A Spell in Time: Mystic Time Cozy Mystery Series, #1

By L. B. Diamond and Lishla Barron

Artist and singer, Ari, reconnects with the father of her son, finds her new powers, and solves a murder or three by the famed Stonehenge in Salisbury, England. Throw in a black panther shifter love interest, Erzulie Dantor the loa as a drummer, and a mage as their music producer for a fun vacation read. (This is a shared world with the Mystic Forest series.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. B. Diamond
• Release date: Dec 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223387602

Book preview

Prologue

Ialmost held my breath as I listened to his phone ring and ring and ring. Chiara had assured me that this was his latest cell phone number, and she was very rarely wrong.

I bit my lip as his voicemail picked up. It was actually his voice! I had only heard it from radio and television interviews over the last several years, not that I would, or could, forget the sound of his voice.

I wanted to say something snarky or rude, but my heart was pounding too hard. I fingered the sterling silver necklace with the aquamarine pendant my sister had given me last month. There were six silver hearts in a circle, creating a star, with the clear blue stone at the center. Each of the six hearts represented each of the six cousins in our family.

I took a breath, rolled my eyes at myself for being ridiculous, and began speaking at the sound of the stupid beep.

This is Ari. I’m at Stonehenge in England this week. I’m producing my latest album. Want to collaborate with me on a song? I’ll even let you promote it if you want, I said, before humming the first few bars of A Dab of Color – an upbeat song about missing someone. Yeah, I know, sounds corny, but it was a pretty song.

As I disconnected the call, I let out a breath and wondered if he would show up. I had given him the location and times, but five and half years was a long time, with a lot of hurt feelings between us. I didn’t know if the distance would help us at this point. I really hoped so, because it was past time for him to get to know his son – one he probably didn’t even realize that he had.

Not for a lack of trying on my part years ago.

I shook my short auburn hair, cut in a wavy page boy haircut, liberally highlighted with different colors, as if I was sporting streaks of a variety of brightly-colored paint. As an artist, color was almost my everything.

Oddly enough, I only had a sprinkling of freckles across my nose and a few on the inside of my elbows from skin damage – unlike my older sister, Anne, who also sported the auburn hair that we inherited from our mother – she was drenched in freckles.

I had uber pale skin and green eyes. I didn’t tan in the sun; I burned, and burned badly, which was why sunscreen was my friend. SPF 100 was what I carried in my purse. I liked to embrace makeup as an artform for my face, specifically around my eyes, which is why I usually wore my contacts, not glasses. I also loved fun, expressive earrings, because they don’t get in the way of painting or creating music like rings or bracelets do.

I’m average height for a woman with enough curves to make me feel girlie, and my rear looks great in a pair of jeans.

Iced coffee in the morning is a must, as it wakes me up. Hot coffee makes me sleepy – which may sound odd, but whatever. Hot cocoa is best for sharing with people, like my sister or my son.

Mommy! cried a little boy around five years old. He had his father’s jet black hair and amber eyes, matched with my pale skin. His hair had my red and blonde highlights. He looked like a bright blue puff ball in his down winter jacket, knit hat, and mittens. It was February in England, and the temperature was around 42 degrees Fahrenheit. I should know what that was in Celsius, but I never really cared.

I picked him up and swung him around, letting him ride on my back, as he made the giddyap horsey noises. I had to be careful to keep him on my back, as my coat was a bit slippery. I wore layers upon layers – from my paint-splattered heather ocean blue fleecy overalls and turtleneck sweatshirt to my warm socks and rain poncho with matching hat and gloves.

The outfit was from my clothing line.

I know, I know – a clothing line. I’m a paint-splattered artist, why would I have a clothing line?

Before my son, Byron, was born, I had half of my closet which was paint free, and the other half I had somehow advertently, or inadvertently, gotten paint on. After he was born, I seemed to have less and less clothes that were free from paint, or other messes, which I covered up with by smearing paint.

