CHAPTER FIVE
LOOK WHO’S TALKING

Glancing down at her watch, Lucy noted that she had ten minutes to spare before her show began. Moving behind a curtain, she peered at the stage. Two cauldron-conjuring witches were standing by a large black pot with wisps of smoke curling from it, dropping in bits of what looked like dried bat wings.

“Bon appétit,” Lucy whispered, and her attention was drawn to two Lei-line warlocks who were standing nearby, their crystal-tipped wands in hand and somber expressions on their faces. Concealed behind the stage’s pale black curtains, Lucy felt it was safe to inch closer, to try and hear what the warlocks were so urgently speaking about.

“Mon Dieu! Today you wouldn’t believe what happened. Serena come by my house, you see, and upset she was. She had this scarf over her face, and when she pulled it off I got frightened, bad. She looks around seventy. Her skin’s all wrinkled, and her eyes are sunken in her head,” the first warlock was whispering to the other.

“You mean that pretty little Serena Stevens of the Broomstick coven? Isn’t she married to your cousin Arthur?”

The first warlock nodded.

The second warlock said, “Has someone put an aging spell on her? Serena’s only, what—twenty-nine or so?”

“Thirty-three. But it’s bad news, mon ami. Bad and scary. No way did I detect any spell or curse,” the first warlock confessed. His expression was grim. “Just Feu Follets—evil spirits.”

The second man frowned. His Cajun friend was the top warlock in the southern states. If a spell had been cast, he should be able to detect it.

Lucy listened in sly amazement. What a fascinating problem. She did so love riddles, although she also felt terribly sorry for the poor woman who’d turned old before her time. Imagine—one day whistling “Dixie,” and the next day you’re Whistler’s grandmother!

“But that’s impossible. People don’t age overnight,” the second warlock exclaimed. “Not without a spell, and a spell for aging would only last a week or two. And an evil spell like this would leave a black magic stink.”

Clasping his arm tightly, the first warlock hissed, “C’est assez—that’s enough! They might hear, those attention-starved cauldron crones. Wouldn’t they just love it—mais oui—to stick their warty old noses in our business? I can see the headlines: Cauldron-conjurers out-magic Lei-line warlock’s family. No way would we be able to keep our wands up in public. Mon Dieu, the humiliation!”

The second man nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. Those cauldron crones are always big on publicity, what with their shiny black cauldrons and their eyes of newt. Just because their witch heritage relates them to Mac-Beth, Sleeping Beauty, and the Witches of Eastwick—that’s no reason to go and act so magically superior.”

“Pas de be’tises. No joke. Remember how they go on and on about the Salem witch trials, yes? So some were hanged, so what? They never hush their mouth about it. You’d think their witch ancestors were the only ones to suffer persecution. Burned at the stake, my ancestors were—which beats hanging any day of the week!”

Hmm, Lucy thought shrewdly. A case like this could bring a lot of attention to whoever solved it. This was a serious crime, with serious repercussions. Some nasty old monster couldn’t just go around aging others with a snap of his fingers; there weren’t enough old folks homes around! And what would it do to Social Security, which was on its last legs anyway?

Her grandmother had always said that a person’s character determined her fate, and Lucy knew she was a character, so she would be safe. Besides, public safety would be served along with her own self-interest if she could help solve the crime. People would begin to see her show in a more serious light, and even the elite of the supernatural world would have to take notice, to pay her a little respect.

She grinned in anticipation. Finally, she had something she could sink her teeth into—and she wasn’t even a vampire!

Glancing over at the two warlocks, she waited for more revelations, which she was glad were quick to come.

“Her aging is downright eerie, mon ami. Arthur is worry-sick, and Serena is complaining of hard hearing and wanting to eat supper at four in the afternoon. I tried every spell I knew to de-age her. Mais non, I couldn’t. What’s been done? Me, I don’t know. But it’s not black magic like I know. I’m at my warlock’s end.”

But Lucy wasn’t. She firmly planted the names of Serena and Arthur Stevens in her mind. If she played her cards right, mortals and paranormals alike would soon see her as something more than a pretty face. Tomorrow she would go and visit the poor woman, then have a meeting with the oldest practicioner of black magic in New Orleans: Marvin Laveau, great-grandson to Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen to end all voodoo queens.

The two warlocks took a seat, and Lucy quickly patted her hair. The assistant producer of the show called out, “Four minutes till airtime.”

Walking out from behind the curtains, Lucy took her place in the leather chair situated between the black leather sofas where the two warlocks and three witches were now seated. The segregated groups were shooting daggerlike looks between them, their hostility clear.

Lucy smiled at both groups and sat, hoping that open magical warfare wasn’t about to erupt. There was not only her safety, but Moody’s complaints about the repair bills to consider.

“Three minutes till airtime, Lucy,” the assistant producer called out.

Turning her attention back to her guests, Lucy glanced down at her notes. “Now, I know we will all have a good time on the show today, and we will behave ourselves as befits adult warlocks and witches,” she reminded them. “No casting spells or curses. No bewitching. And remember we have an audience, so no cursing. After all, we are prime time.”

The two warlocks looked slightly affronted. “We know how to not cause trouble. After all, we’re descended from noble stock—Merlin of Camelot!”

“Sorry,” Lucy apologized.

“We come from noble stock also,” one of the older witches retorted.

Before more could be said, Lucy cut everyone off. “I’m glad. That means this show will be quite a success with the dignity and aristocratic bearing you all will want to display on it.”

Both sides seemed appeased, and they tried to outdo each other in their noble silence.

Lucy breathed a sigh of thankful relief. Today’s show was going to be fine. There would be no problems, no chairs breaking, no egg on her face, no ghost sliming goo all over her Diordi pantsuit, nobody’s pot of gold stolen, and no leprechaun curses flowing over her head. And most important of all, no reason for her boss to fire her tonight.

And things went fine for a bit. The show was dandy until one of the cauldron witches remarked that sometimes a wand was only a wand, and then only as good as the hand that held it, but that a cauldron was a cauldron.

The warlocks both shouted, “Mon Dieu! Isn’t that just like the pot to call the kettle black?”

And the show went rapidly downhill from there, black magic, white magic and every other color flashing as well. Spells and stinky odors filled the air, and Lucy was hard-pressed to tell which witch had done what.

After thirty minutes of that, Lucy found a frog in her hair as the warlocks sent the things raining down on the cauldron-conjuring witches. The witches, not to be outdone, decided to conjure up cats, all manner of shapes and sizes, like a berserk Cat in the Hat book, felines appearing everywhere.

Lucy sighed in resignation. Yes, it was raining cats and frogs. Mr. Moody was going to be hopping mad about tonight’s janitor bill. It seemed everybody wanted to rain on her parade.

Still, she had a lead to a better story.