A Malevolent Magic in Faerywood Falls Read online

  A Malevolent Magic in Faerywood Falls

  Blythe Baker

  Copyright © 2019 by Blythe Baker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Description

  Newsletter Invitation

  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

  About the Author

  As evil curses go, this one’s the worst ...

  Marianne is finally beginning to feel safe in Faerywood Falls. She’s come to grips with her new magical abilities, and so far, none of the powerful Gifted factions in town have worked out her faery origins. She’s even attracted the interest of two very different men – even if she’s not sure how far to trust either of them.

  But everything falls apart with the sudden death of the only person around who seems to know the truth about Marianne’s past. Reeling from the blow of losing her best chance at uncovering more information about her biological mother, Marianne sets out to learn who’s behind the tragedy.

  When her investigation brings her into conflict with the Blackburn family, she’ll have to discover once and for all just how far the vampire clan might go to protect their own secrets.

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  1

  Mornings were usually my favorite time of day, especially at the antique shop. In the early hours before the customers arrived, when the warm, bright rays of dawn’s light would stream through the old windows at the front of the shop, I’d feel like I was the only one awake. Time moved more slowly. The coffee was warm, the steam swirling in the air, the bitter scent soothing as I’d dust the shelves, listening to the trickle of the liquid gold into the coffee pot in the next room. I’d hum quietly to myself, still blinking sleep from my eyes and considering the list of things needing to be accomplished throughout the rest of the day.

  But this morning was different.

  I was exhausted, having barely slept the night before. After tossing and turning, cold sweat making my shirt cling to my back and my mind filled with the same dream over and over, I finally got up and cleaned my entire cabin, hoping to clear my head. I did laundry, washed all the dishes, and even mopped the floors, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d found.

  A baby blanket splashed with dark, coppery, dried blood was a horrifying image in and of itself, but knowing that it had been mine made it all that much more chilling. Something so innocent tainted by something so cruel was such a vast paradox.

  I was immensely grateful that I couldn’t remember what happened the night I’d been wearing that blanket, but I pitied my infant self for having to experience whatever it was that happened. Something violent. Something that no child should ever have to see.

  On the other hand, I wished, in a small way, that I did remember it. It would answer a lot of questions that I had about myself, and likely, about my parents. The blood had to belong to one of them.

  After leaving my aunt’s lodge the night before, I called Sheriff Garland.

  “It’s really more of a personal favor…” I said to him. “I found something of mine from when I was a little girl, and I would really like to have a DNA test done on it.”

  He seemed confused. “What makes you think it’ll show anything apart from your own DNA?”

  “Because…there’s blood on it,” I said. “And I’m fairly certain it isn’t mine.”

  He told me to swing by the police station on my way home, which I did. I dropped off the blanket, which he promptly sealed inside a thick, plastic bag after giving it a curious glance. He’d likely seen a lot worse in his day, so some flecks of blood weren’t enough to unsettle him like they did me.

  “You’ll have to head over to the hospital,” he said. “Get some blood work of your own done. Then we’ll have it sent off. It may take some time to check, since the sample is so old, but I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  I went to the hospital just as it was getting dark, got some blood drawn without any questions asked by the nurse tending to me, and was sent on my way.

  I was told it could take up to a week to get the results, and knew that I was now signing up for a few grueling days as I waited. I tried not to let my worries govern how I went about my day. I had a thousand questions constantly chasing themselves around in my mind, and I was having a hard time keeping them at bay.

  When I finally dragged myself out of my cabin, I headed to the antique shop almost two hours early. I did my best not to wake Mr. Cromwell, but he was already awake. We enjoyed breakfast together, and he gave me some of the tea that his daughter had brought home for him from England recently.

  “What’s troubling you?” he’d asked me. “I can see in those pretty eyes of yours that something is wrong.”

  I swirled the silver spoon around the inside of my teacup. The sugar cubes at the bottom slowly dissolved into the golden tea. “It’s nothing, really. Just family stuff.”

  “Oh, well, I know all about that,” Abe said with a nod. “I won’t pry, but I will say this…family issues may always seem as if they are the end of the world, but truly, they are not. They always resolve themselves somehow, some way.”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, Mr. Cromwell. I needed to hear that.”

  I made my way downstairs a little while later and began to set the shop up; getting the cash register ready, restocking the pamphlets at the back counter, and arranging a small table in the corner of the room away from the front door, my heart racing as I did.

  My anxiety wasn’t only stemming from the anticipation of getting the results back from the maternity DNA test, though that was certainly a large portion of it. In my sleep deprived state that morning, I had dug up Ruth Cunningham’s number off the internet and left her a voicemail.

