Mudflat Magic Books 4, 5, 6: Mudflat Magic, #4

By Phoebe Matthews

The next three novels in this book are Spice and Sorcery, Goldilocks Hits Town, and Beastly Week.

Anything called a deathwalker can't be good. But that's who showed up next in my life. Add thieves and dead bodies, and I REALLY needed a barbarian....

The story of Claire, Nance, Tarvik and the others continues with the same off the wall humor and mystery that the first part of this series brought us....
Reviewed by Nancy Eriksen, PNR reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: LostLoves Books
• Release date: Jun 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201511081

Phoebe Matthews

Phoebe Matthews is currently writing three urban fantasy series. Her novels have been published by Avon, Dark Quest, Dell, Holt, LostLoves, Putnam, Silhouette, and Scholastic.

Book preview

Spice and Sorcery

Mudflat Magic 4

PHOEBE MATTHEWS

LostLoves Books

Copyright © Phoebe Matthews

Cover Design Copyright © LostLoves Books

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of well-known historical personages, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

CHAPTER 1

Tarvik has a new used car, Jeremy has a new used bike, and I have the same old headache. Somebody is trying to off me and gotta tell ya, that's a bore.

Happened again tonight when I was walking home from evening tutoring at the Mudflat Neighborhood Center. I have a couple of teenage dropouts who are so poor in math I swear I am going to make them take off their shoes and count their toes so that we can at least get past ten and move on to twenty. In another three years they will both be twenty, and I think anybody ought to be able to count as high as their age.

Using astrology to teach math isn't much going to help with these guys. Horoscope math requires equations. Okay, what can I do that will at least make it possible for them to count change?

Set the bar low, that's my motto.

After our tutoring session they followed me outside. We were a mutually scruffy group but at least my tee shirt and jeans were clean and had no rips in them.

See ya next week, they said.

Same time tomorrow, I said.

Aw, Claire. We've got a game tomorrow.

You're playing on a team?

Sorta. Sometimes. Anyhow, we need to be there.

The neighborhood kids play soccer at various parks around the city. These aren't organized matches. More, they are drop-in games where the guys team up with friends and end up someplace for illegal beer. Beer is legal but these kids aren't legal age. That's a cop problem, way out of my jurisdiction. All I try to do is teach enough math to someday get them through their GEDs because none of them are ever actually going back to school.

Okay, see ya someday, I said.

Pushing my purse strap up on my shoulder, I waved them goodbye and headed home. I live in walking distance. It was almost ten o'clock, but ten at night in mid-June in Seattle is a shade before total darkness hits. I sniffed the clean air and tilted my head back to peer up past treetops at the dark gray sky, looking for planets. Wasn't thinking about stalkers.

And why should I? Me and the Decko boys have a temporary truce on our feuds, and they're about the only people who actually come after me at night.

My other enemies are old and worn out. Avery Calus, bad-tempered laundry owner and council member, obviously gets home in time for supper and overeats, if his weight is any clue. Mr. Salt, the bank manager, isn't the violent type.

So I've picked up a new stalker who isn't a Decko, is a nighttime stalker, and oh yeah, definitely violent. At least, I consider people who try to run me down with a car to be violent.

When I heard the tires squeal, I had my usual slow reaction. I heard the sound and ignored it. A few blocks away a siren wailed. Closer, a car horn honked and someone yelled. Another car went by with its radio booming. Doors slammed.

And then I woke up. Those squealing tires weren't in the next block or even down the street. They were nearby. That's when I saw the dark shape of a car come hurtling around the corner. No headlights. It skidded under the overhang of the berm trees. Should have been lights arcing through the tree trunks and making moving shadows.

For a second I froze. It wasn't possible, I mean, why would the driver be aiming the car straight for me?

Hey, I don't go out at night wearing diamond pinkie rings that scream Rob me! That's Darryl Decko, who occasionally tries to run me down. He drives a BMW and I know its purr like I know my cat's purr. This was some generic car, lights off, with the windshield reflecting the street lights and that's what I saw.

And no, it did not purr. Somebody gunned the motor. Metallic thunder. Maybe it wasn't really that loud but it got my attention.

Stupid Claire, I stood flatfooted in my sneakers on the edge of the curb, didn't step into the street because obviously this was not a safe time to cross. Have I mentioned that this had been a very long day and I hadn't had supper and I was dead tired? My exhausted brain assumed that staying on the curb was safe.

You'd think, as often as I've been the target of trouble, that I would be smarter. Guess I'm a slow learner like my students except I am book smart and they are street smart. Maybe I need to get them to trade me lessons.

The car bumped up over the curb at about the same time my brain kicked in. I jumped back, meant to turn and leap to the side and duck behind a tree. That would have required having quick-brown-fox reactions. I heard the engine roar, and oh yeah, I heard the tires hit the curb and bounce, squeal followed by a thud. I even felt the heat of the engine under the hood like some kind of dragon breathing fire at me.

First I threw up my hands. Like, hey, I'm Wonder Woman, I can stop the thing with bare hands. Then I got real, woke up to what was happening and tried to get away.

Sidestepping so fast that my ankle turned under me, I leaned into a run. Way too late. Pain flared from the wrench. I almost screamed but fought to concentrate on getting out of the way.

The flat side of a front fender caught me and brushed past me. I felt like somebody'd swung a baseball bat and hit me right on the hipbone.

I heard myself screaming as I flew across the narrow stretch of grass and skidded down the cement sidewalk. Hit the walk with my hands, arms, elbows, knees. I fought to keep my head from smashing down. With my hands out to break the fall, I managed a good job of scraping skin off my palms.

The car backed away and for a second I expected the driver to hit the gas and aim at me again. There was that pause, enough time to shift from reverse to drive.

