A Hive of Secrets and Spells Read online

  A Hive of Secrets and Spells © 2019 by Ellen Jane. All Rights Reserved.

  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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by AngstyG

  http://angstyg.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ellen Jane

  Visit my website at www.ellenjanephillips.com

  Other Titles by Ellen Jane

  Cupcakes and Sorcery

  Magic, Murder & Mistletoe (book 1)

  A Hive of Secrets and Spells (book 2)

  Standalone Titles

  A Match Made at Christmas

  A Hive of Secrets and Spells

  Cupcakes and Sorcery Two

  Ellen Jane

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Ellen Jane

  Chapter One

  The problem with bread dough that controlled the weather was that it soon developed an attitude. The spell started out fine, with the rising dough initiating a steady increase in humidity in the microclimate of a fifty yard radius, give or take. But soon after that, the problems began.

  First came the rain. No matter what Heather did to the recipe, she never achieved humidity without a small rain cloud centralised over the bread tin. Then the humidity shot well above comfort levels—and certainly above what the spell had intended. And then the bread began to rise. And bake. Right there on the windowsill.

  When bread dough has decided it doesn’t need an oven anymore, you’ve lost control of the situation. She blamed the yeast.

  Even with all that aside, something about the rain cloud bothered her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but when she looked at it, her heart filled with an inescapable sense of foreboding.

  Heaving a sigh, she picked up the bread tin and set it behind her on the stovetop. The rain cloud—which now crackled with tiny shoots of lightning—tried to follow, but she jabbed it with her finger until it stayed in one place. It softened around her skin like a wet sponge. The second she took her finger away, it began to pour with rain.

  “Stop sulking,” she muttered, slamming the window shut and locking the rain cloud outside.

  She abandoned the bread on the stovetop, where it began baking its way into an obnoxiously perfect, golden loaf, and joined Sinéad on the sofa. The late morning sun had cast the perfect sunbeam across the entire length of the cushions. Sinéad had curled up on one end like a cat, her chin propped in her hand and her eyes closed. It would have been an elegant picture except that her sleek black outfit was covered in white fur, courtesy of the border collie asleep at her feet.

  “The dough still won’t listen,” Heather complained as she sat down on the other side of Lucifer.

  “It’s because weather is too emotional,” Sinéad said with a yawn. “I wouldn’t even bother trying to manipulate it, and I think I’d have far more success than you.”

  Heather gave Sinéad’s thigh a shove and glared at her. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  Instantly apologetic, Sinéad sat up a little and stretched out her foot to nudge Heather’s leg. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant it’s sorcerer magic, not witch magic, and I think it’s too difficult, regardless.”

  Heather hummed, accepting the apology, although something about the sentiment still annoyed her. She rested a hand on Sinéad’s ankle, smiling a little when Sinéad wiggled her toes—the manicured nails painted perfectly in red—and kneaded them into Heather’s leg. Like a cat.

  She looked over, but Sinéad had already closed her eyes again, her black hair falling across her face like a shield. It had been a trying morning, and they were both exhausted after spending over an hour on the phone with their network service provider.

  For the last couple of days, both Sinéad and Heather had been having strange trouble with their phones. Sinéad had missed several calls from an unknown number that didn’t seem to ring through properly to her phone, and when she’d tried to access the voicemails they left, the system locked her out completely. The caller had only tried Heather’s phone once, but the same thing happened. She almost managed to open their voicemail, but it disappeared before she could play it and left only her single saved voicemail behind.

  Her saved voicemail had nothing to do with the mysterious phone calls; it was the last voicemail she had from her parents. She knew it almost word-for-word by now.

  Heather glanced back at the rain cloud to see if it had disappeared yet, but it still hovered outside the kitchen window, pouring dismally onto the rose bushes below. Her stomach roiled, filling her again with the sense that something bad lurked in the shadows.

  “Have you got the mail?” she asked, turning away to pat Lucifer’s ears.

  He flipped onto his back for a tummy rub.

  “On the coffee table.” Sinéad nodded her head toward the stack of envelopes.

  For a moment, Heather saw a flash of greenery on top of the envelopes, as if a vine clipping had somehow gotten caught up in the mail. But when she peered closer, the vine had disappeared. She leaned in, frowning, but there was nothing on the coffee table apart from the envelopes and a gentle dance of shadows from the dappled sunlight above them, so she decided it must have been a trick of the light.

  In the last few months, even though Heather had only stayed with Sinéad for a week or two at a time, she had already become used to the daily delivery of Sinéad’s magazines and newspapers. She picked up the stack of letters and rifled through, looking for the latest Potioneers Catalogue. It was written for sorcerers, but Heather had found it surprisingly easy to adapt the potion ingredients into her cooking magic. Last week she’d turned an elixir of courage into an applesauce that temporarily increased the consumer’s height and strength. They were both particularly impressed with that one.

