Dominic Abernathy kept a light current of magic
flowing out of him. It moved into the black bowl
beside him and stirred the gingerbread batter, keeping
the same gentle pressure that he was using on the Oreo
cookies he crushed.The black bits spilled free,
crumbling across a waiting plate. His haunted
gingerbread house was going to have beautiful and
tasty soil. With luck, his producer would find someone
who could come in and destroy it.
The phone rang.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his familiar
twitch awake at the end of his oak table.
Dominic released the Oreos. Chunks clung to his
fingers. “Can you get that, Blaise?”
“Sure.” Red-gold dust shimmered over a two-foot long
stuffed tiger lounged beside the phone. As it passed,
the tiger’s features became smoother. Alive.
By the third ring, Blaise’s once stitched paws
stretched into pseudo fingers. He picked up the phone.
“Abernathy Manor,” Blaise said. His liquor smooth
voice was soft and held a trace of an English accent,
a result of the many Hammer Horror films Dominic had
seen as a child and wanted to integrate into his
familiar.
Blaise’s lips curved up. “Hello, Mercedes.”
“Has she found someone?” Dominic asked. The first man
she’d found to play the gingerbread exorcist/witch
hunter cancelled earlier that afternoon after he
learned his appendix needed to come out. Dominic had
sent him some gingerbread men spelled with healing
magic, but he needed someone to come in and chase his
make believe ghost go away.
“Dominic is fine,” Blaise said. He glanced at Dominic
and twitched his tail, tapping the phone’s cradle. It
was a quiet admonishment, reminding Dominic that
etiquette had to be followed. “He’s crushing Oreo
cookies for the house. How’re you doing?”
“Blaise.”
“Your youngest won a spelling bee? Brilliance runs in
your family, I see.”
Dominic sighed. He’d wanted a proper familiar; he got
a proper familiar.
He’d begun gathering the magic for Blaise when he was
six. He’d loved the tales of ancient witches and their
clever mystical companions.
It took him two years, and when he cast the spell, he
concentrated on everything he thought a familiar
should have. He wanted it to be as intelligent as
Merlin. As courageous as the Scarlet Pimpernel. As
cool sounding as Peter Cushing.
And he wanted it all in the form of his most cherished
companion: his stuffed tiger.
Really. What did people expect? He was eight.
Thankfully, Dominic never regretted the decision.
Blaise could brush off the façade of stuffing and fur,
and he could turn around and fake being inanimate.
Hunters looking for a black cat or a raven would be
disappointed.
Hunters looking for a ghost in the gingerbread,
though; now that was something entirely different.
Dominic released the Oreo chunks and sent a wisp of
magic over his fingers.
The spell whispered over his skin, a light, cool
sensation akin to his breath. Oreo bits fell away. A
moment later, his hands were clean and, he suspected,
smelling of chocolate.
Dominic glanced at the bowl he’d spelled to mix, made
sure the wooden spoon was moving at a gentle beat, and
then walked around the table.
He’d chosen this two bedroom, two bath cottage because
of the kitchen; outside of his parent’s house, it was
the only place he’d seen that had a large brick
hearth. String a few ropes of garlic around the high,
beam exposed ceiling, set candles into various nooks
and crannies, put a cauldron in the hearth, and
abracadabra. A witch lived there.
A witch and his very proper, very friendly, familiar.
“No, you should go on the trip,” Blaise said. “Both
you and your sister rarely have time to get away
and–Dominic is on his way. It was lovely talking to
you.”
“Now that you’re done being charming, could I trouble
you to make the buttercream frosting for the roof?”
Dominic asked.
“I’m never done being charming.” Blaise offered him
the phone and then scampered across the table, coming
to sit beside a large bowl. “Would you like me to add
a couple drops of black food coloring?”
“Yes. Thank you.” To the phone, Dominic said, “hello,
Mercedes.”
His producer chuckled. “Someday, you have to introduce
me to the man who plays Blaise.”
Someday, she would have to accept that the host of the
Midnight Gourmet was the witch he professed to be, and
that Blaise was in fact a stuffed tiger.
“Have you found someone to play the exorcist/witch
hunter?” Dominic asked.
“Yes.”
Dominic smiled. Blessed be. He was beginning to worry
he’d have to ask his older brother to come in and
help. Justin could act, but the man burned Macaroni
and Cheese.
“Carter Brooks will be coming in to play our witch
hating exorcist,” Mercedes said.
