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  Pixel stuck up his head, let out a crude belch, and closed his eyes again.

  “Well, surely Charlotte must be aware that her great-aunt had magical powers. In fact, shouldn’t Charlotte carry the same bloodline?”

  “Not necessarily. I don’t see any signs that she has any Wiccan blood.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I had hoped…”

  Before she could answer, I spoke. “I had hoped the same that she was our ninth Wiccan. There’s something else we need to talk about. It concerns Mrs. Lund. I wasn’t sure at first, but the night we went to the Biltmore basement and found her dead, I felt a presence. A ghost. I felt it again when we were doing inventory.”

  “Terra, I feel the presence of ghosts all throughout the Biltmore Estate. I can’t see them like you do at least not yet. I’m still a novice, but I get inklings of their presence. Goose bumps. Chills on the back of my neck. That’s what caught my attention. I couldn’t see this ghost. I went and spoke with a friend of mine, a ghost friend of mine. He told me that the ghost I was sensing was a soldier from the Civil War.”

  I considered revealing the Dark Corner to Mrs. Twiggs, but it wasn’t time. “I believe he knows what happened to Mrs. Lund. I don’t think he killed her. Most ghosts don’t have the ability to move objects in this world.”

  Mrs. Twiggs glanced over her shoulder. Albert had come to listen. He had his hand on her shoulder. She smiled even though she couldn’t feel it. Albert smiled back. “How do we contact him?”

  “I’m still puzzling that out.”

  “Terra, why can I see Albert but not the other ghosts?”

  “Because Albert wants you to see him.”

  She smiled, smoothed her apron. Mrs. Twiggs was a woman of routine. She bustled around the kitchen, making batter and then baking her scones.

  After the breakfast crowd left, Mrs. Twiggs took a tea break. Abigail finished washing dishes and sat down to join us. She did not look well; her face was pale and her eyes bloodshot. She plopped down next to Mrs. Twiggs and rubbed her eyes. “Okay, let’s get this over. Everyone is thinking it. I screwed up. I used magic in front of a human. I get it. I was wrong,” Abigail said.

  “You must have terrified Charlotte. I can only imagine,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

  “Well, I wasn’t thinking straight. She was in danger, and I tried to help her. She’s my friend.” Abigail turned defensive. “I’m going to go talk to her.”

  “You think that’s a good idea? Terra said she is afraid of you. It must have been quite a shock.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I think it’s time we told her the truth about Mrs. Tangledwood,” I said. “She has a right to know her family bloodline.”

  Mrs. Twiggs walked over and flipped the sign on the door to Closed. “We should go now,” she said. We all climbed into her Volvo. Tracker hopped in the backseat next to Pixel, who swatted him on the nose. Tracker growled and snapped back. We arrived at the Tangledwood Estate in time to see Charlotte packing her Honda Accord. I thought how strange with so many exotic autos in the garage she was leaving in the car she came in. She froze when she saw us. Abigail ran out of the car and toward her. Charlotte inched slowly toward her driver door.

  “Wait, Charlotte, let me explain,” she said.

  “Look, Abigail, I thought at first I imagined last night. I had a lot to drink. When I sobered up this morning, I couldn’t shake that image, and then I saw the blood on my shirt. That really happened, didn’t it?”

  Mrs. Twiggs came over and put her arm around Charlotte. She had a calming effect in situations that arose such as this. “Charlotte, dear, Abigail is a good witch.”

  “Like of the North?” Charlotte asked with a half smile still taking a step back.

  “Actually, dear, direction does play a very important role in the fairy world. Your great-aunt was a good Wiccan,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “In fact she—”

  “Wiccan?” Charlotte interrupted.

  “Yes, dear, Wiccan—half mortal, half witch. A Wiccan comes from the bloodline of witches, but throughout years of mingling with humans, that bloodline thins. Some revert back to humans, other become Wiccans. Your great-aunt kept your bloodline and was a Wiccan.”

  “Does that mean you think I’m a Wiccan?”

  Mrs. Twiggs smiled. “Not necessarily. I haven’t seen any signs that you carry your aunt’s bloodline.”

  “This is too much to take in. I didn’t know my great-aunt. I’m here about my inheritance. This is too much for me.” She paused. “I suppose you’re a Wiccan too.”

