still a bit touchy about the whole burning at the stake part of our history—so much so that we could lose our powers if we told a mortal about the Craft, even accidentally.

  The village was thriving with its various witch-themed businesses, such as the Bewitching Boutique, the Magic Wand Salon, the Witch’s Brew coffee shop, and the Crone’s Cupboard to name a few. Shops with their colorful awnings, charming storefronts, and wrought iron signposts lined the village’s main square with dozens more boutiques sprinkled throughout outlying neighborhoods.

  The chill wound its way under my hat and beneath my down coat as I perched precariously atop a metal ladder on the edge of the village green. The ends of my long, dark hair blew about my face as I gripped a giant vinyl banner that spanned the main road into the village, desperately trying to keep the sign from flying into the dark gray skies à la Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz. I’d already hooked the right side of the sign, but the left was not cooperating in any way, shape, or form.

  It was a little past six thirty on Saturday morning, and I’d been struggling with my task for nearly fifteen minutes. My fingers were going numb, I couldn’t feel my face, and I was pretty sure there were icicles dangling from my eyebrows.

  I wished I knew a spell that would finish this job for me, but I couldn’t think of a single one that fit. And though I was a Wishcrafter, a witch who could make wishes come true, I could not grant my own wishes so I was out of luck on both counts.

  Being unable to grant my own wishes—or those of other Wishcrafters—was just one of the many Craft rules I had to abide by. I couldn’t make someone to fall in love. I couldn’t solicit wishes, either, to help someone out. Or grant a wish that someone would drop dead—mostly because that went against the basic Craft tenet of “do no harm.” Above all else, we must not use any Craft ability to harm or hurt anyone, mentally or physically. Each variety of Crafter had their own law book but Wishcrafters, especially, had to be careful. It was easy for others to abuse our powers. Several amendments to our laws had been made to protect us, but every once in a while, someone tried to take advantage.

  I’d learned a lot since I moved to this village and my life had changed drastically. Not only because I was a witch, but because I’d discovered long-lost family and made new friends. I’d been appointed an investigator for the Craft—whenever there was a crime in the village involving a Crafter, it was my job to snoop around to ensure that the protection of the Craft and its witches synced with the mortal justice system. I’d also become a business owner, taking over As You Wish, a personal concierge service, which had been run by Aunt Ve.

  And I’d fallen in love.

  Nick Sawyer, the village police chief, and I were engaged to be married. He and his daughter, thirteen-year-old Mimi, had moved in with me. Along with their Saint Bernard, Higgins, my dog, Missy, and my cat, Annie, we had a full house.

  A happy house.

  Our home.

  Thinking of them filled me will a warmth that was more than welcome in this weather. Hanging the massive banner this morning was not supposed to have been a one person job. My twenty-four-year-old sister, Harper, had volunteered to help me, but she was suspiciously a no-show.

  She had been volunteering a lot lately, on top of working full-time at her bookshop, Spellbound, and in addition to joining every club and organization—or so it seemed—the village had to offer.

  Keeping busy was her way of dealing with a recent breakup, but she’d taken that particular philosophy to the next (obsessive) level, and I was worried about her health, both mental and physical.

  I threw a look upward to the apartment where Harper lived above Spellbound. The lights were on but the shades were drawn.

  Her absence this morning probably had nothing to do with time-management issues and everything to do with the single-digit wind chill and foot of snow that had already fallen.

  She hated the cold.

  I wasn’t exactly enjoying it, either. The day had barely begun, and I already wanted to go back to bed. That simple yearning was impossible, so I tried not to dwell on the thought. I had a job to do. The village was soon going to be flooded with people arriving to participate in the tenth annual Wicked Mad Dash, which my personal concierge business, As You Wish, had been hired to oversee this year. As much as I’d love to cancel the event altogether, it had been advertised to take place rain, snow, or shine. In fact, Abby Stillwell, the woman who’d hired me, had informed me that the worse the weather, the better for the event.

  Which led me to believe that the “mad” part of this dash was associated with the racers’ state of mind and not their speed.

  I’d known little about the race before I took over managing it, but quickly found out that the Wicked Mad Dash was not only a destination race, drawing competitors from all over the country to the Enchanted Village, but also an adventure race, complete with twenty demanding obstacles along a course that wound through the Enchanted Woods, the forest that surrounded the village.

  Apparently, the ultracompetitive racers loved a challenge. The more difficult the course and conditions, the more exciting. They were probably rejoicing with all this wind and snow. I, however, could do with a little sunshine.

  Festive heart-shaped wreaths, which were hung in celebration of the upcoming Valentine’s holiday, swayed in the wind and knocked a steady beat against faux gaslights that lined the village square. The drums of war, I reflected, bemused as I continued my battle with the banner. It had to be hung as it marked the Wicked Mad Dash starting—and finish—line in front of Spellbound.

