I’ve been trying to help my ghost friend, Cian, break free from a spell that’s been holding him captive in his house for the past fifty years. Ryn was supposed to be the key to that problem, but there was a slight change of plan. Now Cian’s girlfriend, who turned out to be a witch and his mortal anchor to this world, Trissa, has some family stuff that might help us figure out a plan B.
I still helped Ryn with her permit, of course. I kind of owed her one after insinuating that she was a mass-murderer because she needed a rush permit for work. I almost wish we’d actually needed her help, if for nothing else but the excuse to be around her again.
“Oh! Wow!” Her face lights up with recognition, but then falls. “Terrible, what happened to her. She was so kind.”
I try my best to keep the frustration out of my voice as I carefully attempt to push her toward the sensitive answers I need.
“I’ve heard that some people think she was using blood magic, and her death wasn’t as much an accident as the community would like to believe.”
Shock distorts Eleanor’s features before she shakes her head firmly.
“No. Not, Willa.” Her lips thin as she rolls them into her mouth before shaking her head again, “Her daughter is still under the protection of our coven, of a sort. Their family has a long history of ties to our sisterhood. I’m sorry, but whoever told you that is just trying to stir up trouble.”
I sigh with relief and nod. If that’s true, there are some fairly large plot holes and a mystery we still have no clues for, but being able to rule out vengeful covens is definitely a good first step.
“Well, that’s good to hear. You don’t think any of the other local covens might have—”
“No.” She shakes her head vehemently, her curls bouncing around her. “No coven in Kismet Falls or the surrounding area would ever act violently toward another. Our presence is much too large and well-known for even the possibility of outlier covens to practice here.”
She smiles, her eyes glinting with a determination that I wouldn’t have believed possible from her if I hadn’t seen it myself. “We may be mostly white magic wielders and garden witches, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t powerful. We would know.” Her voice rings with a truth and finality that makes me take her word for it.
A grin curls my lips, and I lean back in my chair, folding my hands and resting them on my leather-studded belt.
“Well, thank you for clearing that up. You’ve really taken a weight off my shoulders.” I watch as Eleanor’s magnified green eyes dartdown to my crotch, which I realize self-consciously is now highlighted thanks to my position.
A deep blush spreads across her cheeks, and I clear my throat awkwardly. “So, what’s your typical preference, Eleanor?” Her eyes swing up to meet mine. “Does tall, dark, and deadly do it for you? Or are you more the second breakfast type?”
I hold my smile in place, trying not to wince at the truly terrible comparison I just made between myself and a fucking Nazgûl like some Tolkien nerd. Never mind the fact that Iama Tolkien nerd, the reference was still cringe.
Over the decades, I’ve settled firmly into using humor as a scapegoat for pretty much everything—awkward silences, flirting, tension, pain and heartache. I’ve always been ‘too much’ for the typical psychopomp. Too emotional, too excitable, too loud—just excessively lively. Which makes you an outcast when your species is known for being grim. My chest pangs with a familiar ache, and I hold my breath, trying to push back against the awful tightness.
“Oh, well, you’re very—” her eyes widen impossibly before she blinks.
I tense as recognition of my joke finally flashes across her features, knowing what’s coming next.That fucking laugh.
My eyes bounce around the room again, snagging on an older woman about to take a bite of her cannoli. Before I can process what’s happening, a Reaping timer appears above the cannoli lady’s head. I look on in fascinated horror as she takes a fucking massive bite of the pastry, cream and powdered sugar smearing on her chin—then jump in my seat when the timer ticks down, at precisely the same time that Eleanor lets out a death knell.
I tilt my head and wonder briefly if she’s maybe part banshee, and that’s why her laugh sounds like a hyena chugging helium. Thepiercing cackle stops abruptly when Eleanor realizes, along with the rest of the shop, that the cannoli lady bit off more than she could chew. Poor Eleanor’s face crumples, and she stands abruptly, preparing to rush over to help.
Oliver, the shop owner and squonk cryptid I’ve known for years but only recently became friends with, runs over, hands flailing as he shouts, “Someone call 911! Sybil, oh Gods, Sybil!”
I glance up at Sybil’s timer and sigh, crossing my arms. Less than a minute now. This place is definitely a bad omen for my dating life. Eleanor lets out a little squeak as Oliver wraps his surprisingly well-muscled arms around Sybil and hauls her back against his front in an effort to administer the Heimlich.
My eyes widen.Fuck.If he’s holding her when the timer stops…
“Ollie, leave it.” I stand abruptly, walking toward him, my eyes on the clock.
His panicked eyes meet mine, and they bulge with shock and understanding right as Sybil slumps forward in his arms, dead. Oliver’s glamour shimmers, winking in and out because of his proximity to the now very dead Sybil. My own glamour vanishes in the presence of a soul ready to be harvested.
The cafe is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Then, all at once, shrieking. Shrieking as the few humans present run for the door, knocking chairs and tables over in their haste. Oliver lets out a choked sob as he drops Sybil unceremoniously to the floor, shaking his hands around wildly in an effort to get his glamour to function properly.
I'm not sure if it's worse that it's only partially malfunctioning, because his face and torso are still human-looking, but his arms are not. Nude-colored skin, layered with folds covered in a fine, downy fur are on full display. His hands look mostly the same, except for the fact that now he's got three slightly larger fingers, and one smaller thumb,versus the standard five human fingers. He shoots up a couple inches in height, and I glance down toward his feet with brightly spinning orbs…huh.Hooves.
A bald man double-fisting some squished pastries bumps into me, and then makes a sort of squawk as he scrambles for the door. I roll my lips into my mouth and wave as people run by, eyes wide with terror.
A tinny titter rings out, and I look back with glowing blue orbs at Eleanor, who can’t seem to stop laughing, even as tears streak her now very pale-looking cheeks. My breath catches in my throat.
Oh, I fucked up.
