Star Witch

  ‘How are you doing? Are you feeling nervous?’

  ‘No. Not so much.’ The slight tremble to her fingers belied her words. ‘Are we going to get lunch soon, do you think?’

  A woman after my own heart. ‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted. ‘You should tell Morris Armstrong that you’re hungry. He’s a lovely guy and he won’t mind making sure we stop to eat if it’s going to help you out.’ I wasn’t trying to drop her in it, not really, but my stomach was rumbling too.

  ‘They didn’t give us breakfast,’ she said. ‘And they made me put these stupid clothes on. We’re going to be spending the next four weeks out here in the wild and I have to do it in a skirt I can barely walk in.’

  I eyed her sympathetically. The contestants had been here for ten days already and, apart from the replacement, they’d have met Benjamin Alberts albeit briefly. The more I could ingratiate myself with them, the more chance I had of finding out information that Winter might find useful.

  ‘Stop a second,’ I told her.

  She shot a nervous look at the other contestants who kept moving but she did as I asked. ‘I don’t want to be left behind,’ she said.

  ‘This will only take a moment.’ I concentrated on her legs. It helped that she’d been shoved into a pair of woolly tights. Between those and the skirt, I could do something. Using both hands, I drew out a transmogrification rune. The woman gasped and stared down as the fabric around her lower half altered itself. I stepped back and cast a critical eye. The seams were a bit wonky but I reckoned it was an improvement, at least for tramping around the Scottish Highlands.

  She smoothed down her new tweed patterned leggings. ‘These are brilliant! Thank you so much!’ She looked at me in awe. ‘You’re a witch. A real witch.’

  I smiled at her. ‘You’re a contestant on Enchantment. You’re a real witch too,’ I lied.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not. I’m only here because I want to break into TV presenting. My agent told me that the sort of exposure I can get on a show like this is priceless.’ Her face fell. ‘But I can’t do any spells at all.’

  I revised my opinion; maybe she wouldn’t win after all. The contestants had to have at least a smidgen of magical ability to get to the later stages. All the same, I patted her arm. ‘You should get a move on,’ I advised. ‘It’s about to start.’

  Impulsively she reached across and hugged. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Thank you so much.’ She jogged to catch up to the rest of them, able to move more quickly now. I high-fived myself. Awesome work, if I said so myself.

  Peeling away from the group of contestants, I weaved through various boxes of equipment and busy looking crew members until I reached the clearing in front of the main stage. Belinda Battenapple was already there and I goggled up at her. Although her make-up was caked on, no doubt for the benefit of the cameras, she looked as glamorous in person as she did on screen – although slightly shorter than I’d expected. To emphasise our location, she was wearing a short tartan kilt. Somehow I didn’t think the original Highlanders had ever paired their kilts with knee-high stiletto boots.

  I managed – just – to resist letting out an almighty squeal and rushing up to demand her autograph. But it was a close run thing.

  ‘Bitch.’

  I stiffened and turned to see Moonbeam standing beside me. ‘I hope you’re not referring to me.’

  ‘Hardly.’ He jerked his chin over at Belinda. ‘Her.’

  I raised an eyebrow. It was the first time his voice had sounded anything other than chirpy and enthusiastic and I was taken aback by the vitriol he injected into his words.

  ‘Why? What has she done?’

  He looked at me as if I were stupid. ‘Made me take this stupid job for one thing. I shouldn’t have to start out at the bottom,’ he complained. ‘What’s the point of being television royalty when you’re forced to work as a runner?’

  A whole lot of things suddenly slid into place. I switched my gaze between both him and her, belatedly registering the resemblance. ‘She’s your mother.’

  No wonder he had such a daft name – he was a celebrity’s kid. The fact that he’d been managing to get away with doing so little work also made sense; he probably knew half the crew. Not to mention that everyone would be walking on eggshells around Belinda Battenapple’s only son. Except for Morris Armstrong. I wondered whether he’d been deliberately left out of the loop about Moonbeam’s heritage because someone was hoping Armstrong would mess up and piss off La Battenapple herself. He might be the director but she was legendary.

