The Improvisers

by Nicole Glover

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Paranormal; Urban Fantasy; Action & Adventure; African American Historical; Female Sleuths; Alternative History sci-fi

Synopsis

For fans of Nghi Vo, P. Djèlí Clark, and Alix E. Harrow: a new stand-alone set in the world of the critically acclaimed Murder and Magic series during Prohibition. The Improvisers is the tale of Velma, a barnstorming pilot and former magic bootlegger, who pursues dangerous enchanted items and a mystery that crosses the US and cuts through time—right to the heart of her family’s past and present.

Velma Frye is many things. A pilot, a former bootlegger, a well-seasoned traveler, a jazz pianist…and a wielder of celestial magic. She’s also a member of the mystical Rhodes family as well as an investigator for arcane oddities for a magic rights organization, dealing with both simple and complicated cases. And when a pocket watch instigates a magical brawl after one of her flight shows, things become very complicated.

In 1930s America, enchanted items are highly valuable, especially in the waning days of the magical Prohibition. As Velma digs deeper, she discovers the watch is part of a collection of dangerous artifacts manipulating people across the country—and in some cases, leading to their deaths. Something about all this is tickling Velma’s memories, and the more she discovers, the more these seemingly isolated incidents feel as if they’re building to something apocalyptic.

Connecting the dots isn’t easy, though, and further complicating her work is journalist Dillon Harris. He hounds her steps, and while not actively sabotaging her investigation, he also clearly knows more than he lets on. Whether it’s his presence that she finds so vexing or his easygoing charm, that’s a mystery she isn’t interested in solving. Because someone is out there seeding cursed objects with the intent on wreaking havoc, and Velma will have to use every trick in her tool kit, including some well-placed magical improvisation, to win the day.

Focusing on a new generation of the Rhodes family, The Improvisers brims with charming magic, intriguing mystery, and high-flying adventure seeking new heights.

Release date: November 5, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 432

Sample

Rules to Survive the Dry Spell

1. You may buy potions or enchanted tonics with a bona fide medical prescription.
2. You cannot store potions or enchanted tonics in any place except your own home.
3. You may use previously stored potions or enchanted tonics in your home or in the home of a friend when you are a guest.
4. You can only use previously stored potions or enchanted tonics among yourself, family, or friends.
5. You may get a permit to move potions or enchanted tonics when you change your residence.
6. You cannot give away or receive vials of potions or enchanted tonics as a gift.
7. You cannot buy or sell formulas for potions or enchanted tonics either on their own or in spellbooks.
8. You cannot transport potions or enchanted tonics by land, sea, or air.
9. You cannot maintain a garden that contains any Grade 3 herbs or 50 percent of Grade 2 herbs.
10. You cannot brew magic for money or exchange of goods unless you have the proper papers.

Courtesy of the Eventide Observer, January 16, 1920

 

Newspaper Clippings

When thinking of longstanding Black communities in the Northeast, eyes turn first to Oak Bluffs on Martha’s Vineyard, Sag Harbor on Long Island, or Highland Beach in Maryland. While these are lovely places to live and visit, none can outshine Bramble Crescent. An island uniquely placed off the Massachusetts coast, Bramble Crescent has a vibrant history full of pirates, rum smugglers, war heroes, and revolutionary thinkers. The island has throughout its existence remained a safe harbor for those fleeing persecution, creating a place where magic is interlaced with every aspect of life.

A visit to Bramble Crescent in the summertime brings about traditional delights. Penny fairs, kite-flying contests, magic duels, and the stargazing festival named in honor of its most beloved guests—the mystery-solving couple Henrietta and Benjamin Rhodes, whose descendants found a place to call home here.

—From Bramble Crescent, A History by Seraphina Mills

Owl and Eagle Dispatch

Dillon Harris

May 7, 1930

A trip just outside the city leads to the rather interesting sight of planes, guided by nervous and untrained pilots, wobbling about in the air. The skies are polluted with the menace of the winged bird, and the scant few who can fly with any confidence perform reckless stunts that aim to distract from matters of greater importance occurring in our fair city.

Owl and Eagle Dispatch

Velma Frye

May 15, 1930

The High Flyers Club marries mechanics and magic in ways many have yet to see previously. To fly is to reach new heights—and to inspire the next generation. Which is why, contrary to certain opinions, Uriel Coffin’s flight from Vancouver Island to Maine is a promising first step in the soaring heights that the Negro can reach through aviation. To claim otherwise reeks of a lack of understanding and getting key facts wrong.