Dominic’s smile died. “Carter Brooks?”
Blaise paused in the middle of stirring. His tail
twitched, sending bits of gingerbread cast offs
darting to the floor.
“He’s seen a few of the episodes,” Mercedes said. “We
think that, with your divergent styles, you two will
really play off one another.”
Dominic frowned. On one hand, she was right. Brooks’
last release, Cooking with ergot: the Salem witch
trials cook book, was brilliant. The combination cook
book, history was interesting, filled with mock
recipes sure to start up a witch hunt. Him being a
guest on a show about a food witch would be ironic.
The problem was, when Brooks was in any town promoting
his books, witches disappeared.
“Can we get someone else?” Dominic asked.
“What?”
“Can we get someone else? I could talk to my brother.”
“Justin is nice but he burned my hot dog at that
barbeque last month. Besides, Carter’s already
agreed.”
Dominic frowned. He wanted to snap or grumble, but he
knew a tirade would just make him look insane.
He scowled at the phone’s cradle, the table, the
stirring spoon, and finally a small metal grater and a
block of milk chocolate.
Oh shit. He would need that soon.
Dominic cast a light thread of magic out, enchanting
the grater and chocolate. They rose, circled one
another in a slow dance, and then the shredder leaned
close and began attacking the chocolate.
“We can begin filming his scenes on Monday,” Mercedes
said.
Two days to live. Great.
Dominic couldn’t imagine how much filming they’d be
doing, though, with Brooks trying to set him on fire
or drown him or do any of the other methods he’d
recommended in Cooking with ergot.
“Dominic–”
“The man’s a witch hunter.”
“He’s no more a hunter than you are a witch.”
Dominic stilled.
The spells connected to him followed. The wooden spoon
stood over the batter. The grater hovered over the
chocolate, catching the afternoon light and glinting
silver.
“Now I’m worried about you,” Mercedes said.
“Don’t be.” Dominic lowered his hand. The spoon and
grater followed his movement, lying down on a folded
napkin beside their bowls. “I’ve never hurt anyone.”
“Neither has he.”
“People tend to disappear when Brooks comes to town.”
“Dominic. People disappear period. They get fed up
with their lives and want to start over. Or they’re
hiding from an abusive lover. Or, yes, someone
kidnapped or killed them. It happens in places
Carter’s been and it happens in places he’s no where
near.”
“In his last book, he offered ergot recipes so other
hunters can make them, so if they’re caught killing
people, they have a ready excuse for their madness.”
When Dominic had first read those words, he’d been
stunned. It was a joke. It had to be. Even Montgomery,
his former mentor, agreed. The book was humor at its
blackest. It described the burning times as the
process people went through when they were first
learning how to cook. Brooks made light of unpleasant
things but he meant no ill.
Two years before, Montgomery had been so certain of
that. So certain. He’d taken a couple copies or
Cooking with ergot to a signing to get Carter’s
autograph.
He hadn’t been seen since.
“What if I could get someone else to take his role?”
Dominic asked.
“Justin–”
“Not Justin.” Maybe his cousin. He couldn’t cook
either but–
“One,” Mercedes said, “I worked really hard to get
him.”
Not as hard as Dominic was working to get rid of him.
“Two, I don’t think you could get someone who’s
written a book on such short notice.”
Dominic frowned. Even with witchcraft, he’d probably
need a couple days to do that.
“Three, he’s already in town promoting his latest
book, Spice Wars.”
“He’s here?” Dominic hurried over to the window.
The window revealed ten feet of side yard and then
dropped into a small creek. Late afternoon sunlight
bled through the canopies of several oaks, a couple
pines, and crawling ivy. Someone could hide out there.
If they weren’t afraid of spiders, mosquitoes, or the
occasional skunk.
Dominic frowned. Located twenty minutes from San Jose,
Los Gatos was a great mix of small town solitude and
big city life. At this moment, the privacy seemed
double edged. The police would respond to calls
quickly. Considering how wonderfully the road twisted
on its way to his driveway, they might also get lost.
A warm weight leapt onto his right shoulder, and then
Blaise leaned forward, studying the outside.
“Dominic, I promise, you’re going to love him,”
Mercedes said.
“And if I don’t?”
Mercedes released a long breath. “Then if you don’t,
just follow the script and pretend he’s trying to kill
you.”
Dominic didn’t think he’d have to act that hard.
