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  WOLVES of WISTERIA

  A WISTERIA WITCHES BOOK

  Angela Pepper

  WWW.ANGELAPEPPER.COM

  Chapter 1

  Zinnia Riddle woke up Tuesday morning with one ghost in her heart and another waiting in her kitchen.

  Her bed was too warm to leave. She'd kept the window open overnight, and the chill of January had taken over the room. She could use some extra help getting up, so she did what any witch would do. She cast a spell to yank the bed covers away.

  Magic sparkles whizzed from her fingertips as the spell took hold. The blankets fluffed up, hovered, then settled down again squarely, tucking in their edges all around her. That wasn't right. Tucking in was the exact opposite of yanking away. The tucking was vigorous, too. Zinnia groaned from the force. Floopy doop. She realized her mistake. She'd accidentally inverted the spell. Served her right for not keeping up her spellwork practice! Her magic had gotten rusty.

  She tried to wrestle her way out of the tightly made bed. The spell did not want to give up. Her floral-patterned comforter wrapped around her legs like a boa constrictor. When she finally broke free, Zinnia's down-stuffed pillow made a half-hearted attempt at smothering her.

  She punched the pillow away, got her feet on the floor, and backed away from the bed, making a tsk-tsk sound. “You, too, pillow?” The pillow gave her a lackadaisical shrug before settling neatly on the bed.

  It was going to be one of those days.

  In the kitchen, the first rays of sunlight were filtering in through the floral curtains that covered the window above the sink. Zinnia flicked on the overhead light, but it didn't do much to dispel the room's gloominess. She opened the curtains, freeing a cloud of dust. She immediately sneezed. The dust motes swirled around her like misguided insects.

  Dusty, she noted. My magic is rusty and my house is dusty. The two things were connected. She could have used spellwork to tame the dust before she left for work, but she didn't trust herself. The way things were going today, she'd probably end up with a black eye, wearing a mop bucket as a hat.

  She turned on the tea kettle manually and opened the door of her vintage refrigerator. She yawned and closed her eyes as she reached for the orange juice. A moment later, she let out a startled cry as she found herself pouring a glass of... not juice, but eyeballs. Eyeballs of various sizes, from newt to cow. The orbs were useful for many things, but not as a breakfast beverage.

  “I really need to declutter,” she muttered to herself. And why not? Decluttering was a normal thing to do. The other women at her office often talked about the “life-changing magic of decluttering.” Zinnia had to bite her tongue whenever the topic arose. She knew there wasn't anything magic about throwing useless things away, not unless you were chucking them into a swirling vortex that led to another dimension.

  She tossed a few eyeballs into a Ziploc bag in her purse. A good witch doesn't believe in coincidence. If a magic item finds its way to your hand, take the hint! Magic knows more about the future than any witch.

  Zinnia returned the jar of eyeballs to the hidden compartment at the back of the fridge, retrieved the orange juice, and got breakfast started. She drummed her fingers on the counter as she waited for her toast to pop. She leaned forward to make sure the internal elements were hot. As she leaned back, she caught sight of her reflection on the side of the appliance.

  She was struck by how dark and deep her hazel eyes looked. How long had it been since her eyes had shone brightly? Too long. She actually looked her age this morning. Or did she? How old was she, anyway? Forty-seven. She forced a smile at the reflection. The image of a lightly freckled, classically beautiful redhead with long, wavy red locks smiled back at her. She was no supermodel, but she looked pleasant enough when she mustered a smile.

  Something itched at the back of her consciousness. Something about the date. Had she missed garbage pick-up day? She whipped her head to check the calendar on the refrigerator. Today was Tuesday, which meant... her birthday was today. Double darn and triple trouble! She wasn't forty-seven anymore. She was forty-eight. She'd forgotten her own birthday. Again.

  The realization made her feel weak, emotionally and then physically. Her legs shook and her knees threatened to buckle. It had been over a year now, and nothing had improved. She still hadn't recovered.

