It was always, ‘Wanda, there’s a curse we need you to break’. Or ‘Wanda, some monster is eating citizens’. Or even better, ‘Wanda, someone messed up and we need you to alter their memories with your incredible and amazing magic’. I might have been paraphrasing the last one, but the point still remained. The Council was a lot of work, and it pulled me away from my store, my hobbies, and my husband’s bed far too often, and it was all Poppy’s fault. Well, mostly anyway.

  With a muttered curse, I pulled over at the curb and stepped out of the car.

  I tried to school my face into some kind of concerned expression as I sidled up and past the crowd. Everyone was murmuring, something about ‘old man George’, but they readily made space for one more nosy onlooker.

  At least I had a tiny sliver of information from eavesdropping. Forcing my face into the kind of pinch-browed expression of compassion Poppy could slap on like she was born with it, I turned to a man standing next to me. He looked like he was about forty, maybe a year or two older, and was currently talking softly with the others.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, blinking my eyes in a way that almost made me sick. “What happened to George? Is he okay?”

  Ugh.

  Whatever my face was actually doing, it seemed to fool my would-be informant. He gave me what I was sure he thought was a reassuring smile, but it was condescending enough to make me grit my teeth against a hex.

  “I don’t know. They won’t tell us anything.” He reached out, like he was going to pat my shoulder, but then must have seen my scowl and thought better of it. Good. It would have ruined the vibe if I had to bite him.

  An older lady, her hair all done up in curlers like what you’d see in a sitcom, started nodding effusively. “Oh, I knew something was wrong when he wasn’t outside in his garden all day. I called the police and asked them to check on him. Like I said—George is always out in his garden. So I just knew something wasn’t right.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd, and from it I picked up that apparently ‘old George’ was a bit of a curmudgeon, but a harmless one. He also had a schedule that someone could set their watch to, and he didn’t veer from it.

  Any thoughts I had of the mob overreacting, of them making something out of nothing, that all went away when the paramedics came out of the house wheeling a stretcher between them. It was the black zippered coroner’s bag that landed like a fist in my stomach, though.

  Someone gasped, someone cried out in thin voiced denial. People were clinging to each other, and others watched solemnly as the stretcher was brought to the ambulance. I strained my ears to catch the conversation between the paramedics, but I couldn’t catch much over the noise the crowd was making. Something about bed and pajamas. It seemed that the old man had gone in his sleep the night before. With the ambulance’s cargo loaded, the crew cut the lights, and they drove away in silence.

  It was sad. Very sad. The people around me seemed to be taking it hard, and I felt for them, I did. But, from what I’d overheard, old George was in his nineties, and that age was respectable for a human’s passing. The point was, an old man dying in his bed wasn’t a sign of supernatural tampering, or some dark conspiracy. It was just a regular human affair, not Council business.

  I spoke a few useless platitudes—I mean, they didn’t help the living, and the dead obviously didn’t care, before getting back into my car and making my painfully slow way into work.

  ***

  I knew my day was only going to go from bad to worse when I stepped into my store, and Maverick greeted me with his hands raised like he was fending off a grizzly bear.

  “Don’t freak out.”

  If that wasn’t a guarantee that I would soon absolutely freak out, then I didn’t know what was.

  “Why?” My voice came out low and dangerous, like a rattle snake’s warning before it struck.

  Maverick hesitated, which only drove the anxiety spike higher. In general, Maverick did not hesitate. Maverick had faced down a murderous vampire without flinching. So I had to wonder: what had him side-eying all the various exits in the room?

  He raked a hand back through his shoulder length hair. “So. You know that dress you were working on in the back room?”

  My heart dropped, my stomach shot up into my throat, and my entire body went into a confused panic. “What. Did you. Do?”

  That spurred him into giving me an annoyed look. “Give me some credit. I didn’t touch your ridiculously expensive fabric. But when I went into the back earlier to check on something, well.” He sighed and scratched at the closely cropped beard on his jaw. “You should probably look for yourself.”

