Magic & Mistletoe, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 2 Page 6

  Paris directs me to a scarred oak table and the book plops on it, the weight making it shake. Dust flies. “Every witch in each county in Georgia has a history documented by us. Normally, the Magical Library of Witches and Wizards is tended to by my sister, London, but she’s off to North Carolina on business. The name of the witch in question?”

  I frown, not knowing if she means the one in the necklace or the woman who cursed her into it.

  Iula rubs her fingers and thumbs together in anticipation. “Either is fine, dear.”

  So, grandma reads minds? I clamp down on my thoughts, imagining some of Winter’s energy forming a bubble around me. “The witch in the necklace is Cocheta Bonham.”

  Iula wags a single finger back and forth. “Not Co-cheta. The name is Creek. They pronounce it Shosheta.”

  “O-kay.”

  Paris frowns. “Cocheta Bonham Reynaud?”

  I shrug. “My friend only said Bonham. Why?”

  The ghost at the table makes a loud shushing noise and glares over his glasses at us.

  Paris and Iula ignore him, exchanging a fearful look with each other. “The Grave Digger,” Paris whispers.

  Iula wrings her hands. “Oh dear.”

  The blood drains from my face at their reaction. My fingers feel like ice, the temperature in the basement seeming to drop twenty degrees. “Who’s that?”

  Iula tries to cover her anxiety with a smile. “That’s her nickname.”

  The book flies open on its own accord, the cover smacking on the table before tea-stained colored pages flip in quick succession. No one’s touching it, and startled, I take a step back.

  My eyes catch snippets as they fly by—designations of covens, historical events, and then what appears to be a White Pages listing of hundreds and hundreds of names.

  When they come to a stop, Paris runs a finger along a line of flamboyant handwriting, finding an entry with a garble of letters and numbers. “Cocheta was well known in this area and has an entire book dedicated to her…achievements.”

  She rattles off the call number and Iula disappears down a long aisle of bookshelves.

  I swallow hard. “Do I want to know why she’s called that?”

  As if it’s not obvious.

  Paris’ smile is jerky as she tries to reassure me and fails. “Like I said, she was—and still is— quite famous among the magickal societies in this area.” She waves a hand over the book and the pages flip more leisurely this time. “And the witch who cursed her? Do you happen to know her name?”

  “If Cocheta is so famous, how come you don’t know what happened?”

  Paris stiffens, but her smile stays in place. Patience must be one of her virtues. “As I mentioned, London is the expert on magickal societies. Everyone’s heard of the Grave Digger, but I don’t remember the circumstances around her death. That was a long time ago.”

  Haunted libraries, magickal societies. My brain is starting to cramp. “Birdie-Bell Dupree Fleming is the woman who supposedly cursed Cocheta’s spirit into the necklace, but I doubt you’ll locate her in there.”

  Paris finds what she’s looking for and takes off for the stacks. “We’ll see.”

  Iula returns with a large, leather-bound volume, almost the same as the one on the table. As previously, this one floats along beside her and lands next to the other. The title reads Cocheta’s name with a few more surnames thrown in.

  A biography?

  The reference book opens on its own and Iula begins reading. “Cocheta was an initiate of Voodoo queen Marie Laveau and was reputed to be a great healer, fortune teller, herbalist, and midwife.”

  Herbalist and midwife… “That’s what they labeled my great-grandmother, Tabitha. Is that some kind of code for witch?”

  Iula offers a contained smile as answer.

  “Why is Cocheta nicknamed the Grave Digger?”

  Several pages move on their own, stopping on a section titled, “The Hollow Hills.”

  Iula taps the page, her spectral finger seeming to go right through it. “The white man was moving into this area at that time by the hundreds. The government wasn’t respectful and the Creek were being pushed out, killed, and deceived. Cocheta was a steward of her family and that line extended to at least fifty members in the local area.