Owl and Eagle Dispatch

Dillon Harris

May 27, 1930

The key facts are that the growing interest in aviation downplays a long-storied history of broom flight and, quite frankly, hardly does anything better. Planes are a costly nuisance and a fad for those with too much time on their hands.

Owl and Eagle Dispatch

Velma Frye

June 5, 1930

Some people disparage change, as their minds are too rigid to the possibilities out there in the world. What is new and innovative is deemed as a fad, 

as these individuals lack an imagination for future prospects. I am talking of course about the state of the airmail service. . . .

Owl and Eagle Dispatch

Dillon Harris

June 11, 1930

This weekend’s air show was a smashing success. Quite literally, because there was an accident on the airfield. Cornelius Jefferies experienced a malfunction during flight, requiring an emergency landing. Such a dramatic landing resulted in no deaths, a broken arm for the pilot, a damaged plane, a roofless barn, three fainters in the audience, and figurative egg on the face of a certain columnist at this paper.

Owl and Eagle Dispatch

Velma Frye

June 19, 1930

To fly is to take on risk, but it’s also to fly despite words of naysayers. Dillon Harris, if you have such a problem with planes, why don’t you take to the air yourself? And not by broomstick, either. Come down to the field and test your mettle and bravery.

 

Chapter 1

Chicago, Illinois

June 1931

Laughter escaped Velma as she brought her airplane out of a steep dive. The hardest stunts were behind her and now she got to do as she wished. With a steady but gentle hand on the controls, she immediately put her plane through a series of tight loops that turned the world upside down for her as she cut up the figurative rug in the skies. These were standard tricks for air shows and rather old hat for Velma, but for the crowd below, the same could not be said. Despite layers of metal and the rushing wind, Velma could hear the gasps of both anticipation and delight from the ground. These were the sounds she lived for and always hoped to coax out of the watchers below no matter if it was someone’s first or fifteenth visit.

A High Flyers air show always drew a decent crowd. The shows were widely advertised in newspapers, and people came out of curiosity and interest for the promised spectacle above their heads. They also attended to see Velma, who had built up a sizable reputation over the years as a barnstormer.

Sometimes her stunts were silly—like her ducking and rolling as if the skies held an obstacle course. Other times she averted magical traps and star sigils hovering in the air, bringing to life the film reels playing in the theaters. On special occasions, she even did the dangerous stunt she was becoming known for, the one in which she jumped out of the cockpit, tap-danced across her wings, bowed to the crowd below, and then dropped back inside and kept flying.

While Velma enjoyed the applause, the cries of delight, and even the clucking tongues of disapproval, every time she flew it was for one person.

Herself.

Up in the sky only the miracle of flight mattered. It was just her, her plane, and the horizon calling her name.

Although flying for adoring fans was nice as well.

After one last pass over the crowd, Velma headed back for the ground, closing out the tricks-and-wonders segment of the show to thunderous applause.

The loudest came from her personal crew, who hurried up once it was safe to approach.

“Great flying, Velma!” Mona cried, grinning as Velma climbed out of the cockpit. “Not that it isn’t always pretty swell!”

“Except when someone wants to try an experiment.” Lester stalked around the plane, like a pesky storm cloud on an otherwise sunny day. “Don’t encourage her, Mona, or she’ll do something truly dangerous!”

“Yes, Uncle Lester,” Mona said, pretending to be admonished before flashing one last smile at Velma.

Chuckling at the old man’s bristling tone, Velma propped herself against the wing and pulled off her cap, fluffing up her cropped curls. “Why so dour, old man? You saw those loops I did—they were perfect!”

Lester huffed. “I got no fault with your flying. What I take an issue with is you using the alchemical fuel before it’s ready! I told you not to use it! What if something went wrong? You didn’t even do a trial flight!”

“Every flight is a trial. Also, I trust you wouldn’t let me fuel up if you had major concerns.”

“I trusted you would have the sense to keep a steady hand. Not go all out! We don’t know how much of it would burn compared to the usual fuel. What if you did the show on fumes?”

“Life is about risks.” Velma took out her compact mirror. Satisfied with her reflection, she then applied a fresh coat of her signature scarlet lipstick. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t take any.”

“Any? You take too many! If you aren’t sneaking off in the plane when repairs are half done, you’re jumping into some wacky race. . . .” Lester’s ranting picked up speed as he fell into a familiar groove. Velma had heard it all before and only paid it half a mind, letting him rant. The old man could fuss all he wanted, but he would never leave her employment. She had the best plane for miles around. A Ward Chappelle Kestrel-3, it was a low-wing monoplane with an enclosed cabin and modern instruments. Painted a darling midnight blue, her baby, the Fowl Weather, could reach 150 miles per hour on a good day, and that was before Lester got his hands on it. Under the mechanic’s care, her plane could do wonders seldom thought of due to the enhancements etched on the wings. There were other pilots within the Flyers he could work for, but only Velma would ask him to reach for the clouds and then aim higher.

