Witch's Jewel: Kit Melbourne, #1

By Kater Cheek

A sorcerous jewel. A mysterious uncle. Can a barista keep her magical heirloom safe from murderous crooks?

Kit Melbourne longs to quit her brother's coffee shop to pursue her artistic dreams. And despite the temptation to sell the sought-after enchanted gem she inherited from her uncle, she promises her family to protect it at all costs. But when her brother's tea-leaf reading predicts her imminent death, she's terrified to discover those who want it will kill to make it theirs.

Forced to dig into her late relative's murky past, Kit is doubly shocked when she learns the artifact's mighty power cannot be transferred unless its caretaker is dead. But despite her command of karate and fierce vampiric allies, her attackers show no sign of giving up their relentless lethal pursuit.

Has Kit's vow not to sell sealed her doom?

Witch's Jewel is the first book in the engrossing Kit Melbourne urban fantasy series. If you like strong female leads, high-stakes action, and nail-biting plots, you'll love Kater Cheek's enthralling tale.

Buy Witch's Jewel to dive into an epic world of Wiccan magic today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kater Cheek
• Release date: Mar 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386623991

Book preview

Chapter One

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It was a slow afternoon in Café Ishmael when James read the tea leaves that predicted my murder. All his regulars swore by his amazing accuracy, but that could have just been bragging that they were in the coffee shop’s in-crowd. Usually he only did witchy stuff for his favorites. I’m his sister and employee, not a customer, and I don’t believe in tea leaf readings, but like I said, it was a slow afternoon, so when he offered to do the reading, I said sure.

James glanced up at me over the sodden leaves of Irish Breakfast. He tossed the paper cup in the garbage.

What did it say? I asked. Handsome stranger, journey over water? Fortune in gold?

Let me try again. He hopped off his stool and reached over the back counter for a tin of Darjeeling. His hands were shaking when he poured hot water into the cup, shaking a lot, more than just the normal caffeine shake.

Never mind, I said, wishing for a customer so he’d stop freaking me out. Forget I asked.

But James poured the tea. Drink.

After I drank the second cup, James looked into the leaves, then shook his head, and threw that one away too. The third time, he grabbed the tin of Lapsong Souchong. He loved that tea, and paid way too much for it.

No way. I held up my hands. That stuff tastes like a campfire.

––––––––

It’s the most accurate. James poured the cup and handed it to me.

I folded my arms and didn’t budge. Neither did he.

I tried to wait him out, but James did stubborn better. I sighed and drank the icky tea, then handed the cup back. James stared at the leaves for a long time.

And?

Thieves and a broken heart. He didn’t meet my eye.

Oh, is that all?

No. That’s not all I saw, he said, looking serious. Kit, I’m afraid someone will try to murder you.

I didn’t put much store in tea leaf readings, but it was hard to not be rattled by your brother saying someone was going to murder you. Kind of like being in a haunted house; even if you didn’t believe in ghosts, it’s still hard to sleep at night.

Oh. That sucks. Maybe I should get my deadbolt re-keyed. I tried for blasé, but my voice cracked.

James shook his head and set the cup down. It doesn’t mean you’re going to die. It just means that someone will try to kill you. All you have to do is find out who, and stop them.

Yeah, sure. I grabbed the paper cup and looked at the bottom, but to me the leaves were nothing but blobs.

James started collecting empty cups and dirty napkins, bussing tables as though competing for an award. He did this when he was upset. I was kind of freaked out too. Stupid, right? I mean, tea leaves. But still, I’d seen a lot of weird things in the previous month. My skepticism wasn’t as strong as it used to be.

The other thing James did when he was worried was stop talking. He finished bussing all the tables and helped me make a dozen drinks before speaking again.

A woman named Monica called today. She’s interested in buying your jewel.

I touched the tiny jewel pasted on my forehead. Our uncle Fred had recently passed away, and in his will, he’d left it to me. It was a bindi, a felt-backed, gold filigree dot, like Bollywood stars might wear. Uncle Fred said it would give me magic powers. Yeah, seriously. Magic powers. It didn’t look that valuable, but I’d started wearing it as a memento.

