Library Cat Magical Mysteries Box Set (Books 1-3), page 1
Library Cat Magical Mysteries
Books 1-3
Skye Sullivan
Copyright © 2022 Skye Sullivan
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Skye Sullivan
Map of Hell's Birth Canal
Hardcovers, Homicide and Hairballs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Literature, Larceny and Litterboxes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Catalogues, Criminals and Catnip
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Recipes Courtesy of Kongressman Kittles
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About the Author
Also by Skye Sullivan
Witches of Devil's Orchard Series
Library Cat Magical Mysteries Series
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Map of Hell's Birth Canal
Hardcovers, Homicide and Hairballs
Book 1
Chapter 1
Prologue
Everything that happened was because of the necklace. My life changed the moment I took it out of the box—I just didn’t know it at the time.
The old amethyst pendant screamed for me to stay away. I should have known better than to slip the tarnished silver chain around my neck. In fact, I did know better. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.
And my cat reminds me of this fact several times a day.
“I told you, Francescza,” he says. “But do you ever listen to me?”
No, I don’t. My mother would say that I don’t listen to anyone. My sister would say that it’s the reason I’m not married. And my old teachers at the Academy would say that if my nose hadn’t always been stuck in a book, I would have made something of myself.
But what do they know?
I’ve got pretty much the best job in the world. I’m the chief archivist of our coven’s magical Archives. That’s right. I’m in charge of the collection of magical documents and books that our coven has collected for thousands of years. My only regret is that I’ll never get to read all of them.
I’m getting ahead of myself. First I need to tell you about the amethyst pendant.
I was at the archives, mending a few old books. My cat, Kongressman Kittles, was licking the big roll of mending tape, threatening to unspool it from the dispenser. His fluffy white fur was making a mess and getting stuck to the tape as he licked.
“What are you doing?” I asked him. He paused just long enough to give me an annoyed look. Though, to be fair, cats always look annoyed. Even in their sleep, they manage to look as if they could be more asleep if it wasn’t for pesky human interference.
“Licking the tape,” he said. “I would have thought that much was obvious. Perhaps the question you meant to ask is why am I licking the tape?”
Remember when I said that I have the best job in the world? I neglected to mention that it comes with a very entitled co-worker.
“Why are you licking the tape?” I asked. “And how much longer will it take? I need it.”
“I enjoy the sensation of the thin edge as it scrapes across my tongue,” he said. “Plus it’s a collagen-based adhesive. Quite savory.”
That explained it.
I was about to shoo him away when the door opened up and the SPS delivery man came in. “Got one for you, Francie,” he said. It was a small box wrapped in brown paper. Twine wrapped around it and finished off in a neat bow.
There was no return address. No postmark. Not even a label, just my name and address printed in neat block letters. Even still, there was something familiar about the box, something I couldn’t quite place. A ghost of a smell. A trace of a feeling. Something wispy and insubstantial, ethereal and easy to discount.
“What’s this?” I asked. I picked up the box and pain immediately sliced into my finger. Literally. A thin line of blood appeared, more seeping out as I squeezed it shut.
“Papercut,” the delivery driver said. “Figure those are an occupational hazard in your line of work.”
I muttered something and stuck my finger in my mouth. I don’t know why people always do that. You want to taste your own blood? Or you think the unique and diverse colony of mouth bacteria is going to help heal the wound?
He handed me the stylus and pointed out where on the small electronic pad I needed to sign. The second the stylus touched my fingertips, a zap of electricity surged up my arm. The whole right side of my face went numb and my eyelid drooped for fifteen minutes before going back to normal.
Then again, after receiving that package, my life never went back to normal.
“You okay?” the delivery man asked.
“That thing shocked me,” I said.
“Impossible,” he maintained. “It’s low-voltage. Not enough juice to kill a fly.”
By this time, Kong had sauntered over to the package and was giving it a tentative sniff.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“Why not? You love boxes,” I reminded him.
“Get rid of it,” Kong said.
“Do whatever you want with it,” the delivery man said.
“Can I send it back?” I asked.