As she continued to study her reflection in her compact, Velma spotted the leader of the High Flyers, Cornelius Jefferies, heading her way in a rush. A dentist when not flying, Cornelius was a tall and plainspoken man who was the rare voice of reason among daredevil pilots. Velma had barely arrived in Chicago before Cornelius sought her out after catching sight of her plane. Their first conversation started and ended with him inviting her to join the club. She accepted not only to have the company of fellow pilots but because Cornelius was ambitious enough to start up a flight school with nothing more than a dollar and a dream.

“What’s wrong?” Velma asked the reflection. “You look like you’re chasing after someone who stole your shoes.”

“Oscar is out for the showstopper!” Cornelius called.

Velma shut her mirror, twisting around to face him. “You mean the headliner that we advertised on? The one in which our main sponsor, Maryellen Prince, is flying her broom in a featured segment? The event we talked about all over town, because part of the proceeds of this event will go to Providence AME?” Velma said. “That showstopper? What happened? Did Oscar fall and break his neck in the last five minutes?”

“Issue with his plane,” Cornelius said, no less annoyed, but no less serious. “He’s not going to risk it, and I agree with him on that.”

So did Velma, for that matter.

She didn’t know what the issue was, but anything that could get Oscar, who was even more of a daredevil than Velma, to ground himself without a fuss had to be major.

“Don’t tell me the show is ending early,” Velma said.

“Hardly. I was thinking that you could replace him. You’re the better pilot anyway, and this showstopper is key.”

Velma looked over to where Maryellen stood holding her broom as she dazzled the crowd around her like the polished socialite she was. There were reporters from the Chicago Defender and smaller weeklies who were likely eager to see the greatly publicized showstopper. Although today the High Flyers Club was

mostly pilots, the club started fifty years ago as the first all-Black broom-riding club in the area. Broomsticks had been an integral part of baseball for decades, and were a popular way to avoid the indignity of the Jim Crow train cars. That day’s showstopper would playfully pit traditional flying with the newfangled, and hopefully bring in more potential pilots and financial support for the club—not to mention delight their usual fans.

“I’ll do the showstopper,” Velma said, the decision coming to her easily, as there was only one clear choice. “I’ll need to fuel up first. Otherwise Lester won’t be happy.”

“You’re the best,” Cornelius declared, and ran off to put this plan into action.

“You owe me for this!” Velma hollered after him. She turned to her crew to give direction, but Lester was already darting back to his truck for the fuel cannister while Mona was bent over, sweeping her rag along the plane for a quick clean.

“Go help your uncle,” Velma told Mona. “I’ll finish this up.”

Velma took the rag and climbed up onto the starboard wing. She had just started checking for anything that might have gotten loose when movement caught her eye.

Expecting Lester, Mona, or even Cornelius with more bad news, she found instead the last person she wanted to talk to at the moment. Or more correctly, the last person she wanted to talk to at any given moment. With a camera bag slung over his shoulder, Dillon headed toward her, pretending it was such a shock to see her. A spare, wiry fellow, he was always up to something. And today was no exception. Mud splattered his shoes and his glasses were in need of cleaning, but his hat was perched at a jaunty angle and there was some air of success to his stride. Because he was around the same height as her, Velma remained atop her plane to give herself an advantage, but if it made any difference to him, she couldn’t tell.

“Dillon Harris,” Velma called. “What foul winds brought you here?”

“You’re cantankerous as ever, Miss Frye,” Dillon said with good cheer. “I see there’s a nice gaggle of reporters around. You brought them here like the pied piper, I take it? How many newspaper offices did you stroll into, announcing the day’s event?”

Velma tried not to scowl. About two years ago she had done exactly that: strolled into the offices of the Owl and Eagle Dispatch decked out in her flight jacket, jodhpurs, and boots, looking to find a reporter to cover the High Flyers’ first air show centered on planes. She got coverage for the event plus a weekly column to write about aviation, flying, and anything else tickling her fancy. Most of the paper’s reporters

 accepted her with open arms. Dillon did not. As someone who investigated crime, curses, and corruption, he held a disdain for “fluff” columns and wasn’t shy about sharing that opinion, especially in earshot of Velma. Dillon was, of course, the reporter assigned to cover that first High Flyers event, and while his article and his photographs helped make the club popular, his dismissive opinion about airplanes remained firmly entrenched. Not long after starting her column, Velma got into a battle of words with Dillon when he proclaimed Uriel Coffin’s groundbreaking flight a stunt, and Velma couldn’t let the insult—or the subsequent insults—go unremarked. She called him out in her column, he name-checked her in his articles, and they always found space to insult the other in minute ways. The small feud lasted nearly a year before a cease-fire was ordered by the editor, who found their public sparring an embarrassment despite the increase in sales. The feud, however, was officially over due to a technicality. Two months ago when the daily Owl and Eagle went from twelve pages to eight, Velma was let go. While this should have meant she never had to cross paths with Dillon again, Chicago turned out to be a much smaller place than she’d thought.