  “Yes, dear, all the ladies of the Biltmore Society are Wiccans. We have been charged with keeping Asheville safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “Just as there is good white magic, there’s black magic that preys on the innocents.”

  “That’s very interesting. I have to go now.” Charlotte reached for her door handle.

  As she did, I could smell the pipe smoke again coming from the garage. Abigail turned her head toward the garage. She smelled it too. She twitched her nose. We heard a car start. The garage door flew open, and the 1961 Mercedes convertible roared out of the garage and stopped inches in front of us, engine revving. Charlotte shook. “I don’t like this. Is this black or white magic?”

  Abigail stepped over to the car, putting a hand on the hood above the idling engine, and spoke an incantation. Mr. Tangledwood showed himself to us. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing a driver’s jacket, leather gloves and ascot, and smoking his pipe. He raised his hands in front of him, studying them as though he had never seen them before. He then looked at us, surprised and curious.

  Charlotte said, “Who’s that?”

  “That’s your great-uncle.”

  “My deceased great-uncle?” Charlotte reached for the door handle of her car.

  Mr. Tangledwood tried to speak, but no words came out. Abigail placed her finger on his mouth and then he spoke. “Where am I? Who are you?”

  “You are with the living. We are friends of your wife,” Abigail said.

  “You know Emma?”

  “You know me, Beatrice.” Mrs. Twiggs stepped closer to the car.

  “Yes, Beatrice, I remember now. Emma speaks of you often.”

  “You’ve seen Emma recently?”

  Mr. Tangledwood appeared confused. “Emma worries. She worries about her great-niece. She’s been trying to reach out to her.” Mr. Tangledwood vaporized; the car sped down the driveway and out of view. I could see Charlotte’s head was spinning. This was too much for a girl her age, too much for any human.

  “Abigail,” I said. “Tell Charlotte that we’ll—you’ll—keep her safe.”

  “Char, believe me. I went through everything you’re going through when I first got to Asheville. I was singing on the street, trying to make gas money. When I learned I was a witch, I thought I had finally gone crazy. I had heard voices in my head since I was a little girl. It wasn’t a far stretch to think I’d finally lost it.”

  Charlotte slid down the car and sat on the pavement. She put her hands around her knees and slowly rocked. “This too much, too much.”

  Abigail sat next to her. “Look, last night I was trying to save you.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you. If you hadn’t come in, he would have, well you know.”

  “Yes, Char, I care about you. You’re my friend. It’s going to be all right. Really.” Abigail put her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders.

  Charlotte looked up. “It’s kind of cool having a best friend that’s a witch. Think of all the trouble we can get into.”

  Abigail laughed. “That’s it. That’s the spirit.”

  “Don’t say spirit please.”

  They both laughed.

  Chapter 24

  Charlotte’s Turning

  Not of my choosing but of circumstance, our coven had a human. Charlotte, though a relative of Emma Tangledwood, was not meant to close our circle of nine. She had learned the secret, and unlike my Salem coven,
we were safe for now, but all the ladies of the coven needed to be assured that Charlotte would not lead them to any harm. Mrs. Twiggs drove us along the backwoods to the cabin. Abigail and Charlotte talked the entire way as though it was completely normal to be traveling to an enchanted cabin to meet with a coven of magical Wiccans.

  When we arrived, Mrs. Branchworthy was waiting on the front porch in one of the rocking chairs. She rose to greet us. “The others will be here soon. Terra, I think I’ve—” Upon catching a glimpse of Charlotte, she stopped.

  “Charlotte knows our secret. She’s a friend,” Abigail said.

  Charlotte smiled. “Abigail told me that your specialty power is conjuring fire.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Can I see?”

  Mrs. Branchworthy looked at Mrs. Twiggs, who nodded. Mrs. Branchworthy stepped off the porch. She placed her right hand palm up toward the sky and skimmed the top of it with the left. Fireballs shot into the sky like she was holding a roman candle.

  “Awesome,” Charlotte exclaimed. She turned to Mrs. Twiggs. “What can you do?”

