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  Dark Corner

  A Witch Cat Mystery, Book Two

  Vicki Vass

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Vicki Vass

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents and dialog are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Vicki Vass

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information to inquire about rights to this or other works, or to purchase copies for special educational, business, or sales promotional uses, please write to:

  Tedeschi Publishing

  606 Packs Mountain Ridge Road

  Taylors, SC 29687

  Vickivass.com

  Published in Print and Digital formats in the United States of America.

  ISBN- 13: 978-0-9989893-6-5

  Interior Format and Cover Design by The Killion Group, Inc.

  To Charlotte for providing insight

  into my new adopted home and its environs

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to D.A. Sarac for her professional editing and enthusiasm for Asheville, Tracker, who is turning into a great dog, Terra and most importantly, the real Pixel.

  Prologue

  October 31, 1862

  Black Mountain, North Carolina

  “Terra, run now. They’re coming.” Agatha’s words echoed across the open field. I glanced up at her. I lay in the crop field that Agatha had been tending. We were at the top of a clearing outside her cabin on Black Mountain, part of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Western North Carolina. I stared deep into her turquoise eyes. I saw fear rising up from her. She stood, putting a hand to her lower back, and stared across the field. The purple flowers of the chives rustled in the breeze; the evergreens that surrounded her land swayed in the wind. Her red and white dogs sensed the intruders approaching. They darted around the field, barking, circling her, ready to protect her from whatever evil approached.

  “Go, Terra, before it’s too late.” Her voice was more urgent this time.

  I stood and stretched, realizing I couldn’t remember when she had become so old, her hair gray, her skin withered and wrinkled, her movements slow and unsure. I was reluctant to leave her. Since arriving in North Carolina, Agatha had provided me with refuge, allowing me to curl up by her fire, eat from her table, and accompany her on healing ministries. A woman of few words, she was a powerful healer. Despite her abilities, she still had not found a way to heal me. I remained as a cat, my true girl form hidden from me. At seventeen years of age, escaping from the trials in Salem, I took a potion that transformed me into an ordinary alley cat, and thus I have stayed. The knowledge to change me back to my true form was lost with my coven leader, Elizabeth, who had met her fate in the Salem witch trials.

  I felt the pounding of the hooves charging across the field and the rattle of the heavy wagon before I saw them. Then I heard the telltale rebel yell. Garbed in yellow and gray, there were three men, two on horseback, brandishing pistols and one, the leader, driving a horse-drawn wagon. They stopped in front of Agatha, who was as surprised as I was. No intruders had ever broken through the enchanted woods around the cabin. The dogs barked, circling the wagon. Two black horses frothed at the mouth and kicked up their hooves. The wheels of the wagon sunk deep into the ground. Like the horses, the wagon was black. Holding the reins was a lieutenant, tall and thin. He cracked his whip as he stared the dogs down. The dogs whimpered and stepped backward. The oldest dog lunged toward him, and the whip cracked again. I ran and hid behind the wagon. Dangling from the bed hung bones tied with tendons. One sniff and I could tell they were human. Trophies, I thought, spoils of this brutal war.

  As the dogs continued to lunge and bark, he cracked his whip toward them.

  “No,” Agatha screamed, standing in front of the dog. “Run,” she screamed at her dogs as the whip cracked, lashing the flesh off her arm, causing her to drop to her knees.

  Snarling, the largest dog lunged for the lieutenant, attempting to pull him down from the wagon. The whip cracked again, wrapping around the dog’s neck. The lieutenant pulled the whip, snapping the poor dog’s neck. The other pups scattered. Clutching her arm, Agatha knelt down next to the dog, cradling his head in her lap.

  I stopped, stepped toward her, and then froze in place when I saw the face of the lieutenant. His face was scarred, his mouth distorted with a comical grin that stretched ear to ear. What kind of battle had he been through? He tugged at the kerchief around his neck, revealing the deep red scar that hung like a noose around it.

  I ran into the fields toward the stream, the dogs behind me. We scattered, the dogs making their way into the stream, me avoiding water. The soldiers had been targeting Agatha since the conflict started as she would not declare a loyalty to either side. Blue or gray, she treated both with her healing medications. Agatha was not a proponent of war. Nor was I. I had lost too many friends to conflicts. I leaned against a mighty oak, catching my breath. I clawed my way up the tree, finding comfort on a heavy limb. From my vantage point, I watched as the lieutenant dismounted and circled Agatha. There was something about him, the lieutenant, that chilled me to the bone. His eyes stared past Agatha as though he could see through her. I had seen other soldiers, some mere boys, others old men. The lieutenant was neither. I looked at him, yet I didn’t see him. It was moments ago, yet I couldn’t remember his face, any of his features except the lieutenant bars on his uniform and the cracking of his whip.