“I made no arrangements with the press,” Velma finally said in return. “The event itself is a draw, but if you’re going to write a story about me and my exploits, I want to see a copy of it first.”

“I’m not here to write about you. I’m just passing through.”

“That’s code for you’re on a story.”

“If you want me to tell, just ask nicely,” Dillon said. “I don’t bite.”

“You don’t go around asking questions unless something’s caught your interest.”

A grin flashed in her direction. “You caught me. I’m here to see if Hounds McGee went aground in this neck of the woods. While I’m here, I figure I can kill some time and do a write-up about all of this.” Dillon waved a dismissive hand at the airplanes and gathered crowd along the field. Flipping his notebook to a new page, he asked, “Got a quote for me?”

Annoyed as she may have been, Velma was not one to give up free publicity for the club no matter the source. “I’m subbing in for a showstopper that will be a preview for an event I’m planning later this fall,” Velma said. “Nan Kingfisher, Hazel Cheung, and Pepa Ruiz are coming to Chicago to fly with the club.”

“How nice it is to have friends in high places,” Dillon said as he dutifully made a note. “What can people expect? Gimmicks like brooms flying along planes? Dangerous spins and death-defying loops? Diving into the crowd low enough to skim the hats off folk?”

Knowing he said that just to stoke her temper, Velma replied with great restraint as she met the bemusement dancing in his eyes, “The show’s going to be nothing but good clean flying.”

“Oh, so you’re not taking part, then?”

“Are you implying I’m up to some trickery?” Velma bristled. “My tricks are genuine feats of wonder. No illusions involved 

whatsoever!”

Dillon made his eyes go wide and innocent. “I’m only asking for more information. You’re taking offense where there is none, as always.”

“As always, you’re asking questions that will get you in trouble.”

“Because you got nothing to hide, do you, Miss Frye?” Dillon replied. The seemingly innocent words had steel behind them, bolstered by the sudden intensity in his eyes as they locked upon hers. Eyes that had seen through all sorts of lies and misdirection over the years from lowlifes, scammers, and sleazy salesmen. “I’m sure you have no reason to hide why you were in an apple orchard last month with a bushel of Vivacious Twilight. An apple that is currently public enemy number one for its use at a dance-a-thon in Pottsburg, Ohio. Three people died and dozens ended up in the hospital.”

“I didn’t know people died in that,” Velma said conversationally.

“But you knew about it.”

“I just wanted to eat a purple apple. It’s not a crime.” Velma shrugged, hoping to put Dillon off. She couldn’t lie—he would see through that—but she could misdirect or annoy him enough to keep him off the scent.

“No, it’s not a crime,” Dillon agreed. “However, it’s awfully strange that you went all the way to Missouri to do such a thing.”

“Well, I do have a plane. I like to travel.”

In the space she left for further explanation of her flimsy excuse, a scream shattered the calm of the afternoon.

Before the sound could even echo in the air, Velma jumped off her plane and charged forward at a dead run.

When she saw what lay ahead of her, she ran even faster.

The other end of the field sparkled with the lights of spellcasting as two men lobbed blasts of pure magic at each other. Without the use of constellations or star sigils to give a spell form, this was magic in its rawest state. While it was less powerful and dissipated quickly, its effects were wildly unpredictable.

On the perimeter, a patchwork arrangement of wards made a barrier between the pair and the rest of the crowd. Held up by Cornelius and another fellow pilot, Janet Brown, the barrier spell was intact for now, but Cornelius and Janet were buckling despite the combined might, the light from the constellations they used fading quickly.

“Out of the way!” Velma yelled into the crowd as she drew star sigils to her side. People dove out of her path as the Ursa Major star sigil erupted into the air. The great bear with its furs shimmering with starlight charged ahead, beating away rogue magic flung in its direction. When it reached the barrier, Velma’s spell threw itself right at it. The barrier surged upward, strengthened by the influx of magic.

“Thanks for the assist,” Janet huffed as she concentrated on her spellwork.

“Anytime. 

