Donuts and Divination: A Witches of Willow Hollow Mystery by Kat McGee

Author:Kat McGee [McGee, Kat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Towering Pines Publishing
Published: 2024-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

“Hellooooo, in there! Stand back,” a muffled voice called out through the pile of stone blocking the tunnel. “We’re busting through.”

I perked up at the sound of banging. I shot a glance at the sheriff, who held his head in his hand and slumped against the boulder and groaned.

“Brace yourself,” I called out, even though the whole brace-for-impact routine was getting old fast. The shield I’d whipped up still shimmered around us, like we were inside our own personal disco ball, minus the fun and music.

The racket grew louder, and rocks skitter across the floor toward us. A fine dust filled the air, making me wish I had a bandana or something to cover my nose. Finally, rubble collapsed, shifting inward, with the trolls, Smurf hair and all, storming in. Their pickaxes and shovels looked like they’d been stolen from Paul Bunyan’s garage sale as they were huge and intimidating.

The trolls trotted into formation faster than cheerleaders at a pep rally. With every slam of their tool handles against the ground, my heart matched their rhythm. They hummed like a choir that had gargled gravel for breakfast, and the metal of their tools vibrated with a sound that crawled right up my spine.

In the middle of all the trollish strangeness, Draco barged in with several other deputies hot on his heels.

“Harper’s on the payroll,” the sheriff grumbled, squinting so hard I thought his eyebrows might meet in the middle. “You know, for a dragon, you can be a real blockhead.” His tone suggested he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

Draco’s flashlight beam sliced through the yellow haze of the protective shield still hugging us tight. “My aunt saving your life when you were a cub notwithstanding,” he retorted with all the warmth of an ice sculpture. “I’m good at my job.”

“Too good,” Frankenfurful shot back, straightening up but bobbing his head to avoid knocking into my makeshift dome. “As in, you’re embarrassing yourself and this department.” He rubbed his temple as if trying to massage away both headache and annoyance.

Draco’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I know all I need to know about Norman Wienselbeck,” he spat out like he’d just tasted something sour.

Around us, trolls exchanged glances that could’ve been ripped straight from a soap opera cliffhanger. The air felt thick enough to spread on toast.

Draco flicked his gaze around our little congregation before settling on a smug expression that could curdle milk. “About his suspicions, about his death.” He strutted closer as if revealing state secrets. “He’s haunting his old office and is teaching me far more about policing our fair streets than you ever did.”

The trolls’ gasps filled the cavern like we were suddenly part of an audience witnessing some grand revelation. Sadly, as my magic faltered, I knew this drama was far from over.

“He’s not the sheriff.” Frankenfurful’s voice echoed like a bad actor in a horror flick, and he stood up. With a thud, his head met my shield. “I am.”

“Actually, you’re not. For the interim, and perhaps from here on out.

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