Mind Over Magic by Lindsay Buroker

20

After feeding Lucky,Morgen sat at the kitchen table, examining Rainwater Estate via satellite imagery and trying not to think about Christian’s death. She’d brought mushroom-quinoa risotto home from the grocery store, but it sat by her elbow, untouched. It was hard to contemplate eating with the memory of the garish murder so fresh in her mind.

She was also worried about Amar. Outside, night had fallen, but shouts from the forest wafted through the open window, and she strained her ears listening for gunfire. The entire sheriff’s department had shown up to look for the fanged murderer. The fanged murderer that she still didn’t want to believe was Amar.

“Focus on this,” Morgen ordered herself, locking her gaze on the laptop.

Learning about Mason Arbuckle wouldn’t bring back Christian, but it might lead her to Grandma’s murderer.

According to her internet searches, Rainwater Estate was located on Fern Drive, a meandering road that started on the other side of town and headed out into the woods. The houses were on large lots, separated from each other by thick stands of trees. If that news article had been correct and Mason Arbuckle lived at the estate, could she pay him a visit? What would she do? Drive up, knock on the door, and ask if he’d bought a saber-toothed tiger tusk from a crafting witch and used it to kill her grandmother? That conversation was sure to go well.

She didn’t even know if he truly lived there. That article was two years old.

Morgen called Zoe. “How do I find out who owns a property?” she asked without preamble.

“Go into the county GIS site and type in the address.” Zoe’s tone turned suspicious. “Why?”

“Someone made an offer on Grandma’s property already, and I want to check him out. I haven’t gotten the details, because someone killed the real-estate agent before he could share them, but I might know where the would-be buyer lives.”

Given that Zoe was one of the chattier people in the family, the length of the stunned silence that followed was impressive.

“You need to get out of there,” she finally said.

“I’m fine. There’s a deputy sheriff who’s going to spend the night.”

“In your house?”

“Uh, I assume in his car in the driveway, but I didn’t ask for details on how it works when they’re keeping an eye on you. Do you think he’ll expect a room?” She imagined having to explain that one of the guest rooms was unavailable because the possible murderer was staying in it.

“I think they stay in their car, but come on, Morgen. This has gotten serious. Just get out of there. You can sell the property and sign everything remotely.”

“Grandma didn’t want it sold.”

“Grandma isn’t here anymore.”

“Yeah. That’s one of the problems.”

She said goodbye, glowered at the roof of Rainwater Estate on the satellite map, then found the county GIS site and typed in the address. There he was. Mason Arbuckle listed as the landowner. Rainwater Estate consisted of fifty acres outside of town and a sprawling house—she would call it a mansion—of more than ten thousand square feet.

So, what did Arbuckle need with Wolf Wood? And the pond. The magical spring, if Amar could be believed. Since she’d touched those blue mushrooms and been zapped, there had to be something to the place, but was fancy mineral water worth millions of dollars? How would anyone have even found out about it?

Admittedly, witches had been all over the property lately, and the forest was called Wolf Wood, so that probably meant wolves—and werewolves?—hunted out there often. Perhaps the whole town knew about the pool and had for decades.

A soft tapping at the window almost made her fall out of her chair. A dark shadow loomed, and the window creaked further open.

Morgen swore and lunged for the only weapon nearby, the fork she’d stuck in the vegetarian risotto. Little bits were wedged between the tines.

Since Franklin was out front in his SUV, she almost shouted, but she recognized the shaggy black-haired head that thrust itself through the window first. The rest of Amar followed, and he landed in a crouch, sniffing as he peered around the kitchen and through the doorways.

“Are you alone inside?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Morgen whispered back. “Except for Lucky.”

“Are you going to prong me with that fork?”

“I’m undecided. Did you kill Christian?”

His expression was grim as he met her eyes. “Against my will.”

“What does that mean?”