What’s going on?” Velma asked.

“No idea,” Cornelius put in. “One minute Joey and Alan are talking, and the next they’re at each other’s throats. Gotta have something to do with money. Maybe they had a bet going on.”

“Well, they need to find a better way to resolve that,” Velma said.

“Quickly. This barrier won’t hold,” Janet added. “And if their spells get out of control—”

“I know,” Cornelius said. “That means somebody’s got to stop them.”

Then he looked at Velma.

“You want me to do it?” she asked.

“Who else can?”

“Why do you got to be right?” Velma grumbled. “Can you two hold this barrier a bit longer?”

Janet nodded and Cornelius grunted his affirmation.

Trusting them to hold the barrier as long as they could, Velma jumped through the magic shielding to stop the misguided duel from truly getting out of control.

Velma had only one sister, but she had several older cousins she used to brawl with. Sometimes with fists and other times with magic. Both experiences were about to become quite relevant as she charged right into the middle of the fighting.

Noxious green-colored magic shot in her direction. Velma tugged back the sleeve of her left arm to expose her bracelet, bringing up her wrist to block the oncoming magic. The star sigils etched into the bronze metal gleamed at once, dissipating the oncoming spell in a puff of smoke.

Usually this sort of thing stopped people in their tracks. These men scarcely blinked before, as one, they flung more raw magic right at Velma.

Velma brought up her right arm, which was also clad in a matching bronze bracelet. Instead of merely rebounding the spell, the charms etched on this bracelet caught the oncoming magic, encasing it in a protective orb.

Velma flipped her hand around, and the orb landed in her palm. She waved her other hand over it, taking control of the magic captured inside. Gripping the buckling spellwork, Velma manipulated the spell and then threw the orb right back at both men.

Like a meteorite striking the earth, the resulting blast knocked them off their feet, flinging them onto the ground. Alan remained flat on his back, but Joey got up again. He lurched forward to attack Velma, but she had a sleep spell waiting for him. She flicked it in his direction. Joey froze mid-swing, struggling

against the magic until he collapsed, putting an end to all this nonsense.

With both men firmly placed in the arms of slumber, Velma studied her bracelets for anything more than cosmetic damage, grateful that she had worn them today. She could do magic perfectly fine without them, but as she’d learned from her grandmother, carrying something that could store a few extra spells for you was rather handy.

As she caught her breath, footsteps hurried past. In front was Maryellen, who was also a nurse, as well as a few others who were friends with Joey and Alan.

“Nice work, Frye.” Cornelius patted Velma’s shoulder. “You good?”

“I’ll manage.” Velma jerked her chin toward Joey and Alan. “Try to keep them apart.”

“We will,” Cornelius said. “Rest up. You earned it.”

Velma nodded, waving him off, and Cornelius left to take charge of the situation.

Left to her own devices, Velma surveyed the damage done to the field. The havoc unleashed by the unrestrained magic had ruined this part of the field, leaving the ground choppy and uneven. On the hunt for traces of lingering magic, Velma spotted a pocket watch lying abandoned on the ground.

Sterling silver in color, it was smooth from use, with only faint marks where it had gotten scuffed by accident. Velma reached down to pick it up and then flipped the watch open. She noticed first the cracked glass and the stillness of a clock frozen in time. Then her eyes drifted to the faint scratches on the watch’s lid, only to realize they were a deliberate mark. Not a star sigil or anything she recognized, just some abstract mark made of circles overlaid one another like falling leaves.

Light winked across the mark and her bracelet—both of her bracelets, actually—reacted at once. They flared, forming a protective barrier between her and the pocket watch. Quick as it had begun, the magic faded.

How very curious.

A camera flashed behind her.

Velma whipped around. Dillon stood in the nearby knot of people around Alan and Joey. His pencil skated across his notebook as he nodded along, listening to Janet.

From the way his eyes drifted back over to Velma for the briefest of moments, she knew it was a ruse.

Shoving the pocket watch away, Velma hurried off, not wanting to be on the receiving end of Dillon’s questions—at least not until she had answers herself.

Chapter 2

Detroit, Michigan

The field cleared out quickly. The spectators, reporters, and remaining pilots left so speedily, they kicked up a massive dust cloud as they headed back into town.

“People are spooked,” Lester said as he rubbed the worst of the grease off his hands. He hadn’t gotten all of it off, so black was still stark around his nails. He kept working to remove it, though, fuming with each rub. “You should be too, but you just jumped into that mess without a thought! If your folks knew about—”

“They’d understand.”

Lester snorted his disbelief, but Velma was telling the truth. Her parents would understand her running into danger like that—but they would also fuss as much as the old man did afterward.