  Moonbeam’s mouth turned down. ‘Yeah, she’s my mother. She said she’d cut me off if I didn’t get a real job.’ He sketched out air quotes and snorted. ‘As if what she does is real.’

  Poor put-upon baby. I should have told him to grow a pair; instead, I put a soothing hand on his arm. ‘How awful for you.’

  He sniffed. ‘Thanks. But I won’t be doing this crappy job for long. Don’t worry about me too much.’

  Yeah, okay, I wouldn’t. Moonbeam didn’t seem to realise that I was doing the same crappy job. ‘You’re going to quit?’ I enquired. Maybe I’d join him.

  ‘A contestant has been murdered,’ he said. ‘And the word from the minders is that more than a few of this lot are running scared. They’ve already used up their standbys. I just need to have a word in the shell-like ear of one or two of them and then there will be a new position that needs to be filled at the last minute.’ His eyes gleamed.

  I wrinkled my nose. This time I couldn’t even attempt to hide my disgust. ‘You’re going to scare someone into quitting?’

  ‘If they choose to leave the show, that’ll be their decision. I’m not forcing anyone to do anything.’ He spoke with the petulant air of a spoiled brat.

  My distaste for him was growing. ‘There’s no guarantee that if someone drops out you’ll be given their spot.’

  ‘Of course there is.’ He leaned down to my ear. ‘That’s how nepotism works.’

  Well at least he wasn’t pretending he’d become a contestant through merit. I wondered idly whether I was just jealous. If my family were rich and powerful and I could get away with doing very little for a lot of reward, then I probably would. I reminded myself once again that I was here to get on with people and find out anything I could which was related to Alberts’ murder. I didn’t want to antagonise anyone who I might need in the future.

  ‘Good luck,’ I murmured.

  A loud inarticulate shriek rented the air, causing me to leap half a foot upwards. I whipped my head round, certain that something terrible must have just happened.

  ‘What is she wearing?’ It was one of the women from wardrobe. She was pointing at Harriet with one hand while flailing the other around in the air. Oops.

  Everyone stared as she stalked up to Harriet and began pulling at her new tweed trousers. ‘I did not give you these! Why are you wearing them? Where did you get them from?’

  I shuffled behind Moonbeam, trying to hide. Harriet, looking flustered, searched round before pointing in my direction. ‘She did it.’

  Arse. So much for trying to conceal myself. Or for trying to help the poor woman out. This was why laziness was not a bad thing. If I’d left her appalling skirt alone, I wouldn’t now have the wardrobe lady’s mean stare fixed on me.

  With her hands on her hips, she marched over in my direction. ‘You! What did you do? And who are you anyway?’

  Moonbeam unhelpfully stepped to the side, doing everything he could to make it clear that he barely knew me.

  ‘I was just trying to be of assistance,’ I began.

  ‘Assistance?’ Wardrobe Lady shrieked. ‘Do you have any idea how long it took to get that ensemble together? Do you?’

  I reckoned she’d plucked it out from a nearby charity shop without even looking at it, but she probably didn’t want to hear that. ‘Um,’ I said, shuffling backwards, ‘I can change it back if you like.’

  She didn’t hear me. She was already on a t
remendous tirade that didn’t involve listening to anything I had to say. ‘You idiot! There’s no time to change it now!’ She glared at my badge that proclaimed to the entire world that I was a mere runner, the lowest of the low. ‘Where is Armstrong? You’re going to get your marching orders! Nobody interferes with my work. Nobody! First they want the wands changing and now this. It won’t wash, I tell you. You’ll regret the day you crossed me, little girl.’

  Wardrobe Lady really was very, very angry. It didn’t help that virtually every crew member was watching us – and that most of them were enjoying the show. I caught more than one snicker of amusement.

  From out of nowhere, Armstrong appeared. ‘What’s the problem here?’

  Wardrobe Lady raised one long, henna-covered finger and jabbed it at me. ‘Her! She changed Number Ten’s clothing!’

  Armstrong raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes! She needs to be fired immediately.’