  They came without warning. Agatha Hollows enchanted the cabin and the woods surrounding it. The ash, oak, and thorn bent their mighty limbs over the road leading up Black Mountain, barring the way to any unwanted strangers. I had not heard them crack, and I had never seen Agatha Hollows truly scared. My heart pounded. The war was coming to Black Mountain; the war was coming to Agatha Hollows.

  Chapter 1

  Farewell to Emma Tangledwood

  Present Day,

  Black Mountain, North Carolina

  I gazed across the open field surrounding the cabin, Agatha Hollows’s cabin up Black Mountain, North Carolina. For the most part, it stood well, being two hundred years old. The covered front porch had its share of creaking boards but still was a comfortable place to rock. We had patched the roof and replaced the front steps. Besides that, the cabin stood as it did when Agatha Hollows stood in it.

  Eighteen-year-old Abigail lay on the ground, a book of Appala
chian folk remedies open in front of her. Her long hair, once blond, now almost white since her turning into a full-blooded witch. Her skin was iridescent, but the most remarkable change were her eyes from sky blue to violet, the same color as her great-grandmother’s eyes—the sign of a very powerful witch. The humans call it albinism, a condition caused by a lack of pigment in skin, hair, and eyes. Light passes through the eyes and reflects back out, causing the irises to appear violet. In the case of Abigail, her change was not from lack of pigment but the opposite. She had become a perfect being, able to see all the colors of the human and witch spectrum. As her powers grew, she would also be able to see the colors of the alternate realms. For now, she appeared to be merely an amazingly beautiful young woman. Her Australian shepherd puppy, Tracker, shared her eye color as familiars do. Abigail was able to see through Tracker’s eyes. Ghost eyes is what the Native Americans called them, considering these puppies sacred.

  If I were still a girl in my former body, I would be jealous of her, but I was trapped in this feline body, elegant and slender but a cat just the same. Heads turned when Abigail walked, her elfin body glided, slicing through the air. I asked her repeatedly to dress more ladylike, a remnant of my upbringing. She refused, donning her ripped jeans and leather jacket. Even in peasant garb, she carried the air of royalty as well she should as she was the heir to the throne of the Oakhavens. Great-granddaughter of Elizabeth Oakhaven, Abigail was the keeper of the Oakhaven bloodline, descendants of the original earth walkers, white witches with unlimited power. I loved Abigail as I loved Elizabeth. For that reason, I devoted my life to training and protecting her. Unfortunately, she shared her great-grandmother’s stubborn streak. I found my patience growing short with her.

  I heard gurgling noises and turned to see Tracker carrying a protesting fluffy orange tabby in his mouth. He prefers me to describe him as fluffy, not chubby, Pixel he does. Since the recent darkness had ebbed, the Australian shepherd pup had resorted to puppy behavior, and taunting Pixel was his favorite play. “No, Tracker,” I scolded him, but he did not understand or chose not to. He continued nipping at Pixel and taunting him.

  My protests drew Abigail’s attention from her book. “Tracker, put Pixel down.” The puppy obeyed and ran to Abigail’s side, wiggling his tailless butt.

  Pixel dusted off his fur. He stood upright and pranced away. “Me hungry,” I heard him say as he made his way toward the stream, which flowed adjacent to the cabin.

  I could follow him, search for food, but I was uneasy leaving Abigail. I felt a stirring in the air. It brought back memories of intruders descending upon Agatha Hollows so long ago. Chills traveled through my fur. Pixel flew back as though he felt my fear. He tilted his head and then pounced on me.

  “Pixel, we’re fine. Nothing to worry about,” I told him.

  Pixel gave me another sideways glance. He sensed when I was telling half-truths. Not that I would lie to him, but I thought it best at times to conceal the complete truth from him.

  “Terra, why won’t you let me read my great-grandmother’s book of spells?” Abigail slammed the book she was reading shut, not the one she was referring to.

  “You’re not ready for the power contained in that book yet, Abigail. You have to understand who you are first before you become who you should be. Your magic is entwined with these woods just as Agatha Hollows was, that’s why I have you studying the Appalachian folklore.”

  “I thought my family was from Salem.”

  “Yes, that’s true, Abigail, but before that from Ireland. And before Ireland, they were.” I stopped myself. “That’s something we’ll talk about once you are able to understand.” I stepped across the book, rubbing my body across Abigail’s face. Abigail ran her fingers along my fur until our attention was drawn away by Pixel.

  My friend, the big orange cat, scampered about, trying to catch the first dragonfly of spring. He stopped suddenly, stuck his nose up in the air, and the dragonfly landed on his head. He crossed his eyes, trying to see it, and then he let out a Pixel roar of laughter. The dragonfly flew off with Pixel in pursuit.

  “You always say I’m never ready. I’ve read every book you’ve given me. I know how to make a mustard plaster, insect repellents, and even a love potion. I think I can even churn butter if I had to, so what’s the point, Terra?” Abigail reached into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out a cigarette.

  I jumped on her lap, swatting it out of her hand.

  “Hey,” she yelled, pushing me off her lap.

  I landed in a mud puddle, then jumped out. The mud clung to me.