With no chance to get my feet under me to stand and run, I didn't stop to try to guess what he'd do. Didn't even have time to get on all fours and crawl. I just pushed off and went rolling on across the walk. A hedge on the far side stopped me, and oh yes, exactly what I needed, branches scratching any place that wasn't already bleeding.

I curled up in a ball and automatically pulled my arms up to cover my head. I expected the car to follow, crush me under its wheels and then go crashing on through the hedge.

Instead it bumped in reverse off the curb, did a sharp K-turn back onto the street and raced away.

For a few seconds I lay perfectly still. Holding my breath. Not believing what had happened. The numbness that comes with shock started to fade. Every inch of torn skin started to burn. Muscles ached. Did I have any broken bones?  Should I try to stand or would I collapse?  Gotta tell ya, it hurt to move, hurt to think, hurt to breathe.

And then the usual female reaction flared, the don't lose your purse syndrome.

Scrambling on hands and knees I grabbed it as it slid away from me which was stupid. Nothing there but comb and bus money and notebook and other worthless stuff. My wallet was in the pocket of my jeans.

With a whole lot of moaning and sniffling, I got to my feet. The car was long gone. Had that stupid car hit me on purpose? Why? I didn't even know a generic dark car. Why would it want to hit me?

And would it try again? Wake up! I swung around and stared in all directions and didn't see a sign of a car anywhere. More important, I didn't hear one either. I half expected to hear brakes screech as the car U-turned and came back to finish the job.

What I did hear was myself whimpering because, damn, it hurt to take a step. My hip ached and my hands and one elbow burned. When I turned my arm I couldn't see anything in the dusk. When I touched my elbow I could feel warm wet sticky. Yuck. That's when I heard footsteps hurrying toward me.

Dear Miss Claire! Are you all right?

I started to raise my arms to shield myself. I'd just been targeted by a car. What next?

Not half a block away the Center loomed large against the sky. It is a big old ugly attempt to copy a medieval castle, three stories high, complete with crenellated edging around the flat roof.

Between me and the building, loping down the sidewalk toward me, was a dark silhouette.  Tall, clumsy, menacing, until I stopped hyperventilating and took a good look at him.

Brother Gaynor. He had an ill-fitting suit that was worn to a shine in spots. When he stopped in front of me on the walk, his eyes glittered in the fading light, bright flashes under heavy eyebrows. The rest of his face was pretty much covered with a mustache that flowed into a ragged beard. Beneath his hat brim his dark hair hung in wisps to his shoulders.

Mudflat doesn't exactly welcome outsiders. If they move in they are apt to snoop. Or try to organize neighborhood watch groups. Then they get all out of shape when no one wants to join them. It's like they think that maybe we want crime.

There is no way to explain to them that the community already has its own methods of protection, like warding houses. Plus, the Mudflat council eventually spots whatever needs to be spotted. Ask Rock Decko. He got put on probation by the council when he got himself involved in a theft and he had to report to a council member for I don't know how long. But anyhow, outsiders who think they should shape up the neighborhood tend to move out within a year or so.

One of the outsiders is Brother Gaynor. He's an ever-optimistic missionary type. Nobody's figured out what he believes in except that he believes he can convert us to his beliefs.

The problem is that he's figured out there is magic floating around in the neighborhood. Don't know how he knows. If anyone asked, that would be like telling him he's right. So instead everyone ignores his comments about magic.

Mostly what he says is this. He believes magic dooms our souls and he wants to save us. Huh, that's like saying that having siblings dooms people's souls. May be true, but there's no acceptable solution, is there?

Brother Gaynor held out his hand to me. Do you need assistance?

Uh, no. I, uh, did you see what happened?

I saw you fall, Miss Claire. I'm sorry. I was too far from you to catch you. Did you trip on something?

You didn't see anyone else around?

No. He leaned closer to peer at me. His voice rose to a nervous squeak. Are you saying someone pushed you? No, there was no one else here!

Yeah, okay, right, I tripped, I said. The only reason I asked was that I hoped he'd seen the car and could identify it. Thanks, I'm fine now.

He shook his head. My dear lady, you will not be fine until we find a way to free your soul. Even now, the magic attracts it.

Brother Gaynor, I said, doing the little lecture by rote, you imagine magic. You need to forget it. You'll say that to the wrong person and they'll think you're crazy.

I saw you fall. You flew across the walk as though something picked you up and threw you. That's the work of the devil, Miss Claire. He sees the magic in you.

Yeah, yeah, I know. And he wants my soul. Okay, you pray for me, I told him.

Of course I will.

And I'll go home and hit the wine bottle, I thought but didn't say.

I believe I should walk with you. His hand touched my elbow and I let out a howl.

For a minute there I thought he'd pass out. He stumbled away from me and he looked terrified. And rightly so. He'd hit the scrape on my elbow. Any other time if Brother Gaynor touched me, I'd have pasted on my pleasant face. Figured he was muttering some prayer under his breath and hoping to transfer it to me. The old laying on of hands thing.

This time he was lucky I was able to hang onto my last shred of control because what I really wanted to do was deck him.

Skinned my elbow, I muttered.

Oh my dear! I am so sorry. So sorry! Here, I will hold out my arm and you can lean on me.

He wasn't going to change his mind. Heard that, yeah, and I could either stand around arguing or I could let him walk me home. By now clouds were moving in to block out what little light was left in the sky.

Dark night. Damaged me.

I can walk okay, I said. If it makes you feel better, come along and see me home.

So I am part coward. He walked me to my corner and then said he'd wait there until I got to my front door. I looked on this as my good deed, building ego in a nut case.

When I said goodbye to him, I added, Take care. There's crazy drivers out there.

Hobbling on down the block toward home, I kept listening. If a car came screeching around a corner I'd be up on the nearest porch before it reached me. But if I could avoid running, that was my choice. My knee ached with every step.

