Madelyn Alt - The Trouble With Magic (Bewitching Mysteries, No. 1)

The Trouble with Magic

Bewitching 1

By Madelyn Alt

Chapter One

I don't know what it was that made me abandon my usual path to work on that particular October Tuesday. The morning had dawned misty and graymy favorite kindand it made me groan all the more about heading into the grim Collections job I had desperately come to dread. Four-plus years of pressuring-slash-coercing-slash-browbeating tightfisted customers into paying our invoices, working to solve problems and inconsistencies ad infinitum , and pouring a never-ending stream of coffee for a boss who viewed every female in the office as slave laborwell, it was enough to drive anyone over the edge. Lately I'd been having to drag myself out of bed in the morning but it was futile to resist. I was nothing if not responsible.

That morning the whispers of reluctance proved too insistent to ignore. Despite what I considered near-saintlike intentions of swinging into work early (my boss, more commonly known as The Toad, would have inserted a snide for once at that point), I found myself cranking the worn steering wheel of my old 1972 Bug at the next intersection, leaving the straight and orderly procession of Main Street to veer off downhill on the lesser traveled River Street.

A blatant avoidance tactic, granted, but sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Stony Mill, Indiana, is your typical Midwestern town, with typical Hoosier idiosyncrasies. Staunchly proud of its position in the Bible Belt of the north, it is a place where going to church on Sunday means you're forgiven for your visit to the hooter bar on Friday night. I know this town like the back of my hand or at least, I used to. A shadow had fallen over my hometown; I hardly recognized it anymore. They say that change is good. That it keeps a place from stagnating. In the case of Stony Mill, that meant opening our arms to a flood of big-city expatriates who saw my quiet town as a way of building their expensive homes free of the burden of city-sized taxes. With them came problems. Too many problems. Why the interlopers all seemed to feel this town owed them for the honor of their presence was beyond me.

Behold, people, the Me generation is alive and well.

One good thing to come out of it was the district along

River Street

, the oldest thoroughfare in the county and a once thriving trade center whose ancient and rustic warehouses now sheltered a bustling antiques trade. I loved antiques, but I rarely allowed myself the luxury of even window shopping down this way. First of all, I worked for a living, and the shoppes (someone had added an extra p and an e to the word in advertising a few years back because they thought it sounded erudite) catered to those with far more padding in their purses. Second, I worked for a living; hence, I had better ways to spend my hard-earned pennies. Like paying the rent. Or if I was feeling a little crazy, squandering it on something really frivolous. Like peanut butter, or mac 'n' cheese.

As always, the storefronts looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Weathered gray clapboards and multipaned windows bordered with shutters and cascading flower boxes worked together to score major points with the yuppie crowd. (That would not be me.) Yet as much as I abhorred the bustle of the crowds, I loved the quiet dignity of the old buildings, the gentle whisper of the river currents, the riotous colors of mums and still-thriving geraniums spilling from the windowboxes, and the come-in-and-sit-a-spell hominess of the store displays. The combination was pretty hard to resist.

With a last rueful glance at the cheap digital clock Velcroed to my dashboard, I parked the temperamental car I laughingly called Christine and stepped out into the damp.

Just for a minute or two, I told myself. Just long enough to soak up the atmosphere of the place before it was overrun by the country club set that generally kept me at bay.

Designer separates and hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume really try my patience.

Overhead, darker clouds had begun to gather, a warning of even wetter weather still to come. Ever hopeful, I dug behind the frayed bucket seat in the off chance that I had left some sort of jacket orwas it too much to ask?an umbrella back there, but after two minutes of muttering beneath my breath, I came up with nothing more than a few desiccated French fries and an overdue library book I thought I had returned weeks ago.

I flipped it over, only halfheartedly considering. It was a thriller, and not a very good one. It did have a plastic sleeve on the cover

I discarded the thought immediately. Somehow I suspected the library would frown upon one of its prized potboilers being used as a rain shield. Besides, my love for books wouldn't allow it, no matter how desperate I got. Better to get back in the Bug and drive on to the office.

I wanted to. I really did. It would be the sensible thing to do. But something inside me, some burgeoning impulse I didn't understand, prevented my feet from doing the sensible thing.

A little exasperated, and a lot bemused, I found myself stuffing my hands into the pockets of my slacks and hunching my shoulders against the wind and damp as I walked up the rejuvenated brick-and-concrete sidewalks, silently praising those few store owners who had thoughtfully erected awnings.

At first I scarcely looked at the shops. I thought if I just got out and walked around a bit, whatever it was that was compelling me to be there might leave me the hell alone and let me get back to the mundane existence I grudgingly led. Eventually the wind and mist seemed to lessen as I pushed on and I found myself pausing to gaze longingly at tall, Gothic cabinets and sparkling glass bottles, bookshelves and bureaus with lace doilies dripping from them, enormous earthen crocks overflowing with dried bittersweet, and more. So much more.

I looked. I dreamed. I lusted.

Suddenly, lightning cracked open the dark sky over Stony Mill, Indiana.

"Shit!"

I raced for my car, digging for my keys as my legs pumped, harder, faster. I hadn't found them by the time I reached the car, but through my wilting bangs I could see the telltale knob poking up from the door panelI hadn't locked the driver's-side door. Laughing with relief, I reached for the latch and jammed my thumb against the chrome push button release.

Nothing. It didn't budge.

Christine strikes again.

I didn't even bother to curse this time as the rain plastered my hair to my scalp; I bolted in a blind panic. I was hoping to find an open store somewhere along the riverfront, but it was only a few ticks past eight. Most of the stores didn't open for another hour. I was doomed.

Shivering, I ducked into a small alcove, pressing my back against the old wood-and-glass door in hopes that the rain couldn't reach me there. My efforts were only halfway effectiveraindrops still pelted my face, gathering reinforcements by the minute. I sighed, resigned to a long, cold, wet wait but there was a part of me that gleefully accepted the delay. After all, my boss could hardly complain if I came in looking like a wet version of my Great-Aunt Frances's ancient fox stole. And then there was that little niggle at the back of my mind that told me I was right where I was supposed to be today.

Confused, weary, I turned my face to the sky. What ? I demanded in silence of the universe at large. What are you trying to tell me ?

Without warning, the door I was leaning against opened and I fell backward, pinwheeling my arms in a futile grab for balance, into a dark space that smelled strongly of cinnamon.