She wants to buy it? This?

The woman wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I finally told her she could come by tonight and talk to you after work. I got the impression she was an old friend of Uncle Fred’s. She sounded anxious to get the bindi.

Did she say how much?

Kit, don’t sell it.

He used a rag to clean coffee grounds off the next table. Brown flecks stained the knuckles of his strong square hands. He inherited those hands from our father. We both had Dad’s stocky build and straight brown hair. Fortunately, we got our personality, and character, from somewhere else.

Does she know about its, I made jazz hands. magical powers?

She indicated she wanted it for sentimental reasons.

How much sentiment we talking about? I asked.

James pulled his lips in. More than I pay you in a month.

Really? cool, I said. That kind of money could buy new tires for my van, weekends of pizza and beer. Or several days of shopping in the Old Town, maybe actually buying something for once, instead of just trying on cute clothes I couldn’t afford.

Kit, promise me you won’t sell it to her.

I need the money. I walked away from him towards the fireplace hearth (additional seating in the summer months) and gathered a handful of used napkins.

Uncle Fred wanted you to have it. James brushed crumbs off one of the overstuffed chairs near the fireplace. You specifically.

I barely knew him.

That’s only because you didn’t have the chance. He sat down on the chair, but didn’t relax into it.

James moved out as soon as he graduated high school, and he had lived with Aunt Hazel and Uncle Fred in their cottage up in Maine for a few years. I’d been furious at the time, angry that James left me, and jealous that he got away from home. Uncle Fred had invited me too, but by the time I turned eighteen, James had already moved to Seabingen.

Uncle Fred and Mom hated each other, I said. And that wasn’t quite enough to endear Uncle Fred to me.

He didn’t hate her. It was the other way around. Mom didn’t like Uncle Fred because he was a Pagan. You know how she is about witches or witchcraft.

There weren’t any more cups to collect, so I wiped an imaginary spot off the table.

Kit, promise you won’t sell it. He didn’t want you to sell it.

A young woman came in and stared at the slate menu on the wall, perusing the list of caffeine drinks. James grabbed my arm before I could approach her.

We used to talk about you. I read him your letters.

There’s a customer.

James wouldn’t let go of my arm. He was so proud of you, for how your life turned out. He wished you were his daughter.

Guilt gnawed at my belly. I’m broke, James.

I told people that I was an artist, not a barista, that I only took a few hours here and there to help my brother out, but the truth was, my art earnings were somewhere between jack and squat.

I have to fire Rachel. You can have her hours until I find a replacement.

James, patcher of skinned knees, teller of bedtime stories, protector from stepfathers, the only family I was on speaking terms with, wore me down.

I sighed deeply. Fridays and Saturdays off?

Fridays and every other Saturday, if you promise you won’t sell it to her.

Fine. I’ll tell her no. Tonight, anyway. I peeled the jewel off my brow and stuck it back in its envelope.

He let go of my arm. Another customer came in, one of the regulars, to buy a cookie and a decaf mocha, as she did every evening. James smiled and flirted as he rang up her purchases. I went to make her drink. Someday, if I weren’t careful, I really would be nothing but a barista.

James had started at Café Ishmael years before I moved to Seabingen, and had bought the café from the previous owner as soon as he scraped together a down payment and a loan for the rest. It was a nice place, wedged between the trendy Old Town, on the other side of the river, and the University district creeping up the hill. James had been the happiest guy in the world when he bought Ishmael’s. Now he devoted his life to it, forsaking almost everything else. Sometimes getting what you want doesn’t make life easier.

The brass bells hanging from the glass door tinkled as Jolene swung it open. Tonight she wore a black vinyl skirt and a faded velvet jacket that matched her dyed black hair and thick eyeliner. Her skin was sunlessly pale, as usual. The first time I saw her while wearing the bindi she had a dark smudgy aura for about thirty seconds, after which she appeared human again.

Only once, but it was enough to put the smack down on my denial. I could have put the jewel on again, but I was scared to, because I knew I’d see something funny. The jewel was like the bathroom scale that wouldn’t lie, no matter how much you begged.