CHAPTER 2

My guy was in the kitchen when I got home. That always lights up my day. After my grandmother died, I came home every night to an empty house. Now I walk in and all these great cooking smells greet me. 

That's a side perk. The main show is the guy in the kitchen doing the cooking.

I knew he'd be late getting home because he had a soccer match with his buddies at a park across town. That's why I'd stayed late at the Center. No, he doesn't play with the underage keggers. He plays with a group of grown men who like to put in an hour or two of soccer on their way home from their jobs.

Tonight he'd beat me home and there he was chopping veggies and tossing them into a pan while something else simmered on the stove.

He grew up in a castle where meat got roasted on outdoor spits with pans of drippings and baskets of bread on the side. People ate whenever they came in from whatever they'd been doing: hunting, fighting, beheading enemies, whatever. The only formal meals were banquets that usually followed all day tournaments and preceded all night carousing. Those banquets were served when the warlord sat down at the head of the table.

My blond prince has adapted quickly to my kitchen, loves the appliances and the varieties of ingredients available at the stores. And now he works at the Neighborhood Center as jack-of-all-trades, helping out with repairs and painting walls when there’s time. He even fills in when a day nursery worker is absent.

He likes all his jobs but his favorite is cooking. That means meals at set times at the Center. He's learned their schedule. But he still goes the eat-when-you're-hungry route at home. Flexible. Laid back. Good-natured. Tarvik is all that.

Hi, baby, I said after I hung my shoulder bag on a hook by the front door and stopped in the kitchen doorway.

He glanced around at me, all smiles and twinkling blue eyes, and then dropped what he was doing and rushed over to me. He's also one of those people whose every emotion shows on his face. That face went way too worried, the eyebrows drawing together.

My Claire! What has happened to you?

He touched my face, so I knew I had dirt on it. Yeah, that's bound to be the result of scrambling around on hands and knees on a damp sidewalk and then trying to brush my long hair out of my eyes.

His fingers traced a rip in my tee shirt. Next he brushed dirt from the side of my jeans.

I winced.

He turned my arm and saw the thin trail of blood dripping from my torn elbow.

I fell off a curb, I said.

That was enough because my guy is overprotective. I'm not the world's most graceful person. He and I are real opposites in a lot of ways. Tarvik has thick blond hair that he finger-combs and it settles in fluffy layers around his head. I have long dark hair, the fine kind that blows all over and won't stay combed. We're the same height but he is solid and muscular and as graceful as a cat. I am thin and flexible and look like I should be well coordinated but actually I'm kind of a klutz.

Falling is one of my regular activities. So while he wasn't surprised, he was extremely upset.

If I added to my explanation the information that a car had come up over a curb and hit me, he'd be tearing around the neighborhood checking everyone's car fenders. Find one with a slight dent, or even just a patch of dirt rubbed off at the right height, and he'd go into attack mode.

I let my explanation stop with falling off a curb.

This way all he did was pick me up in his arms like he thought I was too weak to walk across the house to the bathroom.

As we passed the back bedroom his cousin Nance looked up from where she was stretched on her bed flipping pages of a magazine.

Nance is a cute little round-faced blond teenager, complete with freckles and dimples. When she followed me home and moved into the back bedroom a year ago last winter, she shucked her disciplined upbringing and turned into a total American teen. Now her big loves in life are TV, fashion mags, and nail polish. She has a part-time job as a manicurist and earns her own pocket money.

What's going on? she asked.

Claire is injured.

Nance shrieked and jumped up to help. Next those two would be rolling out an operating table from somewhere.

No, I'm fine, really, just some scrapes.

Tarvik told Nance, I need you to go check the potatoes and then start the garnish.

I added, I haven't had time to eat since noon. Is supper about ready?

Oh, poor Claire! Nance wailed. I'll get your supper ready right away!

With Nance headed off to the kitchen, Tarvik carried me into the bathroom and set me down.

His warm gentle hands turned me this way and that, washing off dirt and carefully cleaning scrapes.

How did this happen? Oh, my Claire, you've skinned your hands, too, let me see your face, no, no scrapes, just mud, but you have mud in your hair, ah, let me finish cleaning your elbow. It's not bleeding any more, anything else? Are you bruised? You move like you are. Chatter, chatter, chatter, that's my guy, his soft voice as soothing as his touch.

He offered to help me change into clean clothes. I told him I could do that myself if he'd finish fixing supper.

Are you certain? Would you rather go to bed and I will bring you a tray?

Tarvy baby, what I'd really like to do is take a shower.

Shall I help you? I could wash your hair.

No, honestly, I'm fine on my own. A shower will feel good and supper is what I want.

I was still too shocked to be hungry. If they thought I needed feeding that would keep them busy, so that's what I said.

But what I really wanted was to take my shower by myself so that I could see how bad a bruise I had on my aching hip before he did. Because eventually, maybe tomorrow when he wasn't so upset, I would have to tell him about that car targeting me.

By the time I padded barefoot into the kitchen wrapped in my terry cloth robe, my long hair dripping wet, he and Nance had the baked potatoes pressed open on the plates and covered with what they both call garnish.

For their garnish they steam together an incredible mix of chopped veggies and herbs and oils and who knows what all. If the two of them ever learn to read and write, they can write their own cookbook.

You've scraped your knee, too!

It's fine, Tar. I put disinfectant on it. Honestly, what I need is a large glass of wine.

I did, too, to prepare me for when he saw the spreading bruise on my hip. Maybe I'd wait an extra day or two before telling him about the car.

If it had really been an accident, like some kid driving too fast and losing control for a second, I'd let it go. That would be one scared teen who knew he'd bumped over the curb but maybe hadn't seen me and didn't realize he'd hit me.