  Mrs. Twiggs said, “That’s neither here nor there.” Mrs. Twiggs was reluctant to let Charlotte in even though she was Emma’s family. I shared her concern. Mrs. Twiggs was the unspoken leader of the coven. She felt that weight on her shoulders. The ladies arrived, and we all gathered inside the cabin as dusk was settling over the mountain. Abigail started the fire. Mrs. Twiggs brought in the tea service. All the ladies murmured asking why the meeting had been called and wanting to know why Charlotte was present.

  Mrs. Twiggs tapped her teacup with her spoon. “Please, ladies, settle down. I will get right to the point. Charlotte knows what we are.”

  The murmurs began again. “Now, ladies, she’s family. We can trust her.”

  Abigail moved her chair closer to Charlotte and held her hand. I leaped onto the table and spoke with Mrs. Twiggs.

  Charlotte interrupted. “What’s going on with the cat?”

  Abigail said, “I’ve got some more news for you. Terra is a witch.”

  “You mean she turned herself into a cat.” Charlotte reached for me, and I backed away.

  “Actually, she was turned into a cat by my great-grandmother to protect her from the Salem witch trials. She’s been stuck in that body since then.”

  Charlotte sat back in her chair. “Does she have a tiny cat flying broom and witch hat?” She smirked.

  Abigail said, “Char, I know. When Terra first spoke to me.”

  “She can speak?” Charlotte interrupted.

  “Of course she can. She’s a witch.”

  “Why can’t I understand her?”

  “Because you’re not.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re a witch, the cat’s a witch, and they’re all Wiccans.” She pointed at the ladies. “What about the orange cat? Is he a hobbit or something?”

  Abigail laughed. “No, Pixel’s an ordinary cat. I’m sure it’s a little confusing. Think of us all as magical superbeings.”

  “Like the League of Justice?”

  “That’s a good way to think of it. Anyway, Terra told me my life would never be the same. Once you awaken and see the magic in the world, you’ll never look at the world the same way again. It’s all around you, Char.”

  Charlotte sat quiet, trying to absorb everything Abigail was telling her. Pixel swiped a cookie off the serving tray. I was glad to see he was feeling better. The cookie landed on the floor, and Tracker made quick work of it. “Bad Tracker,” Pixel scolded heading out the door in a huff.

  Mrs. Twiggs said, “We’ve been tasked to watch over Charlotte. Mr. Tangledwood appeared to us at the Tangledwood Estate. Emma is worried about her great-niece.”

  Mrs. Stickman stood up. “Did you see Emma? Did you speak with her?”

  Mrs. Twiggs shook her head. “Mr. Tangledwood only.”

  I highly doubted we would ever meet up again with Mrs. Tangledwood. She was taken from us by black magic. Mr. Tangledwood clung to her memory, which was soaked into the walls of their estate. His ghost was bound to the Mercedes convertible that had brought the two of them so much joy.

  Charlotte raised her hand. “Can I say something?” All eyes turned toward her. “When I was a little girl, my favorite movie was Bedknobs and Broomsticks. So I’m good with this whole witch, Wiccan, talking cat thing.” She paused. “Can you guys fly? Can I try a broomstick?”

  “That’s not how it works, but maybe you can,” Abigail said. “You have your great-aunt’s blood, so you could be a Wiccan.”

  “That’s right. You can drink the potion,” Mrs. Stickman said.

  Charlotte stuttered. “No, I don’t want to do that.”

  “Don’t be afraid. It doesn’t hurt, Char.”

  “No, really, I don’t.” Charlotte stood and walked toward the door.

  Mrs. Raintree spoke. “Give her the potion, Beatrice. It worked for all of us.”

  Mrs. Twiggs said, “We can try.”

  Unlike the other ladies before they turned, I did not see any spark of Wiccan in Charlotte, but it was worth trying. It would satisfy our curiosity. Mrs. Twiggs hurried into the kitchen and prepared the turning potion.

  Abigail went outside with me on her heels. “There you are.”

  Charlotte sat on the step, smoking a cigarette.

  Abigail sat next to her. “Really, there’s nothing to be afraid of, and it will put the ladies’ minds at ease. We’ve been looking for our ninth Wiccan to close the coven.”

  Charlotte threw her cigarette to the ground, smashing it out with her foot. “They are not going to leave it alone until you drink the potion,” Abigail said.

