“The Haven Hollow cult,” he said sagely.

  “Cult?” I repeated. “As in... devil worshipers or something?”

  Wouldn’t that be just my luck? Come to a town to escape ghosts and witches and accidentally stumble across a hotbed of occult activity. I already had my hands full with the non-corporeal beings in my life. I didn’t need to add vengeful demons to the mix.

  Marty read the expression on my face and began to laugh. He actually snorted his iced tea back into his glass, choking for a few seconds until Finn thumped him on the back. I didn’t think my reaction was that funny.

  “Sorry,” he wheezed. “I shouldn’t laugh. You just looked so horrified. ‘Cult’ is probably too strong a word. It’s more like a... secret society or something. Like the Freemasons or the Illuminati, but bite-sized. So far as I can tell, there’s less than twenty members.”

  I expelled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “And you’re right, Finn,” Marty continued. “Fifi and her brother are involved. Almost everyone at the realty office seems to be. Then there’s Lorcan Rowe, the dentist, Stanley Stomper, the Clemmons family, and our very own… Roy Osbourne.” Marty nodded toward the bartender for emphasis. When I looked back, I found Roy’s gaze trained on me. Again, a look, an expression too intimate for words passed between us. I felt the flush return to my cheeks as Roy stared at me. And even though I tried to, I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

  Until I could.

  I looked away, even as my heart started to pound again.

  “What’s the point of their cult?” I asked.

  “I don’t know much about it, other than that it exists,” Marty answered. “Henner, RJ and I just noticed them meeting at midnight in the town cemetery more than once—usually while we’ve been heading home from exorcising ghosts. After seeing them getting together so many times, we started asking questions.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing, really. No one in town seems to know anything or, if they do, no one’s talking.”

  “Do they ever hurt anybody?” Finn asked, now giving Marty his undivided attention.

  “No. Ophelia is deadly to plants, not people. Fifi seems to have a magical knack for finding the worst men. Angelo, Fifi’s brother, is a serial lech, Roy tends to disappear on us at least once a month, Lorcan is a little eccentric, and Mr. Clemmons recently passed.”

  ***

  I stepped back to survey my handiwork. The shelves and executive desk had been buffed to a shining patina, the crystal display case filled to bursting with the more colorful of my ready-made potions. Still more were arranged on the mahogany bookshelves, and the bottommost hosted miscellaneous items: a dozen diffusers, some crystals, a bunch of candles and dream catchers.

  Candy jars were half-filled with dried herbs I’d harvested from my garden in Los Angeles before the move. A scoop and gauzy drawstring bags sat beside the jars, in case anyone wanted to make a personalized scented sachet.

  I’d optimistically flipped the neon sign Marty had donated on, so the flashing, fluorescent message would get through loud and clear. I was open for business. My shop was dust-free and smelled strongly of wintergreen, just the way I liked things. Soon Marty would be by with my promotional materials, and I could truly begin putting this place on the map.

  My eyes burned and my throat felt a little tight as I surveyed it all. This was all mine. Things were finally starting to go right for me. I thought my heart might actually burst.

  And then it did try to use my ribcage like ladder rungs to climb into my throat when a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  A half-scream of terror flew out of my mouth and I rounded on the intruder, hands flying up to lash out at whoever was behind me. But, my hands fell away almost at once because the intruder didn’t appear to be an intruder at all. Instead, it was a woman and she wasn’t much taller than me. Probably only five-six, if her posture was on point. At the moment, she looked shrunken, shoulders curled forward.

  The checkered blazer and green slacks made her look like an exotic caterpillar, trying to curl in on itself. The taupe silk blouse almost matched the faded grays threading through her dark hair. Her skin was lined, and yellowing, like old parchment. It almost seemed like someone had taken a straw to her and sucked all the color away.

  I stared at her for a protracted second. She looked like she could have been my age. But there was something about the energy surrounding her that just seemed... off. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Somehow familiar and disquieting, though I was certain I’d never met her before. I’d have remembered such a hangdown woman.

