Candy cane conspiracy, p.14
Candy Cane Conspiracy, page 14
Sylvester was early.
Not really. Three minutes didn’t qualify as early in the normal scheme of things, but that was what I told him when he scanned my disaster of a kitchen.
“If the mess and the aroma are anything to go by, this meal is going to be amazing.”
I sighed. Even as polite as Sylvester was, this level of disarray couldn’t be ignored. “My sister told me to finish early, because she knows what I’m like. But then, if I finish early, the food’s not hot. And cleaning as I go is literally impossible for me.”
Cold prosciutto-wrapped chicken just didn’t really hit the mark. And keeping it warmed made it dry, so also a no.
“Between a tidy kitchen and a hot meal, I’ll take the hot meal every time.” He smiled and offered the bottle of wine he’d brought. “Thanks for cooking.”
And that set the tone for the evening. Sylvester was appreciative of the food and warmly friendly. And when the meal was over, he insisted on cleaning up with me. “I find it relaxing, truly.”
So we washed and dried pots and pans side by side.
As I scrubbed a resistant spot, I said, “Do you think ICWP would let me work on other cases in the future? The kind with magical creature angles?”
He leaned against the counter, and I turned to look at him. Sylvester was a sexy beast. Sleeves rolled up so he could help me wash dishes, relaxed from a good meal and the wine he’d thoughtfully provided, it was all I could do not to let out a girlish sigh. He was that good looking.
“I’d planned to wait until you’d at least had a decent night’s sleep before bringing it up, but yes, they’d be interested. More than interested; they’ve approved it. I’ve already asked if you can officially consult on relevant cases. As a consultant, you’ll only work the cases you want, you won’t be responsible for filing case paperwork, and you’ll get paid naturally.”
“Wow. Thanks. Obviously, the money is nice, but I’m really glad that you’d like to have me on cases in the future.”
“I like working with you, but…”
That didn’t sound good. I liked working with Sylvester. I also liked having dinner and washing dishes with him, and spending time together in general. No buts.
He set down the towel he’d been using to dry dishes. “Let’s have a seat.”
Just great. This was the part where he’d say, “You’re great to work with, but I’m not romantically interested.”
I was very familiar with the speech, except it was usually me giving it.
Back when I dated.
Which I hadn’t since I’d acquired my new magical skill and all its baggage.
We moved to the living room and sat down, me in a wing chair and Sylvester perched on the edge of my couch with his forearms on his thighs and his hands clasped.
He didn’t look closed off and defensive. He looked ready to talk. “Full disclosure, I did that research we talked about.”
I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. “And that has something to do with you not wanting to work with me?”
And now he was confused. “I want to work with you. I petitioned ICWP with Bastian’s support to have you classified as a consultant.”
“There just seemed to be a catch,” I reminded him.
“Oh, no. I simply want you to have all the facts. I want you as a consultant, because I enjoy working with you and also because of your unique magic. But to be clear, whatever you decide, I’d like to continue our personal relationship.”
He didn’t hem and haw. He said what he meant. Which to me, given my mindset in the last year or so, seemed awfully brave.
I blushed. Of course I did. Stupid red hair.
“I feel the same way.” Okay then, with that feeble but difficult confession made I was ready to move on. “What did you find in your research?”
“Ah, hunters and champions. You remember the fairies mentioned both?” I’d forgotten about that, but now that he mentioned it, I did. When I nodded, he continued, “I’m familiar with demon hunters, because they’ve historically pursued daimon who crossed into this world.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m sorry about that.” Obviously he was fine, but still, to be pursued had to have been terribly stressful.
He inclined his head in an acceptance of my sympathy, but he moved on rather than dwelling in the past. “I didn’t realize that fairies had their own mythology around these same people. I hadn’t realized that demon hunters were in fact hunters of all those who crossed into this world.”
“I really don’t get what makes witches with this kind of magic ‘hunters.’ I don’t have any inclination to chase down squirrel-fairies or chicken-dragons or cat-devils, and certainly not a ‘creature’ who isn’t a creature at all. Daimons are practically indistinguishable from witches.”
“I was aware from the moment we met that you lacked that particular inclination. As were the fairies, hence their claim that you’re no hunter.”
“But they also claimed I was no champion. I assume that’s the other sort of witch who ends up with this sort of magic.”
“Correct. You lack a magical hunter’s drive to find, capture, and destroy, so you’re no hunter. By default, that would make you a champion.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Except I’m not. I was hardly the defender of the dragon scourge that roosted in my yard in Austin. I’d have preferred they live just about anywhere else. I really am no champion.”
“But you could be.”
If being a champion was all about protecting, then Tiffany had been more of a champion than I. “Do you think Tiffany was?”
“Not exactly, but I think that was her inclination.” He sat up and leaned back in the sofa. “I think she went astray. That she had emotions and feelings she didn’t know how to deal with, and she went about trying to right a wrong in the worst possible way.”
“If you’re worried I’ll do something equally foolish—”
“Not at all.” And he didn’t look like he was worried about the possibility. Not even a little bit. He still looked just as relaxed as he had earlier.
