How to Stone a Crow (Witch Like a Boss Book 2) Read online

  How to Stone a Crow

  Witch Like a Boss Book Two

  Willow Mason

  Copyright © 2021 Willow Mason

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Cover design by Francesca Michelon at Merry-Book-Round

  www.merrybookround.com

  www.facebook.com/groups/merrybookround/

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the Author

  Also by Willow Mason

  Chapter One

  I was about to grab a spot of lunch when Genevieve came barrelling through the door. Her messy black hair was piled precariously atop her head, secured with a couple of pins. It looked like the entire construction might collapse at any second and drew my attention so fast I didn’t notice the cat carrier until she plonked it down on my kitchen bench.

  “Thank goodness, I caught you. Mwah, mwah.” The supreme air-kissed me on either cheek before twiddling her fingers through the bars of the cage. “This animal is giving me conniptions.”

  I had my hands up in a warding off gesture that had missed its chance to be effective a full minute before. “I’m not a vet and I don’t know the first thing about cats.”

  “This from someone who’s done an admirable job at keeping her panther alive. Besides, this isn’t a pet,” Genevieve scolded, retrieving a mature black cat from the depths of the carrier. “Paisley is a familiar and isn’t she just the cutest thing?”

  Despite the supreme’s cooing, the cat’s fur stood on end while her murder mittens extended fierce claws. Was that dried blood matting her right paw? The feline squirmed out of Genevieve’s grasp and skittered under the table before I could tell for sure.

  Annalisa growled as she entered the room.

  “Where are you from?” I asked Paisley, ignoring my panther for a moment. “Are you one of the familiars causing trouble down the back of my property?”

  the cat replied, loosening her back muscles a smidgeon.

  “Gravestones?” My eyebrows crawled halfway up my forehead as I turned to Genevieve. “Is there a graveyard in the back of my section?”

  “No,” she said in a reassuring voice, laying a comforting hand on my arm for good measure. “There’s no adjoining church, so it’s called a cemetery.”

  If the words were intended to console me, they went far wide of the mark. “Why has nobody ever told me this?”

  “Well, you’ve only been back in town for two minutes. Give us a chance.”

  “Two months,” I spluttered, running a hand through my hair. “How many bodies are buried? Is it a health and safety hazard? Shouldn’t the council relocate them to public property?”

  “Ooh.” Genevieve winced. “I don’t think digging up people who’ve peacefully lain dead for a century is a good idea. Who knows what sort of trouble that could unleash?”

  “You should know. That’s why you’re in charge.”

  Genevieve spluttered with laughter for a second before she seemed to remember she was indeed in charge. “Just don’t do it. Didn’t they get the Poltergeist movie up in Auckland?”

  “Yeah. When I was minus twenty.” I clicked my fingers at the cowering cat, avoiding Annalisa’s glare.

 

  “Paisley doesn’t have to be your familiar,” Genevieve said, getting to her hands and knees as she tried to coax the cat out from under the table. “But she does need someone to look after her, and since you did such a good job with Oscar—”

  “Oscar was a parrot with his own cage and I only babysat him for a fortnight, prearranged.” The longest two weeks of my life. I still had a scar on the back of my hand where the grumpy bird had mistaken me for a seed ball.

  “Same thing.”

  “I’m meant to be a paranormal investigator, not a cat-sitter.” Realising how harsh my words sounded, I offered Paisley a sheepish grin. “No offence.”

  But a glance at the supreme’s face told me it was useless arguing, though my tongue desperately wanted to try. Genevieve took a haphazard approach toward most of her leadership role, but once she put her foot down about something, no matter how trivial, it stayed glued to the floor.

  “I hope you’re not intending to clean up the rogue familiars by dumping them all on my doorstep,” I muttered, moving to the fridge to get out some milk so I could tempt Paisley out of hiding. “Unless the coven is paying me for the privilege.”

  “We’ve all got to muck in if we’re going to clean up this town,” Genevieve said with a clap of her hands, looking brighter now she’d got her way. “All for one and all that jazz.”

  I lifted the disturbingly light two-litre bottle and peered through the half-opaque sides. Not even a dribble left in the bottom. I sighed and put the empty container back in the fridge, miffed at how quietly the door closed. Why couldn’t you slam anything, anymore?

 

  I whirled on my heel, my eyes darting everywhere for the strange voice. Paisley padded out from under the table, having decided pouring scorn on my housekeeping abilities was more important than taking cover.