  She gripped the edge of the counter and forced herself to stand up straight. Now was not the time to dig up the most painful memories of her life. The right time for that was... never. But even as she commanded herself to stay focused, her brain offered up all the usual shoulda-coulda-wouldas. If only she had tried something different, been quicker to solve the puzzle, known more than she could have. Why hadn't she been brave enough to—

  The toaster popped, breaking the unproductive thought cycle, bringing her back to the present.

  As she buttered the toast, she heard the words of her wise mentor in her head. Worrying about the past is about as useful as playing the accordion on a deer hunt.

  Wise words. Her mentor had also pointed out that her birthday was a lucky date. It came around when people were giving up on their New Year's resolutions. That meant there was a lot of unused “change magic” floating around, looking for a person to help. If Zinnia opened herself to this magic, every birthday could be the catalyst for transformation. Maybe it would happen this year. Or maybe it already had. Career-wise, her job was simple, but she enjoyed it. She even had a new man in her life. Thinking about him caused her cheeks to heat up—in a good way.

  Blushing, she grabbed an avocado and continued preparing her breakfast.

  As she leaned forward, a cool breeze brushed her from behind. It felt as though someone had walked past her in a hurry, or blown cool air at the back of her neck. She cocked her head and rotated her body as she looked around the kitchen. It was empty. She was alone, as usual. And yet, the motes of dust hanging in the sunlight swirled frantically, as though caught in a localized whirlwind. Someone was there. Someone who could not be seen. She still held the knife she'd been using to slice the avocado. She gripped the handle instinctively—not that a knife would do much to scare off an invisible foe.

  She slowly turned back to the counter and continued her work quietly while her senses—both human and witch—buzzed. As she smeared the avocado on her toast, the scratching sound was like a roar. She hadn't made avocado toast in a long time. It had been his favorite. A lump rose up in her throat.

  Could it be him? Had he chosen her birthday to visit?

  The ghostly presence hadn't made a move, but it hadn't left, either. The hopeful lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.

  She opened her mouth. “Ai—?” The lump in her throat cut off his name. She coughed and tried again. “Aiden? Aiden, is that you?”

  The energy in the room shifted with a crackling sound. The light grew brighter, then darker, then brighter again. The magic afoot was in conflict. Zinnia set down the knife and turned around slowly, hands up and ready to blast.

  The darkness from the corners of the room gathered together, focusing into a swirling vortex before her. The light bulbs in the ceiling fixture buzzed and grew brighter, increasing the contrast in the room. The tasteful flowers on the room's wallpaper became bright and joyful, and then brighter still, until they were lurid, shades of fluorescent orange and yellow.

  “Aiden?” As she uttered his name for the third time, she heard the hope in her voice die. It wasn't Aiden. He wouldn't come to her like this. His heart was too pure, unblemished by time and experience. He could never have worn such dark shadows.

  But the dark presence was a ghost. Of that fact, Zinnia Riddle was absolutely certain.

&nb
sp; “Who are you?” She squinted at the shadowy form. The specter was no more solid than static on a television, or pouring rain. It could be seen yet not seen, flickering between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Two dark spots coalesced, forming eyes. But the eyes disappeared as quickly as they had formed, and there was only static again.

  Zinnia tensed her core muscles deliberately, silently rehearsed a reveal spell, and then cast it in whispered Witch Tongue.

  The darkness obeyed her command and took form. The ghost glanced down at its body, seemingly as surprised as Zinnia that the spell was working.

  Zinnia gasped. “No!”

  But denial changed nothing. Zinnia recognized the ghost even before the spell had finished. She reached a hand forward, her voice croaking as she gushed apologies.

  And then, with a pop of light, the spirit was gone, pulled through to the other side as easily as a plucked thread.

  So, that happened.

  Zinnia clenched her teeth. If she relaxed any part of her body now, her lips would quiver, and then she would be lost.

