How to Stone a Crow (Witch Like a Boss Book 2) by Willow Mason (great novels txt) 📕

“If this is the feeling trapped in an old dentist office, it’s no wonder they used to call it the murder house.”

“The whole thing is concerning,” Patrick said, winning himself the award for understatement of the year. “The readings on my machine don’t make any sense.”

“And I couldn’t see a thing.”

Wes and Jac exchanged a glance. “Why should you expect to see something.” Wes gave a little gasp and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you think it’s a ghost?”

“Something like that.” I stood up and moved to Patrick’s side. “We might need to consult some other witches around Briarton to work out how to help you.”

Wes swept an arm out. “The more the merrier.”

“As long as any consultants comes as part of your fee,” Jac said, his brow knitting together. “We’re already suffering financially.”

I remembered the post-dated cheque and bit down on a retort. If they couldn’t cover the expense, they weren’t the only ones about to suffer.

“Do you think it’s connected?” I asked Patrick as we left the store, never so glad to get out of anywhere in my life.

“To Pru?” He shook his head. “The change in Andrew’s behaviour is weird but otherwise he’s your bog-standard poltergeist. Whatever is in that store…” He shuddered.

I hadn’t even reached the corner when Genevieve pulled up to the curb, opened her car door, and screamed at me to get in. Not wanting to be the sole recipient of her fun invitation, I gestured to Patrick, and we tumbled into the back seat, slamming the door after we’d pulled away from the curb.

“What’s so urgent?” I asked when the supreme paused her car at the lights. “Is the house on fire?”

“No such luck.” Genevieve flicked her hair out of her eyes, the strands dampened by the line of sweat on her forehead. “Violet’s gone missing.” She turned and stared me straight in the eye. “And I hope Paisley’s got a good alibi.”

Chapter Seven

As the car drew closer to our destination, the twist in my stomach drew tighter. I hadn’t been able to get much information out of Genevieve—just enough to fill me with anxiety.

Kelburn Manor was set halfway up the eastern hillside of Briarton. Built by the richest man in Briarton, at the time and since, he had meant it as a family home for him and his new bride. Instead, as the rumours and legends would have it, she was found dead just days after construction finished. Scarlett O’Malley’s battered body had been laid to rest on what would have been their wedding day. Benedict Kelburn had lived alone and died alone, the grand mansion never turning into a home.

Its old wooden face had been restored in the sixties, then again in the nineties, but still always seemed on the verge of tumbling down and becoming one with the earth again.

Upstairs, the large dormer windows appeared like unblinking eyes as we turned into the long driveway. The entrance door was small by comparison—a puckered mouth set with prim disapproval.

Genevieve parked so close to the house I thought she would bump into the porch. With a flail of her hand, she jumped out, ran to the door, then stopped.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, more as a stalling measure than because I wanted to know. Being drenched in inexplicable sadness sounded more appealing than finding out what had caused my supreme to shake with distress.

“You should go first.” Genevieve stepped back and gave a firm nod, agreeing with herself. “You’re the pair with investigative experience.”

Sure. I was also a ‘fraidy cat. A sideways glance at Patrick told me he felt the same.

A yelp from inside broke through my reluctance and I rushed through the front door, eyes narrowed against the horror that must surely await them.

Instead, a young girl glanced up at me in surprise. In one hand was a squeezy toy—the source of the noise—and in the other was a teatowel. “Hello?”

“I’m—”

Before I could get a good start on the sentence, a man thundered past me and scooped the girl up from the floor. “I’m Gareth,” he briefly explained as his captive tried to struggle free. “The upstairs tenant.” He held out a hand for me to shake and the girl popped out of his arms, running to stand near the door.

“Desdemona and this is Patrick. Where’s Violet’s husband?”

“I just drove him over to his sister’s place. He’s out of his mind with worry.” Gareth walked to join the girl, who I guessed must be his daughter, and pulled her into a hug.

“What happened to Violet?”

Gareth put a hand to his head and stared at the floor, his eyes unfocused. “I don’t know. We heard the baby crying, just like usual.” He gave me an apologetic shrug. “She’s got a great pair of lungs on her. I have to sleep with earplugs to get a good night. Then…”

“The cry changed,” Wendy filled in when her father failed to finish his sentence. “We came downstairs and Sara was on her own, really upset.”

“Carson came back a minute later. He’d been at the shops getting some milk. We toured the house a few times, calling out, but… Nothing. Until the poltergeist turned up.”

He gathered Wendy into his arms. “Stay back,” he warned me, his voice muffled where his mouth pressed against her shoulder. “It’s dangerous. That could be blood.”

Until he gestured, I’d overlooked the graffiti on the walls. Six-foot-high letters spelled out the words, “Bad witch.”

An image splashed into my mind—a room decorated by the Manson family after one of their deplorable killings. I turned away, sweat beading on my forehead as my stomach churned, making me regret my carb-heavy lunch.

“It’s not blood,” the girl said with a full helping of eight-year-old scorn. “It’s raspberry sauce.”

“And how do you know that?” Gareth stared at his daughter with a knotted brow.

“Because I tasted it, that’s why. Look.” She ran a finger along the lettering, scooping at least a teaspoon’s worth into her mouth.

“Wendy Doris