 

  Wow. Violet sounded great. “Since it’s working hours, this is officially my office and not equipped for drop-ins.” Fantastic. Defending myself to a cat. My day could only go up from here. “I was about to go out for some lunch when you arrived and planned to get milk then.”

 

  I considered pointing out that someone who had the foresight to invest in a spell to produce groceries would never need to use it because they’d never forget to buy food in the first place. That logic could only show me in a bad light, however, so I restrained myself, launching into the obvious question instead. “Who’s Vi—”

  “Uh-uh.” The supreme held a finger to her lips. “If you were on your way out to lunch, I won’t keep you.”

  Paisley sat back on her haunches.

  My eyebrows arched at the question. “There’s no we about it. I’m popping across to the bakery for a treat. I’ll grab some milk for you—”

 

  Genevieve snorted. “I’ve fed you twice already, and I only picked you up at nine o’clock this morning.” Turning to me, she added, “You should drop by the Ambrosia Café. They’ve got a special on this week for cruffins with Earl Grey cream.”

  My stomach growled with pleasure at the suggestion, even as I tried to act nonchalant. “What’s a cruffin?”

  “Half croissant, half muffin, all good.”

  It sounded
delicious.

  Paisley sidled up to rub herself against my lower leg.

  I cast my eyes toward the supreme, wondering if I should dare to ask about the cat’s rough year. In response, she mimed a phone at her ear and mouthed, “I’ll tell you everything later,” before she skedaddled out the door.

  Great. Left without an instruction manual. “I’ll see what I can do. Annalisa, would you mind keeping an eye on our new arrival while I pop out?”

  Paisley’s mouth opened in alarm.

  “You can’t. They don’t allow pets in cafes and I can hardly tie you up outside.”

  The cat raced over to my voluminous handbag and crawled inside, fitting into the confined space like her body was liquid.

  “Fine.” I pulled out my wallet, trying not to disturb Paisley too much. Judging from the amount of hair that dislodged during the brief contact, she was deep in shedding season. “But keep your head down while we’re in the café, all right?”

  Paisley ducked down, muttering,

  “You’ve left the front door wide open again,” Patrick chided as he strolled inside, a leather strap holding one of his paranormal detection machines securely across his chest. “We’re going to give our potential clients the wrong idea if we don’t beef up security.”

  “How’d it go?” He’d been out on a consultation, hoping to secure a contract from a new fixtures and furnishings shop that had set up in Briarton just a month or two before I arrived.

  The ever-so-hipster owners had refurbished an old dentist’s office for their enterprise, keeping a host of original fittings to lend the appropriate air of authenticity to their store. What pain and fear had to do with selecting taps, I didn’t know, but the heart wants what it wants.

  Ever since their grand opening, the poor dears had been inundated with a soul dragging sadness that seemed to leak out from the walls. After attempts at brightening the décor and overhauling the merchandise had proved fruitless, someone had suggested they give us a call.

  “There’s something supernatural at play,” Patrick said with an enormous grin. “My meter was ticking off the charts. Very exciting. And…” He pulled a cheque out of his back pocket. “Ta-da. A deposit.”

  I stared at the slip of paper in dismay. “You realise we don’t have a bank branch here, right? The hole in the wall isn’t going to be happy when you shove that into its slot.”

  “They’re still set up for cheques, for another few months.” Patrick removed his machine, setting it delicately on the table. “I phoned them before taking it.”

  “Hm. Well, tell our new clients the next payment better be by direct deposit, no matter what their core belief system is.” I took the cheque out of his hand and examined it closely. “I don’t understand how this ever became a thing. It’s just an IOU with a bank account printed on it.” My suspicion turned to outrage when I saw the date. “This is for a fortnight from tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. Running a store full of sorrow doesn’t help with upselling clients, but they’ve promised me they’re good for it.” Patrick wrinkled his face. “In a few weeks.”

  I folded the cheque, about to put it in my purse when Paisley stuck her head up, frowning with distaste at the interruption to her promised lunch.

  “Um. Why is there a cat in your handbag?” He held out a finger for Paisley to sniff, then froze, perhaps realising that if Annalisa could use a cloaking spell, so too could our new arrival.

  “The supreme has designated us as her new foster parents.” I tilted my head to one side. “Or rather, you, since I have my hands full with Annalisa.”

 

  “I hope she’s paying us for this.”

  “Oh, she’s good for it, in a few weeks.”

  “Touché.” Patrick picked up his machine again and wandered into the office.

 

  Annalisa shook her head and sauntered over to the window seat, collapsing into the pool of sunlight. She fell asleep before Paisley could respond.