Wished I could believe that's what had happened. Unfortunately, I knew better. With its headlights off that car was aimed at me. I'd heard it just in time to jump back. Otherwise, instead of bruised, I'd be squashed.

Somebody intentionally tried to off me. Or at least damage me. Why? Now what? And when am I going to get a normal, peaceful life?

Oh right. I sometimes forget. Thing is, I live in the neighborhood in Seattle where old magic still runs in families and trouble doesn't follow other people's rules.

CHAPTER 3

In case I sound like one of those fruitcakes who thinks the whole world is conspiring against her, the deal is this.

Last month I owned a car. Nothing to brag about, an old beater, but hey, it was mine and I owned it. Tarvik and Roger took care of it, hung over the front with the hood up and poked at it, slid on their backs on the driveway and got under it and managed to keep it in good running condition.

Roger is a huge guy who rents the apartment in my basement. Okay, he's half troll, so huge is a given. Car manufacturers don't exactly leave enough space under their cars for trolls. Somehow Roger manages, same way he manages everything else in his life, very quietly and with no complaints. He is extremely good at whatever he does. No way would he overlook a flaw that could have been fatal.

In all weather I take the bus downtown to my bank job because nobody I know can afford to park downtown. But sometimes, when it's raining hard, Tarvik insists on driving me downtown and dropping me off. Then he usually brings the car home and jogs back to his own job at the Center.

It was that kind of morning the last time I got in my car, rainy and windy, and I don't remember what all but I must have looked too frail to stand at a bus stop. I'm not frail but Tarvik seems to think I am. Also, he'd just learned to drive and had his license and wanted to practice or show me how good he was or somesuch.

We'd no more than got a couple blocks from home when he realized there was something wrong with the brakes, like, there weren't any brakes. And yes, he proved he is indeed a good driver because he managed to slide us sideways into an alley and then do some turns and skids to slow us before hitting the alley dumpster. If he hadn't done that we'd have shot out of the other end of the alley into heavy traffic and probably landed in the hospital or the neighborhood mortuary. I've never wanted to be in either one.

As it was, the only thing that got totaled was my car.

All that was bad enough. I had a big guilt trip about endangering us with a beater car and why hadn't I got something better? Well, I hate going into debt. I mean, any day I could lose a job, right? So I try to keep my bills paid.

And then Roger took a look at the wreck and guess what? It wasn't an accident. Roger said the brake line had intentionally been cut. None of us had a clue about who would do a thing like that.

The only good to come out of it is Tarvik's current car. A nice old neighbor lady, one he runs errands for, can no longer drive. She had an old car sitting unused in her garage. When she heard about our accident she insisted on giving her old car to Tarvik. The car has really low mileage and with a few repairs it is in far better condition than my beater was. So we have wheels again.

But you see my point. Add a sabotaged brake line to a car driving over a curb and trying to flatten me and yeah, I am a little bit paranoid.

Now here I was again, the victim of an accident. Tarvik wanted me to spend the day at home, poor bruised Claire.

No, I'm fine and I really need to go to work today, I told him.

If you won't stay home I will at least drive you to the bank. And if you need a ride home you must promise to phone me.

Two big motivations sent me off to work at my boring half-day job temping at the bank. First, I have bills to pay and second, if I stayed home my guy would come home at lunch time and fuss and ask me to tell him again what happened and I'd let something slip. He's way too good at guessing.

So I kept bright-eyed and cheerful as I waved him goodbye where he dropped me off downtown and then I went all frail and injured and limped into the bank.

My dumb boss, the manager, looked up and said, Miss Carmody, you are five minutes late.

Most days I'd say, So dock me, but today I limped over to his desk, steadied myself with my hands flat on the top where they were sure to leave prints, and mumbled softly. I am so sorry, Mr. Salt. I was in a car accident yesterday.

I pushed up my sleeve and showed him my elbow. It had turned a shade of avocado green with purple edges.

Oh. That's quite a bruise.

Nothing compared to my hip.

I started to pull my shirt out of my waistband to show him that bruise. Well, not really. I knew what he'd do. Salt is a typical gray suit with a forgettable gray face. Now it blushed red.

He almost knocked his chair over jumping to his feet. Yes, yes, well, if you're up to it, go ahead and start work and if you feel worse, by all means leave early.

Huh. Didn't want to see my hip. Talk about a man who doesn't know what he's missing. He rushed to the other side of the room and started talking to someone else, making it impossible for me to embarrass him further. I limped into the computer room where they hide me away, walked normally to my swivel desk chair, kicked off my shoes and made myself comfortable. Sure he said I could leave early but we both knew he wasn't about to pay me for any missed time.

After working my usual four hours minus that five minutes late thing, I caught the bus back to the Neighborhood Center. That's where I work afternoons as general assistant to everybody. My jobs run from keeping the financial accounts to tutoring teenage dropouts.

Madeline, the Center's underpaid and overworked supervisor, is as great a boss as the bank manager is a jerk. When my non-reading boyfriend needed a job, she hired him full time and let that include study time with a reading tutor each day. That seemed like a favor but now she insists that she's the one who got the favor. Tarvik not only can do practically anything, he does it cheerfully.

When the two of us left the Center that evening, I was still putting off telling him about the car. And to avoid that conversation, I thought up another destination.

We drove home and Tarvik parked his ten-year-old red Chevy in the driveway.

Such a nice day, I said. Let's not go in yet. Let's walk over to Nicotiana's house to look at her garden.

We did that, arms linked around each other. It really was one of those perfect summer evenings with enough sunshine hanging around to bring out the scent of sweet alyssum in all the neighbors' gardens.