  Abigail put her hand over her mouth to hold back her laughter. “Gee, really, really sorry,” she said, not attempting to conceal her sarcasm or her laughter.

  I shook myself off. I had reached my limit. “Are you done, Abigail? Did you enjoy that?”

  “Geez, Terra, it was an accident, okay?”

  “I told you I don’t want you smoking. It will kill you.”

  “So I survived the tornado of black magic, but one cigarette is going to kill me. I don’t think so.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out another cigarette.

  “Okay, Abigail, put away the cigarette. It’s time,” I said.

  She paused with the cigarette halfway up to her lips, the lighter half-open in her other hand. “Time for what?”

  “Go get the broom on the front porch.”

  Abigail ran up the steps and brought back the old straw broom leaning against the rocking chair. “What’s this for?”

  “I think it’s time you learned to fly.”

  “But you said that the whole flying broom thing was a myth. That’s not how witches fly.”

  “I said that because you weren’t ready and I didn’t want you running off and trying to ride your first broom and crashing.”

  “Really, Terra? I’m going to fly.”

  “Yes,” I told her.

  “Okay, what do I do?” She held the broom.

  “First you need to straddle the broom.”

  “Okay.” Abigail did.

  I went up the front stairs, jumped on the railing for a good vantage point. Pixel bounded back and joined me on the railing. “What doing?” Pixel said.

  “I’m having fun with Abigail.”

  “Me like fun.”

  “Okay, Abigail, now you need to get a good running start.”

  Abigail ran across the length of the front of the house and then back and then again and then again. “Nothing’s happening,” she yelled.

  “You have to create enough lift. The faster you run, the more lift you’ll create.”

  “Okay,” she said, panting.

  Pixel gazed at me. “We’re playing a joke on Abigail,” I said.

  Pixel roared and fell off the railing. He jumped back up.

  “Wait, wait, Abigail,” I said.

  Abigail stopped, huffing and puffing, clutching the broom.

  “You have to recite the flight incantation while you’re running.”

  “Now you tell me,” Abigail said. “Okay, fine, what is it?”

  “It’s Ohwhatas, illygoo, siam.”

  Abigail began running with the broom between her legs, shouting, “Ohwhatas, illygoo, siam.”

  “Faster, Abigail,” I yelled.

  Back and forth she ran. “Ohwhatas, illygoo, siam.”

  “Say the words faster.”

  “Ohwhatasill—” Abigail stopped dead and then said, “Oh, what a silly goose I am.”

  Pixel fell off the railing again. Abigail snapped the broom in two over her knee and stormed into the house.

  Pixel inhaled deeply. “Me hungry?” He could smell what I did—Mrs. Twiggs’s cauldron boiling with a concoction for which I had given her the recipe. He scurried into the cabin with Tracker and me close behind.

  “Oh dear, Terra, I don’t think I’m doing this right.” The new Mrs. Twiggs, light on her feet Mrs. Twiggs, filled her wooden ladle from the iron cauldron hanging above the fire in the big stone firepl
ace and breathed in. Since her transformation to a Wiccan, Mrs. Twiggs had turned into a much younger woman. Not so much that the humans could tell but enough that those close to her could. “I followed every step in Agatha’s recipe. I know I did.” She shook her head.

  Pixel tiptoed up to the cauldron, stood on his hind paws, and sniffed. “Me like.” He grinned at me, his smile resembling that of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Pixel’s days were full of new discoveries, and his delight in them never ceased to delight me.

  Over the past few months, Mrs. Twiggs had spent most of her time at the cabin, helping me with Abigail’s schooling. She understood we needed Abigail to become who she was meant to be—a powerful witch in a long line of powerful witches. The Leaf & Page, her cozy tea and vintage bookshop in downtown Biltmore Village, had been shuttered. She felt it best left in the good hands of her deceased, beloved husband, Albert.

  “It takes time, Mrs. Twiggs. Magic is a study of patience and repetition. Just the slightest wrong turn of the spoon or a pinch too much of this or that and any potion can turn bad.” I said with authority. I had learned this firsthand from Elizabeth, who I studied under in Salem. “All magic is chemistry. The chemistry of combining herbs and ingredients but also the chemistry of the witch who brews them.”

  “I don’t know why this isn’t working, Terra. You said Agatha used this potion to bring on visions.”

  As Mrs. Twiggs talked, Pixel leaped up and reached with his paw to bring the spoon to his mouth. He lapped the potion up before we could stop him. “Mmm, good. Pixel like. Pixel like.” I knocked the spoon away from him. He stopped in his tracks, shaking his tail ferociously. His eyes dilated. “Feel funny, Terra. Pixel feel funny. Pixel no like.” Pixel’s eyes rolled back into his head. He whispered in my ear, “They come. The hunters come.” His eyes rolled back, and he pounced on me. “Me hungry. Me hungry.”

  “What just happened?” Mrs. Twiggs asked. “I tried the potion and had no visions.”