I swallowed a sigh. Wine, food, and conversation agreed with Sylvester.
“So, what’s your hesitation?”
“I don’t have one. I just wanted you to be aware of my findings. I didn’t want you to feel like I’d taken advantage of your special skill in recruiting you to ICWP.”
I grinned. I was pretty sure that Sylvester had faults. He probably left the toilet seat up, never put his socks in the laundry basket, and did all sorts of other irritating things. But I liked him, and I was looking forward to working with him.
And I told him exactly that.
The second part. The bit about liking him he probably already knew.
Epilogue
It was Christmas Eve morning, and it had snowed overnight.
As soon as I saw the weather forecast the night previous, I’d set my alarm for early in the morning. I hadn’t removed all the candy canes that the fairies had draped in my shrubs and tree, and I wanted to see what they looked like all lit up with the snow as a backdrop.
I pulled on my fuzzy, warm robe, then headed for the huge windows at the front of the house. My living room looked out onto the front yard and offered the perfect view.
And it was perfect.
A bit of moonlight reflecting off the snow made it seem brighter outside, but it was still dark enough for the glow of my magical candy canes to sparkle in the night.
When Miles discovered that my candy cane message had arrived as ornaments in my tree and that they glowed, he’d made a point of telling me that Tiffany’s candy canes hadn’t glowed.
I was about ninety-seven percent sure that Lina was right and the fairies had heard me bemoaning my lack of Christmas decorations this year. They’d intended the candy canes as a message, but they’d also made an effort to lift my Christmas spirits in the process. Pretty funny considering their reluctantly grumpy holiday wishes to me.
After enjoying the display, I headed for the back door. I needed to have a look at the patio.
A few nights ago, I left a thermos with hot chocolate on the woodpile along with three mugs. I’d also left a note. Want more? Leave the thermos.
They left the thermos. It was empty and sparkling clean. I’d refilled it every night since.
This morning I found the thermos, once again empty, but I also found a small note. It was the same piece of paper I’d left for them a few days prior; they’d simply used the back.
Happy holidays
No punctuation, no signature. But there were several small paw prints that looked an awful lot like three furry fairies might have made them.
I hope you enjoyed Trixie and Sylvester’s first case together! They’ll be solving more mysteries in the future, starting with Sugar Plum Ploy, now available for pre-order.
If you haven’t already read Tea with a Demon, pick up a copy to read Trixie and Aunt Griselda’s interview of Sylvester.
And for more mysteries in this world featuring Lina and Bastian, check out the Cursed Candy Mystery series, beginning with Cutthroat Cupcakes.
Check out my Vegan Vamp Mysteries for another series featuring a female lead who’s just discovered her new powers. The heroine Mallory isn’t at all what a vampire is supposed to be, but she’s all the more fabulous for it!
Turn the page for an excerpt from Adventures of a Vegan Vamp, the first book in Mallory’s series…
EXCERPT: Adventures of a Vegan Vamp
I died a little.
I wish I could say it was a blur, but it’s a blank. A mystery.
I was an anxiety-ridden, overachieving, successful (and perhaps not entirely likable) professional—and human. I definitely started this story very human.
But now I’m none of those things.
This story is about the murder of that woman and catching the man who killed her. It’s also about how I became a vampire and also a little about how becoming a vampire was the best thing that could have happened to me.
Why did my mouth feel like it had been stuffed with cotton balls? I tried to swallow and almost threw up in my mouth.
Not good. Very not good. I held my breath and fought the urge to swallow again.
I needed to be absolutely still. Moving made me want to ralph, and I would never make it to the bathroom.
Even the thought of moving made my head pound with a vicious rhythm.
My eyelid cracked of its own volition and the pain at the base of my skull and behind my eyes ratcheted up. I carefully shut my eyes and lay very, very still.
Finally, after counting backward from a hundred, I started to feel myself drift away.
My eyelids popped open. I did a quick check for eyelid gunk, but my eyes were surprisingly clear of superglue funk. A buzzing energy filled me, not unlike a massive caffeine high. Not traditionally a morning person, that was more than a little surprising.
All of that energy was accompanied by a massive thirst that reminded me of the pitcher I’d filled earlier. I turned to my bedside table, planning to drain the pitcher—but it was already empty. Odd. I didn’t remember waking up, and certainly didn’t remember drinking an entire pitcher of water.
I made my way to the kitchen in search of liquids. I even considered braving some milk. But sanity returned when I remembered my earlier puke-fest. Water for now. After drinking three tall glasses, I filled a fourth glass and sat down at my computer. I needed to go to the doctor, preferably right now, while I still had the energy to get dressed and leave the house. Who knew how long that would last? And I needed a new doctor. My guy wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t have weekend hours—and he just wasn’t going to work.
Three rejections later, I’d exhausted the only options that fit my needs. Finding anyone with weekend hours, who was accepting new patients, and took my insurance, was apparently an impossible task. I tried to take a drink, but found I’d drained yet another glass of water. I stared at the empty glass. That was not normal.
I tried not to get frustrated, but I was on the clock. Who knew when my little energy boost would fade away, and I’d end up passed out in bed again for several hours?