  Somebody knocked on the door and I glanced that way in surprise. In the past few weeks, I’d grown used to everyone I knew just bowling in whenever they felt like it. “Coming,” I yelled when it became obvious that Patrick wasn’t moving a muscle to answer.

  A bedraggled middle-aged woman stood on the doorstep, her face flushed, and her hair tied back in a ragged ponytail, lumps and bumps protruding all over.

  She adjusted a set of horn-rimmed glasses that Dame Edna would have been proud of, then squinted over the top. “Is this the paranormal investigative unit?”

  “Sure is.” I stepped back. “Come on inside.”

  “Oh… well… no, I don’t want to intrude.”

  Definitely not a member of my aunt’s circle. “It’s no bother. What do you need help with?”

  The woman snuck one foot inside, clinging to the doorframe and leaving her other foot on the mat as though her shoes had serious commitment issues. “It’s to do with my fiancé.”

  I nodded and plastered a large smile on my face, hoping she hadn’t confused us with the private eye in Briarton who specialised in fraudulent building claims and cheating spouses. “What about him?”

  She pulled at her ponytail, sucking in a large breath, her eyes turning to glance back at the street, checking her exit was clear.

  “He’s dead,” she whispered before heaving in another deep breath. “He was murdered.”

  Chapter Two

  “Please eat something,” I urged fifteen minutes later as the woman sat in a puddle of tears at my kitchen table, still unable to speak. The last few biscuits from a stale packet of gingernuts where the best I could do at short notice and I nudged the plate closer. “Get your blood sugar levels up.”

  “Would you like us to call the police?” Patrick asked from the doorway, hovering in a way that set my teeth on edge but appeared to comfort our distraught client. “We can ask them for more details if you give us your name.”

  “P-P-P-Pru Donnelly,” the woman spluttered before another wave of sorrow turned her mute.

  As Patrick made good on his promise, I patted the back of Pru’s hand, feeling wholly inadequate. I’d already made a cup of tea and offered snacks. Until we had more information, the best I could do was click my tongue in sympathy and power on through the awkwardness.

  My partner shook his head, moving into the hallway to muffle his conversation. Uh-oh. That wasn’t the sign I wanted to see.

  Was there a spell for grief? If so, I couldn’t remember it. Perhaps the one I used for drying up the spill underneath the dishwasher when the pipe disconnected mid-cycle would do?

  Luckily, Patrick came back before I put that disastrous thought to good use. “I’ve spoken with Sergeant Grosvenor and he remembers the case.” He helped himself to a biscuit then turning his nose up as his teeth encountered softness instead of crunch.

  Remembers? What a weird thing to say about an active homicide case. Unless… “When did your fiancé die?”

  Pru waved her hands in distress, one of them settling on a biscuit that she made gone in a few seconds flat before she chugged half her cup of tea. “It’s been a while.”

  I turned to Patrick, and he nodded. “Fifteen years,” he mouthed, taking a seat opposite me so Pru was sandwiched between us. “I guess it’s something you never really get over.”

  “Haven’t they solved the homicide?”

  Patrick appeared to be trying to communicate using only his eyebrows, but whatever he wanted to convey was beyond my ability. “Please just use your words.”
>
  “The sergeant didn’t seem to think there was a murder.”

  “Neither did I,” Pru managed, wiping her face dry with the heel of her hand. “Until this morning. Andrew always seemed perfectly content, but now… now…” She shook her head.

  Annalisa said, strolling into the room and curling up at my feet.

  “Except it wasn’t a heart attack.” Pru sobbed again, then slapped her palm flat on the table in frustration. “He told me someone poisoned him. Someone wanted to get him out of the way.”

  Patrick settled back in his chair, used to disentangling the threads of conversations with familiars he couldn’t hear. “Why didn’t the police pick that up during his original autopsy?”

  “How should I know?” The woman’s newfound anger cut through her sorrow, and with a sniff, Pru regained her composure. “Maybe they’re all useless at their jobs. Maybe they didn’t think to look. Maybe—”

  “Who told you this?” I asked. “If your fiancé’s been dead for so long, who decided it was a good idea to dredge up this accusation today?”

  “He did. From his own lips.”

  “But he’s…” Patrick searched for a polite way to say what we were both thinking.

  “If he’s dead, how is he talking to you?”

  “His ghost told me.” Pru wiped her face with her sleeve, drying up the last of her tears. “Every morning, he comes and keeps me company during breakfast. It’s like our… routine, I guess you’d call it. We have a wee chat, and he leaves, then he’ll turn up again the next morning.”