  I was already brushing past him before he’d finished the sentence, my heels clacking angrily against the floor like a war drum. If this was some elaborate prank, I was going to set Maverick on fire.

  I flipped on the lights as I stepped into the storeroom, and Maverick, the coward, stayed out on the shop floor. Everything was exactly the way I’d left it that morning when I went home, except for one thing.

  I’d braced myself for that familiar lightning prickle of years of enchantment woven into the fabric, but there was nothing but cool, dry air, and a few hints of magic slowly fading like mist on a summer morning.

  My jaw hung open as I staggered over to the worktable, but my magical senses weren’t lying to me. The enchantment on the silk was already fading, and not just that. The silk itself was in rough shape. Each of the pieces I’d so carefully laid out and cut were showing signs of age. A fraying edge here, a worn thin hole there. Patches of the fabric were now discolored, taking on an almost yellowish tint. It was like the whole piece was doing its best to catch up to its proper age all at once. I lifted one of the smaller pieces for the bodice inlay, and the silk crumbled under my touch, dry and brittle, like centuries-old parchment.

  Fury swelled in my throat, like I’d swallowed a cup of boiling liquid. What a garbage piece of craftsmanship! Who the spell enchanted fabric so it couldn’t be cut? It had been sold for garment work, sold for a truly ridiculous amount of money, I might add, and yet it fell apart after being cut to size? Absolutely absurd.

  My own work was leagues above that, and I didn’t tout myself as a ‘master’ of my craft. But you could bet your broom and cauldron that if I’d enchanted a piece of fabric, it would damn well stay enchanted, no matter if it was cut. I lifted another piece of the silk, the part that would have been the train of my gorgeous gown, and some of the strands peeled away from the edge, clinging to my fingers like spider webs.

  I dropped it back to the table in disgust.

  One thing was sure, I was going to tell (in exceedingly scathing words) that hack of an auction house exactly what I thought about their shoddy merchandise, and I’d demand Lorcan’s money back. I might send a hex or two their way, too, if they weren’t sorry enough.

  With jerky motions I dragged off my coat and purse and stuffed them into the little cubby by my notion’s dresser. Well, there went my plans for the evening. At least I could tell Maverick to head out. He was probably itching to flee, like a rat off a sinking ship.

  I cast one last glance back at the pile of useless, fading silk. And if my eyes were a little bright when I stepped back onto the shop floor, it was only because I was so incandescently angry.

  Chapter Four

  Poppy’s Potions was just as cheery and obnoxiously upbeat as its owner.

  Somehow, Poppy had taken a space with wooden floors and gorgeous wide windows, and made it look like a unicorn had thrown up in it. Everywhere I looked, there were dozens and dozens of little glass bottles in every color of the rainbow. There were thick, creamy beeswax candles arranged on cutesy little holders, with little calligraphy cards attached to everything with ribbons, explaining what each potion or anointed candle did. And don’t even get me started on the fairy lights… There were enough fairy lights for a rendition of Peter Pan.

  I was more of a sleek glass and burnished metal kind of person, but I supposed Poppy’s little store had a kind of cottagey, kitschy charm to it. She certainly was doing good enough business. The tourists loved the idea of buying a ‘magic potion’ on their way to Sweeter Haunts, the Halloween themed candy store just a few feet up the street. The ones in the know got a decent potion, and the mundanes got a neat souvenir that would actually work if they ever tried it.

  I had to give credit where it was due, unfortunately. Poppy was an amazing potion maker, better than most witches I’d met, myself included. That was the reason I’d invited her to join the coven when I’d formed it, even though that was unheard of. (Well, and yes, if I had to admit—I also wanted her to join because she was my closest friend). But a human, no matter how good at magic they were, had no place in a witch’s coven. It would have been enough to make my family’s striped socks roll up and down. And also including Maverick? A male warlock? My ancestors would be rolling in their graves like a broom stick in a high-speed lathe.