I leaned over to take the garbage from the bin under the counter, wincing as the motion strained muscles still sore from Thursday at the dojo. Jolene brushed against me as she went to grab a piece of shortbread from the dessert counter. Her skin felt cool.

How come you’re working tonight, Kit?

Rachel called in sick again. I asked Kit to help out, James said.

Jolene set her backpack behind the counter, where we would trip over it all night, instead of hanging it in the break room where it belonged. I thought you had a day job.

I do. But it was none of her business.

So, are you, like, full time now?

I’m off at ten.

Jolene yawned to prove she hadn’t really cared that much. Fangs. She had those acrylic fangs the more devout Goth girls sometimes wore.

Unless they were real? Could they be real? Could she be a vampire? I shook my head. One, vampires weren’t real, and two, would a real vampire be this slow making drinks? The only supernatural power Jolene had was the ability to make an evening feel like an eternity, blathering on about the plays she tried out for.

In the month and a half it took for my shift to end, I forgot about the woman who wanted to buy the bindi until she showed up at the door at precisely ten p.m. She wore a blue linen suit, and her curly blonde hair contrasted just enough with her skin tone to indicate that one or the other had been purchased at a salon. She wore thick gold jewelry, expensive if it was real, but no wedding ring. Her shoes had five-inch pencil-thin heels and a gold buckle shaped like a logo. Her purse was one of those beige plaid ones.

She looked back and forth at the tables, scanning for the heiress with the bindi. I waited until she had ordered a skinny latte and claimed a table before I clocked out. She didn’t tip. Handbag that cost more than my rent and she didn’t tip.

Mildred? she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. Mildred Melbourne?

That’s me, I said, approaching quickly before she could say that name again. One of the reasons I’d left New Jersey and come to the Northwest was that no one here (except James) knew me as Mildred. I had hoped to keep it that way. I go by Kit.

Monica plastered on a smile and extended her hand. She had manicured fingers and a professional handshake. I’m Monica Delcourt.

She launched into how nice of you to take time to see me, which I ignored and faked a smile through. When we were both seated and finished with the pleasantries, Monica picked up her bag and rummaged around in it. She found a gold pen and a checkbook and began writing.

I know we didn’t discuss price, but I hope you’ll find this a reasonable amount.

When she finished writing out the check, she set it down on the table and began to put her purse back together again. I glanced at the amount. It was more substantial than James had indicated. Two months’ rent and an oil change. Or four tires I desperately needed to replace. Or dinner and a movie for me and Rob, if I ever got the guts to ask him out on a real date.

I made no move to pick up the check.

Monica zipped up her purse. You did bring the jewel, didn’t you?

I’m not sure I want to sell it. My uncle wanted to keep it in the family. My hand wanted to pat the pocket for reassurance.

In the family? Monica made a gentle moue.

Yeah.

I suppose he never told you of its origins?

Not really.

She took a sip of coffee and set the cup down again, leaving a faint semicircle of pink along its rim. There’s a long story behind that jewel. It was in my family for many years. It has great sentimental value. My grandfather purchased it in India as a betrothal gift for my grandmother.

A betrothal gift?

It’s a gift that a man gives to a woman when she agrees to marry him.

I know what a betrothal gift is. Why’d he’d pick something so dull-looking to impress his fiancée? It wasn’t much larger than a squash seed, and it looked like it was broken, anyway. It had half a loop at the top, as though it once hung from a chain.

"My grandfather wanted to replace it with a ring when he came into money. But then he was killed in the war, so my grandmother kept the bindi instead. She wore it nearly every day of her life, and on her death bed she gave it to my mother and asked her to keep it safe.

My mother told me the story when I was a girl, and promised that someday it would be mine. I had hoped to give it to my own daughter someday. Monica smiled shyly and tilted her head.

So, how did my uncle get it?

Mother always said that she lost it during a move. She sipped her latte again and looked down at her hands, as if the next part was shameful to her. That’s when I knew she was lying. Even Jolene was a better actress than that.

Monica sighed. The truth was that Frederick bought it from her. I didn’t learn this until recently. I’m sure if Frederick realized how much it meant to us he would have sold it back to me before he died.