Velma stretched across the seats in her cockpit, her foot propped on the open door, gazing up at the hatch above her head. Reclined as she was, Velma studied the pocket watch. It belonged to Joey, it turned out. He’d bought it from a street vendor while on a recent trip. It never worked quite right and being kicked around earlier hadn’t helped matters. He wasn’t keen to have it back, especially after she asked him about possible enchantments on it. The mark scratched on the inside cover of the watch left her as nervous as a rabbit fleeing hunting dogs. The interlocking circles resembled no symbol she knew of. Something was off about this watch, and it went deeper than the gears tucked inside. Velma knew she had to call this incident in, but she needed more information than just an odd feeling.

Velma worked for the Magnolia Muses, a magic rights group that contested harsh laws that restrained magic and provided resources for those without. As part of the investigative arm of the organization, Velma was one of many field agents in charge of making inquiries about various magical mysteries out in the world. One of her most recent assignments had been to that star-forsaken apple orchard to bring in a bushel for testing at the main office. Bad enough she had gotten shot at for her trouble, but if Dillon had spotted her too, then that meant several years of careful lies had just gone up in smoke. The work she did was meant to be quiet, as it tackled the intersections of delicate magical relations, and Dillon was anything but delicate when he felt pertinent information needed to be shared with the world.

“That’s it for me.” Lester shoved the rag aside, apparently resigned to the remaining bits of grease on his hands for now. “We’re headed home. Are you riding along with us, or are you going to risk neck and limb taking your bicycle back to town?”

A slight buzz from the plane’s radio transmitter saved Velma from disappointing Lester once again. She sat up, knowing no one would hail her today without a good reason.

“You go ahead—looks like I have business to take care of.” Velma reached into the compartment that held her purse and pulled out his and Mona’s pay, with a bit extra. “Until next time.”

Lester nodded, gratefully taking the money. His eyes were concerned as he glanced at the transmitter. “You be careful, now.”

“You know me.”

“I do, that’s why I worry.”

Velma waved goodbye to the uncle and niece and pulled the door to the cockpit shut as she answered the hail.

“Magpie here,” Velma said as she turned on the receiver. “I hope it’s serious, since it’s my day off.”

“We know, but this is important,” dispatch answered. Velma didn’t recognize

who it was, but the cheeky tone suggested the dispatch officer was someone she’d run into previously at the Muses’ office. “How was the air show?” the voice continued.

“Exciting,” Velma said. “This is good timing, actually—I have something to call in.”

“You can add it to your report. You need to get to Detroit.”

“How soon?” Velma sighed, thinking of the warm bath she’d been looking forward to.

“You’re needed right away,” dispatch said. “A woman stabbed her sister during a dinner party. The woman is alive and expected to recover. When authorities arrived, they found so much magical residue that the entire household is being charged for indecent magic use, which means prohibition violations. Charlotte Allen is there for legal support to contest the charge, but she wanted an arcane expert to check on things. She’s worried that the family might have been targeted, as the magic she detected was unusual.”

“How unusual?” Velma asked.

“She used the word sinister,” dispatch said.

Now this had Velma’s attention. Charlotte was an excellent lawyer and a true believer in the Muses’ work, but she wouldn’t know a joke if it tap-danced in front of her. Her reports were dry and straight to the point, and the only colorful language she used involved literal colors.

Charlotte using any sort of adjective was cause for alarm.

Given some of the things Velma had been hearing about the latest hooded terrors in Michigan, perhaps it was an apt warning.

“I’ll give it a look,” Velma said, beginning prep for flight. “What’s the address? I’m on my way.”

 

The contact that met with Velma upon arriving in Detroit happened to be a friend of hers. This turned out not to be by chance—Yolanda had been the one to report the incident in the first place.

“No wonder dispatch called me directly,” Velma said. “You used the card I gave you.”

“I didn’t want this routed through all the usual loops,” Yolanda said as she drove them to the site of the incident. “Plus, I know you’ll figure this out.”

“Not much to figure out—there were several witnesses to the stabbing.”

“It was all very strange,” Yolanda insisted. “Belinda and Mary are very close and the fighting started up so suddenly. . . .”

Belinda Hayes and Mary Green were a pair of well-known but not particularly well-liked sisters in the community. Members of a family with a high social standing in town, they invited people to dinner parties and teas solely to ambush their guests with moralizing lectures. The party they hosted

was another one of those lectures directed at hapless guests, until the sisters’ quarrel suddenly broke out and Belinda took the knife used to cut cake and rammed it into Mary’s hand.

