Page 1 of Of Magic and Murder

PROLOGUE

gus likes the magic lady.

she came to help brother, and now she’s going

to help gus’s wolf friend.

yay, magic lady!

— gus

TWO MONTHS AGO

Ihate flying.

Given the choice, I’d much rather drive. At least, then, I have some semblance of control. If the plane goes down, I’m pretty much going down with it, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

And, yes, I know that I’m a witch. My lineage in the States goes back thirteen generations; more than that when you consider one of my ancestors is the great witch Morrigaine. There has been a Willows in the Salem coven since the days of the trials, and any witch worth her salt can master a simple translocation spell—unless, of course, she’s Penelope Willows and the first (and only) time she tried left a frightened six-year-old witchling inside of a chimney in Paris, Texas when she was trying to join her mother in Paris, France.

That wasn’t the only time a spell backfired on me, either, and after I shimmied out of the chimney, scared the poor mortal homeowners when I appeared in their fireplace covered in ash, and asked for a phone to call my mom, I accepted that it was another one of the simpler casts I’d never be able to master. From that moment on, if I wanted to travel by magic, I needed to let Mom cast the spell on me while accepting that I was a dud witch. But then I went through puberty, my powers blossomed in ways that no one expected, and not even my mother’s magic worked on me after that.

That’s what happens when you get one of the rarer skills in witchcraft. Whether you deal in elementals—like the handful of fire and water witches that exist—or you’re a seer like I am, all of your magic is tied up in your gift. Throw in the fact that I have an ability so rare that I’m the only one in the United States that has it and I’ve always understood why, when I try the simpler spells, I inevitably mess them up.

Magic is supposed to be easy. As my grandmother once explained it to me when I was still small, all you have to do is want something and then let yourself have whatever that is. That’s it.

Not for me. Deep down, I think it’s because I’ve never been able to just allow myself to have something. But if I could? It would be to charm every single airplane to be turbulence-free and that my checked luggage was the first to come out at baggage claim instead of me having to hunt it down before the handlers put it on a connecting flight to Orlando while I’m currently at the Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport in Maryland (and isn’t that a mouthful).

Oh, and I’d charm the humans working at the rental car counter into being more helpful. My flight from Boston to Baltimore was only an hour and a half long, but if I’d convinced Serena Riverdale—the head witch of the Salem coven—to let me drive like I wanted to, it would’ve been close to an eight-hour ride. Even with the hour’s worth of travel ahead of me, bringing me to the supernatural town of Moonburrow, I’ll still make it there sooner than if I drove the whole way.

At least, if the customer service rep would stop staring at my chest and figure out what happened to the rental I booked before I got on the airplane this morning, I would.

“I’m sorry, Miss Willows.” He clicks his tongue as he clacks at the keyboard keys. “I just don’t have any record of you renting a vehicle for today. We don’t have any extras, either. You can try checking in later this afternoon, but I don’t think we’ll be able to help you.”

Of all the witches in Salem, I’m the most technologically savvy. Not because I have a talent with electronics, though. Nope. It’s because my brothers and sisters in the coven rarely bother with human tech when they use magic for nearly everything. Since that’s not possible for me, I think of my phone as my very own magic wand. With a press of a button, I can get nearly everything I want.

And I know I arranged to have a car for when my plane landed and I got my luggage.

My hands are sweating. Nervous by nature, I hate confrontation. I have half a mind to pull up my confirmation in my e-mail, but since it seems like he’s going out of his way to be difficult for some reason, I’m not sure that’ll do much to sway him.

So, rather than fight with him, I give him a small smile. “Thanks for looking. I guess I can see if any of your competitors have a car I can use.”

I need a car. As a supernatural town, Moonburrow is warded against any interlopers. Humans aren’t allowed inside. Neither are vampires. It’s a majority of shifters with a tight-knit coven presence, and that’s all. I’ll be allowed in because I was expressly invited to help the local law enforcement out with a problem, but a human driver—whether in a taxi, a bus, or a rideshare—wouldn’t even be able to find the town.

A small twitch of his thin lips. “Oh, you could, but I’d hate to have you waste your time for no reason. If we’re full, odds are they’re all full, too. You see, there’s a festival in the city, and I’m sure you know that there’s supposed to be some big parade in⁠—”

He’s still talking. And maybe it’s rude of me, but I stopped listening once he made it clear that he has no intention of helping me.

That’s okay. I think someone else will.

Standing a few feet to the side of the dark-haired man at the computer, there’s an older gentleman wearing an outdated uniform that’s similar enough to the one I saw on the airport employee who greeted me as I disembarked that I know he must’ve worked here while he was alive.

He’s definitely not now.

How do I know? Well, the fact that he’s mostly see-through and hovering about six inches off of the tile is a pretty big clue.

He winks at me, and I know he knows that I’ve noticed him behind the counter. Putting his finger to his lips, his pale eyes dancing with mirth, he drifts over to the unsuspecting man at the desk and, extending his hand, touches the side of the computer screen with one finger.

A beep sounds, and the ghost grins at me while the human male suddenly stops talking as he clicks his mouse a few times in rapid succession.