Free Bloodstone by Barbra Annino Page A

Sundays. Guests were usually in a rush to get downtown for shopping and sightseeing. Not only did we need to talk to Birdie, but also I needed to get my hands on the book. Where had Fiona stored my things?
    The trophies and the shelf were stacked in a corner of the basement and I dusted up the crumbled drywall and tossed it in the trash. There was a note for Chance on the kitchen counter telling him where we would be and the pennies were tucked in the tiger’s eye locket that hung around Thor’s neck. I was showered and dressed and in desperate need of coffee.
    I sat on the bed and reached for my black boots thinking about the thoughtform from last night.
    A thoughtform (also called on egregore) is a manifestation of energy created through visualization. They aren’t real beings, but often take on an anthropomorphic or zoomorphic form. They serve as watchers, messengers, even companions. It takes a good deal of concentration and practice to develop one and only the most powerful and well-honed witch can charge a thoughtform.
    Never have I heard of anyone who could do it in her sleep like Ivy had done with Petey.
    The door clicked softly and Ivy emerged from the bathroom all sleepy-eyed. She yawned and said, “It’s practically still dark outside. Why on Earth do we have to leave so early?” She yawned again and fumbled through her backpack. She pulled out a black ball cap with a white pentagram embroidered on it and cupped it on her head, tucking her ears under, then straightened her fiery mane. She walked over to give Thor a belly scratch.
    “Because the guests are served at eight o’clock and the sooner we get this over with, the better.” I ushered her toward the door.
    We made it to the inn in under ten minutes. There was no sign of life in the front of the house, but I was certain there was some food preparation happening in the kitchen.
    If only that were all that was happening, things may have turned out differently.

 
     
     
    THIRTY
     
    The view through the glass panes in the door showed Mr. Sayer slumped across the apothecary table that served as the prep island, a dagger sticking out of his back and blood staining his shirt. For a split second, I panicked, but then I remembered he was taking this whole murder-mystery weekend seriously. Although, I suspected his cover was blown at that point.
    The spare key was kept in a gargoyle’s mouth that guarded the flowerbeds. I liberated it and unlocked the back door. Ivy followed.
    “Stacy, I have to use the bathroom,” she said.
    There was no sign of Birdie or the aunts.
    “Down the hall to the right.”
    She scampered off and I greeted Mr. Sayer. He stuck to character, not uttering a word, so I crossed to the marble countertop near the old Hoosier cabinet to pour myself a cup of coffee. The sun was peeking through the window over the farm sink when Aunt Fiona emerged from the back stairway a few minutes later. Lolly trailed behind her.
    “Oh, hello, dear. You’re up early.” Fiona so put together for this ungodly hour, one might suspect she had a crew working on her all night while she slept. Lolly, on the other hand, decided to set her hair in pin curls. Using actual safety pins. She looked like a voodoo doll experiment gone horribly wrong.
    Lolly shuffled, head down, towards the countertop where the mug tree dutifully carried all the coffee cups on its sturdy wooden arms. Fiona reached for a bottle of Bailey’s Irish cream as Lolly contemplated which mug should set the tone for the day. She chose one with a caption that read Life’s a witch and then you fly.
    Birdie emerged from the fruit cellar then, two jars of homemade jam in her hands—raspberry or perhaps strawberry and peach. Most of what they served their guests was either harvested from the gardens on the property or supplied by local farmers.
    “Anastasia. What a surprise.” She said it like it was anything but. “Come to help us with breakfast?”
    I held up my coffee cup in a gesture