  “I... uh... can I help you?” I managed, forcing a bright, retail-ready smile. It was a little dusty from disuse. I hadn’t worked in retail for a long time.

  The woman nodded, though even doing that seemed to cost her energy. It looked like she’d taken purple paint and smeared rings beneath her eyes. I’d never seen dark circles quite that vivid. Had she slept for even a second in the last week?

  “I hope so,” she said. “I was wondering if you might have something for sleeplessness and… stress?”

  I backed away from her, toward the glass case, behind the desk. I had a few things that might help, but to know precisely what she needed, I’d have to ask more questions.

  “Can you tell me a little bit more about what’s going on?” I asked, not meaning to pry, but I couldn’t help her unless she was more specific with her ailments.

  “What more do you need to know? I’m stressed out and I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  Her brusque manner immediately put me on the defensive, but realizing that wouldn’t do either of us any good, I opted to explain. “This isn’t an exact science. One type of stress isn’t the same as another. For instance, the stress of work is different from the stress of finding out your boyfriend of three years is cheating. Or...”

  “I’m a single mother of two eleven-year-old girls, the bank is foreclosing on my house, my brother-in-law just passed, so my sister is a wreck, and I can’t shake these damn night terrors,” she snapped, her anger sloughing off some of the fatigue.

  “Oh,” I said in a small voice. What was there to say to that? Of course she was stressed.

  “Yes, oh,” she snapped. “What can you give me to help? Or is this a gigantic waste of my time?”

  I found myself caught between two conflicting desires. Helping her, or telling her to take a hike. On the one hand, I understood her circumstances must have been frightening. Her real life sounded like a nightmare. But, on the other hand, no one had the right to talk to me like that.

  “Seems like we got off on the wrong foot,” I started, offering an olive branch.

  The woman deflated, like someone let the air out of a helium balloon. I could practically hear the hiss as the fight went out of her.

  “I’m just… not in control of my emotions lately…”

  I gave her a big smile, hoping she’d realize I wasn’t her enemy. “I will do my best to help.”

  “Thanks,” she grumbled.

  “My name’s… Poppy,” I continued, remembering how Marty had said that’s what I was called here, in Haven Hollow. A feeling of warmth spread through me as I imagined his smiling face. “What’s your name?”

  “Barbra,” she managed.

  “Hi Barbra, it’s nice to meet you.”

  Barbra nodded meekly. “Right. You too.”

  She was like that most of the visit, not saying much and strangely, appearing to avoid looking me in the eyes. I loaded a white candle, a vial of Calming Oil, and Get Away Oil into a small plastic sack, as well as a dreamcatcher.

  The Calming Oil would allow her to relax and calm her nerves. I told her to anoint her pulse points with it before bed every night. The Get Away Oil would help protect her against nightmares. I instructed her to anoint the dreamcatcher and the candle with it and burn the candle for fifteen minutes every night before she went to bed.

  Worry twinged beneath my breastbone as I rang her up. The potions were $10.00 each, the dreamcatcher $13.50, and the candle was $8.25. I remembered how she’d said she was losing her house and she had two daughters to support. I could give her a break. At the last second, I bumped the candle off her total and I only charged her for one potion. It wasn’t good business sense, but I had to appease my conscience at the same time. And this woman needed an act of kindness with the luck she’d been having.

  I scribbled the directions onto a piece of paper, just in case none of what I’d said during the selection process had penetrated her obviously scattered mind. I folded the missive and tucked it into the bag with her purchases after I rang her up. I’d need to invest in some nice stationery—something classier than a piece of lined yellow paper.

  Barbra gathered up her purchases and trudged out the door, not bothering to return my faux-chipper farewell. She had the doleful, dejected air of a chastised bloodhound as she departed. I was left staring at the empty doorway, pity twisting my stomach.

  My first transaction ought to have been an occasion to celebrate.