Nicotiana and I aren't the best of friends. She is older and rather sharp tongued and we've had our disagreements. At the moment, however, we agreed on a couple of things and that made us buddies. Her niece Nicky, who is my age, twenty-three, has acquired a new boyfriend whom Nicotiana and I both dislike intensely because we both figure he's bad news for Nicky. That made us allies.

Add my guy's interest in gardening, which is Nicotiana's passion, and we were practically bonding.

When we reached her house she was coming up the walk from the opposite direction. Nicotiana works at the mortuary, has for years. She's a tall, large-boned woman, thin face, large teeth, dyed hair. When people describe her they usually use the word severe. It describes both her looks and her personality.

Hi, you two.

She reached us and pushed open the garden gate and we followed her up the walk. Her front garden is amazing, beds of bright flowers and winding paths and a whole lot of kitchy ceramic figures, a curled cat on the doorstep and gnomes peeking out from under shrubs.

Tarvik asked her about her hydrangeas. He wants to add some to our garden and he wants them blue. They fell into one of their usual discussions of preparing soil while I wandered around looking at all the color. Could my garden ever be so gorgeous? Okay, I'd skip the gnomes but honestly, I did love the tumbled masses of flowers.

Did I mention that Nicotiana is a witch? I sometimes wonder if she zaps a bit of magic into her garden.

Come on inside and have a cup of tea while I get my supper started, she said, and then she called to me, You, too, Claire.

Gotta tell ya, with the women in the neighborhood, when Tarvik is with me I turn into an afterthought.

I wandered across the garden toward them as Nicotiana dug her key out of her purse and unlocked her door. Tarvik turned back on the steps to smile and wait for me to catch up. The thing about that smile is this. When he looks at me that way, I know absolutely that I am not an afterthought to him.

So that's what we were doing, grinning at each other, when Nicotiana shrieked.

We rushed inside, Tarvik first and me at his heels. Her shriek rose higher. I figured she was hurt, maybe had tripped over something and broken a bone.

Nah. She stood straight and tall in the middle of her front room, her long face lined with fury, mouth wide, brows together in a scowl. Her fingers tore at her red-streaked dark hair. Maybe she was having some kind of fit?

She turned slowly and I did, too, following where she stared at the room around her.

Ho-kay. If it was my house I'd scream, too.

Nicotiana lives in a white cottage with blue shutters, steep blue roof with dormer windows, tall chimney. It's a storybook cottage, a perfect center ornament for her garden.

The inside is equally cute, comfy couch and chairs in chintz, rag rugs, those lace curtains that crisscross in a double layer and are tied back with ribbon. Antique stuff that I don't know much about but I do know that the built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace should have been filled with neat rows of books. Nicotiana is always very neat.

Instead, there were books every which way, tossed all around the room. And the desk in the corner had its drawers pulled out, contents scattered. Same went for the rest of the furniture, drawers in the end tables open and dumped, cushions pulled off the chairs, even paintings and mirrors had been lifted off the walls and dropped on the floor.

Tarvik automatically pulled Nicotiana into a hug because he hugs everyone. The shock turned off the screams. I mean, for all I know, no one has ever before had the nerve to hug Nicotiana.

She gasped and found her voice. Vandals! I've been robbed!

With the witch calmed slightly, Tarvik said, You stay here. I'll check the rest of the house. He circled through the kitchen and dining room, dashed back in the front room long enough to whisper to me, Keep her in here, and then ran upstairs.

That had to mean the rest of the downstairs was equally trashed.

Nicotiana went from horror to fury, her eyes shrinking into squints.

Darryl Decko, she fumed.

He is stupid but not that stupid. Darryl is a slicker, all charm and smooth manners, good looking if you don't know him too well. He's loaded, I guess, because he has a condo in a pricey building downtown, drives a BMW, wears a Rolex with his custom-made suits.

Rumor links him to some very rich and dishonest types in both business and political circles. I try hard not to know how he makes his money.

Recently Darryl made the stupid mistake of breaking into Nicotiana's house. He'd done it carefully. He had picked the lock and left everything neat, removing only a small box of items. He wasn't stealing for the cash value. Instead, he was looking for something he meant to use to exchange for favors with a powerful man.

The scheme failed. So then Darryl arranged to have the stolen items returned to Nicotiana but that's another dumb story because it involved me, so I am not going there.

That time Nicotiana knew it was Darryl. She has some wards on her door that tell her who enters. I've never known how wards work and yeah, I was curious.

You can tell by the wards? I asked.

He's robbed me before! Who else would dare?

With a witch, I knew enough to tread lightly. Last time Darryl ended up with a variety of miseries. Maybe Nicotiana has only minor magic but she's got the rash and hangnail curses down pat.

I said, Darryl's not the type to toss a room. Didn't you tell me that you have wards on your doors that show who's been here?

She started to shout something at me. Then she slowly closed her mouth. She hurried to the front door and ran her open hands over it, her palms and outstretched fingers pressed against the wood. Next she opened the door and did the same thing along the inner edges of the frame. Dropping to her knees, she felt along the sill.

Impossible.

What's wrong?

Help me up.

I did of course, grabbed an elbow and steadied her as she got slowly to her feet. Her face went ashen. I set the wards. I know I did. I reset them every morning and I remember setting them today. And they aren't broken.

Tarvik and I came through.

Yes, but I invited you. They let you through. If you'd come in without an invitation, they'd remember.

Hmm. I didn't ask how doors can remember and tattle. See, when somebody is so upset they're gasping for breath and going all white, I try not to upset her further. Especially when she's a witch.

Maybe whoever came in here came through the back door, I said.

She circled through her house with me trailing after her and carefully ran her hands along every windowsill and doorway. Fussing over the lack of messages from the wards, she ignored the mess in her dining room and kitchen. Or maybe she was so distraught she didn't see it.

Looked pretty much like the front room, furniture pushed around at odd angles, drawers open, piles of contents pulled out and dumped on the nearest surface.