  Uh-oh. I hoped the secret mission Armstrong had given me would supersede Wardrobe Lady’s desire for revenge. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ I said. ‘I can change her clothes back if you really want.’

  Armstrong looked round. Harriet was still standing apart from the others, her cheeks flushed. He swept his gaze up and down her figure and shrugged. ‘She looks fine to me. She’s still mousy enough.’

  Harriet went even redder. If she’d had any doubts before as to her place on this show, she hadn’t now. Maybe it would be the making of her but more likely she’d curse me until the day I died for supposedly ruining everything. I know people; if they can find someone to blame for their woes then they will – and a runner like me was an easy target.

  ‘She does not look fine!’ Wardrobe Lady yelled.

  Armstrong patted her on the arm. ‘Yes, she does.’ His voice was firmer this time. ‘Off you go and sew some hems or,’ he paused, ‘whatever it is you do around here.’ He twisted round on his heel and walked back towards the stage.

  The woman’s mouth tightened. If I’d thought she was angry before, it was nothing compared to now. Her expression contorted with unsatiated rage. ‘I’m not done with you,’ she promised me in an undertone before whirling off.

  Well that hadn’t exactly gone to plan. How to win friends and influence people by Ivy Wilde. Or not.

  I ignored the stares I was garnering from everyone else and resolutely turned back to the front. Moonbeam was already off, chatting away to one of the producers and occasionally throwing looks in my direction. I lifted my chin and gave him an enthusiastic wave. It didn’t make him very happy.

  I really was going to have to try harder if I was going to find out any useful information from this lot before I antagonised them all into avoiding me for good. The only positive thing was that no one seemed to want me to run off on yet another errand. At least I’d get to watch the show’s opening without interruption.

  Belinda Battenapple, who’d barely lifted a perfectly manicured eyebrow at all during the commotion, was shaking herself in what could only be some kind of pre-show ritual. She started with her feet, raising one then the other before allowing her jiggles to travel up her body. Her actions made her look more like a dog who’d been for a swim than a world-famous television presenter – though I was hardly in a position to judge.

  When she began flicking her head from side to side, the morning sun caught a glimmer of something round her neck. Frowning, I edged closer for another look. She was wearing a silver necklace with a small vial attached to it. It was certainly pretty, but that wasn’t what had grabbed my interest. The contents of the vial were what were really fascinating. From this angle, it appeared to be some kind of liquid, not dissimilar to mercury. There was also a strange etching on the glass. Before I could read what it said, she realised it was dangling out of her shirt and hastily tucked it away. Interesting.

  From the far corner of the stage, Armstrong checked his watch. The show wasn’t going out live so I could only imagine that he was trying to stick to a strict schedule to make sure nothing was missed. He strode forward and made an incomprehensible gesture in the direction of the cameras. The operators seemed to understand what he meant because they immediately straightened their backs.

  ‘Quiet on set!’ someone yelled.

  The bustle of activity stilled. Armstrong murmured something to Belinda and she nodded. It was time.

  ‘Remember folks,’ he said, to everyone and no one in particular, ‘we are making history here.’ And with that, he stepped off the stage and headed for a chair with his name emblazoned on the back. A delicious shiver ran down my arms. It was showtime.

  A crew member gave Belinda’s invisible microphone a final check before she shooed him away and stepped up to her mark. Her features visibly transformed as she glowed into the cameras. ‘It’s Friday,’ she breathed. Actually it wasn’t. It was Monday but I wasn’t going to argue with her. ‘And we are here in the stunning Highlands of Scotland for the most epic, most unique and most special series of Enchantment every created. Twelve new contestants are waiting in the wings and all of them have special skills and abilities. All of them want to win the coveted Trophy of Spells. And all of them know that,’ she paused for dramatic flourish before she launched into her catchphrase, ‘Magic. Is. In. The. Air. Welcome back to Enchantment!’

  This was awesome. At least until the screaming started.