  She checked the time. She was in danger of being late for work. More time had passed than seemed possible. It was always like that when ghosts were around. They had a way of warping light and time around them, along with their other, deadlier powers. But she had no time to ponder the physics now. Not if she was to stick to her regular schedule and avoid suspicion. The world didn't know about witches, and they weren't going to find out through a slip-up by Zinnia Riddle.

  Zinnia dumped the contents of her teapot into a thermos, and then hurriedly tossed some magical supplies into her purse until it bulged. Then she headed for the door. She paused to put on her boots, gazing up at her painted ceiling while she tied her laces. The ceiling had a fresco-style painting of an English garden. The image usually relaxed her, but this morning it did nothing for her nerves.

  She checked her appearance in the hall mirror. Her flowered blouse matched the wallpaper behind her so closely that she appeared to be a semi-visible woman. A ghost. She put her hands on her hips and struck a sassy pose to bolster her confidence.

  “Zinnia Riddle, you can handle this,” she told her reflection.

  Her hazel eyes brightened.

  “Simply remember your training, and keep your wits about you.”

  Now her eyes twinkled.

  “And for goodness' sake, don't do anything foolish.”

  The gleam went out of her eyes. The lump returned to her throat. The woman before her faded into the background, becoming a literal wallflower.

  So much for confidence. There was no sassy pose or pep talk that could change the grim facts revealed that morning.

  The dead woman was Annette Scholem. She was a coworker whose face Zinnia knew well, since they had seen each other every weekday for the past year. Annette was older than Zinnia, but still healthy and vital, kind and fun-loving. Annette was the one who'd wrangled the whole office into forming a bowling team. She was organizing their float for the summer parade. Annette was a dynamic powerhouse of a woman with big plans for the future.

  But the dead don't organize parade floats, and they don't go bowling. Annette's big plans had died with her.

  Zinnia leaned against the wall to steady herself. Pull it together, she told herself. For Annette's sake. She came to you for a reason.

  She pulled on a warm jacket and then shivered in spite of it as she stepped outside. The chill in her bones wasn't just from the January air.

  Zinnia furtively glanced left and right as she walked to where her car was parked next to the sidewalk, and climbed in. She locked the doors.

  Danger was never far away in the town of Wisteria. Zinnia's house was relatively safe, thanks to the protective wards, but tragedy could be waiting around any corner. Zinnia couldn't shake a terrible image from her mind's eye.

  Back in the kitchen, the ghost had revealed her identity, and something else. Something even more troubling. Her death wounds.

  Whoever or whatever had killed Annette Scholem, it had left deep, bloody marks on her chest. She'd practically been torn open. The poor woman had not died peacefully.

  Zinnia blew a warming breath onto her trembling hands, gripped the steering wheel, and drove toward City Hall.

  “Happy birthday to me,” she muttered grimly.

  Chapter 2

  Wisteria City Hall

  8:20 am

  Zinnia parked her car in an unmarked space in the staff parking lot. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching as she exited her car. A maintenance worker was sprinkling salt on the icy patches of walkway. He gave her a friendly nod and continued his work.

  The magic ingredients she had shoved into her purse clanked together as she walked toward the staff entrance. Some of the items could only be safely stored in glass. She used recycled baby food jars that were magically charmed to be shatter resistant, but the noise was still disconcerting.

  Zinnia's pace slowed as she neared Annette Scholem's parked car. The red Mustang convertible was empty inside, and parked on an angle, with one tire crossing the white line. It wasn't unusual for Annette to be sloppy at parking. She was often distracted when she arrived, listening to a self-help audiobook or a comedy podcast during her morning drive. The woman loved to either improve herself or have a laugh. Her coworkers teased her about her bad parking, but she'd tell them it was a small sacrifice for putting herself in a happy mood for the day. Nobody could argue with that. Annette Scholem was a cheerful soul who would be missed.