“Do anything you want with it, except send it back,” he said. “No return address. Gotta run.” He darted out of the library and back into his big brown truck with Supernatural Parcel Service written in bold yellow letters.
“I wonder what it is,” I said.
“Something that draws blood and fries your central nervous system,” Kong said. “It’s probably cursed.”
“Do you think I should take it to the Academy and have one of the professors check it out?”
“Not unless you want to be reminded that if you’d paid more attention in school, you’d be able to perform your own security spell right now.”
“I see your point.”
“I’m not sure you do,” Kong said. “I think you should get rid of it.”
“But I want to know what’s inside,” I argued.
“Nothing good,” he said. “Curiosity killed the cat? Isn’t that what you humans say?”
That’s when I realized what was familiar about the box.
“Uncle Arthur,” I said. That was the sense-memory I got when I first handled the box. It must be from my Great Uncle Arthur, my grandmother’s brother. He’s a cartographer and always off exploring a cave or forest somewhere in the middle
“Then my advice goes double,” Kong said. “He’s a trouble-maker.”
While Kong’s not technically wrong about that, my uncle is a sweet man, if a little eccentric. He’s like a clumsy toddler, creating messes not because he’s bad but because he just doesn’t know any other way.
My final warning came when I used a pair of old-fashioned metal-handled scissors to snip the string around the box. The metal on the scissors flared orange with heat, searing a blister into the palm of my hand.
“I’m not sure the trashcan would be enough at this point,” Kong said. “Take it to the basement incinerator.”
But I didn’t take it to the incinerator. There wouldn’t be a story if I’d done that. And there is one, let me tell you. All because I opened that box and found the amethyst pendant inside. How nice, I’d thought. What a lovely antique.
I didn’t read the card that Uncle Arthur had sent until after I slipped it over my head and fitted the chain against my skin—I didn’t read the warning.
And by then, it was too late.
The dark magic inside the pendant had already fused with my own magical energy. There was no going back.
I’ll tell you the story of what happened next, but only on one condition.
You have to promise never, ever, to tell Kong that he was right: I should have burned the package when I had the chance.
Chapter 2
If you want to accuse me of going to the donut shop for personal reasons, that’s your business. Truth is, I was picking up a box of books from my friend Penny, the owner, for a donation drive.
That and an old-fashioned buttermilk bar. In no particular order of importance.
“Francie, I got your books in the back,” Penny said when I walked into her shop, Donut O’Clock. “But I gotta dip the maple bars into the bacon bits before the glaze hardens. Can you help me really quick?”
“Only if I can get paid in bacon,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “Where’s Kong? I made a special one for him.”
Out of nowhere, my feline familiar jumped onto the long butcher block counter.
“Did you use the baby anchovies like we discussed?” he asked.
“Flash-fried and then tossed in a light honey-glaze with toasted sesame seeds and crushed almonds,” Penny repeated.
“You’re taking special orders from a cat?” I asked.
“Why not?” Kong asked. He licked his paw and smoothed down the fur on his cheeks. Unsuccessfully. He’s a bundle of fuzz and it drives him mad. He fancies himself a real distinguished chap, and the mass of silky soft fur flies in the face of that image. “I have a more sophisticated palate than any of you rubes. Look at that. Bacon.” He snorted. “Is that the height of humankind’s culinary ambitions?”
“YES!” both Penny and I shouted at the same time. Penny retrieved Kong’s special donut, a plain raised donut topped with the fried fish concoction. I had to admit, it looked pretty good. When he said ‘baby anchovies’ I was skeptical, but these were tiny things, looking less like fish and more like candied walnuts. But then again, Penny is a genius in the kitchen, and she could probably make an onion and Limburger cheese donut delicious.
I helped Penny press the maple donuts into the bacon crumbles (and only sneaked a few pieces for myself) and then washed the crusty patches of frosting off my fingers.
“Washing doesn’t count if you use your tongue,” Kong informed me.
“That’s funny, coming from you,” I said. “And I’m going to wash them too… I just didn’t want this delicious glaze to go to waste. Besides, you’re not one to talk. You wolfed down that donut in two bites and have been licking your paws ever since.”