With my second album being as much of a hit as my first, I was approached to do a clothing line of my style. After much debate and discussion, we came up with shirts and capris which were loose fitting, slightly oversized, using natural fibers of a cotton hemp blend, with light colors for spring and summer that were iconically paint-splattered – all on sale at your local department store.

The spring and summer line did so well, that we did a winter line of fleecy pants with matching slightly oversized turtleneck sweatshirts – all paint-splattered of course – in somewhat darker colors of heather deep ocean blue, heather soft gray, heather chocolate brown, and heather dark green.

The winter line had been as successful as the summer line, so now we were looking at fun paint-splattered pajamas for adults and children. Each clothing line gave 50% of the proceeds to a different charity.

I also received samples for me and Byron, which kept us in clothes for quite a while. That helped tremendously because he seemed to be always outgrowing everything.

I loved having Byron with me, even though keeping him entertained often took us a lot longer to get work done. My sister, who was a park ranger at Fort Mountain State Park in Georgia, offered to keep him while I did the album, but I couldn’t bear to be away from my little man for so long.

I hadn’t expected to get pregnant at the age of 34 and give birth a day before my 35th birthday, but he was one of the very best parts of my life. Being 40 with a five year old was an interesting experience.

Can you sing like we practiced when Mr. Mark says it’s time? I asked as I gently placed him on his feet in the grass. Mark was my music producer. He had produced my first two albums – one in Paris (before Byron was born) and one at Fort Mountain State Park when Byron was a toddler.

My son nodded his head and jumped a bit up and down. After we sing, can we finish our pictures? he asked me.

We had set up two easels – the larger one for me and a smaller one for him. I was painting the landscape, with Stonehenge in the background. He was dabbing colors in splotches in a much more abstract way, which was fine with me. The gallery would probably ask for both pictures.

I nodded. If you get bored during the singing, you can go back to painting your picture, I added.

I also like moving the rocks around, Byron told me seriously.

Okay, I nodded, not paying much attention. I was looking around the grounds to make sure everything was set up for the next song.

Mommy, he pleaded.

I turned to face him.

See! he said, pointing to a small pile of large stones, then waving his hands.

As he waved his hands, the rocks moved from one pile to another on their own. I saw a brief flash of a small pearl ring on his right hand, and the scent of cinnamon whispered through the air.

I could have sworn I saw a wisp of cinnamon brown sparkles in the air as well, but it was gone in an instant.

Chapter 1

My name is Arielle , and I’m an artist, songwriter, singer, and most of all – a mom. My friends call me Ari. Although, my sister, who is one of my very best friends, still calls me Arielle.

My sister, Anne, said that we were both earth witches, but I’m waiting to see if my powers manifest on my birthday, like hers did. The whole witch thing began with my grandmother on my mother’s side more than a hundred years ago – at least that’s what my mother told me when I was young. She was the oldest of three sisters, and was the designated keeper of the keys.

The keeper of the keys is the keeper of the magic, or the head of the magical household. Since Mom died five years ago – the stress of which caused me to go into pre-term labor with Byron, the keeper of the keys was passed down to her middle sister, Zoe. My aunts, Zoe and Zenith, both died several weeks ago due to a horrible carbon monoxide leak in their rented cabin. Since then, my older sister had become the keeper of the keys.

When Anne told me of coming into her powers last month, she began our myriad of discussions on magic and reminded me of all the different spells Mom had taught us growing up to prepare us for handling our powers when we received them.

At no time did Anne mention that Byron would be getting his powers now. That was the whole point of having a keeper of the keys – to bind the powers of the younger generation while they were still too young to be able to control themselves and their powers.

I didn’t have my powers yet. Ostensibly, they would be arriving with my birthday – tomorrow.

I gently pulled both of Byron’s hands into my own. Sweetie, let’s not pile the rocks right now, okay? Why don’t you go work on your painting while we get ready for our next song?