  I glanced around to see if anyone was nearby to lend a hand, but there was no one. I had commissioned my best friend, photographer extraordinaire, and owner of Hocus-Pocus Photography, Starla Sullivan, to take photos of the event, but with the start of race still hours away she wasn’t here yet.

  The catering team from the Sorcerer’s Stove was inside the large tent set up on the village green behind me. The storm had chased off most of the usual morning dogwalkers and joggers. Nick was at work. As the village’s chief of police, he had his own job to do to make sure this race ran as planned, so he was busy overseeing the cordoning off of streets and hanging of “no parking” signs.

  Mimi, who often enjoyed helping me with As You Wish projects, had slept at a friend’s house last night. She would turn fourteen in a couple of weeks and was at the age where spending time at home with Nick and me on the weekends couldn’t hold a candle to a slumber party with her closest friends. While I misse
d her company, I was grateful she had a somewhat-typical teenage life. Her childhood had been far from normal between her mom, Melina, dying after a battle with cancer, and then finding out her mom had been a Wishcrafter and that she was too …

  And while I had hired a small crew to work the race today, all were out and about, checking to make sure the course markings were still visible in the snow. The last thing the race needed was for its runners to get lost in the storm, though from what I’d heard of the racers’ adventuresome spirits, they might like taking the scenic route through the woods.

  Mad, indeed.

  With a viselike grip and steely stubbornness, I somehow managed to keep hold of the banner as another gust whipped down the road. If the sign flew off, there was no time to replace it. Not with the race starting in just a couple of hours. Gritting my teeth, I eyed the metal grommets on the sign, willing them to align with the hooks on the coordinating aluminum pole of the portable truss system. But the wind was playing tug of war, and I was losing this battle. My fingers were now numb and my arms ached with the effort of keeping my grip on the banner.

  Frustrated, I glanced again at Harper’s window, but there had been no change in the status of her window shades since the last time I looked. Then my gaze drifted a little farther down the street, landing on Lotions and Potions, the village’s bath and body shop. The lights were on, and I could very clearly see Vince Paxton through the shop’s plateglass window, watching me with a smirk on his face.

  It suddenly struck me that my current woes could possibly be attributed to him. Tinkering with the banner was just the kind of prank he loved to play with his dark magic. Despite everyone’s warnings, he’d been practicing sorcery for months now. While his magical antics tended to be fairly benign and not outwardly malicious, the threat remained that he could cause serious damage on a whim, both to the village and its residents, mortals and witches alike.

  In the months since Vince discovered he was a Crafter, he had ignored everyone who implored him to give up sorcery to focus on practicing his inherited Craft. He was a Broomcrafter, a witch who excelled with woodworking, which he considered to be lame. He had no interest in discovering the scope of his magical powers, which were vast and went well beyond working with wood—he had a variety of powerful spells at his command. None interested him, as they were benevolent, not malevolent.

  Even the Elder, the governess of the Craft whose true identity was so secret that only a dozen or so witches in all the Craft knew it, hadn’t been able to talk sense into him. Most witches around the village had deemed him a lost cause.

  I wasn’t one of them.

  I hated to admit that I had a soft spot for Vince, but I did. I had seen decency in him. Light. I wasn’t ready to admit that it had been drowned out by darkness. I desperately wanted him to change his ways and turn toward the goodness of the Craft, but so far he’d ignored everyone who dared to care. Including me. Yet, I kept trying. In that discomfiting vein, I smiled and waved at him.

  He waved back, then quickly turned away.

  To distract myself, I began to sing under my breath. “‘The wind began to switch.’” I tugged and tugged on the banner, wishing my friend Archie, a handsome scarlet macaw familiar (a witch who took on an animal form after death) was here. Archie had once been a London theater actor, and we often enjoyed trying to stump each other with movie quotes. Needless to say, his offerings were usually acted out in overdramatic fashion. Which, if I was being honest, only made them that much more enjoyable.

  And though the particular Wizard of Oz lyric I sang was fitting of my current situation, it was hardly a challenge. But Archie would have joined me in song, making this task a little more bearable. However, an early bird Archie was not, and he loathed snow almost as much as he despised the TV remake of Dirty Dancing.

  That was saying something.

  “Talking to yourself now, Darcy? Why am I not the least bit surprised? You should get out more. Meet new people. Find new friends. Perhaps you should move back to Ohio. Or … anywhere else.” Dorothy Hansel Dewitt glared upward at me from beneath the hood of a faux-fur trimmed parka. Redness from the cold colored her plump cheeks and pointed chin.

  I hadn’t heard her approach, and as I looked down at her, I rather wished a house would come along and land atop her.

  Again, unfortunately, I couldn’t grant my own wishes. And there was also that pesky Craft rule about doing no harm. Being crushed by a house could definitely be deemed harmful.

  To Dorothy.

  The rest of the village, however, might be in agreement that the house had done us all a huge favor.