  Chapter Twelve

  I stroked the pendant resting above my collarbone thoughtfully.

  I’d finally given in to Darla, bending to the necessity of a ghostly security system. I traced the apple cheeks of the kissing silver cherubs that made up the locket. My mother had found it in a rummage sale and gifted it to me last Christmas. The supposedly innocent angels were wrapped around each other and engaged in an ardent liplock. Call me crazy, but I believed my mother was trying to tell me something…

  No matter.

  Just inside was a shaving taken from the wooden pencil case Darla had attached herself to. It’d almost physically pained me to take a box knife to one corner. The engraved case had been my great-grandfather’s, and one of my prized possessions. That was the reason Darla had chosen it. She’d correctly assumed I wouldn’t burn it to be rid of her.

  If I called on Darla now, I wondered if she could walk the streets of Haven Hollow with me and identify the haunted homes? Maybe she’d be able to shed some light on the whole murder incident I was still dreaming about.

  Yes, the nightmare visions had continued, and somehow, they’d only gotten worse. I woke clutching my chest almost every night now, choking on the last stale breath the man had sucked in. I was fairly sure he’d died from a heart attack. The creature in the doorway, real or imagined, haunted my waking hours. I swore I saw it in shadows, or darting across the cemetery at night. When I peered closely, it was either the rustle of the aspen trees or a deer pair ambling through the headstones. It was mating season and the deer were out in full force.

  Still, I couldn’t continue jumping at shadows. If Darla could help me figure out what had happened to the man, maybe that would bring an end to my night terrors. At least it was a thought that had been visiting me more and more lately.

  I rubbed my finger across the locket’s surface again, like a lucky penny. At the piercing sound of the bell above the door going off, I jumped and jerked my hand away from the locket, like a kid caught mid-cookie theft.

  The door swung inward so violently, it took the newly installed bell off the door, sending it skittering, with horrible clanging sounds, across the floor until it collided with the base of my shelves. I blinked a few times. Marty had installed the bell so I could avoid nasty frights of the sort Barbra had given me. And he’d done a good job of keeping the thing in place with a few screws, so who on earth had the strength to dislodge it so easily?

  I squinted into the bright afternoon sunlight, half-expecting to see the beefy Roy Osborne standing in the gap. But, no, this wasn’t a chiseled hunk of man-flesh come to strain the limits of my doorway. When my vision cleared, I could make out an elderly woman, dressed in what appeared to be a tartan pantsuit. The colors were eye-searingly bright, and the creases ironed into the material looked sharp enough to put an eye out. It was Ophelia and she was wearing a white blouse beneath the suit, buttoned up all the way to the collar, where red lace frothed down. It was like her throat had been cut and spilled forth ruffles.

  “Ophelia, how nice to see you!” I lied, rounding the desk.

  Ophelia didn’t smile, she didn’t even blink. She watched me with a strange look in her beady black eyes. The rose-colored glasses did nothing to soften her countenance or make her approachable. If anything, they were a stark reminder of just how unsettling she was in comparison.

  She lifted her raven cane from the hardwood and prodded the air just before me.

  “We have much to discuss,” she whispered in her brittle, parchment-like tone.

  Ophelia’s magical energy buzzed around her, reminding me of the waitress, Fifi’s. I’d already decided Ophelia wasn’t a witch but her aura, especially this close, made my skin crawl. So, what in the world was she?

  I backed away from her, on instinct. Until I caught myself and then I held my ground. Whatever she was, she was in my store, so she’d better be polite.

  “And what is it we need to talk about?” I asked, hoping the subject wasn’t Marty.

  Ophelia bobbed her head in a singularly vulture-like movement, still eyeing me from behind her spectacles. “You need to declare yourself, girl.”

  The shop seemed to grow dim, despite the afternoon sunlight slanting in from the open door. I flicked a glance up at the ceiling, wondering if the lights of the chandelier were still on. When I looked up, I found the lights were still glowing. So why did this space seem as cramped and dark as a closed casket, all of a sudden?