  “A dozen, including Cocheta’s son, were killed on All Hallows’ Eve by vigilantes who wanted the Creek to leave. The next full moon, she invited those same men to a hill north of town, promising to turn over the land to them.”

  Iula gives me a quick glance before continuing. “They were all found dead come morning, and because it was feared the bodies were cursed, they were buried there, exactly where they’d fallen. Cocheta claimed she never made it to the hill that night and there was no proof of her involvement, but…”

  At least some of this lines up with the story Helen told me. An eye for an eye—or in this case, a son for a son.

  There’s a lump the size of a peach pit lodged in my throat. “How could Birdie-Bell take on this gal and live to tell about it?”

  Paris returns with numerous books and spreads them out. Each flips to specific entries. “Because Elizabeth ‘Birdie-Bell’ Dupree Fleming was no stranger to magick.”

  “She was a witch?”

  “In some ways, yes. She was the daughter of famed knock-em down, circuit preacher and healer, Brother Billie Dupree.”

  Chapter Eleven

  They both eye me as if this should mean something to me. “I’m sorry, who’s this guy?”

  “A magician!” Iula exclaims. “Crowds followed him and his family everywhere they went. Several towns on his circuit offered him free housing if he would stay and preach full time.”

  “He was a preacher and a magician? As in stage magic?”

  Paris snickers.

  Iula is excited. “He’d be preaching and all of a sudden half the crowd would up and faint, claiming to be overtaken by the Spirit.”

  “You were around then?”

  She gives me a wink from behind her glasses. “I never saw him in person, but it was rumored among certain circles that he had a powder he threw over the crowd to enchant them.”

  “Wait, was it real sorcery or just tricks?”

  “Both, Avalon, and he taught Birdie everything he knew. Used her in his act some days.”

  “Ahh, okay. I get it. He was a showman.”

  “Exactly!” Her fingers flutter in the air. “A little hexing, a little hoaxing. But the truth is, they both had real power in their veins.”

  The apparition with the goatee clears his throat and Iula waves a hand at him as if he’s an annoying fly. She skims a passage. “Birdie was a grown woman by the time her altercation with Cocheta occurred. Had her own family. She’d no doubt expanded her powers and wasn’t afraid of going head-to-head with her.”

  Paris uses a finger to check paragraphs in a different book, and stops on a spot that she taps. “Says here Birdie and her husband won land in an auction the state of Georgia held, and it was lived on by a Creek family.”

  Iula flutters her upheld fingers again, slower this time. “Cocheta’s?”

  Paris nods and continues. “Cocheta’s family home was burned down twice. Birdie’s cows wouldn’t produce milk and their well went sour. There are several other misfortunes listed, too.”

  I lean on the table, glancing at the information. “They kept cursing each other?”

  As the three of us continue reading, I don’t know whether to feel relieved or more worried. I’m not sure how any of this helps me, but it’s fascinating.

  “What I need to know is, how do I break this last curse Birdie put on Cocheta? How do I get Cocheta’s ghost to move on and leave my boyfriend alone?”

  The women look at me with blank expressions.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for all this information,” I reassure them, “but it doesn’t actually assist me with my problem.”

  Their dual attentions return to the volumes, both frowning. For long
moments, I watch as they browse more passages, flip pages, and read as fast as they can.

  Iula’s glasses sparkle in the low light, or maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me, when she finally returns her gaze to mine. “I’m afraid none of our books are what you need for this.”

  “Then what do I need?”

  Paris gives me a sympathetic look. “A knock-em down preacher with a gift of magick.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The ghost in the corner sucks in an audible breath, and I turn to find him eavesdropping on our conversation. Is he actually drawing air into his incorporeal lungs?

  My stress level is so high, I feel as though I could scream. We haven’t exactly been quiet, but I’m still annoyed. Not just by him, but by all of this. My head starts to pound and my stomach churns. “Mind your own business,” I say rather rudely over my shoulder.

