Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3) Read online

  WISHFUL WISTERIA

  WISTERIA WITCHES MYSTERIES - DAYBREAK BOOK 3

  Angela Pepper

  WWW.ANGELAPEPPER.COM

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday Morning

  First Week in August

  Pacific Spirit Park, Wisteria

  The man slumped on the park bench was motionless.

  I approached the bench at a casual, disinterested pace, aware that someone could be watching. Magic pooled within my hands, at the ready. A wise witch had to be on high alert whenever anything broke the pattern of an ordinary day. Strange happenings and danger walked hand in hand.

  Somewhere in the park, a dog barked. It was a tiny bark, more of a yip than a woof, and that yip resonated with approximately seven pounds of unholy terror. I knew that bark. Pippi Poplin, the Pomeranian. Danger was afoot, after all.

  At the sound of the yip, the man slumped on the bench stirred. His head jerked up. He pushed back his hat and glanced around sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

  I could let my guard down. The man wasn’t dead after all, which meant I wouldn’t be spending my day filling out incident reports.

  The power level of the plasma in my hands dropped from Wallop Senseless all the way past various Day Ruining levels, and down to Mild Indigestion. As the tingling in my fingers dissipated, I breathed easier. Good ol’ Harry wasn’t dead yet.

  Even with his hat tipped over his face, I had recognized the figure on the park bench as Harry Blackstone. He was a regular at the Wisteria Public Library. He loved dozing in the cozy reading corner that caught the mid-afternoon sun. Harry had learned our routine, and had his own. He knew to get comfortable by one o’clock so he could get enjoy a full sleep cycle before we did the 2:00 pm patrol, also known as The Nap O’Clock Wakeup.

  As I watched him, Harry removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair, which was as thick and unruly as it was entirely black. He was only in his early fifties, which was young for such a prolific public napper. His eyes were large, brown, and continuously scanning, more out of curiosity than anxiety. His nose was large, with a hump on the bridge, and a pointed tip. He had small, square teeth, with a gap in the middle. His features weren’t perfectly balanced, but his warm personality and heartfelt smile made him handsome, all the same. I might have set him up with my aunt, if it wasn’t for one small issue: He could be dead by the end of the year, according to him.

  He’d explained to me that he napped frequently because, despite appearances, he wasn’t well. He was currently enjoying a surprise respite from his unexplained illness, but the good health wouldn’t be permanent. And that was okay, as far as he was concerned. He had big plans for his afterlife, he’d told me with a wink. He was an inventor, and he’d only just begun his greatest work. As for his days on earth, he’d already done some creative refinancing to get his affairs in order, and would simply live out his remaining days with what he called graceful surrender.

  “Good morning, Mr. Blackstone,” I called out cheerfully. “That bench doesn’t look nearly as comfortable as a nice leather club chair!”

  He flashed his smile of small, square teeth with a sizable gap, and retorted, “A hard bench is not my favorite spot to rest my eyes, but at least I don’t get in trouble for snoring!” He chuckled. “And call me Harry! Mr. Blackstone is my boring, uptight brother.”

  “Okay, Harry. But if your brother’s anything like you, I doubt he’s boring.”

  “Oh, he’s pretty dull, but people change.” Harry smirked. “People change,” he repeated.

  I stopped in front of the bench. My back was damp with perspiration from the bright late-summer sunshine. On any other day, I might have taken a break on the bench next to Harry, but that particular morning I was running late due to some issues at the house with our protective wards.

  Making polite conversation, as one ought to in a small town, I said, “Great weather for the end of summer.” I gestured to the edge of the forest, where some of the deciduous trees were sporting orange and red hints of a pending wardrobe change. “I can’t wait to see the leaves turn. I hear the fall foliage is stunning.”

  “Ah, yes,” Harry said with a knowing eyebrow-raise, his large, brown eyes roving around, scanning our surroundings tirelessly. “But we must not be in too much of a rush to see the seasons change. We have to enjoy this beautiful last month of summer while it lasts.”