  With the results of the DNA test coming, I found myself thinking about the death records once again. I thought about the blood on the blanket, and how the files had been mysteriously removed from city hall. I then thought about Ruth and how I’d gone to visit her, as she’d once been the head of the record keeping department. She’d seemed shifty when I asked her about the missing files, and I knew there was more to it than she was letting on.

  Well, I was getting awfully tired of all the mysterious circumstances surrounding my origins, and I wanted answers. And in some crazy way, I thought that she might have them and had withheld them from me.

  So the voicemail I left was…well, it wasn’t exactly an invitation to come to the antique shop to speak with me as much as it was a demand. A threat, maybe, even. I told her that I had proof she’d doctored the death records and hidden the ones about my parents. I may have said something about exposing what she did, which could possibly lead to legal action, unless she agreed to come and tell me the truth.

  As I spread a tablecloth over the small table washed in morning sunlight, I found myself regretting ever picking up the phone in the first place. I was not one for lying, and never had been. Somehow, I’d let my emotions get the better of me. I was angry about how everything had been. I was upset with my a
unt for hiding the blood-stained blanket from me. I just wanted answers, and so I took my frustrations out on someone who definitely didn’t deserve it.

  But she was keeping something from you, obviously, I kept reminding myself. And whatever that was might be the key to finding out who your parents were, or what happened to them.

  Regardless, I hoped that I’d have a name when the DNA test results were done. Then I’d probably be able to ask Ruth about specific names.

  Why hadn’t I waited until then? Why had I let my frustration with the whole situation, my own unease, push me to be so demanding? It was unlike me, and I didn’t like it.

  I hoped that she wouldn’t check her voicemail. I knew it was naïve to think that way, but the twisting knots in my stomach were making me feel lightheaded, and I half hoped that she would never get my message, and therefore never show up at the shop.

  I thought about calling her and telling her to delete the message, telling her I meant it for someone else or something like that. But I knew that would backfire as well. She’d either check it anyways, curious about what I said, or I’d be lying again, and I was already racked with enough guilt without that.

  I smoothed the table cloth, my heart beating so hard that I could feel it in my head.

  I turned to the faded velvet sofa beside the table to pick up the small plates I wanted to set out on the table when my elbow caught something on the shelving unit behind me.

  A small, ornate wooden box toppled off and onto the floor. It struck with a crash, tumbled a few times end over end, and finally stopped when it struck the leg of another shelf across from it.

  The top of the small box popped open, and a silver necklace rolled out onto the floor at my feet. A glittering opal the size of my thumb hung from the thin, silver chain.

  As I stooped to pick up the necklace and the box, a quiet melody met my ears.

  It was soft and gentle, like the caress of a cat’s tail against my leg. It swelled and rolled like the tide in the sea, slow and wandering. It lingered, and tugged at my heart strings, making me momentarily forget everything else aside from the music. A deep sorrow touched my mind, like I’d experienced a loss that I’d long since forgotten. Lost love. Estranged friendships. Loneliness like I’d been alone for years.

  My eyelids suddenly grew heavy as I touched the box. The urge to curl up on the floor and allow myself to be whisked off to a dreamless sleep was strong, but instead I picked the box up and snapped it shut.

  As soon as the music stopped, my mind cleared. The clouded, melancholy thoughts vanished, and even though I was still exhausted, it wasn’t nearly like how I’d felt a few moments before.

  I stared down at the box in my hands. It was made of a smooth, polished wood. An intricate seven-pointed star was carved into the top, surrounded by swirling ivy and a solitary swallow in midflight.

  The golden mechanism at the back was tarnished and faded, as if it had been turned many, many times in the past.

  I blinked a few times, willing myself to focus.

  That music…it was a lot like a song that I’d once overheard Ruth Cunningham singing through the window of her house. It wasn’t the same song, but it had similar effects.

  I swallowed nervously. Another magical item had found its way into the antique shop, completely unbeknownst to Mr. Cromwell.

  Tucking the music box securely under my arm, I bent over and picked up the necklace off the floor.

  It glinted in the sunlight, the many colors of the smooth opal sparkling, cool against the palm of my hand. It was a lovely stone, and it looked ancient, too. The silver setting was somewhat tarnished, and one of the prongs around the gem was bent slightly.

  I looked at the music box clasped tightly shut in one hand, and ran my thumb over the stone. The box was a dangerous item because it was able to play a spell song. It made me wonder what powers the necklace itself held, if any.

  I didn’t dare open the lid again, not when I was as exhausted as I already was. And if I somehow fell under its spell, then what would happen to Abe if he came down and heard it? What if we both fell asleep? Would we ever be able to wake up again?