“The stabbing, in fact, improved the party,” Yolanda said. “Honestly, most of us were there expecting something like this. This is the first stabbing at one of Belinda’s parties, but there’s been fighting before. Three people have already gotten seriously hurt at her other gatherings.”

“Three people?” Velma echoed. “And these parties are still well attended?”

“The incidents have only recently started. People were saying it was these new teacups Belinda got. That they must be cursed or something. She got them to flaunt her money to impress folk, as if nothing’s changed for her despite the Crash.”

“I don’t know about cursed cups, but I’ll find out otherwise.”

Leaving Yolanda outside to stand watch, Velma walked into a house clinging to the sheen of great wealth, despite all the signs of cracks and tears in the veneer. After no one answered her knocks, Velma picked the lock and went inside.

Shifted furniture and upturned chairs led Velma to the dining room, where the stabbing had taken place earlier that afternoon. Deep scratches ripped apart an armchair like a tiger had made sport with it, a nearby lamp had been snapped into three pieces, and the walls were marred with ugly streaks of drying blood. This was interesting to note, yet the longer she stood in the room, those details fell away as she detected that feeling she had been warned about.

A feeling, not sinister, as the lawyer had described, but oppressive and suffocating. Sinister would have pushed Velma away. Instead this feeling seemed to tug at her, pulling her in . . . and under.

Velma let the feeling wash over her as she drew the compass star sigil in the air before her. Focusing the spell to detect that strange feeling, she finished up the sigil and let it go. The compass made of stars floated before her, and the arrow slowly spun to point to the side table. Or more specifically, a music box.

It was a small thing. A rounded wooden box that was wide as a book and tall as a stack of four such tomes. Time had dulled the polish, but the painted design of a sea coast was quite vibrant. Yet, it looked as if it might have been a victim of the strife that recently filled the room, due to a large unsightly chip on the lid’s corner. Uncertain if it was broken, Velma carefully lifted the damaged lid. A tall ship bobbing in a busy harbor, clearly setting off on a grand adventure, was

 painted on the inside. There was also the music that played as the whole scene began to slowly revolve.

Instead of a soft tinkling tune, a pared-down piece from Mendelssohn’s Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage spilled out from the music box, bursting with all the fanfare of a ship being launched. It was as if a miniature orchestra were playing before her. As if she were in the audience—no, she was onstage with her piano and—

Velma’s hand lifted to the air in search of the right notes, and something sparkled from the corner of her eye. It was her bracelet, pulsing to warn Velma of nearby danger.

Velma snapped the music box shut and looked around. She saw nothing and no one in the room, but the pulsing stopped.

Curious.

Nothing could have disappeared that quickly.

Unless . . .

Velma lifted the music box’s lid once more. Barely a note escaped before the star sigil etched on her bracelet lit up, and Velma snapped the music box shut once again.

The third time Velma lifted the lid, she sensed it. That uneasy feeling she’d felt the moment she’d arrived—this music box was the source!

But did it encourage a woman to stab her own sister?

Was it the music itself? Did it put people under its sway?

The Mendelssohn overture was triumphant, but the beginning replicated the tension from waiting for calm seas to roil to life to begin a voyage. Music could compel many things, but this song? What enchantment was at work here?

Velma picked up the music box and flipped it over. There were no star sigils carved into the wood that reacted to her touch. No signs of any other magic systems. Sorcery was all incantations, so no traces would be left behind. Potion residue was often felt by the touch. All the other systems that ran through Velma’s mind were unable to be seen with the naked eye or would have been more obvious. The wood was seamless as the painted seascape continued, save for a small, raised bump in the otherwise smooth paint not far from the box’s hinge.

Locking her eyes on the spot, Velma pulled on the chain of her necklace, revealing a silver pedant of sweet violets. Velma twisted around the flower petals so the pendant split open to reveal a tiny magnifying lens.

Holding the lens over the spot she’d noticed, she studied the bump and the uneven lines radiating from it. She pressed her thumb against the lines, and a panel moved with a soft click.

The top layer of the lid popped up to reveal a hidden compartment. Not a particularly deep one. The compartment was just big enough for a folded scrap of paper to be tucked inside. With care, Velma undid the folds and read on the aged paper: For my darling.

Who wrote it and why was intriguing, given the implications of such a gift that inspired violence. Yet, it was not the most interesting

thing at the moment.

Etched on the lid of this hidden compartment was a very familiar mark: circles overlaid like falling leaves.

Breath hitching ever so slightly, Velma carefully replaced the music box on the side table and pulled the watch out from her flight jacket pocket.

Holding the pocket watch next to the music box, she glanced between the items with a growing sense of unease and excitement.