All the checking kept her occupied. At each possible entry point she whispered, No. No. No.

By the time we returned to the front door, Tarvik was downstairs. She looked at him and said, Was the thief upstairs?

I'm afraid so. Nothing is broken or damaged. Let me clean up before you go there.

So dresser drawers and closets were dumped, that's what he meant, and maybe mattresses overturned.

I need to check the windows, she said.

I'll go with you, I said and nodded at Tar. We did our silent communication thing before I followed Nicotiana upstairs.

Yup, about what I expected, overturned everything. And a little more obvious because a mattress and box springs pulled off a bed fills up the room. We had to stumble around them.

She gasped and tried to stay calm but I could see her trembling. She waded through her belongings to reach the windows. They were all latched and apparently weren't giving off any messages.

Really weird, the whole deal. Even the bathroom had been tossed, shower curtain pulled down, soap on the floor, towels all over the place, and the contents of the medicine cabinet knocked into the sink.

Odd though. Nothing looked intentionally damaged. Messy but not vandals.

Do you keep anything valuable up here?

Wrong question. Or maybe it was the right question because it so infuriated her, she stopped being scared.

All my things are valuable! I don't slouch around in torn jeans like you do!

I mean, do you keep cash around? I carefully did not ask about jewelry. That's what Darryl had stolen, a box full of costume jewelry that he didn't want and so then he'd returned all of it. He'd been looking for something else in the box and hadn't found it.

Oh. Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, Claire, I didn't mean, oh dear. Tears slid down her face. Next she'd crumple up.

I said, Nicotiana, you're upset. I would be, too. Don't worry about me. I'm not the one who got my house broken into. Just try to think. Is there something unusually valuable, maybe worth a huge amount of money, that you keep in your house that somebody'd want to steal? Something small?

Why small?

Well, I know you have lots of beautiful paintings and furniture and stuff, probably worth a lot, but none of that is missing. Somebody searched every small hiding place, even the bathroom cabinet. Looks like you had a thief looking for something small.

While I talked, I righted a chair and guided her to it. She sank down and sat with her hands twisting around each other in her lap.

I don't keep money in the house. I have some jewelry but you've seen it. It's all costume jewelry. I'm wearing my only diamond.

Weird. Once I had a boyfriend who stole the deed to my house and tried to get an equity loan.

She looked up at me. Did he get it?

No. They caught him at the bank. I didn't even know he'd stolen it.

I don't have anything like that in the house. All my papers are in a safe deposit box. No, this is something else.

She did some more fidgeting and wringing her hands and her mouth puckered in and out. I waited.  There was a decision she needed to make. Honestly, I didn't want to be part of it. But we're both from old Mudflat families and we don't get to choose to not help.

She spoke very softly, very slowly. Claire. Listen. The thing is this. I know I put on wards. When someone breaks through them, I can feel it. That's how I knew about the oldest Decko boy. He's not magic.

Darryl Decko is many things including rich, successful, good looking, a cheat, a con man, all that stuff, but no, he is not magic, at least, not enough to be worth anything to anyone. His brother Rock inherited the family magic.

No, I agreed. Rock is.

She nodded. Yes, the younger one. He's a smash wizard. Can't cast spells. Can't break them. I'd know if he'd been here. Whoever came in here has powerful magic, mage level. Maybe my spells aren't strong enough to keep anyone out but they are strong enough to warn me. And only very strong magic could go past them without leaving any disturbance.

Somebody with mage level magic was in here?

She nodded. And then she looked scared again. But why? And who?

Only one way to answer that question. Ask a mage.

Sergei? He doesn't like me. I have tried to talk to him a few times. He won't answer the door. Pretends not to be home when I know very well that he is.

Yup, that's Sergei Brown, the neighborhood mage. I didn't say so aloud. I could hear the next line coming. Nobody to blame but myself. I was the one who suggested asking a mage.

Madeline says you know him, Claire. She thinks he is fond of you. You could ask him.

The only mage currently living in Mudflat is indeed slippery old Sergei Brown. As for fond of me, he calls everyone else by their first name but I am always Miss Carmody. I don't think he likes me at all. I happen to have a bit of magic that intrigues him. He'd be equally intrigued by a dancing guinea pig.

When possible I prefer to avoid him. Oh right, there's that dumb neighbors-stick-together tradition, so what could I say? Besides, we'd been on outs before. I wanted to keep things smooth with Nicotiana.

Okay, I'll ask him if he has any ideas.

Jumping up, she grabbed my hands and actually gushed. Would you? Madeline always says how kind you are, and you are!

So me and new pal buddy witch lady picked our way through her piles of stuff and trailed back down the stairs. Let me say here that my guy is not Mudflat and has no Mudflat magic, but you would have thought so. He had the front room completely back in order, furniture straightened, paintings hung, books shelved, papers set in neat piles on the desk.

True, he can't read very well and so he had shelved the books by height and color, which looked lovely. If Nicotiana usually shelved her books by subject or author, she'd have to re-do them. Still, it beat having them scattered all over the floor.

When we reached the kitchen he was sweeping up broken glass. All the unbroken stuff was either put away or set neatly on the counters.

Nicotiana started to cry again.

There's tea in the pot, he said.

Funny guy, my Tarvik. He'll cheerfully beat up man or beast but when it comes to anyone weaker than himself, and that includes all women, children and pets, he considers it his sworn duty to defend and care for them.

Also, tears upset him and isn't that so guy-typical? So he headed upstairs and while Nicotiana and I sat in her neat kitchen and had tea, I could hear him overhead putting the rest of her house in order.

Will you be all right here alone? I asked.

That thought cheered her.

Whoever he is, I hope he tries to come back when I'm here. Maybe I can't leave wards that stop intruders when I'm gone but when I am in my house, hah! I can face anything.