  It hadn’t arrived yet, so she decided on the local newsletter instead. She passed the rest of the mail to Sinéad and settled in to read.

  It seemed Sinéad’s neighbourhood harboured a lot more excitement than Heather’s. Since the neighbourhood of Starford was within walking distance of the city, which was far more chaotic than Old Wetchhaven, it wasn’t a huge surprise.

  “They’ve caught a jewel thief.” Heather’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “Charles Amberville evaded capture for over a decade and made off with millions in jewellery—mostly diamonds. It doesn’t say how he was caught.”

  “Wow,” Sinéad murmured, tearing open an envelope with one delicate fingernail. “I saw in the Starford Gazette the other week that they’d reopened the case based on new evidence. I guess he got sloppy.”

  “Must have.”

  Heather read on, curious to see what drama Starford had for her next, but she had barely begun the second article when her phone started buzzing from her pocket.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, may I speak with Heather Milli
ngton please?”

  “Speaking.” The heaviness in her stomach lurched again.

  “It’s Roger Branson calling from the Department of Licencing and Registration.” His smile was audible through the phone. It wasn’t a nice smile. “I’m calling regarding your private investigator business, code number two nine three eight. Do you have a minute to discuss?”

  “Private investigator business?” Heather sat up, pushing Lucifer’s head off her lap. “What private investigator business? I run a level one detective agency. I just use simple magic to find lost possessions, mostly jewellery.”

  Roger chuckled, the glee in his voice telling Heather she had said the wrong thing. “That’s precisely the issue Ms Millington. You are registered as a level one detective agency, and yet we have records of your involvement in a level five investigation several months ago. You engaged your professional services in the successful capture and detainment of a homicide suspect. Is this correct?”

  Heather shut her mouth, filled with an immediate certainty that she needed to stop speaking. A loud cracking noise caught her attention, and she looked up to see that the rain cloud had moved to the living room window, half a metre to her right. It rained harder than ever.

  Everything Roger Branson said was technically true. Last Christmas, the Earl of Denbigh had been murdered in Heather’s home town of Old Wetchhaven. Sinéad had been falsely accused—and Heather too, for a hot minute—and together the two of them had tracked down the real killer and cleared Sinéad’s name.

  Nonetheless, Heather felt she had only offered the police information that any member of the public could have provided, which made the line between professional services and concerned citizen somewhat blurred. But Mr Branson’s tone warned her that this was a man who had no qualms exploiting loopholes and administrative contradictions to make people like her suffer, whether or not she had broken any laws. She didn’t yet have the knowledge to fight it, but she refused to let this slimy bureaucrat back her into a corner.

  “Listen,” she began. “I’ve no idea what records you’re referring to, but I can assure you I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “On the contrary, Ms Millington. If our records are accurate, you’re up for tax evasion and licencing fraud, at the very least.”

  Heather’s head grew dizzy; that sounded expensive. She wasn’t rich enough to deal with accusations like that. “Can you please send through any information regarding this case?” she asked, pleased to find her voice steady. “I’d like to discuss it with my lawyer.” Once she found one.

  “Certainly, Ms Millington.”

  Roger listed off the remaining details and assured her he would send the paperwork immediately. The false sympathy in his tone made his opinion clear: she didn’t stand a hope in hell of getting out of this.

  “We’ll touch base at the end of the week,” Roger finished brightly and hung up.

  Heather stared at the wall in front of her, eyes unfocused. She was sure she’d done nothing wrong, but the heavy lead in her stomach turned over rapidly, making her question everything about those blurred few days. Out of the corner of her eye, the rain cloud thundered harder than ever. With the timing of its dramatic antics, it was almost as if it had known what was coming, though Heather wasn’t sure how it could.

  Had it predicted this? The spell she designed shouldn’t be able to predict anything. And anyway, why did it still act as though something bad hid around the corner? After Roger Branson’s call, nothing worse could come of today.

  Then she looked over and saw Sinéad frozen in horror, staring down at a sheet of paper in her hand. It didn’t look as though she’d heard any of Heather’s conversation, which at least explained why she hadn’t been demanding Heather pass her the phone so she could unleash her outrage.

  “What is it?” she asked, reaching out to rest a hand on her girlfriend’s knee.

  “It’s a letter,” Sinéad said slowly.

  Heather resisted the urge to poke fun at her for stating the obvious. Something was very wrong.

  “It says they’ve been taken, I’m being watched, and I need to meet with him so we can work together before it’s too late.” Her voice caught on the words with a faint edge of panic that didn’t suit her.

  “Who’s been taken?” Heather asked, fear rising in her chest. Her hands shook where they pressed against Sinéad’s knee, but she wasn’t sure which of the two of them was causing it. “Who do you need to meet with?”

