Клеа Саймон - A Spell Of Murder

Tonight, when Becca took credit for conjuring that cushion, Clara didn’t know what her haughty sister would do. Interrupt, most likely. Jump onto the table and begin bathing, if she had to, to be the center of attention. If she tried anything further—like pulling more pillows out of the ether—or if Laurel got up to her own tricks, Clara would have to get involved, she vowed with a final flick of the tail. And that, she knew, just wouldn’t end well.

Chapter 2

“Bad Clara!” Becca called softly as she clapped her hands at the calico cat. “Bad girl.”

The cat glanced up from her perch on the counter and blinked, the picture of innocence except for the pink petal that hung from one fang. Her harsh words softened by a gentle smile, Becca reached over and scooped up the multi-colored feline, depositing her on the floor. “Now, you know better than that!”

“Is anything wrong?” Trent appeared in the doorway, a slight frown pulling his goatee into a pout.

“It’s Clara.” Becca sighed, shaking her head. “She’s eating the flowers.”

“You have another cat?” Trent’s voice was neutral, but Becca knew he’d been disconcerted to find Harriet, her largest feline, stretched out over most of the sofa.

“Three, actually,” Becca admitted. “They were littermates, and I didn’t want to separate them.”

“Of course.” He nodded, his voice as warm as his dark brown eyes. “Besides, they’re your familiars.”

Becca turned to hide her flustered smile, as well as the blush that was creeping up from her chest. Trent was a self-professed warlock, the leader of the coven, the small group of would-be witches she had joined a few months before. More to the point, he was devastatingly handsome, with those flashing eyes and a devilish smile played up by that goatee. And he had brought over the bouquet that her cat, Clara, had begun to nibble.

Willing her color back to normal, Becca reached into the cabinet for her one good vase. Officially, the flowers were for the table—a touch of nature to bless the May full moon, the “Flower Moon,” Trent had said—but the dark-eyed warlock hadn’t had to arrive early to give them to her, she knew. Besides, Becca had felt a slight charge when Trent had handed them to her, a certain warmth behind that smile.

Still, she had to get ahold of herself. Any minute now, the doorbell would ring again. The group was meeting at her place this week, as it had the last four. Partly because her apartment was central, a Cambridgeport walk-up not too far from the T. But the main reason the coven was gathering here tonight was in the hope that Becca could replicate the group’s one successful act of magic thus far: the conjuring of a pillow out of thin air. She was going to have to concentrate.

“Do you feel your power?” Trent nearly purred, coming up close behind her.

“I don’t…I don’t know.” Becca almost stuttered. “I hope so.” In truth, she was beginning to despair. She had tried countless times since that day—donning the same jeans and sweater, letting her mint tea cool in the same mug beside her—as she read over the words of the spell. But she had been unable to make the magic work again. Now, Harriet was lying on the gold velvet pillow, one paw idly batting at its fringes, as if it were just another bit of home furnishing. “Maybe one pillow is the limit of my power,” she said, voicing her deepest fear.

“Nonsense.” Trent sounded confident—and so close she could feel his warm breath. Maybe , she thought, magic of another sort was brewing . But just then she heard the unmistakable hiss and squeal of a cat fight beginning in the other room.

“Clara!” Becca ducked around her guest, clapping her hands again to get the cats’ attention. “Harriet!”

The smaller of the two felines glanced up at her, wide-eyed, and Harriet used the distraction to push Clara off the couch.

“It’s the pillow,” Becca said, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice. Trent had followed her into the other room with—she was glad to see—an amused half smile on his lips. “They’ve been fighting over it since it appeared.”

“They sense its power.” He sounded serious and reached down absently to stroke Laurel, who had begun to twine around his ankles. Clara, meanwhile, peered up into Becca’s face, as if willing her to respond. But just then, the doorbell rang and Trent stepped back, neatly disengaging himself from Laurel, and gave Becca a gentle pat on the arm.

“Go,” he said, the smile carrying through to his voice. “I’ll finish up in the kitchen.”

Maybe it was that pat—or the man’s apparent preference for Laurel—but Clara decided to watch him and took up a position by the kitchen counter from which to observe this strange, dark-haired man who had made his way into their private space.

Sure enough, as soon as Becca had left the kitchen—with an affronted Laurel in tow—Trent began opening drawers. Aha! Clara thought. I’ve got you. But all he did was fish out a pair of shears and cut the blossoms loose from their wrapping. After he trimmed their stems and placed them in the vase Becca had set out, he even cleaned up after himself, and the cat began to wonder if, perhaps, her suspicions were unfounded.

“You’re so naïve.” Harriet sauntered in, and although she immediately buried her face in her food dish, she must have seen how her youngest sister was watching the newcomer. “You’re not used to male attention.”

“It’s not that…” her calico sibling started to argue as Harriet swiped her plume of a tail. “It’s that I don’t want Becca to be hurt again.” Another swipe. Harriet didn’t seem to care that their person had had her heart broken a scant two months ago. To the older cat, it was a plus when Becca began spending every night at home again. And when she lost her job, that was even better—until the incident with the store brand cans. “We don’t know this new man,” Clara said, blinking those green eyes.

“Jealous.” Even with her mouth full, Harriet couldn’t stand not having the last word. But by then, other voices had joined Becca’s in the living room, and so Clara followed Trent as he carried out the ever-so-tasty bouquet.

“Suzanne, Kathy, merry meet.” He nodded at the two women who’d come in together, each as unlike as Clara and Laurel, whose almond-shaped blue eyes gazed up in frank, feline appraisal. Tall and slender, Suzanne had a nervous habit of running her hands over her long blonde hair that made Clara think she wanted to groom. Tonight, though, they were occupied, holding a covered loaf pan, which had Laurel sniffing delicately, dark brown nose in the air.

“Lemon poppy seed,” the willowy woman was saying as she handed the pan to Becca. “To celebrate the full moon tonight, as well as our triumph.”

“Oh, I didn’t think to bring anything.” Kathy, on the other hand, was short and as plump as Harriet, although her curly hair was penny-bright auburn and not nearly as silky as the cat’s. The youngest member of the coven, she was generally considered the pet, a designation that she appeared to enjoy even as it annoyed Harriet, perhaps because of the similarity in their shape and coloring. “I mean, merry meeting,” Kathy corrected herself with a giggle. “Are you sure that’s okay? We all chip in for the tea and the crystals and everything.”

“We have more than enough,” said Becca, taking the pan and the serrated knife that her guest had wrapped in a tea towel beneath it. “But this is lovely. Thank you, Suzanne.”

Kathy had already turned away. “Trent!” She chirped with a happy smile. “Now we can get started.” But her progress back into the living room was stopped as she noticed the flowers.