Damn it, she’d wanted him to say that it had been someone else. That one of those asshole Loups had done it. Or a real wolf. Or a mountain lion. Anyone but him.

Lucky had been sleeping on the couch in the living room, but he rushed in, as if he would bark to alert the world to this intruder.

“Ssh, sh,” Morgen whispered to him, patting her leg so he would come over.

If the deputies heard him barking, they would be sure to knock on the door and ask what was going on.

But Lucky recognized Amar, despite his unorthodox entrance. All he did was go over and sniff his muddy boots before checking under the table to see if Morgen had dropped anything from her plate.

“The witches returned while I was working on the barn,” Amar said softly, holding her gaze. He’d barely seemed to notice Lucky’s arrival. “Christian had driven up a little earlier and gone into the woods. I didn’t stop him. He said you were coming back to meet him.”

Morgen nodded.

“I was working inside when the witches arrived. I didn’t think they knew I was there and was debating if I should hide in the woods or attempt to drive them away. I assumed you hadn’t invited them and had no plans to meet with them. I hate that they have the power to stop a werewolf, but since I know from experience that they do…” He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “I sneaked out the back of the barn and headed into the woods. But as I was leaving, the call came over me. Far more intensely than it should have, especially given that it was still daytime.”

“The call… to change into a wolf?”

“Yes. Last night, one of the witches with an amulet did something to me. I was in pain and didn’t realize at the time that it was permanent.” He rubbed the back of his neck again, glanced toward the window, then stepped closer to the table.

Morgen made herself stay put, though the urge to skitter back came over her. He’d just admitted to killing Christian. But if he had been under someone’s control…

She thought of the incantation on the paper in her pocket. If a witch recited that, could it truly force a werewolf to do things against his will? To kill people?

Amar knelt on the floor and pushed his hair aside to show her the back of his neck. “Her mark is there, isn’t it?”

Morgen stared at a raised red welt, a pentagram in a circle. He’d been branded like a steer.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

“I was afraid of that.” Amar lifted his head, and his shaggy hair fell back over the spot. “With her magical mark burned into my flesh—into my soul—it makes it easier for her to control me. I think she may be able to track me, know exactly where I am, but all I know for sure is that I couldn’t deny her summons or her command to turn into a wolf. Her command to kill.” He clenched his jaw, anger replacing the haunted look in his eyes. “This isn’t the first time they’ve ordered one of our kind to do their dirty work. Why commit crimes themselves when they can command others to do it for them? Others who won’t be believed if the authorities come to their door, because they’re not native to this country, and they’re not… fully human anymore.”

“Do you know why she would have done it? Ordered you to kill Christian?” One day, Morgen would ask Amar how he’d ended up so far from his homeland, but it wasn’t the most important thing now.

“Your agent had a buyer for this land. Somehow, the witches knew. I did not smell their scents when I was working on the barn, so they couldn’t have been hiding nearby, but they knew.”

“You didn’t see any ravens, did you?” Morgen shifted on the kitchen chair, thinking of Phoebe’s feathered familiar.

“Not a raven.” Amar gazed thoughtfully at the dark window.

A car door slammed outside, making Morgen flinch. She was glad Amar was staying low. If one of the deputies saw him inside, she didn’t know how she would explain his presence—and why she hadn’t screamed for help when he’d climbed through the window.

“There was a fox in the garden earlier,” Amar said. “I remember thinking it odd, because what in a garden would draw a carnivore, but then I thought he might be hunting the rabbits I see from time to time… Perhaps he was a witch’s familiar.” Amar pushed his hand through his hair in agitation. “I don’t know what to do now, Morgen.”

It was the first time she remembered him using her name.