  And the box had just been tucked away on this shelf near the back of the shop. Anyone could have picked it up and opened it. Maybe they had.

  It had been some time, though, given the amount of dust that had collected in the crevices on the lid of the box.

  I set it down on the shelf opposite, pushing it further back so that my elbow wouldn’t catch it again.

  The necklace, though…it was a curious thing. Very pretty, too. I made a note to ask Mr. Cromwell to have a look at it. He had a friend who specialized in jewelry, and he’d be able to tell us if it was authentic and its value.

  I laid the necklace on the counter, just behind the register so it would be out of sight for any customers who might come in as soon as I unlocked the door. For a brief moment, I thought about keeping the necklace for myself. I had no idea if it, like the box it was housed in, had any kind of magical powers. For now, it was best to keep it away from prying eyes. I didn’t need another incident like the time Silvia Griffin had stolen that magical book.

  I glanced up at the clock. Ten minutes to open. If Ruth was coming, she’d probably be here any minute now.

  If she was going to come all the way out here to listen to me complain about my problems, I should at least try to make her feel somewhat welcome. I grabbed a plate of homemade cookies that I’d brought Mr. Cromwell two days before and set out a few on the table as a sort of peace offering. I had fresh coffee brewing, and if she wanted tea, the kettle wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to heat up. If she wanted soda, I had a few of my own left in the fridge for her to choose from.

  What had I been thinking this morning, calling and leaving her such a scathing voicemail? It was so unlike me.

  Since moving to Faerywood Falls, it was like I was becoming a completely different person. I was calloused against death, suspicious of almost everyone I met, and often times felt terribly alone. Everything in my entire world had turned upside down since I found out that I was adopted. And all I wanted to know was the truth about my family, about where I’d come from.

  More than that, what I wanted to know most was about what being a faery actually meant. No one had any answers for me. The only people who could have told me anything were gone, and I was more certain of that now than I had been before I found the baby blanket.

  I hoped that Ruth would forgive me. I hoped she wouldn’t be angry about what I’d said. I never meant to be harsh or angry toward her. I was just tired and frustrated with my entire situation in general. I had too many questions, and not enough answers.

  I moved the plate of cookies ever so far to the left, making sure they were perfectly centered in the middle of the table. I wanted it to look nice for her when she got here.

  I hoped she would be able to help. I hoped she would take pity on me and change her mind about keeping information back.

  I glanced over at the clock. Five minutes until I had to unlock the door and turn on the Open sign hanging in the front window.

  I sighed heavily.

  I hated waiting for things, but I especially hated waiting for unpleasant things.

  And the seconds ticked by.

  2

  It was only about seven or eight minutes after I unlocked the front door that I heard the chime of the bell as someone stepped inside.

  Instantly, my face flushed and my heart began to race. It had been a long time since I’d been so frightened to talk to someone. I nervously set down the pen I’d been writing down orders with, and peered around the shelves toward the front of the store.

  A tall, blonde woman had strolled inside. Her thick, luscious locks were spilling over her shoulders, and looked like glowing silk in the sunlight streaming through the door behind her. She wore a magenta peacoat and an oversized silver purse was hanging from her shoulder.

  She looked less lovely than she had the first time I’d
met her. The happiness in her face was completely absent, and I again regretted ever calling her in the first place.

  I swallowed hard, knowing I couldn’t hide behind the counter forever, and hesitantly stepped out.

  “Hi, Ruth…” I said, waving at her.

  My voice drew her attention, and she turned her head toward me. Her gaze hardened when she saw me, and she folded her arms across her chest.

  “Miss Huffler…” she said somewhat coolly with a tight, disingenuous smile. “I got your message this morning. I must admit, I’m not all that fond of being woken up at dawn with such distasteful accusations.”

  “I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get as upset as I did. Please, would you sit down?”

  I gestured toward the back of the shop, watching her nervously.

  She rolled her eyes, but she followed after me.

  I heard her heeled boots clicking against the worn wooden floors, and could feel her gaze on the back of my head. I wondered what she was thinking about. I was a little surprised that she’d even come.

  That told me one of two things. Either she came to prove me wrong and knew I’d been bluffing on the phone, or I was right about everything and she was here to prevent me from saying anything to anyone.

  Either way, she was probably not going to be happy with what I said.

  I gestured to one of the chairs at the table. Without looking up at me, she decided to take the seat beside the window. She sat down with the grace of a ballerina, crossing her legs and pursing her pale pink lips as she stared down at the table.

  I took the seat across from her and tried to smile up at her. After scooching in my chair, I held the plate of cookies up to her. “Would you care for one? I made them myself.”