“Stars and shards,” Velma muttered to herself. “It matches!”

Erupting violence. Magical items with the same mysterious symbol. Incidents occurring so close together. It was all too much to be a coincidence.

Which meant someone wanted these items out in the world, sowing discord.

Given that nothing good ever came from objects with bad intentions, Velma knew the items weren’t the only two of their kind. There were likely to be more, and if she were lucky, the objects were only sources of strife and chaos instead of death.

But she wasn’t always lucky.

 

Interlude

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

May 1920

The moon had risen over their heads by the time Velma’s shovel struck the casket.

“About time,” Velma grumbled as she wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “I was starting to think no one was buried here!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” From her perch, Velma’s grandmother tapped out a spell to brighten the lantern’s light.

“Please,” Velma begged, “no stories. I just can’t handle them right now. I’m only out here because I didn’t want to be at the funeral home. There’re so many people around I have to share a room with Fran and Emmy!”

“Then why did you come home at all?” her grandmother asked.

Home was always Philadelphia. It was where her grandparents lived, where they ran a funeral home, and where they provided mystery-solving services for the most peculiar cases. The house on Juniper Street was where her grandparents would always be to help, heal, and aid their children and their children’s children no matter how unusual the trouble might be. It was why, after Peter’s funeral, this was the place Velma had gone to grieve.

Peter, her childhood friend, had died two months ago after suddenly taking sick. Shortly before he had confessed to being in love with her and Velma had gently turned him down. They were about to graduate from the Brambles School and her plans for the future didn’t involve romance. Velma’s sister had assured her that the events were not connected, but Velma had fled Bramble Crescent anyway with guilt and regret as traveling partners.

Now she had no idea what shape to make the rest of her life. With the war, the flu, and a summer where the streets ran red with blood, and now Peter’s death—so much had changed, so why should Velma follow any plans she’d made before?

“I didn’t realize the house would be that crowded,” Velma replied instead of telling the truth.

“You can always leave,” her grandfather said as he stepped out of the shadows, returning from setting protective boundary spells. His glasses twinkled as the lenses caught lantern light. “Not that we’re looking for you to go. I have a list of chores that need doing, and I know you have plenty of time to do them, unlike the others.”

Her grandmother nodded in agreement. “You aren’t a familiar face, so it’s very helpful when talking with murder suspects.”

“Those are two very enticing inducements.” Velma knelt to rub away the loose dirt over the casket. “Will this be bad luck?” she wondered suddenly.

“You’re asking that now?” her grandfather teased.

“Just curious.”

There was a soft whisper of fabric as Velma’s grandmother floated down into the hole, her magic outstretched, making it appear as if she had wings. Granny Rhodes landed right next to Velma. She adjusted the shawl at her shoulders and then lowered the lantern just a tad.

“It’s always bad luck for the funeral home when someone hears we dug up a casket. It’s happened three times, and only once was it by accident. Robert Thompson was—”

“Drugged to a point that he was unreactive to most tests,” Velma finished, as this was a story often repeated to great laughter in livelier settings. “You should have known something was

suspicious when there was a note to have no embalming done.”

“Quite right,” Grandfather called. “This man is different, though. He wasn’t buried by us, and if he was alive, well, he’s been underground long enough that we have a different problem.”

Velma placed the tip of the shovel’s blade at the casket’s edge, popped it up, and then lifted the lid to the side.

Granny Rhodes let out a small whistle of surprise as the lid opened. “I should have taken up that bet, Benjy. All bone, no sign of any flesh.”

“I never said it was otherwise, Hetty,” Grandfather replied with a shrug. “Just stated the likely outcome.”

“That’s odd.” Velma dropped the shovel to better look into the casket. “You said he was buried three months ago. He shouldn’t be like this, even if he wasn’t prepared properly. I would even say it’s a different body.”

“Why don’t we check?” Velma’s grandmother uncorked a small vial and waved her hand over the top. Vapors of silver smoke drifted over their heads and into the casket. The smoke rolled over the remains. It would have stayed silver if only one body had been in the casket, but it turned orange.

“Stars and shards,” Velma swore. “A second body was in there! How could you do such a thing without being noticed?”

“You dig up the casket while the ground is still newly turned over,” Grandfather replied.

“What about the sapphires?”

The lantern swung around, and a sapphire necklace bunched up like grapes glittered in the skeleton’s hand.

Brushing aside some dirt, Velma knelt and tugged out her pendant, twisting it to form a magnifying lens. Bringing the lens over the jewels in the skeleton’s hand, she covered as many angles as she could without touching anything. “Only one is real. The others are fake as the ones I found with the museum curator. ...