“First of all, I have never wolfed anything down in my entire life. I take umbrage to the mere suggestion. Second, my tongue is equipped with hundreds of keratinized papillae per square inch.”
“Isn’t keratin what our fingernails are made out of?” Penny asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s basically got fingernails on his tongue. And more bacteria than a human mouth, I might add. I’ve seen those science shows on TV where they culture your foul saliva in a petri dish.”
“I’d love to stay and argue with a cat,” Penny said, “but I’m gonna get your books and kick you out so I can prep the strawberry glaze for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow was strawberry lemonade donut day. She makes a soft lemony donut dipped in frosting made with real pureed strawberries, garnished with a raspberry, because she says they don’t make the dough as soggy on top.
Penny got the box of books and I looked through them. A lot of old paperback westerns and detective books—perfect for Saguaro Estates, the retirement home. “These are perfect, Penny, thanks.”
“These are the only ones I could get my husband to part with,” she said. “Let me know when you do a donation drive for the school because I still have boxes of old kids’ books in the garage. If you don’t mind a few torn pages or stray crayon markings.”
I do mind torn pages and markings, but in a children’s book, the damage that would otherwise destroy an adult book gives the kids’ book character. It’s how you know the kid really read the book and loved it—and what could be more important than that?
I bent over to pick up the box when the amethyst pendant slipped out of my robe. I have to wear the formal Academy robes when I’m working at the Archives, but I don’t have to wear the pointy hat or buckled boots unless it’s a formal ceremony.
“Nice necklace,” Penny said. “But you’re not the jewelry type. What gives?”
“No reason,” I said. Penny squealed.
“Do you have a secret admirer?”
“Not unless you include her Great Uncle Arthur,” Kong snorted.
“Isn’t he in Alaska?”
“Antarctica,” I said. “At least that’s the last I heard.”
“He sent you this?” Penny reached a finger out to inspect the pendant, but something made me pull away.
Mine!
It was a voice in my head, raspy and unwelcome.
“It’s old,” I said by way of apology for not letting her touch it. “I need to have the clasps and fixtures refurbished.”
“Sure,” Penny said. “It’s almost noon, don’t you have to get your niece?”
I looked at my wristwatch and cursed.
“Late as usual,” Kong said. “Please don’t ask me to perform any magic to help speed you along. After that delectable dessert, I’m wiped out.”
“I gotta go,” I said. “I don’t have time to drop off the books right now, so I’ll get them later. Sorry!”
“Your visit wasn’t a total loss,” Penny said. “You got a donut out of the deal.”
“True,” I said. “See you later!”
I live in a supernatural town called Hell’s Birth Canal, so named because it’s hidden in the Arizona desert, and the only way in or out is through a small fissure in the rock formation that shields the town from human view.
It’s also situated close to a rift between our world and the spirit world.
You ever notice all those places on the map with names like Hell’s Gap or Devil’s Orchard? It’s not a coincidence. The early inhabitants knew the rifts were nearby. Those town names are supposed to serve as a warning. Members of our coven who have trained as Guardians of the Rift are stationed in those towns. They live in the human world and secretly fight to keep the creatures from crossing over and causing mischief.
The rest of us witches? We lead far less glamorous lives in supernatural towns like this, concealed from human view where we’re free to practice magic and live without fear of freaking anyone out.
My older sister and her family live in Kentucky, but she sent my niece to stay with me this week for our coven’s annual Spelling Bee.
I rushed out of the donut shop and bumped into Professor Florian. Literally.
He grumbled something about watching where I’m going and I offered a hasty apology. Which was more than he’d ever given me.
A few days ago, he was at the Archives studying some old historical documents… while eating chocolate and drinking coffee. I have a strict no-eating policy in the archives. I’m in charge of thousands (perhaps millions) of priceless, irreplaceable books, scrolls, parchments, tomes, chapbooks, manuscripts and newspapers. Much of our collection is centuries old. Centuries. And he was mowing down a bag of Choco-Ringamadoodles like it was no big deal. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except I’d given him several warnings.