  He quirks a brow and returns to his reading. I twist back to the two librarians. “How is a preacher going to help me?”

  “Not simply any preacher,” Iula states. “A very specific one.”

  Paris thumbs through pages and runs a finger under words as she reads aloud. “Birdie used her father’s secret powder to hold and contain the spirits of those who had crossed her family, in order to take their magick from them. By trapping them, she could hold them hostage and keep drawing on their sorcery to enchant people.”

  “Great,” I say, throwing my hands up. “She was a real peach. I’m guessing it only works for two centuries, right? I get that. She’s been dead a long time, so she’s not drawing on anyone’s sorcery anymore, is she?”

  “It’s possible she’s still attached to Cocheta and using her power from the other side.”

  “That’s just…wrong.” I rub my temples. “How does knowing all this help me?”

  Paris flicks her gaze to me, back to the book. “You need a preacher like her father to enchant the spirit.”

  I repeat the information to make sure I’m getting it. “A knock-em down preacher who can enchant Cocheta’s spirit?”

  A nod.

  “To do what? Cross over?”

  Another nod. “That would be ideal.”

  Iula taps a finger to her jaw. “The Duprees and the Flemings became successful land owners and acquired as much as they could get their hands on. It’s possible they used magick to do it. Both families are still some of the wealthiest in the state.”

  Paris, whispering once more, looks fearful. “I don’t think it’s only your boyfriend you have to worry about if Cocheta gets loose.”

  “What do you mean? My client specifically said Cocheta will come after Logan.”

  Iula nods at Paris in agreement before she speaks to me. “All of the blood relatives, along with those who’ve married into the family, are in danger.”

  “Lovely. This day keeps getting better and better.” I flop into a chair. “How do I find a knock-em-down Methodist preacher with enchantment powder capable and willing to take on a hex and an angry ghost?”

  Mr. Goatee clears his throat once more.

  I glance over, my voice bitter. “Get over yourself already. I have real problems here! Keep pushing it and I’ll cross you over and you’ll have to read in heaven.”

  The next thing I know, he’s floating at my elbow.

  “Ack!” I jump. “Dude, not cool.”

  “I would extend my services.” Holding out a hand, he gives me a semi-bow. His vintage suit, complete with a pocket watch attached to his vest by a chain, and his bifocals, give him an air of intelligence and good taste. A tip of his head and he places a deer-stalker hat on it, looking all the world like my idea of Sherlock Holmes.

  My cell buzzes and I hold up a finger. “I’m not sure I need your kind of assistance.” Whatever that may be.

  Caller ID shows Mama, and I see I’ve already missed three texts from Logan, Daddy, and Rosie, and another call from her.

  Service down here must be terrible. I click on the button and say, “Mama, can I get back to you? I’m in the middle of something important.”

  “Where are you, Ava?” She’s crying.

  I move several steps from the group. “I had to run an errand. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Sean.” Her voice hitches. “He’s dead!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Not only is Sean dead, his body was discovered in a very interesting, and quite public place…my front lawn.

  Evening hangs like mist around the group on the sidewalk in front of The Wedding Chapel. Red and blue police lights blink through the descending darkness.

  The porch light is on and a spotlight on a squad car illuminates the sleigh and Christmas decorations.

  It also casts a bright beam on Sean’s lifeless body.

  I have to park across the street in front of Logan’s office, since there’s no spot left at my place. I nearly forget to take the bag from Chicks with Gifts Emporium, my attention riveted on the mayhem. Tabby meows and paws the bag, one nail tearing through the paper. I grab both her and the bag, and together we make our way to the sidewalk where people have gathered.

  Detective Jones, a former beat cop when my dad was chief here, stands with feet planted next to the coroner. The two men speak in hushed tones and the latter points at Sean’s body. An ambulance is present, although no lights flash from it, along with several people dressed in dark lab coats milling around. They’re wearing vests that state they’re crime scene investigators, and they are quite serious as they place yellow numbers around the body and snap pictures.

