Page 11 of That Ain’t Witchcraft

“Who did you expect to find in the middle of the woods on a Thursday morning?” he demanded. He had a faint New England accent, the sort of thing that would no doubt be used as a quaint character trait on a CW drama, but which really just made him sound even more judgmental than the average man on the street. “The Jersey Devil doesn’t come this far north.”

“To be fair, if you were the Jersey Devil, I think the wings would have sort of given you away before I went and grabbed you,” I said. “For which I am sincerely sorry, and which I will never do again.”

He kept staring.

“Come on. I didn’t stab you or set you on fire or throw things at you, I think you can stop looking at me like I’m some sort of serial killer.”

“You’re not from around here, and you’re in the middle of the woods, which isn’t exactly what I’d call normal,” he said, voice taking on a strident note. I’d spent enough time around my cousin Artie to recognize the sound of someone working themselves into a tizzy. “There’s nothing around here except—”

The man stopped mid-sentence and went back to staring at me.

“Oh, no,” he said.

“If you were about to say ‘there’s nothing around here except that house that was for rent, which is a reasonable walk that way,’” I pointed vaguely, “then you’re in the neighborhood of reaching a logical conclusion. Hi. I’m assuming you’re my new neighbor.”

“Oh, no,” he repeated, with more heat. “He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare.”

“If by ‘he’ you mean ‘the man who rented us the house,’ then yes, he would dare. Has dared. We have a contract for the next three months and everything.” I crossed my arms. My willingness to play nicely—engendered, for the most part, by my own mistake—was fading fast. “He’s off to Europe, and we’re looking forward to an exciting adventure with the upstairs shower, which is apparently finicky. Hi. I’m Annie. You are?”

Using my real name, even in its shortened form, was risky. Using my “Melody West” identify, which had been well and truly blown by my time in Lowryland, would have been even riskier. “Annie” is a common name, where “Antimony” is not. It would be fine.

And if it wasn’t fine, these woods looked like they’d offer plenty of places to hide a body.

“James,” the man said stiffly, pulling himself into a locked, upright position. He was tall, taller than me, taller than Sam. If he hadn’t been slumped, there’s no way I could have gotten them confused.

Honestly, if I hadn’t been exhausted, there’s no way I could have gotten them confused. All this time on the run had done more damage to my situational awareness than I’d realized. “Nice to meet you, James, and again, sorry for startling you. I didn’t mean to. You live around here?”

James hesitated. I could see the debate on whether or not to lie raging in his eyes. I sighed.

“You’re the one who told me there was nothing anywhere near here, thus implying you’d have to be from somewhere nearby. I’m trying to make conversation. Do you think you could meet me halfway? Maybe? This will be a lot easier for both of us if you do your share of the heavy lifting.”

“Excuse me if I’m not proficient in the art of having conversations with strange women who accost me in the middle of the forest,” he said.

“You’re excused,” I replied. “Now can we start this over, or do we need to spend some more time riding the roller coaster of shame around the recrimination mountains? Because you seem nice and all, and I really am sorry I upset you, but I have shit to do today, and this is getting old.”

James blinked. Then, to my surprise and relief, he laughed. He was a lot less intimidating when he laughed.

I mean. The man didn’t look like he knew what strength training was, and there was absolutely no question of whether I could take him in a fight, but there’s something about scowling strangers in unfamiliar woods that triggers a mild “maybe I fucked up” response in most thinking creatures.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I take myself too seriously sometimes. Can we start over?”

“Without me mistaking you for my boyfriend and scaring the crap out of you? Absolutely.” I extended my hand. “Annie Brown.”

“James Smith,” he said. His grip was firm without being painful; his palms were dry. “So you’re renting my cousin Norbert’s house?”

“I guess,” I said. “A friend of mine made most of the arrangements. I slept during the drive over. Tall guy, sort of nervous-looking, said he was on his way to Europe to spend a couple of months backpacking?”

“You’d be nervous, too, if you had a name like ‘Norbert,’” said James. “But yeah, that’s the one.”

My real name is a lot closer to “Norbert” than it is to something as ordinary as “James.” I didn’t comment, just smiled and said, “I guess that means we’re neighbors, assuming you don’t lurk around isolated woods for no specific reason.”

“I live that way,” he said, and pointed at the densest part of the wood, in the opposite direction from the house. That was a relief. I didn’t mind sharing the woods—look at me, getting all possessive already—but it was good to know we’d at least have some privacy. Sam was going to need it. “Just me and my dad.”

“Oh,” I said.

He grimaced. “Is this where you call me weird for living at home?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I lived with my parents until very recently. I liked it. I don’t see any reason to move out if you’re comfortable.”