Why would he want it if it only had sentimental value?

They say, well, you may find this silly, but they say it has magical powers. Monica laughed lightly. I know most people don’t believe in that.

I raised my eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

She stared at me for a long moment, and when I stared back unblinking, she broke her gaze. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you, but I didn’t feel comfortable mentioning that. I wasn’t even sure if you were a mage or not. You see, that’s the other reason I want it.

What is the jewel supposed to do? Besides make me see stuff that wasn’t there.

It doesn’t matter. She smiled, and this time the smile touched her eyes. She rummaged in her bag and came out with a business card, using the pen from her checkbook to write something on the back. The front of the card read:

Monica Delcourt

Inner Light Personal Guidance and Mage-Craft

Holistic wellness, chakra readings, aura reading, tarot, astrology, past life regression.

Mage-craft?

I teach it, among other things. Are you interested in learning? Frederick was an exceptional witch. I’m sure you’d be talented too.

I flipped the card over, and my eyes fixed on the amount she had written. I wanted to reach in my pocket and give it to her right then and there. An engine overhaul for the van. An apartment in a safer area of town. Tuition at the dojo for most of a year. I wasn’t immune to greed. A memento of Uncle Fred was nice, and an exotic magical jewel was nicer, but this was real money.

James was serving coffee to another customer, but he caught my eye as if reading my thoughts.

With a regretful sigh I put the card in my pocket. I’ll let you know.

Chapter Two

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I make trees. Well, I make silk floral arrangements too, but mostly fake trees. I assemble the branches with wire, hot glue and determination, and sell the finished work on commission at Tulipa, an upscale florist shop.

Silvara came out the back door of Tulipa to greet me after my van door slammed. She’s five-ten, three inches taller than me, with handsome, rather than pretty, features. She never dyed her rapidly graying hair, though she was only in her mid-thirties.

She expressed herself with elaborate outfits. Today’s was a short forest green sheath dress with embroidered sunflowers along the neck and hem. It didn’t hamper her movements as she hefted a couple trees from the back of my van.

Is this all you have?

Yeah, I mostly came to see if you had any preorders for holiday boughs.

Not yet. Maybe next month. Silvara inspected the oaks I had made. The trees were five feet tall, and tinged with autumnal colors, just the thing for a decorator who wanted to coordinate with earth-tones. I think I can sell these before the equinox.

She picked up two, holding the sphagnum-moss-bedecked pots in her arms. I locked the van, cradling the other oak trees, and followed Silvara into the back of the shop. Half of the storage room was taken up by a walk-in refrigerator, full of black plastic buckets and fresh cut flowers. The other half had a sink and a long counter, with rolls of ribbons and

florist paper above, and blocks of foam below.

Silvara set the trees down and went to the front of the shop, returning a few minutes later with an envelope and a slip of paper.

Here’s your money for the other ones, and a receipt for these four. How’s the palm tree coming along? she asked, referring to a commission she had found for me.

Slowly. I had to get a day job. I briefly counted the money and put the cash and the receipt into my jacket pocket. I’m going to finish it on time, but I had hoped to have a head start on the Thanksgiving arrangements by now.

Well, don’t worry about it. Christmas is the big moneymaker anyway.

Yeah, I guess so. I shut the door leading to the front of the shop so her assistant Melissa couldn’t overhear. I took a deep breath, then exhaled. Silvara, can I ask you something?

Do you need to borrow money, Kit? Silvara was the only one who could ask that without making me feel like dirt.

No. It’s not that. It’s, well, you know a lot of people. Do you know any antique dealers?

Antique dealer? Do you want to sell something, or buy something?

Sell, I guess. I got an inheritance, a jewel, and I want to talk to someone who can tell me about it. I’ve already had one offer, but if I decide to sell it I don’t wanna get ripped off.

What did you inherit?

I’d better show you. I fished the bindi from my pocket, along with the letter Uncle Fred had enclosed.

Silvara wiped her hands on a towel and took the envelope. She read the letter before looking at the bindi. I had already memorized it.