  Chapter Six

  At first, I thought it was Wardrobe Lady again. Maybe Belinda had committed some terrible infraction by wearing the wrong tartan on her miniskirt. It wasn’t her though – it was one of the assistant directors who had emerged from a trailer at the far end of the set.

  He ran a few metres towards the crew, all of whom stared at him frozen in shock. I didn’t think it was because of the strangled sounds still coming from somewhere deep inside him, although they were awful enough. The crew’s combined lack of movement probably had more to do with the blood that was dripping from his hands and staining the patchy grass in front of him.

  I ran to his side. Despite the blood, which seemed to be drenching him, I couldn’t see any visible wounds. It didn’t even appear to be his blood. If he wasn’t in immediate physical danger, there were other pressing concerns. It was vital not to touch him and contaminate any possible evidence, but I also needed him to calm down or he’d give himself an aneurysm. He was still wearing his ID badge and, although it was splattered with blood, his name was visible.

  ‘Marcus,’ I said softly. He kept on screaming. ‘Marcus,’ I repeated. ‘Look at me.’

  As if my words had broken the statue-like shock of the others, several people rushed towards us.

  ‘Back off!’ I yelled. ‘And don’t touch him!’

  Security appeared from all directions. Most were running towards us but some were scanning the perimeter, as if expecting to see a horde of attackers appear. Enchantment’s medical team also arrived from the other side of the stage and I was shoved out of the way.

  ‘Marcus! Are you alright?’ People swarmed around him. The contestants were being ushered away to safety but I spotted a pale-faced Armstrong point to one of the mobile camera units. Without a second’s hesitation, they came running over, already in the process of filming. Somehow I didn’t think this was an appropriate candid-camera moment.

  ‘He’s fine,’ I said over the hubbub. Physically anyway.

  Nobody heard me. I gritted my teeth. Whatever evidence that had been clinging to poor Marcus had already been compromised by the people checking him over. I raised my head and glanced at the trailer he’d emerged from. The door was hanging open; from this distance, there was nothing to be seen inside other than darkness. I flattened my mouth into a grim line. Whatever had spooked him had come from there.

  I veered round the crowd and strode over, taking care not to step near Marcus’s bloody footsteps. I didn’t have to get near before the smell of the blood overtook me. It had been strong enough around Marcus, but the reek coming from the trailer was choking. T
here was also an odd sour tinge to it, which I couldn’t make sense of. One thing was clear: there was no way that the still-screaming Marcus had walked into the trailer while it was like this. Whatever had happened took place when he was already inside.

  A gust of wind caught the hanging door, momentarily swinging it shut. The name taped onto it, along with a purple trail of stars for added effect, was Trevor Bellows. For a moment I forgot to breathe. Was that whose blood this was? Sudden fear for Brutus drenched me – although if my contrary cat had got himself killed he could only blame himself.

  Rather than risk walking up the steps and entering the trailer, I slipped round to the side so I could crane my head round and peer in. All the curtains were closed and no lights were on so it was difficult to see much but the amount of blood was clear. It covered almost every corner. I couldn’t see a body – Bellows, Brutus or otherwise. On the opposite wall, however, there was something that gave me pause. I stepped back to get a better look. A pentagram. It was lopsided and rather messy but since it had been painted with daubs of blood that was hardly surprising. Winter had wanted evidence of magic and here it was.

  ‘What the bejesus…?’

  I half turned, clocking Bellows. He was staring into his trailer with a horrified expression. Thankfully, Brutus was by his side. The cat sniffed the air then recoiled. Without a sound, he ran away, tail between his legs. Despite the relief I felt that he was alright, the question remained: if it wasn’t Bellows’ blood and it wasn’t Brutus’s, then who the hell did it belong to? There was far too much of it to signal anything other than a brutal and untimely demise. The only saving grace was that I couldn’t see any dismembered limbs.

  Bellows took off his hat, dropping it to the ground and running a hand through his hair. Either he was the world’s best actor or he was as shocked as I was. He stumbled forward as if to enter but I grabbed his robe by one trailing cuff and yanked him back. ‘You can’t go inside,’ I said. ‘The police will need to examine the scene first.’