  I winced inwardly as I realized my faux pas. Mentioning the passage of time in a positive, anticipatory manner was not the best choice for idle chatter with the terminally ill.

  Harry, seemingly unperturbed, replaced his floppy hat on his thick black hair and continued talking. “As soon as the September rain begins to fall, it won’t stop until October.”

  I nodded. I’d heard that warning from several longtime Wisterians, but didn’t believe it.

  Harry stretched his arms across the back of the bench and loosely crossed one leg over the other. “I’ve got a secret for you,” he said in a fatherly tone. “Stock up on umbrellas right away. Once the rain starts up, you won’t be able to find a decent one anywhere in town.”

  “That’s a great tip,” I said. “I’ll return the favor with a secret of my own.” I leaned forward, held my hand to the side of my mouth, and said, “You don’t actually snore. That’s something we tell everyone, whether they snore or not, to discourage napping in the library.”

  He started chuckling, and soon he was laughing so hard, he had to uncross his legs and slap both knees to get it all out.

  I shouldn’t have divulged one of the library’s secrets, but it made my heart sing to see a dying man so happy.

  “Have a great day,” I said, stepping backward onto the path. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  He stopped laughing, and his expression quickly turned serious. “You will be seeing me,” he said. “Sooner than you think.” His gaze meandered over to the forest, where it suddenly froze. He frowned, looking at the point where the path I stood on disappeared into darkness.

  The grave tone of his voice, combined with his expression, gave me the same ominous feeling I’d gotten from the sight of his limp body.

  I considered sitting on the bench after all, and finding out more about his illness, using magic or my natural charm. I could get whatever information I wanted, if I tried.

  But then Harry’s big, brown eyes returned to their usual scanning, and his focus shifted away from the forest. His expression relaxed, and he waved at someone behind me. I turned to find the source of the yip I’d heard earlier. Pippi Poplin, the Pomeranian, was dragging her owner, Patricia Poplin, toward us.

  Floopy Double Doops!

  I muttered another hasty goodbye, and took off before the duo could engage.

  Pacific Spirit Forest was noticeably cooler than the open park had been, thanks to the shady leaves. After the perspiration on my back evaporated, I buttoned my cardigans—both of them—against the chill.

  The forest was peaceful. Too peaceful. The birds weren’t chirping.

  The back of my head tingled. Was it just my skin contracting in the cool forest air, or was something magical afoot?

  Using minimal hand motions, I cast a basic threat detection spell. The shadows to my left inversed, darkness turning to light.

  Thanks to the spell, now I saw what had been there the whole time. Who had been there.

  The threat glowed like a lantern. It continued moving alongside me, unaware of the spell that shone a spotlight upon it.

  Chapter 2

  The threat in the woods was a danger, all right. A danger to both my patience and my sanity. It w
as my father, in his sneakiest form: a red fox.

  In a commanding voice, I said, “Rhys Quarry, you might as well stop slinking around in those bushes and come out. I know you’re following me.” I also knew he’d been listening in on my private conversation earlier that morning, thanks to the protective wards on my house.

  A red fox emerged from the underbrush and stepped onto the path in front of me, hanging its head—his head—sheepishly.

  The fox was him, all right. I recognized the gold-green eyes. As we locked gazes, I remembered a previous time we’d met in those same woods. He’d been hurt badly. At the time, I’d had no idea my father could turn into a fox, let alone the one I anxiously bundled into my coat and rushed to a veterinarian.

  That had been in June, two months ago. I’d saved his life that day. I hadn’t seen the man—in any form—since the night he returned the favor by leaving me for dead. Our father-daughter relationship was, in a word, complicated.

  The fox stood before me, motionless on the path.

  He couldn’t speak in shifter form, so I would have to do the talking. I surreptitiously prepared a spell in my hand as I asked, “Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head, his pointy sable ears swivelling as he did.