“The deputies are after me. They know it was me. They know I protect Wolf Wood from trespassers. They know the tracks left here are mine, and they’re not wrong. But I’ve never killed anyone who trespassed. It was always a bluff. I’ve… killed before, in defense or to protect the pack or someone I cared about, but that was far away, in another land with different rules. And they were enemies of the pack, not simple humans. They understood the law of the pack, the rules of the wild, and that when they challenged us, we would do what we had to do.” He was looking out the window instead of at her, lost in memories. For the first time, he looked older than she, someone who’d seen a lot of life rather than the young man his wild hair and muscles had made him seem. She noticed flecks of gray at his temples.

“If a witch was controlling you and left a mark on you, maybe the sheriff will understand,” she said.

“The law never does,” he said softly. “The witches are from here. Born in this country. Citizens of this place. The legal system defends them. The sheriff would assume I’m the criminal, whether I was a werewolf or not.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “I thought we’d found a place—that the pack had. Where our work spoke for itself and nobody cared where we’d come from, but now… Now I must leave. Go off into the wild and live alone.”

“Neither men nor wolves are meant to live alone,” Morgen said.

“What is the alternative? Staying here and being shot?”

“No. Staying here and…” Morgen glanced at her laptop, nudging it so the screensaver would drop. “Finding my grandmother’s killer and keeping him from getting this land.”

Amar’s eyes sharpened, and he focused on her. “You know who it is?”

“I can’t know for sure, but it might be this person who put a three-million-dollar offer on Grandma’s property the instant it came on the market.” Since she hadn’t found anything online about Mason Arbuckle or his business, the only thing she could show Amar was the name, the address, and the property lines of Rainwater Estate.

Still on his knees, Amar leaned his arm on the table and scrutinized the map.

Having him so close made her uneasy. Even if he’d been under someone else’s control, he’d still killed Christian. Ripped the agent’s throat out like the wolf he was. What if that same witch commanded him to kill Morgen?

“I never would have sold it to him,” she said. “If these witches would have simply come and talked to me…”

Morgen understood how it might have looked to an outsider—Hell, even Zoe had thought she’d genuinely wanted to sell the house—but a man was dead now because of a misunderstanding. For whatever reason, the witches cared about Wolf Wood and that it remain intact. Her grandmother had cared. All the werewolves seemed to care. They should have all been working on the same side, not fighting each other.

“What’s the deal with that spring?” Morgen asked when Amar leaned back from the table.

“I don’t know any more than what I told you, that Gwen said it had rejuvenating properties.”

“My grandmother who was ninety and still living on her own and riding her motorcycle around town,” Morgen mused. “Who outlived her own daughters, both of whom died of cancer.” The usual chill went through her bones when she thought of that and the question of whether that ticking time bomb also resided in her blood.

“It is unlikely it’s some fountain of youth,” Amar said. “Those with magical blood often live longer than typical. But I do believe it has some special properties. The moss, mushrooms, and lichens around the spring would not glow in the dark if it didn’t.”

She blinked. “You didn’t say the mushrooms glowed in the dark.”

They had been vibrant. She remembered noticing how bright everything growing around the water had appeared, even though the trees and spring had been in the shade.

“And the moss growing on the sides of the trees, yes. Were there not deputies hunting all over the woods, I would offer to show it to you.” Amar smiled sadly at her. “It is lovely out there in the evenings. Quiet, peaceful. I will miss Wolf Wood.”

“You’re not giving up and leaving yet.”

She’d meant her words to be firm and commanding, but something niggled at her mind from her inventory of Grandma’s root cellar. A couple of jars of green powder down there glowed green in the shadows. Given how much kooky stuff was in the cellar, she hadn’t thought much of it. The jars hadn’t had labels that explained what they were or what the substance was used for. But maybe it was something important. Something worth paying a lot for.

Something worth killing for?

“No,” Amar agreed. “Before I leave, I will kill the man who killed Gwen.”

Morgen held up a finger and tapped a search into her laptop.