  But that was the point of Circle Scapegrace. Not clinging to old, useless prejudices and outdated rules. The point was bringing the talented together to share our magic, to learn and teach each other, for safety. For family. For the benefit of all involved.

  Ugh, I was getting maudlin. I blamed Poppy for that, too.

  I’d closed up my shop early that evening, too out of sorts to bother pretending to be nice to people. But Lorcan still had hours to go before he’d be calling it a day. A dentist who was open during late night hours made very good money, especially in a place like Haven Hollow. And to be fair, it wasn’t like Lorcan could switch to mornings even if he wanted to.

  The point was that I didn’t want to go home and mope around an empty house, and if I showed up at the coven house, there was a chance I’d get pulled into some situation or another, so I dragged myself across the street to Poppy’s store, and settled in at the counter while she puttered with some potion or other.

  One thing Poppy was very good at, was sympathy. Somehow her compassion never managed to slide into pity, and she never made it feel like she was even a little condescending. And condescending was what I’d basically been exposed to all my life, so it had taken me a while to recognize her compassion for what it was—real.

  She’d even brewed me a cup of tea, and maybe it was a little Christmassy with the hints of cinnamon and spice, but it was also damned tasty, so I was going to drink all of it, and maybe ask for a second cup. That was certainly one way to drink my sorrows away.

  I set the teacup down on the refurnished, antique wood of her front counter with a little click and slumped forward on my elbows. “So, now I have a table full of ruinously expensive rotting silk scraps. It’s utterly worthless, and I still don’t have a dress for this stupid vampire ball that I’m supposed to attend.”

  Poppy shook her head, the corners of her lips pulled down, and she put the kettle back on. “I’m sorry, Wanda.”

  I nodded, because she wasn’t half as sorry as I was. “I can’t believe on top of all the work I’d already put into it, and not to mention the money Lorcan lost on it, I still have to plan out another dress.” I raked a hand back through my hair, shoving it away from my face. “It was so perfect, Poppy. You should have seen it before it all went to hell.”

  I could drive into Portland and scour the fashion district. I could even order something from Paris or Milan, if I really wanted to. But there was no way I was going to find something with that kind of woven-in spell work. And I definitely wouldn’t be able to find anything that had been marinating in said magic for more than a century. Ugh.

  Poppy turned down the flame on her Bunsen burner, the pale purple potion bubbling away and filling the air with the scent of lavender and vanilla. She was chewing her lower lip, which was a textbook tell that she had something to say, but didn’t know how it would go over and didn’t want to upset anyone.

  I quired an eyebrow at her, my nails drumming a pattern against the wood. “Spit it out, Poppy. You’re giving me indigestion just watching you chew on it.”

  A flush climbed over her pale cheeks, and she shook her head. “No, it’s nothing. Nothing helpful, anyway.”

  When I just kept pointedly waiting, she sighed.

  “I just wish you weren’t going to the ball at all.”

  I snorted. “Well, that makes two of us. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of invitation that I can turn down. At least, not without serious consequences. And not just for me.”

  I hated that my basic existence caused problems for Lorcan. Yes, he was the idiot fangs for brains who’d decided to turn a gorgeous stranger at the scene of an accident, trying to save her life. But maybe, if he’d hesitated for just a smidge, he might have noticed that said gorgeous stranger was really a witch, and then maybe he’d have realized that said witch wouldn’t have the fondest feelings about becoming one of the undead.

  I couldn’t be too salty about it, though. I was only a hundred and forty-some-odd years old, I certainly wasn’t ready for my next reincarnation by any means.

  Still, with the memory of two Blood Wars, and a third looming ever closer on the horizon, we couldn’t pretend that it didn’t make things complicated. And I hated that a wedge had been driven between Lorcan and his adoptive sire. With Rupert gone, and a new top dog in place, playing nice might mean that Lorcan could socialize with his fellow bloodsuckers again, instead of being so cut off.

