Witchful Thinking Read online

  “All right, I’m off to lunch. You let me know.” She touched the brim of her hat.

  “Will do. Enjoy your lunch.”

  “Oh, I will. It’s with Deputy June.” Francine winked as she headed out.

  Charlotte snickered. Besides the sheriff’s love of a few very specific authors, she enjoyed the company of attractive young male police officers. So much so that attractive young police officers seemed to be about the only kind she hired. And she hired so many, they’d gotten together and released a calendar.

  The project had been a hit and raised a tremendous amount for the police force. Problem was, it had been so popular, the officers had come to be known by their months more than their names. Fortunately, the guys certainly didn’t mind the nicknames or the attention. (Truth be told, the calendar men had perpetuated the nicknames once they’d realized that was good for sales. And getting dates.)

  In fact, the officers liked the attention so much, most of them had signed up for the bachelor auction that was a part of the Cranberry Festival. Charlotte couldn’t fault them, though. Everlasting had a very healthy law enforcement budget because of it all.

  Hmm. Maybe Walker was hoping to become a deputy. He’d said he was new and that he’d come for the Festival, but not how long he was staying or what his purpose at the Festival was. And he’d listed the Marlboro House as his address. She didn’t think they rented to short termers. Not that she cared. At all.

  But if he didn’t return that copy of The Scoundrel Prince, she’d care. She’d care so much she’d track him down and make him care.

  Chapter Three

  Walker’s phone buzzed, pulling him from the depths of The Scoundrel Prince. Through the dormer window in his attic apartment, a few stars were faintly visible in the darkening sky. He sat up, surprised, and checked his watch. A little after six p.m. He’d been reading since he’d gotten home from the library.

  He hadn’t expected that at all. Not with a romance novel. He squinted at the book, his mind drifting back to the pretty witch who’d hoisted it upon him. Could it be that she’d bespelled the book to keep him occupied? Nothing about the physical book set off his magical radar, but maybe Charlotte was more powerful than he’d guessed.

  Her bewitching the book would imply that she might know something about him. Like why he was here. And what he was after. Why else would she want to keep him occupied?

  It also would tip the scales in favor of her actually being a member of the Collective. Or at least working for them.

  He sat up, closed the book, and put it aside. She must have done it. Why else would he have lost himself in a romance novel? He grunted in disgust. Maybe the book had been good, but he couldn’t be sure now. And he’d broken one of his own rules with Charlotte. He’d underestimated her.

  That caused a small fission of anger to crawl up his spine. How powerful a witch was she?

  He had no choice but to find out. But he couldn’t exactly come right out and ask her. Experience told him witches didn’t usually respond very well to questions like that.

  He tucked his phone into his pocket, then grabbed his keys and jacket, throwing the jacket on as he hustled down the stairs to his truck. He headed toward Main Street. In small towns like this, everyone knew everybody, and there were a couple of places to get the info he was looking for. One of them was the hairdresser, but he’d stick out there like a sore thumb. Then there was the local watering hole, which seemed to be a pool hall called the Magic Eight Ball, but it was a little early to be drinking and he sucked at pool. That left the third option, the diner.

  That was perfect, because the protein bar he’d scarfed down hadn’t done much. He was starving.

  Fortunately, Everlasting’s diner was right in the heart of town so he didn’t have to go far. He hadn’t eaten there yet, since he’d been keeping things low-key in case the Collective’s agent spotted him before Walker spotted him or her.

  But time was running out, and honestly, if the Collective’s agent wanted to start something, Walker was game.

  He parked in front of Chickadee’s Diner, snagging a prime spot only because another car pulled out. He turned the engine off and looked through the windows. There was a decent crowd inside, being that he’d arrived during peak dinner hours. He went in and managed to find a free stool at the counter.

  A server swung by almost immediately. Betsy, from her name tag. She looked like she’d been working at Chickadee’s since it had opened, which according to the sign, was in the late ‘60’s. Or maybe the shellacked bouffant and black, cat-eye glasses with rhinestones in the corners were just part of the uniform. “Getcha something to drink?”

  “Coffee. Black.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  While she got that, he checked out the menu printed on the paper place mat in front of him. Today was Wednesday, which meant the special was pot roast. Good enough.

  She came back with the coffee. “Ready to order?”

  “Pot roast special.”

  “Good choice.” She scribbled his order on her notepad, then ripped the page off and stuck it under a clip on a horizontal wheel that turned between the kitchen and the front of the diner. “Order up,” she yelled through the window as she spun the wheel to move the ticket to the kitchen side. That done, she was off to check on the rest of her customers.

  Walker sighed. Coming in during the dinner rush wasn’t the best time to engage a server in conversation, but there were always the locals. He glanced to his left.

  The man was about a hundred years old and had enough stray hairs growing out of his ears to make Walker question the guy’s ability to even hear a conversation.

  He had better luck on his right. Two cops in uniform. Sheriff’s deputies, actually. And both of them were eating the pot roast special. He nodded a greeting. “Evening, officers.”

  They nodded back.

  “How’s tonight’s special? I’ve never eaten here before.”