With renewed determination, I scratched insurance off my list of requirements and kept searching. Five minutes later, I’d found a doctor who shared a clinic with several alternative medicine practitioners. Not sure how I felt about that, but she had weekend hours and the website declared, “New patients welcome.” I wasn’t holding my breath, because two other traditional doctors had said the same—but that didn’t include new patients to be seen this weekend.
Also, I wasn’t entirely sure what alternative medicine meant in the context of this practice. The two doctors on staff were both MDs, but it looked like the practice offered some other therapies. Maybe that meant they’d be open-minded about my weird symptoms? Or at least not assume I was starving myself intentionally. The thought was enough for me to dial the number.
“Doctor’s office. How may I help you?” The chirpy voice on the line sounded helpful enough.
“I’m in urgent need of an appointment this weekend. Do you have any available?”
“Are you already a patient with us?”
I wanted to groan in frustration, but managed to filter out my annoyance—I hoped. “No, but I really do need to see someone quickly.”
“Well…” The young woman on the phone at least pretended that she wanted to help. So far, that was much better than the other calls.
I tried for a little pity. “My symptoms have been rather alarming, and I don’t think an ER visit is going to be any help.”
A loud sigh puffed across the line. “Tell me what your symptoms are, and—no promises—maybe we can fit you in on Monday or Tuesday.”
That was the best offer I’d had so far.
“Rapid weight loss, persistent and unquenchable thirst, aching muscles—though that’s gone now—and long periods of sleep. Oh—and I can’t seem to keep food down.” I reviewed my mental symptom checklist. “I think that’s it.”
“All right. I’ll check in with the doctor, but she’s quite busy today. We may not be back in touch until Monday. And if at any time you feel like there’s an emergency, you should seek help from an urgent care facility or the emergency room.”
“Yes, I understand that.” I mentally shrugged as I gave her my contact details. Losing twenty-five pounds in days was likely a really big emergency—but I was mobile and staying hydrated. And I really, really didn’t want to go to the ER. What would the ER do for me besides send me a massive bill? I was walking and talking and had no pain.
I was scrolling through alternative choices online, holding on to the ridiculous hope someone would see me before Monday, when my phone rang.
As I tapped accept, I realized it was the number for the alternative medicine clinic. “Hello?”
“This is Dr. Dobrescu. Is this Mallory Andrews?”
It hadn’t even been five minutes, so the doctor obviously hadn’t been that busy.
“Yes, that’s me. Do you think you might get me in?”
“When did your symptoms start?” Brisk and businesslike, Dr. Dobrescu wasn’t messing about.
“Maybe Tuesday? As I told your receptionist, I’ve been sleeping quite a bit, so I can’t say exactly.”
“Are you missing any time?”
“I’m not sure what—” I suddenly realized I had no idea how I got home from the bar. Two white wine spritzers wouldn’t have that effect. “Ah, maybe.”
Silence followed.
I checked to see that I hadn’t accidentally ended the call, but it was still live on my end. “Dr. Dobrescu?”
“As soon as you can, come in.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’ll fit you in. When can we expect you?”
The clinic had gone from “maybe Monday or Tuesday” to “come in now” in the space of minutes, and I hadn’t even mentioned exactly how much weight I’d lost. I didn’t think my symptoms were that specific—at least not according to Google. But given my situation, especially the part where I needed to show up at work on Monday to keep my job, I could hardly be choosy. “I can be there in forty-five minutes.”
“We’ll be ready for you.”
I ended the call and then found myself staring at the phone. We’ll be ready for you. The call had been just a little bit off. Or my imagination was running wild. Probably the latter given my less-than-stellar reasoning skills on an empty stomach.
Rooting around in my closet finally produced an old tennis skirt that almost fit and an only slightly oversized T-shirt. I skipped my usual shower, because I was on a tight timeline. I felt like a narcoleptic time bomb.
As I zipped along in my flashy red Audi TT, two things bothered me. I’d never thought my car was flashy before today, and I was less comfortable driving a new sports car than I was with the sad state of my attire. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in public looking quite so rumpled. But the normal anxiety—that “what would people think” feeling that I normally suffered—simply wasn’t there. It was liberating.
The office wasn’t at all what I expected; it looked like any other doctor’s office. The only thing different from my regular, cranky-old-man doctor’s office was the speed with which the staff ushered me into an exam room. I typically waited fifteen to thirty minutes at a minimum. And it wasn’t as if the practice wasn’t busy. The receptionist hadn’t exaggerated. I’d parked across the street because the office’s lot had been full.
I sat down on the edge of the examining table and watched in surprise as the nurse or assistant—I wasn’t sure which, because she hadn’t bothered to introduce herself—disappeared out the door. She’d gone without taking a history, or commenting on when the doctor would be able to see me, or even a goodbye. Looking back, the only direct interaction I’d had with the staff was to confirm my name.
“Curiouser and curiouser.” I flipped through the contacts in my phone, trying to find someone—anyone—that I could send a quick text with my location and a heads-up to check on me in an hour or so.
