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No happy story has ever included the words “Ouija board.”
—A Guide to Traversing the Supernatural Realm
Although I was sweaty, disheveled, and drained, I was serenely happy as Miranda’s car rolled up the driveway to the Victorian just before one A.M. I’d stayed at the clinic long after the last patient had been released, clearing off the front desk and putting the waiting room back to rights. Dr. Hackett had given me keys after I filled out my employment paperwork. After informing me that everything valuable or prescribable had been locked up tight and that this was a test of my character, he marched out the front door at midnight.
And then, because I’d left my car keys on the counter in the bookshop and was embarrassed to admit such a blunder to an exhausted Dr. Hackett, I’d called Miranda. To my surprise, my favorite chauffeur to the undead was already awake. She’d done the “lost keys/embarrassing emergency walk of shame” enough times that she was happy to help out another damsel in frequent distress.
“You’re just lucky I keep vampire hours,” she told me. “And that Collin is in the middle of a History Channel marathon on the War of 1812 on his TiVo. I love him dearly, but I will use any excuse to get out of watching that.”
“I am ever so grateful to serve as that excuse,” I told her, closing my eyes and resting my head against the seat rest.
My bones ached. My feet were screaming. There were substances I preferred not to think about on my clothes. And I was dozing off in the front seat of Miranda’s SUV. All I wanted to do was shower and crawl into bed.
“Wow,” I heard Miranda say from the driver seat. I opened my eyes and saw her staring through the windshield, her expression one of delighted awe.
My own mouth fell open in astonishment. It was the first time I’d seen the house in its fully refurbished state. My home looked like something out of a fairy tale. The siding had been replaced and painted a fresh, vibrant yellow that shone in the weak light of the fingernail moon. The roof had been reshingled. The porch had been painted to match the trim. Dick’s work crews had added flower boxes to the railing, bursting with a profusion of pansies in yellow, purple, and white.
I knew about the changes to the interior. My rooms had been painted a cheerful pale pink. The dark wood and gothic wall sconces had been replaced with what Andrea called comfy farmhouse chic. The huge bank of cabinets in the kitchen was gone, and in its place was an old-fashioned tin-front pie safe. The appliances were new, and the tub upstairs no longer threatened to fall through the ceiling. The remaining cabinets had been painted white and artistically distressed. I’d drawn the line at Dick buying me new bedroom furniture. I was truly frightened by the prospect of what he would choose.
I climbed out of the car, marveling at the changes Jed’s crew had made. “Thanks, Miranda!”
“No problem, babe,” she called. “There’s a whole series of specials on the Spanish American War next week. Call anytime.”
I waved at her as she backed out of the driveway, then returned to staring at the house in the moonlight.
“You know, you keep your mouth open like that, you’re gonna catch mosquitoes.”
My jaw snapped shut. I turned to find Jed, wearing an actual shirt with sleeves, standing in his front door.
“I thought that was flies.”
He smirked. “Not around here.”
“You do beautiful work,” I told him. “It’s just gorgeous altogether.”
“Thanks,” he said, his smile boyish and pleased as we circled each other. “We’re finished here and movin’ on to Dick’s house. Andrea saw some of the things Sam did here and wants them for their house, too. It’s roofin’ tomorrow, which means an early start before the hottest part of the day. It’s a shame. I liked being able to take my coffee breaks in my own kitchen. So what have you been up to? I haven’t seen you in a few days.”
“I accidentally started a new job tonight.”
He frowned. “Accidentally?”
“It was totally unintentional. I fell right into it.”
“Oh, honey, you didn’t answer one of those ads on Craigslist, did you?” he said, his eyes wide and intentionally shocked.>Dick’s strange attentions were another sore point. I’d tried to talk to Jane about the renovations to my house and whether Dick’s intentions were honorable. But she only assured me that I was perfectly safe, but she’d promised Dick that she’d let him talk to me himself. I found this to be cryptic and unhelpful.
If I were home, I would have taken a walk down to the cliffs to clear my head with cold sea air and blessed quiet. In the Hollow, I had only the somewhat decrepit area surrounding the shop. So I wandered the streets in the late-afternoon sun, worrying over my problems like a surreal jigsaw puzzle.
What was I doing wrong? Did the magical world smell the stink of desperation on me? Generations before me had found the Elements. But they’d searched as pilgrims, with open, curious hearts. Was I so slow to progress because I was too businesslike in the approach? Or should I be even less sentimental? Approach the issue like one of those crime procedural programs with spreadsheets and forensics and such?
Early one evening, after I cleared the block, I turned right and slowed my pace. The light was warm and pleasant. And the fresh, book-dust-free outdoors was a definite plus. I couldn’t say I was comfortable with the neighborhood, all darkened storefronts and abandoned streets, but I was wearing sturdy shoes and jeans. I could outrun a bloody cheetah if startled properly.
It was interesting to see how the dividing line of commercial success ended at Paxton Avenue. On the opposite side of the intersection, I could see a prosperous town square, with restaurants and quaint little shops. But in this area, there was little bustling besides Jane’s shop. The consignment shop on Prescott was flanked by a defunct comic-book store and an empty barber shop. The one business with lights blazing was a corner store that looked as if it had once been an eyewear shop. It now displayed a sign advertising “Half-Moon Hollow Community Walk-In Clinic. Services Free.”
I walked closer to the door, where a small yellowed sign read, “Help Wanted,” in bold red letters. I pushed the door open to find . . . complete feckin’ chaos. I was bombarded by the sensations of nausea and chills rolling off of the crowded waiting room. There were women lined up five deep at the registration desk, with no nurse to check them in. Children sat slumped against chairs lining the walls, listless and pale, scratching halfheartedly at reddish spots on their arms and legs. One boy had stuffed his head into the wastebasket and was puking for all he was worth. It took me a minute of deep breathing to keep myself from rushing to the wastebasket and tossing my own breakfast.
It was after eight P.M. Every single child in this room had chicken pox. Everybody was talking at once, demanding answers, demanding that someone come out and help them. And no one seemed to be in charge.
Finally, a situation I was prepared for.
