Murder Most Witchy (Wendy Lightower Mystery) by Emily Rylands Page A

stay away from Lightower Investigations, she was hardly an adult. The teenager in her had rebelled against Gerry and his dangerous occupation, blamed him for the death of her mother. She was realizing very quickly that she had left before she learned anything at all about the way Gerry investigated. Perhaps she didn't really know all that much about him either.
    “We still confirm it,” Ian explained, “but he always knows.” There was something like awe that always crept into his voice when he talked about Gerry.
    “How long have you been working with my uncle?” Wendy found that she awaited the answer with more trepidation than she expected.
    “Almost a year now.”
    Wendy reeled like he'd hit her. “A year? Why haven't I ever met you?”
    Ian shrugged. “I must not have been there the other times you visited.”
    It sounded like such a simple explanation, but the accusation in his tone was unmistakable. Wendy thought back over the past year. There had been plans, many, many plans, between her and Gerry, but she could only remember three times that she'd actually been to see him. He lived only minutes away, but she had always found an excuse to stay away. She had never realized what she was doing, but she had been avoiding him. Avoiding the only family she had left. Shame and sadness threatened to swallow her whole.
    “I don't know what to say,” her voice was below a whisper.
    Ian had been watching her stoically, but at the pain on her face, he softened. “He understands. He just misses you.”
    Wendy made a promise, then and there, to repair her relationship with Gerry. Maybe it was even time to forgive him.
    Wendy packed up her own small bag with paper and pencil, her keys, and her cellphone. Her own articles seemed so mundane and normal that she laughed out loud.
    “What's so funny?” Ian asked, merriment dancing in his eyes and revealing his desire to join her.
    “I was just thinking that it is going to take some time before I'm any good at this. I don't look the part.”
    Ian was opening the door as he replied. “I think you look just fine.”
    A blinding flash of light pushed them both back a step. Voices shouted and a surge of motion came towards them. Wendy pushed Ian aside, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut with a bang.
    “What was that?” Ian demanded, clearly shaken by the experience. A green flicker at his fingertips drew Wendy's eye. Ian noticed her staring and shoved his hands in his pockets.
    Wendy stammered out the answer, her mind no longer centered on the mob on her doorstep, “Reporters. They think I'm investigating an occult murder for the police.”
    Ian's somber face stretched into a grin. “You are.”
    Wendy shook her head. “I know that. I just don't know how they know that.” She didn't wait for him to answer. She really didn't want to talk about reporters. “What's happening to your hands?”
    Ian turned his face away, his eyes downcast. The grin disappeared completely. “I wish you hadn't seen that. I'm still learning to control it.”
    “What are you learning to control?” She was insistent, even in the face of his obvious discomfort.
    He pulled his hands out of his pockets. They were perfectly normal looking, no sparks anywhere in sight. “It's a power I have. It's just a reaction, really. I don't really know how it works.”
    “What does it do?” She didn't really need to hear his answer. She already knew.
    A shutter fell down over his eyes. “I don't want to talk about it.” He turned away and moved back towards the kitchen. “I guess we're stuck here.”
    There was no hiding that he was very uncomfortable now. She could see him itching to get away from her.
    “Ian,” she called out.
    Reluctantly, Ian spun around to face her. His eyes popped open, and his mouth worked up and down as he tried to form words.
    Wendy had her hands spread out to her sides, her fingers wide. Blue sparks crackled from one fingertip to the next, sizzling in the air and emitting a