  If there was ever a wicked witch, it was Dorothy Hansel Dewitt. She’d despised me from almost the moment I’d arrived in the village, and she’d like nothing better to get me—and my family—out of town for good.

  Like her son, Vince, Dorothy was a Broomcrafter as well, but used her woodworking skills as more of a hobby than anything else. She liked her blonde hair big, her lips bright red, and her clothes extra tight. Dorothy was rude, often crude, mean, and malicious. If she thought you were ugly, you knew it. She’d picked more fights than I cared to count, and had once been arrested for assault, though she’d copped a plea deal and never saw a day behind bars. I knew of two instances where she had set houses on fire, yet there hadn’t been enough evidence to prosecute. She’d stalked my aunt Ve, tried to sabotage my aunt’s almost-wedding, and then seduced the potential groom—to whom Dorothy is now married. Little had she known, however, that Ve had willingly let Sylar go. I often wondered if Dorothy would have still wanted him if she had caught on to that fact before the wedding.

  Probably not.

  Dorothy tended to only like taking things that did not belong to her.

  And while Dorothy had always been hateful, lately her animosity had become even more pronounced. She was doing little to hide her hostility toward me and my family, even publicly.

  When, during the investigation of a cold-case last autumn, it was (shockingly) revealed that she was Vince’s biological mother, my first thought was that the apple hadn’t fallen far from Dorothy’s twisted tree.

  But then I reminded myself that Vince did have a soft side. I’d seen it.

  I’d never seen Dorothy as anything but hard and bitter, which had nothing to do with her being a witch and everything to do with her simply being a narcissistic, cruel, and heartless person in general.

  There was still hope for Vince. And I was clinging to it harder than I was this banner.

  Letting out a frosty breath, I decided not to take her verbal bait.

  “Nothing to say for yourself?” Dorothy needled, obviously looking for a fight.

  I started singing again in my best Judy Garland voice. “‘The house to pitch. And suddenly the hinges started to unhitch.’”

  She made a face that could have been described as a frown had it not been for the excessive amounts of Botox keeping her skin fairly immobile. “Talk about unhinged,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’ve noticed your mental health has gone downhill since you’ve moved to the village. Your family is rubbing off on you. Crazy is as crazy does.” She started to walk off, giving my ladder a good shove as she passed by. Her cackle echoed as she stomped away in heeled boots, heading for the Witch’s Brew.

  The ladder wobbled, and I would have fallen off except for the fact that I was clinging to the banner for dear life—it was the anchor I needed to keep my balance.

  If anyone knew crazy, it was Dorothy. But I wasn’t in the mood to point that out to her. I had things to do, and she wasn’t one to walk away from a perceived insult without a long, loud, and sometimes violent retaliation.

  Instead, I sang more loudly. “‘Just then the Witch, to satisfy an itch, went flying on her broomstick…’”

  Dorothy looked back over her shoulder and shot me the middle finger. At least I thought she had. It was hard to tell with the thick gloves she wore.

  I couldn’t help laughing. I’d come a lon
g way from being completely terrified of Dorothy. Now I was only moderately terrified. She was downright scary, but I’d learned over the past year and half that I’d lived in this village, it was best to fight Dorothy’s fire with fire.

  Fortunately, Dorothy’s personality type was a rarity around here. Most villagers were kind, generous souls. Take this race, for instance. During its ten-year existence, earnings from the Wicked Mad Dash had been earmarked for local charities. This year veered from the norm in that its proceeds were going to go straight to Joe and Madison Bryant. Along with Joe’s mother, Lucinda, they owned Balefire Sports, the village sports shop that had created and sponsored the race, and Joe’s younger brother, Ben, worked there as well as a merchandise manager.

  Just two months ago, Joe and Madison’s six-month-old daughter Aine had undergone hip dysplasia surgery and was now in a spica cast from the chest down for the foreseeable future. When it was revealed the family’s insurance had covered only the bare minimum of Aine’s medical bills, Abby Stillwell, a professional runner and the assistant manager of Balefire, suggested the race revenue go toward the baby’s medical needs. The village rallied behind the idea, and this year’s race attendance had broken all previous records. This community was full of heart, and I was proud to be part of it.

  I tugged on the banner some more, but it wouldn’t budge. I was about to give up when I heard, “Need some help?”

  I glanced down.

  A man I didn’t recognize stood at the foot of the ladder, looking upward. He appeared to be about my age, early thirties, and didn’t seem to have dressed for the weather, wearing only a stocking hat, a heavy sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. The sneakers were hard to miss. Neon green with orange horizontal laces. Dark brown eyes studied the banner, while a thick beard covered most of his face.

  “Yes, please,” I practically begged.

  He climbed the ladder, edging his way next to my legs until he was high enough up to grab the banner. We both tugged, and with a quick twist of his wrist, he finally hooked a grommet, then another.