Dear Kit,

It grieves me to think that I will not be able to see you again before I die. The doctors claim I have several years to live, but I feel very unwell these days. What use of being a witch if you can’t even see your own death?

But that’s enough of my melancholy. I am in the process of rewriting my will. Most of my belongings were to go to Hazel, but now that she has passed, I have to make other plans. I am leaving James the title to my house. I am leaving you something even more valuable. Please do not sell it, even if you are destitute. It could cause great harm in the wrong hands. My hunch is that you will be able to make good use of it.

Your loving uncle,

Fred Edgerson

Frederick Edgerson. Silvara’s voice changed as she mentioned his name, as though my uncle were a secret best left buried. I haven’t heard that name in a long, long while.

You knew him?

I recognize the name. He was well known here, in certain circles. She quickly folded the letter and stuffed it back in the envelope without looking at me.

He lived here? What circles? What was he known for?

There’s an antiques dealer in the Old Town. Thorn and Bramble. Try them.

Silvara ... I touched her arm.

She closed her eyes slowly. Kit, I can’t. Politics, you know.

I let go of her sleeve, confused.

Ask the antique dealer if he recognizes your jewel. Ask him about Frederick Edgerson.

I’m asking you.

She sighed, rubbing her hand down her face, and I wondered how much that question had strained our friendship. I’d get rid of this jewel, if I were you.

Why? Is it cursed or something?

Anyone who knew your uncle knows that jewel. He had enemies, Kit, some of them powerful.

And you think they’re going to go after me?

The telephone rang. Silvara stared at me for a few seconds, assuring me she heard my question. I have to get the phone. See you next week?

That was unlike her. I waved good-bye and walked out, then went to the library so I could look up the appraiser’s address and check my email.

Yes, I had to go to the library to check my email. No, I didn’t have my own laptop. I didn’t even have my own cell phone. I know. Cave-dwelling troglodyte. Making trees didn’t exactly earn laptop-buying kind of money.

***

The sign said Thorn and Bramble Antiques. A little brass bell tinkled as I walked into the dusky, cluttered showroom. It smelled of mildew and dust, the smell of an old house closed for too long. A forest of furniture and knickknacks quickly swallowed the wan light pouring in from the windows. An old man sat at a bombé desk, entering figures into a small leather-bound book. His skin was pale and soft, as though he had spent decades indoors. He watched me for a moment, licked his finger to turn the page in his ledger, and went back to his work.

I studied the displays as though I could afford to buy something, though my shabby jean jacket proved otherwise. Most of the furnishings were ornate and tastefully valuable. They were certainly more expensive than my milk-crate and plywood furniture.

An enormous carved Chinese bed stood next to a bust of one of the muses. Further in the store, past an elephant’s foot wastebasket, hung a leering African mask that reminded me of one from Uncle Fred’s house. It was two feet long and oval, carved from wood, and burnished dark. It gave me a happy, nostalgic feeling, remembering my one summer with Uncle Fred and Aunt Hazel up in Maine. You’d have to be as eccentric as Uncle Fred to want that strange bug-eyed face staring at you.

You like the mask? The man had silently risen from his desk, and hovered near my shoulder like a mercantile bat. I can take it down if you like.

No, that’s okay.

He ignored me and brought it down anyway, setting it in my hands as he began to lecture about its origins. It’s from the Ivory Coast. You can see the carving marks on the back that show its authenticity. This one is almost one hundred years old, and is an example of an animal mask. It is supposed to imbue the wearer with the spirit of the animal. You can see this mark here, which is ...

He went on about the mask for a while, and I nodded and tried to hand it back. It probably cost a fortune, and was almost certainly fragile.

But if you like African masks, I have some others which are even more interesting.

No, that’s okay. I finally managed to make him take it back. Are you Mr. Thorn or Mr. Bramble?

The man smiled politely. I am Mr. Thorn. Welcome to my bramble.

Ah, I get it. That’s cute.

Is there something else I can help you with? It was a ‘don’t bother me if you’re not going to buy something’ tone.

Yes, actually. I inherited a jewel, and I’d like you to take a look at it if you have time.

A jewel? Mr. Thorn raised his eyebrows. I can spare a few moments.

I