“Huh. Bioluminescent moss is a thing.” She refined her search to add witches and potions to the keywords, though surfing through Grandma’s grimoires might have been more helpful. “Hm. Supposedly, there are several potions that rely upon something called daylight bioluminescent moss, a very rare variety that’s usually outcompeted by other mosses. The more typical species of luminous moss, which is called goblin gold or dragon’s gold, is found in caves and isn’t as rare. Here’s a site warning that unscrupulous sellers try to pass that stuff off as daylight bioluminescent moss and that you have to be careful with purchases from strangers. You should never, it warns, order it online. Actual daylight bioluminescent moss is very rare and very expensive.”

“It dangles all over the trees around the spring. Gwen used to harvest it occasionally.”

“We may have found the reason everyone wants Wolf Wood to be preserved. Specifically, that spring and the glowy things growing around it.”

Morgen typed in another search, seeking hints of what the rare moss might be used for, but she didn’t find anything. If Grandma had harvested it, she had to have known. A book downstairs might even have recipes for potions. Morgen had seen a couple of potion books during her inventory.

“This Arbuckle may sneak onto the property to harvest and sell it,” Amar said.

Yes, what kind of internet business did the man have that had bought him a fifty-acre estate on the edge of town? And allowed him to offer millions for Wolf Wood?

Morgen wished she’d found a site that happened to be registered to Arbuckle and was selling the fancy moss. That would have been convenient.

“Does that happen a lot?” she asked. “People sneaking onto the property?”

“Occasionally. Usually, witches come into the woods. Women, not men. When I catch them, I scare them away and warn them not to trespass. Werewolves occasionally pass through on the hunt as well, but they have no interest in moss.” Amar tapped his chin thoughtfully. “There is one person’s scent that I’ve occasionally caught around the spring but haven’t been able to track.”

“A man?”

“No. A woman.”

“Maybe Arbuckle has a colleague. Or a witch servant locked in his basement. The scent doesn’t belong to any of our arsonists, does it?” Morgen assumed Amar had a nose as good as a hound’s when he was in his wolf form.

“No. And it has been some time since I detected the scent. Since before Gwen died.” Amar’s eyes closed to slits. “This Arbuckle will tell me what he knows before I kill him.”

The urge to take a closer look at Grandma’s grimoires—and find out what the glowing moss powder did—came over Morgen.

Too bad she would have to walk outside to get to the root cellar. Would Franklin think it odd if she abruptly needed something? For all he knew, the canned tomatoes were kept down there, right?

She stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

Amar was back to gazing out the window, his face more determined than lost now.

“Don’t go anywhere without me, all right?” Morgen closed her laptop, lest he be speculating on visiting Arbuckle by himself.

“It would be better if you didn’t come with me,” he said, practically confirming it. His fingers twitched to the back of his neck. “If the one who did this is out there, she could make me turn on you.”

“Why would she be at Arbuckle’s house?”

“To keep him from obtaining your property.”

“She shouldn’t have any way to know who made the offer.” Morgen glanced toward the garden, though it was too dark out to see if any foxes were lurking among the carrot tops. Even if there was, a fox couldn’t have read the folder in Christian’s car. “She can’t know. And we don’t know anything yet either. We need proof before we confront anyone—especially if you’re planning to confront him with fangs.” She pointed at him. “Give me another day to figure this out, okay? I’m close. I know I am.”

Someone knocked on the front door.

Morgen swore. “Stay here,” she whispered.

Amar’s expression grew mulish, but he didn’t immediately spring for the open window.

On the way to the front door, Morgen grabbed the camp lantern she’d used the other night. Now was as good a time as any to visit the root cellar.

“Hello, Deputy Franklin,” she said, deliberately stepping out onto the porch with him, even though he looked like he wanted to go inside.

“Ma’am?” He pointed toward the entryway. “One of my men was checking around the house and said he heard you talking to someone.”

“My dog. Lucky is a good conversationalist.”

Franklin frowned, his other hand on his pistol as he peered warily inside.