  They laughed. The one closest to him lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes dripping in gravy. “You’re gonna like it unless you don’t like diner food, and then I don’t know what you’re doing eating here in the first place.”

  “I love diner food. Happy to hear it’s a good choice. I’m new to town, so trying to figure out the best spots, where the locals go, that sort of thing.”

  The second man leaned forward to see Walker better. “You’re at one of the local spots right now. Lot of tourists in town with the Festival, though, so it might be hard to tell.”

  “Good to know. What else is worth eating here?”

  “All of it,” the first officer said. “But make sure you get a slice of the blueberry crumble. Best you’ll ever have. The cranberry apple pie is good too.”

  Betsy returned to refill Walker’s coffee as the officer was speaking. His words broke her out into a big smile. “That’s right, the blueberry crumble is the pie to have.” She eyed Walker. “You want me to save you one? Doesn’t always last through the dinner rush.”

  He put on his best charming smile. “I don’t think I could eat a whole pie.”

  He got the result he wanted when she laughed. “How about just a slice, then?”

  “Perfect. Thank you, Betsy. I’m Walker.”

  “Nice to meet you, Walker.” She popped her hip out to one side. “Lemme put your name on that slice and bring you your dinner.”

  A minute later he was staring down at a steaming plateful of pot roast, boiled carrots, green beans, a mountain of mashed potatoes covered in brown gravy and a fat dinner roll with two foil-wrapped pats of butter beside it.

  Good thing he was hungry. This was a massive amount of food. He tucked in, swallowing his first bite before engaging the deputies again. “Oh man, you were right. This is good stuff.”

  “Told ya,” the man next to him said.

  Walker split the roll and slathered each side with butter. “I guess you guys know just about everyone in town.”

  The man next to him nodded. “Pretty muc
h.”

  “Any chance you know Charlotte at the library?”

  “Sure. Nice girl. Quiet. Kind of stereotypical librarian. Very smart. Loves books. Pretty sure she has a cat.”

  Most witches did. They called them familiars, and the animals helped them focus their magic. Made sense a powerful witch like Charlotte would have one. But cats were generally no big deal, seeing as how he was one himself. Not that being a leopard shifter was the same thing as being a house cat. At all.

  He kept digging. “Is she seeing anyone?”

  “Don’t know that.” The deputy looked at his partner. “You know, July?”

  July (although the man’s badge said Simons) shook his head. “I don’t think she is.” He glanced at Walker. “You thinking about asking her out?”

  “I sort of already did.”

  Both men smiled like they knew what he was up to.

  Walker laughed. “I don’t usually work that fast, but she seemed nice, and she sort of challenged me to read this book—a romance novel if you can believe that—and…” He shrugged. “We’re going to talk about it over coffee after I read it.”

  July smirked. “Buddy, I think you got asked out, not the other way around.”

  Walker picked up his fork. “No way.”

  The other officer snorted. “She challenged you to read a romance novel, you agreed, and you think you’re the one calling the shots? What kind of romance novel was it?”

  Walker shook his head even as he answered. “Historical romance.”

  The deputy snorted. “I had no idea Charlotte had that kind of game.”

  Walker pondered that as he dug into the pot roast. Was that what had happened? Had Charlotte orchestrated their date? The more he found out about her, which wasn’t that much so far, the more he was convinced that she was incredibly powerful.

  If she was that powerful, had she already found the book? Seemed like a very real possibility. She could even be working on the Collective’s end game right now.

  And speaking of games, he was going to have to up his. He was not about to let a witch best him. Not when the fate of the world was at stake.

  Chapter Four

  “Edgar Allan…where are you? Mama’s home.” Charlotte put her keys in the bowl on the small table in her minuscule foyer, then toed off her ballet flats and walked into the kitchen in her stocking feet. The linoleum was cold, even through her tights. She shivered as she put her tote on the counter and took out her lunch bag.

  Edgar Allan, her long-haired ginger cat, came trotting out of the bedroom and greeted her with a loud yowl.

  She scooped him up and planted a kiss on his head. “Hello, my darling boy. How was your day?”

  He started purring and bumped his head on her chin.

  “That good? I’m so glad.” She gave him a scratch, then set him down to get his dinner. Once she’d filled his bowl and he was happily eating, she put her lunch containers in the sink to wash later, then made herself a cup of cocoa. She thought about topping it with a handful of mini-marshmallows, but that was a little indulgent for a Wednesday. She took the rescued book out of her tote bag, then carried it and her plain cocoa into the living room.

  She put both on the coffee table, tucked her feet under her, then picked up the book again. The cocoa was too hot to drink anyway. She ran her hand over the cover. The gold-embossed letters looked even less worn than they had in the library, and the leather seemed in remarkably good shape now. Not even a little tattered. Had she been mistaken about its condition at the library? Maybe she’d been so concerned with saving it, she hadn’t been paying close attention to what it really looked like.

  She brushed her thumb down the side of the bright gold pages. No glue that she could feel, but Millie hadn’t been able to open it. Of course, Charlotte just took that as a challenge. She gripped the front cover and…the book opened easily.