  Who could worry Sinéad so much? Sinéad’s close friends were few and far between, and as an orphan, she had no family to worry about.

  “My parents.” Sinéad looked up, her eyes wide and startled. “And I need to meet my brother.”

  Behind them, the rain cloud shattered in a crack of lightning two foot tall, then disappeared.

  Chapter Two

  “You honestly don’t want to meet him?” Heather leaned across the table, propping her elbows and ignoring the curious glances from the other diners in the café.

  With the atmosphere of concern and dread that loomed over their table, they no doubt looked deep in an argument.

  “I don’t know.” Sinéad stirred her tea, glaring at it murderously. “What if it’s all a lie? It seems so unlikely that my brother would turn up after all these years. How did he even find me?”

  “Not to point out the obvious,” Heather said, chewing on her lip to hold back a smile, “but you won’t be able to answer any of those things if you don’t go to meet him.”

  Sinéad glanced up at her with a wry grin before turning back to her teacup. It now looked like a small whirlpool had formed inside it. “You have a point.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “It’s just so strange,” Sinéad continued, finally withdrawing the teaspoon and placing it on the saucer. “I’m meant to believe my family has shown up? I’m twenty six, for Heaven’s sake. Where have they been all this time? And why do they need me? They aban—”

  She cut herself off before she finished the word, but Heather’s chest tightened in sudden understanding. She reached across the table and squeezed Sinéad’s wrist.

  Sinéad looked up at her suddenly. “Move in with me?”

  Heather’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Sinéad appeared as surprised as Heather, but she leaned forward in earnest instead of backing down. “I mean it. I’ve wanted to ask you since June, but it never felt like the right time.”

  Heather thought any time would be better than now, since they were potentially hours away from Sinéad’s life falling apart. Part of her wondered if that might be the reason Sinéad was asking at all.

  “But, it hasn’t even been a year,” she said hesitantly.

  She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered it, but every time she’d entertained the idea, thoughts of U-Hauls and stereotypes that ran a little too close to home flooded her mind. In reality though, what really stopped her was the practical issue that she couldn’t decide where they should live: her house or Sinéad’s.

  “But it’s been wonderful, hasn’t it?” Sinéad said quietly in a rare show of sentiment. “Why shouldn’t we? I only see you for a few weeks at a time, as it is. I want to come home to you every day.”

  Heat rose in Heather’s cheeks, pleasantly warm and tingling.

  “What about my home?” she asked.

  Sinéad blinked, lips parting in surprise. “I only thought… I mean… mine is a great deal larger. And the dogs love it here.”

  “But I grew up in Old Wetchhaven.” Heather’s voice sounded smaller than she’d like.

  A flash of something unreadable crossed Sinéad’s face, but before Heather opened her mouth to question it, the waiter arrived to check on them.

  While Sinéad asked to hear the cake options, Heather checked her phone in case Roger Branson had called her again. After he’d phoned yesterday, she had spent the rest of the day chasing up someone to help her make sense of the allegations. But she had no luck finding a lawyer who was bot
h available and affordable.

  The growing sense of urgency was making it difficult to think, leaving her overwhelmed knowing that neither her business skill nor her finances could handle a problem like this. Heather didn’t have a lot of money. If she couldn’t find a solution, her business might be in real trouble. Still, she tried to stay calm and not catastrophize. She probably had another day before she had to decide what to do, but every time her phone buzzed she panicked.

  She tapped into her voicemail in case she had missed something, but the only notification was a flashing icon at the bottom, indicating an empty inbox.

  Heather began to put her phone back into her purse when it hit her. Empty. She froze, cold dread sliding its fingers up her spine. It shouldn’t have been empty. There should have been one thing there. One important thing she must never lose.

  She checked again, but her eyes hadn’t deceived her. A strange buzzing began to fill her ears. Through the fog of panic, Heather saw Sinéad notice her reaction and reach across the table in alarm, but Heather had no words to explain what had happened. She’d never told Sinéad about the last voicemail her parents had left her. She’d never had to; it was just there. It was an ordinary part of her life, like the fact she ate yoghurt for breakfast or didn’t enjoy hiking.

  But now it wasn’t part of her life anymore. Now, it was gone.

  *

  They planned to meet Sinéad’s brother, Cian, at the Forester’s Arms at noon, but the clock had just gone eleven fifty and they hadn’t left yet. A distant part of Heather’s mind reeled with astonishment that they weren’t late because of Sinéad—who had changed her mind roughly eighteen times about meeting this mysterious brother at all—but because of Heather. Mostly though, Heather was too busy drowning in her own misery to care.

  “Are you ready to come out yet?” Sinéad asked gently, speaking through the bathroom door.