  “Good.” I opened my hand and let the spell take flight.

  A transparent blue bird fluttered up from my palm, took aim, and launched itself at the fox. The bird exploded like a miniature fireworks display on my father’s wet, black nose. A ripple of light passed over Rhys-Fox, sparking one last time as it flared out at the white tip of his bushy tail.

  Rhys-Fox let out a confused yip, and shook himself. He blinked at me, then shook his whole body again. He sat back on his haunches and tilted his head questioningly.

  “It’s a form-locking spell,” I explained. “You can stay in that form a little while longer, because I don’t want to see your face.”

  He pawed one side of his face, as though nervously playing with his whiskers the way some people twist their hair.

  “I haven’t been your biggest fan,” I said. “Not since you abandoned me and Zoey and Zinnia to be eaten by that monstrosity.” The anger rose within me like a different type of spell. “And Boa! You used our sweet little cat as bait. What kind of person does something like that? Poor Boa never did anything to you.”

  He stopped swiping at his whiskers and used his paw to partially cover his eyes. If the red fox had been anyone else, my heart would have melted from cuteness. But it was my dear ol’ dad. My fair-weather father. My boundaries were stronger than his adorability.

  As I let him have it, my fury subsided a little. It felt good to get out the words I’d been saving up. Better still to not have him able to interrupt.

  “Thanks for the car and everything,” I said in a lighter tone. “But I’m not ready to interact with you. On some level, I do understand you had your reasons for doing what you did, and you probably underestimated the danger you put us in. But on another level, I just don’t want to see your human face.”

  Another cute look from behind a sable paw. My heart threatened to melt its icy boundaries. Darn him for being so cute.

  Avoiding direct eye contact, I continued. “So let’s extend our cooling-off period a little longer. Things are good right now. Zoey’s happy. She’s dating a boy. And I’m dating someone, too. He’s actually...” A vampire. “Good for me.”

  When I looked at Rhys-Fox again, he’d stopped with the cute routine and was simply looking alert. Was I projecting my emotions, or was he happy for me? I felt my anger ebbing, so I quickly made a fist to hold steady. Zara is a good witch, with sensible, solid boundaries.

  “I’m sure Zoey wants to see you, but can you give us all some space? Not forever. Just for...”

  The fox waited expectantly.

  “A month or two,” I finished.

  The fox stood on all fours and bowed, like a dog inviting another to play, but slower. It was a gesture of acquiescence. He agreed to my demands.

  Good, I thought. I’d won. So why didn’t I feel happy?

  He straightened up, winked one gold-green eye, and launched himself back into the side brush.

  That was easy, I thought as I began walking. Too easy.

  The leaves rustled, and a fox darted out in front of me. This one wasn’t my father. It wasn’t even red. It was covered in thick, bushy, glossy black fur. I’d never seen a black fox in person before.

  I readied the same spell I’d used on my father, but hesitated.

  The intricacies of witch-shifter relationships were complicated, but not so complicated that I didn’t know casting a form-locking spell on the shifter would be a serious breach of etiquette. Especially since, unlike my father, the black fox hadn’t committed any transgressions against me—that I knew of.

  So I stood there, unmoving. I gave no outward sign of a reaction, yet I twirled my tongue inside my mouth, warming up a trio of defense spells. Just in case.

  The black fox had big, dewy, dark eyes. Its stance was hesitant, one paw raised. Its body language was submissive—ears flat, bushy black tail tucked between its legs. A friend of my father’s? I’d expect any companions of his to be as cocky as he was, but this fox was hesitant. Who was it? I stared into its big, brown eyes.

  The fox broke eye contact first, its half-lidded gaze shifting to the ground between us.

  There was a yip sound. Not Pippi the Pomeranian, but another fox. The yip came from somewhere else in the forest. It had to be my father, unless he was running with a whole pack—or a whole skulk, to be accurate. There was another yip, followed by excited dog barking. The latter I recognized as being Pippi. Trouble was on the loose, all right.