Remembering the rash-covered faces of several of her enemies, I could well imagine an intruder collapsing from an attack of itchy curses.

CHAPTER  4

Procrastinate? Me? Yes, okay, I had every good intention of talking to Sergei Brown but let's get real. Whoever broke into Nicotiana's house had either found or not found what they wanted. Catching the intruder was important, of course. But I know Sergei well enough to know that he wouldn't have anything useful to say. Useless could wait a day.

By the time Tarvik finished straightening up Nicotiana's place, we were both tired and hungry. Don't know which is more exhausting, cleaning house or trying to console a sobbing witch.

Closing the garden gate behind us, Tarvik and I started home. He hugged me against his side as we walked.

Have I mentioned that my guy is part elf? Yeah, well, it's not something I broadcast in Mudflat. But I think it explains the way he does that whirlwind thing, like getting Nicotiana's house picked up by the time we'd had one cup of tea.

Sometimes when he looks at me, his smile and his eyes bright, his skin looks brighter, too, more golden, as though he is standing in a sunbeam.

On the way home I looped my arm around his waist. Had to ask. You're human, aren't you?

He grinned and swung around and pulled me into a hug. Nuzzling my neck, he did his sweet talk thing, whispering, What, you think I am an animal? All right, if so, that's you, you bring out the beast.

Behave, I said. At least until we get home.

And then I may misbehave?

I socked him on the arm, lightly, and if he ever says differently, don't believe him. We looped our arms around each other and continued walking. Okay, so it was walk a few steps, stop and kiss, walk a few more. When he's in that mood it takes a very long time to walk a block.

Tell me, what do you know about elves? I asked.

I had a grandmother who was elf.

He said it as though it was no more unusual than having a grandmother who came from Iowa.

Any elves on your mother's side?

Yes, you're right. My mother's great-grandmother was elf. I forgot about her.

So, then, your father's mother was pure elf. Kovat, with the same golden hair, the same quickness, had moved as though his feet barely touched the ground. Elf on both sides of Tarvik's lineage. What about Nance's father?

He shook his head. Sorry, I should have paid attention when my father recited family history. I don't know anything about her father except his name.

I ran my fingertip around the outer curve of his ear and he ducked his head, glanced up from the corner of his eye, all glitter and laugher, and oh god, yes, he certainly is elven. Okay, his ears aren't pointed. Maybe that's a Disney addition. Tarvik isn't make-believe. He is warm and solid and any time I need a reality check, a hug does it. Living in Mudflat, I know there are trolls and a few other species but until I met Tarvik I thought elves were pure Disney.

Where did she come from, your elf grandmother? Did you ever meet any other elves?

They live near the mountaintops and they don't come down much. I think my grandfather captured her or something. Never heard of any elven men in our country, only the occasional elfwife, and none more recent than my grandmother. Why? Does it matter to you?

It may explain the magic that possesses my heart.  I never intended to love anyone so much.

To him I said, No, baby, just curious. A witch might care, though. They're always looking for odd bits from other species to use in their spells so maybe we should keep this a secret.

Odd bits? He paled and glanced down at his crotch and I couldn't help laughing at him.

I think they're more into collecting fingernail clippings or maybe a few eyelashes. Still, what do I know about witches?

Secret is a good idea, he said solemnly.

As we started up the back steps to the kitchen door, I remembered what I hadn't done. One of the things. There are always lists of things I forget but this was the one that mattered to me at the moment.

You know what? I forgot to get groceries today.

We can go to the grocery now, he said.

Dealing with Nicotiana is about as much as I want to do tonight. I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out my cell phone. When my scudzy cousin picked up, I said, Where are you, Jimmy?

The voice from the phone said, Sitting outside the nail shop. Nance is finishing her last customer.

Meet us for pizza, I said.

I didn't have to say where. There are lots of pizza places in Seattle but only one pizza place in Mudflat, run by a guy named Lavon. We don't bother with the others. There is no sauce in the rest of the known world with quite the flavor and as you can imagine, the ingredients are a closely guarded secret.

My grandmother once let it slip that the tomato base contains a spice put together from a witch recipe. She wouldn't tell me any more about it. When I asked who made it, she changed the subject. With her, that ended all discussion.

Who knows what the sauce contains? Obviously I don't. I do know it is way too wonderful to question.

By the time Tarvik and I reached the block long Mudflat business district, Nance and Jimmy were there. I don't know who owns the restaurant. Lavon does the managing and cooking.

It's a neat place to hang out, very casual with small booths around the outer walls and long wood tables and benches in the middle. A mismatch of hanging lights are kept dim. A fire from the open pizza oven flickers behind a serving counter. The walls are paneled in wood and brick. And the place is always crowded in the evening.

Between taking care of the customers at the nail shop where she works, Nance had managed to do her own nails a metallic violet. On a curvy blond teen the effect was super. She waved her hands in the air and light reflections shot out. Was every guy in the place watching her? Oh well, didn't they always? She could have her pick.

So why she picked my ferret-faced cousin Jimmy is a major puzzle to me. He's my age, way too old for her, plus he is a complete scudze, hangs out with all the wrong crowd, never has a job, keeps himself in cash and I don't want to know how, and if I could pry him away from Nance, I would.

When I am not mad at him, I admit that Jimmy has minor appeal. He is thin in a graceful way, has a pleasant voice when he isn't whining, has actually outgrown his childhood pointy nose and chin, and okay, other people say he's good-looking.

Perhaps more important, my grandmother pounded manners into him. He can make a good impression when he wants to. Unfortunately, she was not able to pound ambition into the scudze.

However. As Nance lives with me, I have a whole bunch of very strict rules and terrible threats to back them up. My main rule for Jimmy is this: Keep your hands off the teen. My second rule is: Never be alone with her.