  “Declare myself?” I managed to ask, as I faced her again.

  “Yes, declare yourself,” she said with a reproving tut. “Which side are you on, Gypsy girl?”

  It was more her tone than the word, itself, that raised my hackles. Traveller blood ran thick in my veins, calling to long ago magic and adventures. While I didn’t roam from place to place the way my ancestors had, their magic was still in me, as much a part of me as my skin, hair, or eyes. I was used to the word ‘Gypsy’, had grown tired of trying to explain why it was technically a slur. The contempt in that one word allowed me to find my voice at last.

  “I’m a descendent of the Scottish Travellers, Ophelia. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me by my name, or at least by the proper name of my people. And I am forty-three years old. I haven’t been a girl in a very long time.”

  She didn’t backpedal or apologize. Instead, one corner of her withered mouth curled upward in the barest hint of a smile, but that was all the outward indication she gave that my impassioned speech had gotten through to her. The smile shifted lines in her face, casting more of those strange shadows into the deep creases.

  “Strange that you’d be offended by the word ‘gypsy’,” she said, taking one shuffling step forward. She stood on tiptoe to reach one of my best-sellers from the shelf above her head. She rolled the antique eyedropper between her fingers and a shimmering green liquid splashed the sides in a merry dance as it settled. “Gypsy Magic, it’s called,” she said as she looked up at me.

  “For divination, or spellwork.”

  “Right. So what?”

  Ophelia shrugged, and the exaggerated movement made the ruffles at her neck flop to one side. Had she always been this prickly? Maybe that was why no one had staged an intervention regarding her fashion sense.

  “I’m merely trying to point out the hypocrisy in your feeble defense.”

  “It wasn’t the word that offended me… it was the way you said it,” I snapped, finding some volume at last. I was angry. Angry she’d cornered me in my own shop, and talked down to me.

  I stalked over to her and snatched the bottle of Gypsy Magic from her hand. I set it down, none-too-gently, on the shelf above our heads. “I’m sure you didn’t come into my store to buy something,” I started.

  It was then that I had to fight not to draw back. Beneath the overpowering chemical scent of musk was something worse. A note of sweet decay, like I’d smelled once under GG’s peach tree. The peaches had fallen early, and we missed our chance to gather them for pie-making. By the time we’d found them, they were rotting, brown sides caving in, drawing in flies by the millions.

  That was what Ophelia smelled like.

  And that wasn’t normal. Marty was right. There was definitely something bizarre going on with Ophelia. How did one even get to smell like decaying fruit? Maybe the rot had come from spoiled fauna, not flora. Was she hiding bodies in her basement?

  I kept my face near hers out of sheer will, staring her down from only an inch away, waiting for her to blink. She did, after an unnervingly long silence.

  “Be that as it may, Ms. Morton, but it doesn’t change the fact that you must declare yourself before Mabon ends. Your failure to do so before your peers has already been remarked upon in meetings.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about—my peers in meetings? “Mabon?” I repeated. My neopagan knowledge was a bit rusty. My mother had married a Christian man and raised me to be a loose sort of theist. I’d dabbled in college, but that was about it.

  Ophelia rolled her eyes heavenward like I was too frustrating for words. “You have four days left to decide, girl.”

  “To decide what?” I barked back.

  “Do you stand with those vermin out there?” she jabbed a finger at the open door of the shop. “Or do you stand with the old magic? The old world guard who have sheltered what others sought to destroy.”

  I glared at her. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Remember what the humans are, gypsy girl, when you ponder your decision.”

  “My decision to do what?” I blurted, unable to contain myself an instant longer. I had to step away from her, had to get away from the reek coming off her skin. And then I realized what this was about. “You’re talking about joining your cult.”

  She scoffed at that. “We’re hardly a cult. We are a… society.”

  “Right. Marty already warned me about that. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “You don’t understand.”