  Poppy sighed, sounding forlorn. “I know. I just can’t stand the idea of you having to waltz into the monster’s den. Literally, even. I mean, how are you going to keep up this pretending to be a vampire thing, when you’re in a room full of people who can smell your pulse?”

  And that was a very good question. One that I didn’t have an answer for, especially with my best plan slowly mouldering away in my workroom. The whole thing had me on edge—especially my demanded attendance couched in a polite request. The idea of being in a building full of predators, and not being able to use my magic to keep Lorcan and myself safe without shattering the thin illusion protecting us—well, it sucked. And then some. Suffice to say, it had all given me a restless sleep.

  Of course, I’d have eaten my own boots before I’d willingly admit that to anyone, even Poppy.

  “Don’t you worry your head about it,” I said with an obnoxious smirk. “There are spells for that.”

  She frowned. “There are?”

  “Well, no, but I can handle a few bloodsuckers. Besides, Lorcan will be there. If all goes wrong, I’ll dazzle them with my magical might, and we’ll make a daring escape.”

  One of my least favorite things about Poppy was that she was actually pretty good with people. That meant she could see right through me when I tried to act callous or arrogant to deflect, and that was frankly rude and annoying. I’d never had to deal with anyone knowing me better than I knew myself before moving to Haven Hollow. I’d been able to bluff my own mother, for spell’s sakes.

  But Poppy just gave me that big watery blue-eyed look that told me that she wasn’t buying it, but she was going to let the topic go because that was what I wanted.

  Ugh. Insufferable.

  Suddenly, tea just wasn’t cutting it for me. I leaned forward, balancing on my toes, and shot Poppy a conspiratorial grin. “Now, there is one thing you could do for me, if you wanted to help?”

  It was a leading question, and she fell for it, hook, line, and sinker, just like I knew she would.

  “Oh yeah?”

  I nodded slowly, trying to look solemn. “I am desperately in need of an evening where I get to let my hair down. Do you think you might be able to arrange the next meeting of the Black Cat Cocktail Club? I need a Hex on the Beach, badly.”

  Poppy’s face lit up, and I knew my ploy had worked. It wasn’t actually a lie, I did want a night of socializing where I could have a drink and not have to worry about anything for a while except for what Darla might get into while she was, as she put it, ‘zozzled’. I’d lived through the nineteen twenties, and still sometimes her flapper slang tripped me up.

  “Oh, that would be great,” Poppy said, her voice bright and bubbly. “I know Fifi was asking after our next get together. And I’d bet you ten dollars that if we invited her, Taliyah could use a night where she could leave all her responsibilities at the door.”

  That was a bet I wouldn’t take. Taliyah might have been raised by a family of law enforcement officers, with her own adopted brother being the late Chief of Police, but she had the added benefit of a mess of supernatural and political problems on top of that. The point was, if anyone ever needed a night off and a drink as much as I did, it was Taliyah.

  Of course, I still had to tease Poppy about it. “Ten dollars? Slow down there, moneybags.”

  But Poppy was already bent over her cell phone, texting away. I tossed a wary look over at the potion simmering. It seemed fine, but I was a little wary about potions exploding these days. The last one that had—well, Sybil had come into being.

  My phone buzzed, and I checked it, only to huff out a surprised laugh. “Did you just text me about it? I’m sitting right here. It was my idea.”

  Poppy blinked at me. “It’s a group text. It goes to everyone.”

  I scrolled through the group members. “Why is Libby in here? You know she’ll refuse, and then spend four hours composing a speech about the evils of alcohol, and that’s only if she figures out how to reply to a text message.”

  “Well, yeah. But it would be rude not to invite her.”

  I thunked my head down onto the counter. Because Goddess forbid Poppy ever be rude, and not invite someone to something she knew they wouldn’t want to go to anyway.

  “Besides, Libby really likes giving those lectures. I think it makes her day.”

  Unbelievable. There just wasn’t any hope left for Poppy. She was too goody good to be saved.