  As I stare at Sean, my legs go weak. The cool night air sticks to my skin, making me shiver. Whatever happened to him, it was no accident.

  Logan is on the sidewalk near the street, leaning on the gate. Mama, Daddy, Rosie, and a gathering of neighbors surround him. Rhys watches from the front of the bed and breakfast, his eyes wide when they meet mine across our joined yards.

  The EMTs lift Sean onto a gurney, and the coroner nods at something the detective says before motioning for them to wait to zip the body bag. Jones scrutinizes those of us at the gate, Mama holding out her arms to me and offering a hug as I join them.

  “What happened?” I set Tabby down and she sidles up to Dad, rubbing his pant leg.

  “No one knows.” Rosie draws her jacket tighter against the breeze. “I was getting ready to leave and saw him through the trees just… lying out here on the ground. I might have missed him if it weren’t for the Christmas lights.”

  Mama sobs softly. “How could this happen? What was he doing here?”

  Logan rubs my arm as we all look at Dad. He picks up Tabby and she purrs, rubbing her head under his chin. His forehead is puckered in a frown, and he shrugs. “I was upstairs taking a nap. He didn’t say anything about stopping by when I saw him at lunch.”

  “You had lunch with him?” Mama nearly screeches. All heads turn toward us.

  Detective Jones steps over and points at Dad. “Would you mind stepping closer, please?”

  Dad gives me a worried look then does as requested. The squeak of the gate grates on my nerves. He places Tabby inside the fence and follows his former coworker a few feet from us.

  Logan puts an arm around my waist, and Mama holds my hand, the bag rustling between us. Her sobbing grows as she stares at the body, and I wonder how close they’ve grown over the past few weeks.

  There’s a vindictive part of me that wants to tell her about his girlfriend, and I scan the crowd looking for the woman Rhys told me about. Even if she’s here, I probably wouldn’t recognize her, and if she was, wouldn’t she come forward?

  My sense of dread grows as Dad’s face flashes through concern and denial. Then his features morph into something I’ve rarely seen—fear.

  I can’t stand it any longer. I throw open the gate, break from Logan and Mama’s grips, and march up to the detective. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  Jones gives me a disapproving look. “Miss Ava, please wait outside until I’m finished interrogating your father.”


  “Interrogating?” My voice has taken on the pitch of my mother’s earlier outburst. The crowd’s murmuring now falls silent again. My stomach feels sick as I glance at all the eyes on me, at the too bright light illuminating the front yard.

  As if he’s already dismissed me, Jones motions for Dad to follow him to Sean’s body.

  “This is my property,” I remind him.

  He pays no attention to me, nor does he answer my questions.

  I hate to admit it, but I have a sixth sense about where this is going, and it is scaring the bejesus right out of me. “Whatever it is,” I murmur to Dad, “don’t say anything.”

  He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You really should do as he says,” he whispers.

  Jones clears his throat from next to the gurney. I tug Dad into the shadows, ignoring the detective’s glare. Lowering my voice as well, I scan my father’s shadowed features. “What did he say to you? Why do you look gray right now?”

  The wind kicks up hard, lifting my hair. A fresh chill trickles down my spine as he squeezes again. “Everything will be okay, I promise. The most important thing is that you know I love you.”

  If this is supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t. I see that fear in his eyes once more when the spotlight beam catches in them.

  “Daddy, what’s going on? Please tell me.”

  “Nash,” Jones calls. Still glaring at me, he crooks a single finger at Dad. Dad tries to move away, but I keep my grip on him and move with him, shooting Jones a full-on glare Aunt Willa would be proud of. I want him to know I’m not leaving my father alone to face him.

  We stop beside the gurney and I keep my eyes pinned on the detective, avoiding looking at Sean’s bleak face. The coroner whistles softly under his breath, as if this an everyday occurrence. He checks his watch, signifying he’s already dreaming about dinner and bed.