Free Witch in the Wind (Bandit Creek Books) by Brenda M. Collins Page B

looked back at the dog.
    Left with no choice, Busby slowly made his way to her side.
    She turned back to the cellar door. It was a perfectly ordinary door. Made out of some sort of wood. Six panels. Standard brass doorknob. The latch was hanging open. Avy vaguely remembered a heavy black padlock having been there before.
    “I must have had an awesome imagination as a kid, Busby,” she said. She lightly brushed her hand across a panel. “I would have sworn that the door was red when I was a kid.” She hadn’t really noticed in more recent years. Reality showed it was a deep indigo.
    She stifled a giggle. “And, for sure, I saw a fire breathing dragon come up the stairs at least once.” The memory was so clear in her mind. “I guess it was a pretty small dragon, though. Probably just a baby.” She stroked Busby’s head to reassure him before she reached for the doorknob. “Yup, one hell of an imagination.”
    She pulled open the door and stepped into the darkness. Immediately her nose wrinkled against the acrid smell hanging in the stale air.
    Busby whimpered but stepped in front of her.
    She couldn’t imagine why a dog would be afraid of the dark. There was a light switch on the wall beside the stairs so she flicked it on. It wasn’t bright but it cast enough light for Avy to see the stairs. She waited a moment to give her eyes time to adjust.
    As the aroma from the cellar grew stronger, she realized it was the same smell from that first evening outside the house, then later today at the bank.
    “I knew it was familiar, Busby.”
    Even as a small child she hadn’t liked the strange smell that seemed to drift up from the root cellar. Her mother had said some of her concoctions were a bit stinky until they settled.
    Avy nudged Busby to move, tucked the flashlight into the waist of her jeans, and followed him down the stairs. The click of his nails on the wood was as reassuring as his presence.
    As soon as her foot settled on the dirt floor at the bottom of the steps, her heart jolted in her chest. Busby dropped to a crouch and growled. The cellar lay in ruins. Jars smashed. Baskets of herbs up-ended. Strange objects strewn everywhere. Some of the debris had landed on a rough hewn table that was pushed up against the far wall. Was this part of the original break-in? Or had someone come back a second time while she was out?
    She tensed her body ready to bolt back up the stairs. She squinted , scanning every corner for movement or shadows. Nothing. Maybe the sheriff hadn’t thought to check the cellar. Why would anyone ransack a cellar anyway? Avy forced herself to breathe in slowly through her nose. The dust tickled making her eyes water as she tried not to sneeze.
    Busby must have decided the scene was secure because he was no longer growling. What could anyone want in the cellar? Her heart pounding, and senses on high alert, she moved further into the small room looking for some sign of what the intruder was looking for. Even the smaller boxes and jars had been opened and their contents dumped. Something small then, but what? She pulled her flashlight out of her waistband and kept moving forward, with Busby matching each step. Her gaze followed the sweep of the flashlight from side to side. The beam suddenly bounced back to her from something beneath the table. She bent over and found a battered old trunk with worn leather straps, elaborate brass banding and corner guards. It was covered in decades of dust and almost completely hidden in the shadows.
    “Looks like the thief missed this,” she said. She pulled it out and knelt down, then eased open the lid with one hand while using the other to angle the light.
    Busby nosed up beside her. The dust made him sneeze. “Bless you,” Avy said, without taking her eyes away from the strange piece.
    The trunk seemed to be empty. She reached inside and felt around the inside being careful not to use too much pressure. If this was a family heirloom, she didn’t want to