  Zinnia pulled her gaze off the Mustang and continued walking at a measured pace. Were her footsteps extra loud this morning? She stepped more lightly. Her palms were sweating despite the chill in the air. Seeing the car had made Zinnia uneasy. Since Annette rarely went anywhere without her Mustang, that meant Annette's body wasn't far away. The death might have happened inside City Hall.

  Zinnia reached the staff entrance at the side of the building and pressed her ID card against the card reader. The speaker let out a sad BLOOP sound. The flashing red light remained red. The building's security system had broken a week ago. Apparently, it was still busted. Zinnia tried the door and found it unlocked. So much for security at City Hall.

  A hot blast of heated air pushed Zinnia's hair back as she stepped inside. She unfurled her clenched fists to dry the sweat on her palms.

  She walked down the hallway and turned the corner. Up ahead, three of her Permits Department coworkers stood in a group. They were talking to each other with loose hand gestures. They clearly didn't know about Annette's death.

  Zinnia's stomach felt heavier than ever as she approached the trio. She hoped that she was wrong about the ghost, that they would open the door and find their charismatic coworker typing away at her computer. She hoped today could be just another regular, boring Tuesday.

  Zinnia forced a smile and said to her three coworkers, “Don't tell me this door's busted, too.” The dryness in the back of her throat made her voice crack. She couldn't bear to look anyone in the eyes, so she leaned over to peer through the interior window at the side of the door. The window was frosted for privacy, so the only thing she could determine about the other side was that the lights were off.

  Gavin Gorman was the first to speak up. “Actually, we're on strike,” Gavin said in a joking tone. “Didn't you get the memo about our department-wide walkout?”

  Zinnia turned to meet the man's gaze. Gavin Gorman was an athletic man in his forties. He was tall, over six feet two, and had the good looks of someone who worked very hard to have good looks. Occasionally, he went too far with his efforts, such as the time he bleached his teeth so bright they scared an elderly customer. That Tuesday morning, Gavin was wearing a stylish wool jacket over a fitted dress shirt and gray slacks. He would have easily been the best-dressed person at City Hall if only he'd pick clothes that were his size instead of half a size too small.

  Gavin grinned, showing his blue-white teeth. “Nah, we're not really on strike, Zinnia. What
would be the point? As much as I'd love to see them put a juice bar in the cafeteria, I know nothing ever changes around here.” He kicked the bottom of the door with the toe of his shoe. “The door is jammed.”

  The other two coworkers held back, yawning and muttering about coffee.

  Zinnia asked, “Did you call maintenance yet?” She thought of the man she'd seen putting salt on the icy walkway. She could pop outside to ask him for help with the door. Then again, he'd probably scowl and tell her to go through official channels. Some of the people at City Hall could be rigid about the rules.

  Gavin crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Why would we need to call maintenance? We figured you'd be along soon, and you always have your special way with things, Zinnia.”

  “Right.” Zinnia pursed her lips and reached for the doorknob. The knob turned freely, but when she attempted to push the door open, it only cracked an inch before bumping against something on the other side.

  “The door's hitting something,” Gavin said.

  Zinnia bit back a sarcastic remark. Gavin had a habit of explaining the obvious to people.

  “If we had a screwdriver, we could take the door off its hinges,” he said.

  “The hinges are on the other side.”

  Gavin snorted. “Fine, Zinnia. What do you suggest we do? Throw a book through the glass? At least then we could see what's blocking the door.”

  Zinnia ignored him and asked the others, “Do you think Annette is around here somewhere? I saw her car in the parking lot.”

  The others, Karl and Dawna, both shrugged.

  Gavin said, “I saw her Mustang, too. Annette has lousy parking skills, but I suppose that's to be expected, considering her age.” He grinned. “Plus, she is a woman.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Zinnia shot him an icy look.

  Gavin's expression turned serious. “Annette's probably in there, sitting in the dark and laughing at us.”