Witches and Stitches

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Sleuth is a good word,” I muse out loud as I flip through the latest crime book I'm reading. Ever since I became a consultant for the Paranormal Police Department, I've worked hard on extending my knowledge. Which includes all the fun synonyms for detecting. Those are always going to be useful. “Sleuth. Sleuth. Sleuth. Sleuuuth.”

From across the kitchen table, Ambrose groans. “How many times are you going to say that?”

“Until it stops making any sense whatsoever," I announce with certainty. "Sleuth. Sleuth. Have you never said a word so much that it stopped meaning anything?”

“No, but I’ve heard a word that much,” he mutters, shooting me a smile so I know he’s only teasing.

A warm fuzzy feeling spreads through me. It's so easy to be around him, even when we don't have a case. At first, I didn't think he'd be interested in hanging out when there isn't any work to do, but he's proved me wrong.

“It’s fun to say. Say it. Say it.” I'm going to convince him to. It's fun, and it'll make him laugh.

He groans and shakes his head.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. There’s only one thing left for me to do. I tip my head back and bellow as loud as I can. “Sleuth. Sleuth. Sleeeeuth!”

Ambrose looks at me like I’m crazy. But it doesn't last long. He shakes his head, a smile breaking through on his handsome face as he joins in with as much gusto. “Sleuth!”

It’s not long until I hear the creaking of the staircase. “What’s all this ruckus, Amethyst?” Grammie asks as she enters the room.

"Sleuth," Ambrose peeps out quietly, before going silent.

His cheeks flame red. Despite having met Grammie multiple times, he seems to be intimidated by her. I’m not sure why. She’s just a crazy old lady with large pink slippers and a handbag with infinite space.

“I was just studying.” I gesture to all my open crime books on the table. “And Ambrose is keeping me company.”

“How kind,” Grammie smiles knowingly.

I narrow my eyes. What does she mean by that?

“Well… don’t let me interrupt. Just keep it down, I can’t hear Herbert.” She shuffles away, leaving the two of us alone once more.

Ambrose only breaths when she disappears. He wipes his forehead and chuckles awkwardly. “She’s got a lot of presence for such a small woman.”

“She’s special, that’s for sure. But you don’t have to be afraid of her.”

“I’m not afraid, I just need to be on my best behaviour. She semi-knows my great-grandfather and he doesn’t tolerate any family member to behave rudely or inappropriately.” A shiver passes over him.

Ah, so he’s intimidated by his family, not Grammie. That made more sense. Somehow, it’s also a relief. I want the two of them to get along.

Reassured it’s not personal, I return to my crime books. Apart from the obvious fiction, there are a couple of textbooks Ambrose lent me from his time at the Paranormal Police Department Academy. Just the sheer size of one of them is daunting, leaving me wondering if I'd have managed to graduate if they had accepted my application.

I pull one of the thicker books to me and trigger a small book landslide. The tower of fiction collapses dramatically, the books flying off the table and onto the floor.

"Ahhhhhhh."

Ambrose makes an attempt to catch some of them and almost falls off his chair as he lunges forward. He yelps and a loud ripping sound leaves me dreading the worst.

“You okay?” I ask, rushing to his side to help him up. “Careful.”

“I’m fine,” he grunts. He puts the book he saved from falling on the table and groans. “I think I ripped my shirt.”

I reach for the wand tucked away in the special pouch of my sleeve and point it at the torn fabric. “I can fix that up with one spell.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary. I just need some needle and thread and it’ll be fixed right up.”

Surprised, I wave my wand at the small dresser, directing my magic that way. The top shelf opens and a small ball of thread and a pin cushion with needles soar out. They land on the table in front of Ambrose and fall together in a motionless heap as my magic wears off.

I watch as the Detective pulls his sweater over his head, briefly pulling up his shirt underneath and exposing his toned stomach. I clear my throat and glance away. I shouldn't be staring at him.

With another wave of my wand, the books jump back into a stack. It's not any neater than it was before, which may result in something similar happening, but I don't mind. I like it when things look a bit crooked.

I retake my seat to try and distract myself from thoughts of Ambrose's stomach.

He threads the needle effortlessly and brings the two ripped sides together with a neat pattern.

“You’re really good at that,” I say after a moment of tense silence.

I can't take my eyes off of him. His deft fingers, the way his hands work the needle, it makes it look like it’s dancing in between waves of fabric. It’s mesmerising.

Ambrose chuckles awkwardly. “My grandmother insisted all her grandchildren learned how to sew. It would be a disgrace if I couldn’t.” He bites the thread off and ties it into a neat knot. “There, good as new.”

I’m impressed. Who knew Ambrose could sew? I learn new things about him all the time.

As he finishes up, a little tune comes from his pocket and with an apologetic smile, he reaches for his phone and puts it to his ear. “This is Detective Ambrose…. Oh hey, Stacey. Hmm… Yes… Hmm-hmm. I can be there in…” He twists his arm up to check his watch. “Twenty minutes?”

I try to hide my disappointment that he has to leave. I like hanging out with him but I’d never stop him from doing his job. His dedication is one of the things I like most about him.

“Amethyst?” Ambrose sounds surprised as he utters my name. “She’s right here. Hmm? Oh, I see. Okay, yes… Okay. I’ll see you there.”

Intrigued now that he has said my name, I stare at him as he hangs up the phone.

He puts the small device in his pocket and looks at me. “Have you ever been to a morgue?”