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I should have known better than to trust Penny. I loved her dearly. She was my closest friend, the youngest daughter of Nana’s youngest sibling. At thirty-six, she was a few years older than I, so it was a bit like having a cool older sister. But her magic had always been, well, spotty. Sometimes she could perform beautiful spells that made gardens flourish or wounds heal without any sign of a scar. And then there was the eviscerated sofa and the inexplicable loss of Mrs. McClaren’s eyebrows.
I ended up with the magical equivalent of Mrs. McClaren’s eyebrows. Penny had left me for the most part completely unaffected, but then there were seemingly random times when I had no magic whatsoever, for days at a time, and then, as a result of the “bottling effect” of those lulling intervals, there were terrifying moments in which every bit of power I owned poured forth in torrents of energy that shattered lightbulbs, crockery, and any nearby windows. And unfortunately for me, the most recent of these explosive moments had occurred while I was at dinner with Stephen at a rather posh Italian restaurant. Since I was the only person standing nearby, I ended up paying to replace several Murano glass light fixtures and a rather heavy antique gilt mirror.
Penny had to go in halvsies with me, the twit.
It was as if I had a state-of-the-art, wall-shaking stereo but couldn’t control the volume. The only time I felt remotely in control of myself was when I felt “tugged” by the pain in people around me. Penny theorized that particular grace was only granted because I had no choice in the matter. I couldn’t stop feeling those tugs any more than I could choose to stop blinking or breathing. And fortunately, I had enough nursing training to heal people through conventional means.
We couldn’t seem to undo the spell, no matter how many different approaches we took—countering spells, rituals, prayers, and anointments. Nothing worked. There was no magical “control Z.”
When Nana began my instruction, I’d been disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to make rooms tidy themselves like Mary Poppins or fly on a broom. I’d eventually adjusted my expectations and learned to enjoy manipulating the energy of the natural world. But now I couldn’t even perform the most basic of “fun” magic: no more minor glamours to cover the occasional spot, no more “quick-start” fires on the hearth, no more kitchen magic to cover for my abysmal cooking. Thanks to this colossal blunder of judgment and execution, which we were endeavoring to hide from the rest of the family to prevent panic, I learned that having magic was like having an automatic dishwasher. Once you were used to having some machine do the washing up for you, even unloading the damn thing seemed like a chore. I could see that now, having become accustomed to some other force taking care of life’s little details. I had, to an embarrassing degree, stopped living my own life. So I tried to do as much as I could independently of magic, even when I did have a “witchy” solution.
Nana, who took a dim view of my timidity toward practicing the craft, had told me often that there was no such thing as a “halfway” witch, particularly given my extra ability, and that dabbling would catch up and bite me one day.
I had a feeling that day was coming soon.
I flexed my fingers and toes, feeling my body coming back into balance. I blew out a long breath and gave Miranda my best smile.
“Would you mind terribly if we drove by Paxton Avenue on the way home?” I asked as we rolled through the neon-lit streets of the Hollow’s “mall district.” As we moved farther and farther away from Walmart, the streets grew darker and quieter. The buildings were sort of mashed together, as if they were supposed to prop each other up. Every other restaurant seemed to serve some form of fire-roasted pig. And most of the business signs were intentionally misspelled, which seemed odd.
Miranda arched her dark brows. “Sure. Any particular reason?”
“There’s a bookshop in that area I was hoping to visit after I’ve settled in,” I said, working to keep my tone casual. “I’d just like to know how to get there.”
“Specialty Books?” she said. “That’s where my book club meets! You’ll love it.”
I blinked at her. “Your book club meets at an occult bookshop?”
Miranda gave a startled laugh. “How did you know about that? I mean, it hasn’t been an occult bookshop for a few years, not since Jane took over.”
I could only assume she meant Jane Jameson, who was now listed as the shop’s proprietor on the updated Web site. According to what my cousin Ralph could find in county court records, Jameson had taken over the store a little more than a year before, when Mr. Wainwright left it to her in his will. I couldn’t find much information about Ms. Jameson online. Her Facebook privacy settings were stringent. She had no Twitter account. In 2002, she gave a comment for a Kentucky Library Association newsletter article about electronic card catalogues. At the time, she was listed as a youth service librarian for the Half-Moon Hollow Public Library, but the library now listed that position as “vacant.” Other than the Specialty Books Web site and a memorial Facebook page on the Half-Moon High School reunion group, her Google presence was virtually nonexistent.
“The Internet,” I said. “I try to find little independent bookshops whenever I can. They usually serve great coffee.”
“Well, if Jane offers to make it for you, wait for Dick or Andrea Cheney.”
“My landlord works at this bookshop?” I asked as she turned the SUV toward Paxton.
That seemed like a strange coincidence—the man who owned Mr. Wainwright’s former home also worked in Mr. Wainwright’s former shop? What sort of connection did Dick Cheney have to Mr. Wainwright?
“Technically, I don’t think they pay him. He just spends a lot of time there. Anyway, he and his wife, Andrea, are the only ones who can make decent coffee for humans. Jane’s coffee experiments have been known to convulse innocent bystanders, living or otherwise. She says it’s not her fault. She couldn’t cook before she was turned, either.”
Jane Jameson was a vampire?
“Oh, sure, she was turned about three years ago,” Miranda said in response to the question I hadn’t realized I’d asked out loud. That explained the memorial page. “Nice lady. Married to her sire, Gabriel. And she made her own vampire son earlier this year. Collin says I should call him a ‘childe,’ but when I call Jamie her son, it makes Gabriel’s eye twitch. And that’s way more fun.”
She slowed the car as we approached the one well-lit building on a sad, careworn street lined with dilapidated shops. Specialty Books was like a beacon, its bright windows and security lights accentuating the recent coat of sky-blue paint on the exterior brick. The inside appeared to be painted a darker purplish blue. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with light maple bookshelves. I could make out the shapes of four people sitting at a long polished bar, laughing and chatting. This was not what I expected.
Given the neighborhood and the state of Mr. Wainwright’s house, I’d expected the shop to be sort of beaten and half-finished. What had Ms. Jameson had to do to get the building into this condition? How much of the stock had she moved around?
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop in now?” Miranda asked, making me jump a bit. Apparently, the anxious expression on my face was coming across as eager. “They keep vampire hours, so customers are welcome any time of night.”
I shook my head, struggling to find words that wouldn’t set off Miranda’s bullshit sensor. Frankly, I was fighting the absurd urge to slink down in my seat so no one in the shop would see me. I wasn’t ready for this. I needed to prepare for my visit to the shop. I cleared my throat and reminded Miranda about the perishables we’d loaded into the car. “I’ll come back some other time, but thanks for showing me where to find it.”
Miranda shrugged and sped the car down the street. The farther we got from the store, the more I was able to relax. I leaned back against the seat and mulled over this latest development. My plans would have to change. I would need to do more research on Dick Cheney. I would need to change the way I approached Jane Jameson.
The woman who owned my grandfather’s shop was a vampire. That could make my life a lot more complicated.
* * *