Lucky either heard his name or smelled a chance to go outside. He bounced into view, nails clacking on the wood floors, and ran out between them. Fortunately, the body was gone. Unfortunately, six vehicles were still parked in the driveway.

“Thanks for checking in.” Morgen made herself smile at Franklin. “I need something out of the root cellar, but I was afraid to go down there alone in the dark.”

“The root cellar?”

“Yes.” Morgen pointed around the side of the house. “I’m making dinner and need…” Realizing he would expect her to bring out whatever she named, she threw away the canned tomatoes idea. “My grandmother’s cookbook.”

“It’s in the root cellar?”

“Yes. Thanks for escorting me. I’m distraught. Cooking will help calm my nerves.” Or looking up bioluminescent moss…

Franklin accompanied her around the house, and she debated how to keep him from following her into the cellar. He stuck close, as if he meant to be her permanent bodyguard for the night.

Morgen removed Grandma’s amulet and used her body to hide that she needed it to open the doors. She held up a hand to keep Franklin from following her down. Fortunately, someone called him on his radio, and he stopped at the top of the stairs to answer.

She darted down, grabbed one of several jars of the glowing green powder, and skimmed through the grimoires on the shelves. Since she’d organized them the day before, it didn’t take her long to find the two potion books. She skimmed the table of contents of the first, but it didn’t mention moss or ingredients at all. Neither of the old tomes had indexes, but when she opened the second, a folded piece of modern, college-ruled paper fell out. She opened it to reveal a list of names, dates, and ounces sold.

“Ounces of what?” The paper didn’t say.

Morgen eyed the jar of glowing green powder. Amar had said Grandma had harvested the moss. Harvested it to sell? Or was this something unrelated?

She didn’t recognize most of the names on the list, but the third one down was Phoebe. Two years ago, she’d been sold two ounces. There was no mention of prices.

Morgen’s breath caught as her gaze landed on another name on the list, one that repeated three more times. Arbuckle. He’d first received—first purchased?—moss two years ago. The last purchase had been a year ago. That had been the last purchase anyone had made. Had something about him or their interaction caused Grandma to stop selling the moss?

“Ms. Keller?” Franklin called from the top of the stairs.

“Found it.” Morgen stuffed the sheet in the book and closed it. “Coming.”

Once she was back inside, she would do a thorough search of the contents. A recipe for that moss had to be in there. She was sure of it.

And then what? Visit Arbuckle’s house to ask him how sales of his moss potions were going?

She would rather snoop around his home for clues—for more definitive evidence—before encountering him. Or instead of encountering him. But she’d never broken into someone’s house in her life, and the idea filled her with even more anxiety than confronting strangers.

If she had Amar at her side, she would be less afraid of going snooping, but he wanted to kill Arbuckle, not look in his underwear drawers. And he was already in a lot of trouble. If he murdered someone else, he would never be able to find exoneration.

No, she had better not take him. They couldn’t kill anyone, and they couldn’t break into Arbuckle’s house either. She would have to ring the doorbell and talk to the man.

Why did that sound more terrifying than dealing with witches and werewolves?

Halfway up the steps out of the cellar, she ran back and grabbed another grimoire she’d spotted earlier. Incantations of Protection. Maybe something in there would help if she had to defend herself.

Outside, Franklin waited with his arms folded across his chest. He cocked an eyebrow at the weathered leather-bound tomes.

“They’re old cookbooks,” Morgen said, closing the doors. “Full of ancient family recipes.”

Fortunately, it was dark enough that Franklin wouldn’t be able to read the titles. She hustled toward the front door before he could ask for details on what dish she planned to cook.

Lucky greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, but Amar wasn’t there. She jogged around the house, looking for him, hoping he’d simply decided to hide out somewhere, but she knew in her gut that he hadn’t. He’d gone to confront Arbuckle—if not kill him outright.

She shook her head bleakly. If he did that, the sheriffs would hunt him for the rest of his life, and he would never be able to return to Wolf Wood.