He nodded. I didn’t think he had noticed the pearl ring yet. I wanted to run my finger over it, but I didn’t want to call attention to the ring now.

Oh, and Byron? Let’s wait to show everyone else about your rocks until tomorrow. Okay, honey? I said casually. Anyone else overhearing me wouldn’t think anything strange, as Byron was known for making piles of rocks everywhere we went. Evidently, he was probably going to be an earth witch as well. Or, was the term supposed to be wizard because he was a boy? I’d have to ask Anne about that.

When I could be sure he was several feet away and out of earshot, I called my sister frantically. Thankfully, she picked up on the first ring.

Anne!

You sound upset, Arielle. What’s going on? she asked me, sounding as if she was standing next to me, even though I knew she was most likely standing in her kitchen, drinking a cup of hot herbal tea at this time of the morning in her kitchen. There was a five hour time difference between England and the state of Georgia in the southeastern United States.

You have to bind Byron’s powers! I hissed, trying to keep my voice low.

He has powers?! He shouldn’t have powers! Oh, no! The binding spell in the ceremony must have been only for children born in wedlock – you can thank Mom for not updating the spell! I didn’t even think about it! I am so sorry! Well, that explains Brooke, she added.

Brooke? You mean your Brooke? Is she there? I asked confused. Brooke was Anne’s daughter she had given up for adoption decades ago. Brooke had to be about 34 by now.

Yes, she’s here, and not really happy about it. I’ll fill you in later. In the meantime, I’ll do some research about binding Byron’s powers as soon as possible! she assured me.

The sky picked that moment to do what it had been threatening to do for the last few hours – open up and provide a steady stream of water onto our heads. Everyone grabbed their instruments, Mark handled the recording equipment, while Byron and I quickly packed up our paintings, easels, and paints.

Thankfully, we were all fairly prepared for bad weather, and had rain tarps ready to cover everything immediately so that nothing was damaged. We stashed everything under our large canopy and debated what to do next.

We were staying at the Stonehenge Inn, which was a small bed and breakfast a couple of miles away.

We could go back to the hotel and listen to what we did this morning, Leo said reasonably. He was the bass player, and a city person at heart. He and Germaine, the keyboardist, didn’t understand why anyone would be in the country if they could spend time in the city, any city. Stonehenge was lovely, but a bit too rural for their tastes.

Chloe, the violinist, tended to agree with them. Victoria, my drummer, didn’t really care where she played, as long as she could drum without anyone complaining about the noise.

I had met all of them in Paris when I fled there after Callum and I had broken up. Lorelei, my best friend, had been living with Trina (her lover at the time) in the artist section of the city. She had invited me to stay as long as I needed while I was nursing my broken heart.

I had gone to the local bar one evening. After a few drinks, everyone encouraged me to get up and play the song I had been messing around with all week. I borrowed some guy’s guitar, fiddled with it for a few minutes, and then belted out my heart’s miseries.

Mark heard me and offered to produce my music. He was staying in Paris for a few months because he was trying to crawl out of the bottle he had put himself in when his wife came home one day and announced she wanted a divorce. (For the record, they never did get a divorce – just a really intensely long separation, before they found their way back to each other after lots of messy stuff in between.)

I thought he must be crazy, but after Lorelei vetted him with some of her friends, I agreed. Through different contacts – his and mine, we managed to pick up Leo, Chloe, Victoria, and Germaine. Lorelei, my bestie, played guitar and sang backup. Leo was a bassist, Chloe a violinist, Germaine a keyboardist, and Victoria was on drums.

We spent the next few months creating my first album all over the streets of Paris. It was an amazing experience.

I realized I was pregnant with Byron at some point during the creation of that album. After I released it, I tried to contact Callum, Byron’s father, to let him know – but he wouldn’t return my calls.

Callum was the great Callum Collins – voted Sexiest Man for People Magazine the last two years running. He was also now