  “Okay.” She stood up, and they went back in the house. As we entered, Charlotte whispered,” Is this safe? Does it taste bad?”

  “All the ladies drank it, and they’re fine.”

  Mrs. Twiggs handed Charlotte a teacup.

  “Okay.” Charlotte downed it like it was a shot of whiskey. Her eyes darted around the room, waiting for something to happen. All the ladies held their breath, waiting for her to rise off the ground, her hair to turn raven black and the telltale white streak. But nothing. “How long does this take?” Charlotte asked.

  Mrs. Twiggs came close, felt Charlotte’s forehead with the back of her hand, and looked closely into her eyes. “It should have happened by now.”

  Charlotte looked relieved as all the ladies let out their breath and sat back down. Charlotte walked out onto the porch, and Abigail followed. I jumped onto the railing and sat quietly, listening.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a lot, but it’s a lot of responsibility too. You saw what happened to me at the bar.”

  “Abigail, all my life I’ve felt like an outsider. My parents never paid attention to me. Don’t get me wrong. They weren’t bad people. They had their own problems.”

  “You fit in here, Char, and I’m your friend.” Abigail paused. “I’m an outsider too. The ladies are a coven of Wiccans, and I’m a witch. Your aunt was the ninth Wiccan, which completed the coven. They are broken without her, but you are part of our family—magic or not.”

  “Tell me, Abigail. Tell me the truth. What happened to her?”

  Abigail went into the cabin and brought out her family spell book. She placed it on her lap. “This book is thousands of years old. It was my great-grandmother’s, Elizabeth. The head of Terra’s coven in Salem. It’s a very powerful book of spells that only my bloodline, the Oakhaven, can wield. One of Terra’s sisters in her coven, Prudence, stole the book. The book is neither black nor white magic. Prudence wanted the book for selfish reasons. That opened a portal to black magic through the book. The book called out to her and possessed her. Your great-aunt found the book. It possessed her too. In the end it destroyed her.”

  “And now you have the book, Abigail? What does that make you?”

  “I’d only use the book for good as my foremothers have but Terra won’t let me open it yet. She thinks I’m not ready.”

>   “Aren’t you dying to look inside?”

  Abigail nodded.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  I jumped on top of the book and hissed. “Abigail, put the book away.” My fur stood up; my tail puffed out. I was not happy with this new Abigail. She was careless. I looked over at Charlotte.

  “Nice kitty,” she said, running her hand down my back. I hissed and took off in search of Pixel. Abigail wasn’t the only one I was worried about. Pixel had not been himself lately. I leaped the stones in the stream, trying to keep dry, and followed the path to the valley. No sign of Pixel. It was getting late, way past his suppertime. I followed the stream through the valley to the little gulley garden where I had seen Pixel playing the other day. I stopped when I heard the scream.

  “Pixel,” I yelled and ran as fast as I could, following the sound of Pixel’s agony.

  When I reached the gulley, I saw a large crow swooping and pecking at Pixel. It wasn’t just a large crow, it was the largest crow I had ever seen. Its figure was distorted and elongated. In its beak it clasped the purple-and-white butterfly that had landed on Pixel’s nose. Pixel leaped in the air higher than I thought a fluffy orange cat with crooked little legs could. He grabbed the crow by its wing and pulled it to the ground, forcing it to release the butterfly. Then he stood up on his hind paws and extended all his front claws. The crow took off before Pixel could wreak his vengeance.

  “Pixel, are you okay?”

  He turned to me with blood all over his fur—some his, some the crow’s. “Bad bird, Terra. Bad bird. Take my friend.”

  I threw my paws around him. The thought of losing Pixel terrified me. Not just because I loved this silly alley cat but because Pixel was my best friend. He was unconditional with his love and his courage. He was also my familiar. He had once told me he liked to be my familiar, and I thought how funny that a witch that was a cat would have a cat familiar. Now I couldn’t imagine it any other way. The purple-and-white butterfly floated down. She was no worse for the wear. Somehow I knew it was a she. Her delicate wings, the way she landed softly on Pixel’s back. She fluttered once and twice and then took off into the mountain ash. My witch tree, I thought.