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Oh.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing in my kitchen thinking about my awful, bossy, smoking-hot neighbor.

Damian wants me gone. Damian has money. Damian has magic.

And Damian is desperate enough to sabotage me.

“If he wants a war,” I mutter, “he’ll get one.”

Sparky meows.

“You’re right. I should do it.”

He isn’t really answering me. Because, duh, he’s a cat, and all he does is lick one paw before dragging it over his ear.

But still.

I know it’s petty.

I know I’m supposed to be the bigger person.

Unfortunately for Damian Leeds, I’ve spent thirty-eight years being the bigger person, and today I’m feeling a little immature.

So yeah.

The bats go directly into his garden.

And so begins the Great Ramos-Leeds Neighbor War.

For the next several days, things escalate.

Damian puts some ridiculous noisemaker spell on my mailbox, so every single time I open it, a trumpet blares loud enough to wake the dead.

Literally.

The first time it happens, three ghosts poke their heads through the upstairs windows to see what all the fuss is about.

The second time, I nearly pee myself.

The third time?

I retaliate.

Which is how ninety-seven anchovy, onion, garlic, and pickle pizzas somehow get delivered to Damian’s house at two in the morning.

No idea how that happens.

Absolutely none.

The delivery guy leaves them stacked on his front porch, where the combination of fish, garlic, onions, and hot pickles creates a stink so foul it crosses the property line and infiltrates my bedroom.

I lie awake with my pillow over my face, eyes watering. Sparky abandons me completely and sleeps downstairs.

So, admittedly, that one backfires.

Still worth it.

The next morning, I peek through my curtains and find Damian standing barefoot on his porch in nothing but a pair of low-slung pajama pants, glaring at ninety-seven pizza boxes like he’s contemplating mass murder.