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“In case you discover any more assassins on your lawn, of course.”
I tucked the card into my purse.
Noise broke out behind us, and Josie swung into action, vaulting over the counter toward the brawl.
“Cole, tell Darby there’s a patient headed her way,” Kane called over his shoulder.
“You keep medical personnel on the payroll?” I asked.
“Darby is one of the fae, and yes, I keep her on staff. As I’m sure you know, their blood is a universal healer.” He frowned at the ruckus behind me; it seemed Josie only managed to continue the brawl. “I’d advise you to leave now, Miss Clay. Things are about to get messy.”
I exited the building, conscious of the looks of interest I was receiving from the clientele on my way out. Apparently, I was more interesting than the fight. The humidity clung to my skin as I walked to my truck. Kane Sullivan was a powerful demon with secrets; that much was certain. Naturally, he was the authority figure in charge of a supernatural assassins guild. If he was harboring a dark secret, such as a nasty habit of kidnapping young women, I wanted to know sooner rather than later. Whether he’d correctly identified me was another matter. I could be any number of beings; there was no reason to believe his supernatural radar was as impressive as the rest of him.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts of Kane. He’d probably slipped something in my drink to make me think highly of him. Arrogant prick.
Apart from the occasional chirp, the town seemed unnaturally quiet as I drove home with the windows of the truck rolled down. It seemed as though every resident in Fairhaven was slumbering, like the part in Sleeping Beauty when the fairies cast a sleeping spell over the kingdom. It was incredibly peaceful; so peaceful, in fact, that I lingered on my front porch to enjoy it a little longer before I went to bed.
One thing that bothered me more than the owner of the Devil’s Playground was the number of paranormal patrons. I had no idea that Fairhaven was a magnet for others, or I never would’ve decided to put down roots here. It seemed strange that I’d chosen a small town that was some kind of supernatural epicenter. It couldn’t be a coincidence. If it was more than Bluebeard’s Castle that had lured me here, I needed to know.
Noisy crickets disrupted my thoughts as I climbed into bed.The Complete History of Fairhavenbeckoned me from my bedside table, but I was too tired to read. I closed my eyes and let them sing me to sleep.
CHAPTER7
The witch’s house wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t as though I anticipated a gingerbread cottage or anything like that; I’d known enough witches not to be fooled by stories. Still, a white farmhouse with outbuildings and chicken coops wasn’t on my supernatural bingo card.
I passed through the gate of the white picket fence and walked along the stone path to the porch. The front door was open, leaving only a screen door in view. I heard the click before I saw the shotgun. Me being me, I continued to the door as though I’d heard nothing at all.
“What do you want?” the voice behind the gun demanded. A smoker’s voice. Interesting. I’d never known a witch to touch cigarettes.
“My name is Lorelei Clay. I understand there’s someone here who might be able to help me with a problem.” I arrived on the wraparound porch. With a swing and cheerful potted plants, the porch was more welcoming than she was.
“We all got problems. Why would I help you?”
I wasn’t keen on talking to the barrel of a shotgun, so I decided to cut to the chase. “Since when do witches need guns?”
“When we want to dissuade trespassers.”
“Why not use a ward?” If she couldn’t create one, better to know now so I could be on my merry way and find someone who could.
“I do use a ward. That’s how I knew you were here. Mine is set for detection, not prevention. I own a farm. I deal with the public. It might arouse suspicion if people can’t set foot on the property without blowing up.”
She had a point. I couldn’t set up a ward that prevented the police chief from passing through the gate to the Castle. Chief Garcia was human; she’d assume there were, in fact, criminal activities taking place beyond the iron fence.
“I need a ward around my property like yours, one that alerts me to trespassers,” I explained. “I had a break-in recently, and I don’t want a repeat performance.”
She pressed her face closer to the screen door. Her skin was riddled with liver spots and dark circles nested under her eyes. Corkscrew curls the color of bullets rained down around her face. “You look human. Who told you I could make you a ward?”
I didn’t bother to correct her assumption. “Kane Sullivan.”
The witch’s eyes widened, and she lowered the shotgun. “You know the demon?”
“We’re recently acquainted. When I told him I needed a ward, he suggested I pay you a visit. You are Penelope Bridger, aren’t you?”
“I am. Come in, Lorelei Clay.” The witch opened the door and gave me an appraising look as I entered.
She put on the safety before she nestled the shotgun in a set of hooks on the wall and motioned for me to follow her. “Why the need for a ward? Got something digging up your vegetable patch? I know there’s been a creature running amok. We lost a couple goats last month.”
“I don’t have any livestock, so that hasn’t been an issue.” I could tell she expected me to elaborate. I had no intention of offering one word more than was necessary though. I didn’t trust witches. Never did.