  “Your friend’s in trouble,” I said to Black Fox.

  Words came back inside my mind: He’s always in trouble.

  I did a double take. A psychic fox shifter? Things just got even more intriguing.

  I chuckled and said, “You’re not wrong about that.”

  Black Fox cowered and shrank back. The voice echoed in my mind again: You heard me?

  I pointed to my temple. “Yes, I did.” I started walking toward the trembling creature slowly. “Do I know you? I don’t believe we’ve had proper introductions.”

  In the distance, there was more yipping, sounding frantic, and more barking, sounding bloodthirsty. Pippi was the most blood-thirsty Pomeranian I’d ever met.

  I glanced in the direction of the noise. There was only the lush green woods, but I could see ferns shaking with activity beneath their fronds.

  While I did wish for my father to back off for a bit, I didn’t wish for him to be eaten by Pippi the Pomeranian. Good people don’t leave their family members to be eaten. I pushed up my cardigan sleeves and pondered my battle options. Pippi was a tiny ball of fluff, but one must never underestimate their opponent.

  The barking and yipping continued, and then poor Patricia Poplin howled fruitlessly for her dog to “Come back, Pippi! Get back here! It’s just a stupid squirrel!”

  I turned my attention to the Black Fox to gauge its reaction to the melee. There was only empty pathway. The creature was gone.

  I stood still, opening my senses and enhancing my sight and hearing with a spell.

  Seconds passed. The forest was silent. Then more yips echoed through the woods, further away than before. I couldn’t see any ferns moving.

  Pippi barked some more. I didn’t speak Pomeranian—though I knew another witch who could—but even I could tell it was the bark of disappointment. The foxes had gotten away.

  The danger seemed long gone, but I cast another threat-detection spell anyway. I would be able to assure my mentor I had been cautious, plus it was the sensible thing to do. Zara tries to be a sensible witch. The coast appeared to be clear, so I continued on my way to work.

  My pace was quick, thanks to my eagerness to tell a coworker about my morning adventure. Soon, I had to unbutton my outer cardigan as well as my inner cardigan.

  I couldn’t wait to
ask the library’s resident shifter about psychic powers. Was that an undocumented feature of their kind? If Frank Wonder didn’t have the answers, there were plenty of other resources. When it came to finding information, librarians didn’t give up easily.

  Whoever he or she was, Black Fox had pushed words into my mind. That was no small feat. I’d specifically worked on building up my mental defenses to keep other witches—Maisy Nix, I’m talking about you, cough cough—from walking all over me.

  If that bushy-tailed critter could get through my defenses so easily, I had to know who it was.

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t get a chance to tell my coworker about my strange encounter in the woods until coffee break.

  Frank Wonder had been the children’s librarian for ages, since long before I’d started there. He was both a regular fixture and a popular attraction. Kids loved everything about him, from his dyed pink hair to his storytime readings. Frank did a multitude of hilarious voices that elevated his books from readings to theatrical performances. In addition to the pink hair, Frank had quick-moving eyes that were small and hooded, wide-set in his triangular-shaped face. His jaw narrowed to a point that was slightly skewed to one side, like the point on a comma.

  Frank would be considered fit and athletic for a man half his age. The mid-fifties looked good on him, as did his unconventional wardrobe of vintage cords and paisley shirts. That Wednesday, he’d reversed his usual attire. He wore a corduroy shirt with paisley trousers. And he wore it like nobody else could.

  “Spill it,” Frank said to me, speaking out of the side of his mouth in that slightly askew way of his. He put on his fake Southern drawl. “Zara Riddle, you’ve been busting at the seams all morning. You’re positively dying to tell me something.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m dying, except possibly for one of those cinnamon buns Kathy was kind enough to supply.” I wiggled my fingers impatiently, urging him to open the box already. The scent of vanilla plus cinnamon was already making my mouth water. Adventures in the woods always made me hungry.