  “Well, how do you like that?” The pages were yellowed with time, and they rustled like dry leaves. She bit her lip. She ought to be wearing gloves like the kind they used to handle the historical documents in the library. Paper this delicate should be protected from the natural oils in her skin, but she didn’t have any of those thin cotton gloves, just wool ones meant to keep her hands warm. She’d never be able to turn the pages wearing those.

  She closed the book and put it back on the coffee table, then picked up her cocoa and drank some, giving herself time to think. Maybe her dishwashing gloves would work. They were rubber and the rubber was grippy. In theory, they might do the trick.

  She set her mug down and went back to the kitchen. Edgar Allan was still at his food bowl, snarfing down the tuna pate she’d given him for dinner. Her gloves were under the sink, hanging over the PVC pipe that ran from her sink drain to wherever sink drains went to. She grabbed the gloves and went back to the book, tugging the gloves on as she sat. She wiggled her fingers in anticipation of looking through the pages without having to worry about the integrity of the tome.

  A loud burp sounded from the kitchen.

  She rolled her eyes even as she giggled. “Edgar Allan Poe Fenchurch, that is not very gentlemanly behavior.”

  He walked around the side of the couch and jumped up to settle onto the pillow at the far end. It was his spot really, and despite the fact that she kept a special pillowcase on that pillow that was washed on a regular basis, there was plenty of long ginger hair there to mark it.

  She gave him the eye. “Are you done?”

  He stuck his back leg over his head and began nonchalantly licking his inner thigh. He was done.

  She went back to the book. She picked it up again, weighing it slightly in her hands. The feel of a book like this was really something. Hefty and solid, like it had pounds of interesting things inside. Which she had no doubt it did. Even if some of those things were potentially dark magic that she would not be bothering with.

  Placing it on her lap, she grabbed the cover again and pulled.

  The book wouldn’t open.

  That was odd. She turned it to better examine the pages. They seemed to have lost a bit of their shine. And upon closer inspection, the cover seemed old again. Even the title was now worn off in spots.

  Weird.

  On a hunch, she took the gloves off, then put her hands on the book again. The cover renewed its youthful exterior before her eyes. She gasped. “Magic. For protection maybe. I should have known with a book like this.”

  And if the cover had reverted to its previous appearance, then maybe… She took hold of the cover and opened the book without the slightest bit of resistance.

  She closed it and opened it again. Then a third time just to be sure. She stared at the book’s cover, a little amazed.

  A sudden tingle of joy shot through her. She’d heard about things like this, about magical objects choosing the witch they wanted to belong to. She grinned and hugged the book to her chest. “And you chose me,” she breathed out.

  She was torn between calling her mentor and digging into the book immediately. Oh, she knew better than to attempt any of the questionable spells or even think she was ready for a book like this, but in time she would be. For parts of it anyway. And that was a thrilling thought.

  Her first grimoire.

  It was a momentous occasion. It called for a little celebration. She was having those mini-marshmallows after all.

  She put the book on the table, then took her mug into the kitchen and popped it into the microwave for a quick warm-up while she got the marshmallows out.

  The microwave dinged, followed by the sound of cathedral bells ringing on a loop. She stopped mid-reach for the microwave handle. Her phone was going off.

  She dug into the side pocket of her tote bag. The number wasn’t familiar, but she answered it anyway. “Hello?”

  “Hello there, Charlotte.”

  That voice. She knew it by the lovely tremble it sent down her spine. It was Walker Black’s voice. But she wasn’t about to let him know she recognized him. Or the effect
his voice had on her. “Who is this?”

  “Oh, I’m wounded that you don’t remember me. It’s Walker Black.”

  She remembered him just fine. “Mr. Black. How did you get my number?”

  “I looked you up. The Internet’s an amazing thing. And please, call me Walker.”

  He’d Googled her? That was a little stalkery. But she would have done the same thing. She squinted into the distance. “How did you know my last name?”

  “Library website. Charlotte Fenchurch, librarian. Likes include lobster rolls, walks along the coast, and rainy days spent indoors with a good book and a sleeping cat.”

  She frowned. “It does not say that about me.” But he’d guessed very well. “How did you know I have a cat?”

  “Took a swing based on the long orange hairs on the bottom of your skirt.”

  She glanced down at the hem of her navy plaid wool skirt. The right side had a small swathe of Edgar Allan fur clinging to it. She sighed. And gave Walker points for observation. “He does tend to shed.” But then she remembered who she was talking to. “Why are you calling me at…” She checked the time. “Seven forty-two in the evening?” Or at all, really.

  “Because I finished the book.”

  She looked at the time again. “You expect me to believe that you’ve done nothing but read all day? A romance novel?”

  “No. I did stop to eat. Pot roast special at Chickadee’s. Have you had it? It’s very good.”

  She had. It was good. And enough for three meals. Just the thought of it made her stomach rumble. She’d been too excited about the book to eat anything for dinner yet. “I have, but it sounds like you’re changing the subject.”

  “I promise, I’m not. You said we could have coffee and discuss the book when I was done. Well, I’m done.”