To my surprise he's usually good about both rules. Either he doesn't trust himself or he lives in mortal fear of me. As well he should. Also, I think he loves her so much he's willing to wait. I, too, am waiting. What I am waiting for is a truly nice guy to replace Jimmy in Nance's affections.

When the guys returned from the counter and joined us at the table, Nance twinkled up at Jimmy. What did you order?

He handed around plates containing salad and pizza slices. Sausage for me and Tarvik, veggie for Claire, pepperoni for you, cupcake.

Tarvik set down a pitcher of beer in the middle of the table, then unhooked three mug handles from his fingers. Jimmy went back to the counter to pick up a glass of iced tea for Nance.

I balanced a slice of pizza on my hand, ready to indulge because Lavon's pizza is way past good.

Jimmy leaned toward me, whispering like he didn't want anyone else to hear. The place had the usual background racket of people trying to talk over the noise. His big problem was getting me to hear without shouting. I leaned toward him, not really caring.

When Jimmy targets me for pronouncements I can about guess what he's going to say. Something whiney, something along the lines of help me. He's been doing that since we were little kids.

Hey, cuz, Darryl's on my back again.

I didn't bother telling him to quit borrowing money from Darryl Decko. That conversation is so overdone. 

Darryl Decko intentionally sets up my stupid cousin, hires him to do some job Jimmy can't possibly complete, pays him in advance and then says that although he regrets it, Jimmy now owes him back the pay plus interest. He knows Jimmy can't pay. Oh yeah, Darryl is a sweetie.

And why does he do that, you may wonder, purposely sink money into my lost cause of a cousin? Don't waste a lot of brain power. It's simple. Darryl Decko very much wants me to help him because like it or not, I am good at what I do.

Mix astrology with a little magic and I can come up with some surprisingly accurate predictions. Apply that inherited trick to a guy who is in the middle of a whole lot of gambling scams and he thinks I should be able to make his fortune. Should. Won't.

Forget it, Jimmy. Don't tell me you're in debt to Darryl. Impress me. Tell me something new. Tell me you don't owe that creep a penny.

Oh yeah, best pizza in town. Maybe the best pizza in the world. I held it on my tongue and inhaled all that flavor.

You're saying you won't help me.

I leaned toward him until we were practically nose to nose. I help you all the time, Jimmy. It's Darryl I won't help. Ever. Wise up. He sets you up to get to me and it isn't going to work. Now quit whining and eat your pizza because that's what I'm going to do.

You don't know him, cuz. He won't let me off. He'll come after me.

I was good to my word, concentrated on my pizza and shouted a few compliments about the food to Tarvik and Nance. They were both too busy enjoying to notice Jimmy's ongoing whine.

Forget him, I told Jimmy. He's probably busy with other stuff by now.

What I was thinking was, suppose Nicotiana changed her mind and decided it was Darryl after all who had entered her house? By now he could be head-to-toe rash and hangnails. I wasn't going to explain that to Jimmy, no, but I had to smile to myself at that idea.

In my ear a voice said, Hello, lovely Claire.

You know how some guys like to get so close you can feel their hot damp breath on your ear before they speak? He was one of those. I swung around so fast the side of my forehead cracked into his chin.

He jerked back at about the same moment that Tarvik noticed and shot to his feet.

Vern Price, I said so Tarvik would know it was somebody I knew.

Looking past him, I saw my friend Nicky, Nicotiana's niece. She had a hand tucked around his elbow, very proprietary except that's backwards.

Vern Price is a tall, well built guy, sandy hair with curl, good bones, mean eyes. He was dressed in a sport shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and chinos and attitude. You can tell just looking at him that any woman dumb enough to fall for him is going to be treated like a possession.

Unfortunately, Nicky is smart about everything except men. She is a beautiful version of her aunt, same height and coloring, but Nicky is as graceful as a model and has a lovely face. If she was maybe a little overdressed for pizza in a silk dress and spike-heeled sandals, on Nicky anything looks right.

Her long dark hair was pulled back in a French braid. Once, when I borrowed earrings from Nicky for a fancy date that turned into a fizzle, she tried to do a French braid to my hair. Looked great for ten minutes and then the hairs started sliding out and hanging down my neck.

This place makes amazing pizza, Price said. Must be a secret recipe.

The pizza here is famous for its secret recipe, darling, Nicky said.

Ignoring her, Price stared at me. Do you know the recipe, Claire?

If I knew it, it wouldn't be a secret.

He pretended to laugh. That's about when I noticed the rest of the gang. They'd gone silent, the way our teenagers do when a cop walks into the Center. Tarvik remained standing and I saw the dropped shoulders and curled hands, Tarvik's fighting stance. Why? He'd never met Vern Price before and yet he'd already tagged him as bad news.

Jimmy's reaction wasn't as surprising. Recently when I'd asked if he knew Vern Price, Jimmy had told me that he didn't. Obviously he did. His eyes narrowed and shifted from side to side. That's my cuz, always looking for an escape route.

Lord knows, if I could have dived under the table without calling attention to myself, I would have done that. Okay, what I really wanted to do was duck behind Tarvik but I was still sitting on a bench pulled up to the table and Tarvik was straddling the bench. I don't know when he swung that leg over. I can't keep track of him when he starts moving. Neither can anyone else, which is why he's so good on the soccer field.

Vern Price was between us. 

One squeak out of me and Tarvik would be standing on top of the bench because that boy can jump straight up like a cat. Two squeaks and he'd backhand Price so fast no one would see Tar's arm move. But they'd see Price fly across the room. At least, that's what I figured. Didn't actually work out quite like that.

I tried to de-fuse. I mean, who wants to start a brawl in a public place? With a pleasant smile pasted