“We discussed your options over the phone weeks ago, and the situation has not changed. Rentals in Haven Hollow go quickly and like I said over the phone, you were extremely lucky to find the one you did: in that neighborhood, rents are usually three times higher, if they are even available at all. I even mentioned to Mr. Dalloway that he could ask much more for the duplex, but he insisted the price should remain low.”

  Mr. Dalloway, my ass.

  “And what is Mr. Dalloway’s first name?” I asked, frowning all the while.

  “As you’ll remember from the lease agreement you signed,” she started.

  I waved her away with an unconcerned hand. “I don’t bother myself with reading agreements,” I said and sounded bored.

  Ophelia’s left eyebrow reached for the ceiling and she gave me a haughty and judgy expression. “Well, if you had read it, you would know his first name is Tybalt.”

  My hands clenched into fists around the hem of my enchanted cashmere Gucci sweater. It curled around me, soft and warm like a textile hug, sanding away the worst of what I was feeling, but nothing short of a tranquility potion would have been enough to ease the misery entirely. My insides were a toxic stew of emotion. I felt sick.

  I resumed my grip on the edge of the desk so hard, the wood creaked. It was in danger of giving way entirely, thanks to my newfound strength. Vampire blood given to a mortal granted them favor and made them the willing servant of a vampire. Vampire blood given to witches made for increased strength and speed and a host of other side effects that could be disastrous.

  “Let me guess. This ‘Tybalt Dalloway’ is just an alias for a certain blonde Irish vampire,” I grumbled.

  Ophelia’s gaze never wavered. She didn’t even blink. She could probably make a killing at my mother’s charmed card games. They zapped your fingers with static shocks if you cheated or got too excited about your hand.

  “I’m sure I can’t say.”

  “Enough of the facade, Ponsobby!” I snarled as her eyes widened a fraction before going back to their normal earthworm narrow. “This is a Hollow, and that means I’m meant to be safe here! How the spell am I supposed to sleep when I know the man in the next unit wants to tear into my throat and turn me into one of the undead? He’s already gotten me booted from Crescent Circle, and now he’s going to harass me for the rest of my natural life. Where is the city council’s justice, exactly?”

  Ophelia dropped her gaze to her paperwork and made a small note in the margins. Her handwriting was superb, but the note was written in Marish, the night hag’s native tongue. I couldn’t make sense of Marish. Unless you were a night hag, you wouldn’t be able to read or speak the tongue. Even trying gave most other races blinding headaches.

  “You have a point,” she said on a sigh, setting her pen delicately in the mug at the edge of her desk.

  It was matte black, with the words: ‘I’m a nightmare before coffee’ printed in looping calligraphy.

  “I do?” I repeated, taken off guard by her sudden easy acquiescence.

  She nodded. “Haven Hollow has a responsibility to protect its supernatural residents from both the humans and their paranormal peers. If Mr. Dalloway…”

  “Cut the crap,” I said and glared as I leaned back and crossed my arms against my chest. The charm embroidered into the fabric of my sweater was doing its damndest to keep me level-headed, but this was a tall order. “I know Tybalt Dalloway is really Lorcan Rowe.”

  She took a deep breath. “If Mr. Rowe is abusing his status, we will put a stop to it immediately. I’ll inform the council at our bi-monthly meeting and we shall investigate.”

  I knew better than to pin my hopes on bureaucracy, and bi-monthly didn’t sound like this so-called investigation was going to happen anytime soon. And I needed soon. Actually, I needed this to happen yesterday.

  “But,” Ophelia warned. “It isn’t just our laws you may have to contend with.”

  “What does that mean?” I nearly interrupted.

  “It means,” Ophelia started and gave me a reprimanding glare. “Vampires have their own subset of rules and, as I understand it, you are one of Rowe’s heirs. That, alone, does give him certain rights.”

  And there went any control I had over my anger. I almost felt like apologizing to my poor sweater. “I thought in moving to a Hollow, our races’ problems and politics were left out of the equation?!” I said as I stood up at once.

  Ophelia raised a knobby finger and motioned me back down into my seat, a crooked smile curling her lips. I wasn’t sure why, but I sat down again.

  “You misunderstand,” she said. “Interspecies politics are left at the door, so to speak, but you are no longer just a witch. You are a vampire’s heir, which means any conflict you have with Mr. Rowe must be handled on vampire terms. I can assist you in keeping him from doing outright harm to you, but I cannot end the dispute.”

  “Then what can you do?”

  “I can have the keys to your side of the duplex changed while Mr. Rowe is taking his daily slumber. And he will not be given a copy of the new key.”

  “Even though he’s the owner of the building?” I asked, frowning.

  She nodded. “I shall keep the copy here and he can inquire with me when he needs to access the property in case something needs to be fixed. Will that do?”

  “No, it won’t!” I all but shouted. Seraphina sunk into her chair, like she wanted to melt into the floor and disappear entirely. Ophelia appeared unperturbed by my outburst.

  “This is utter troll piss! I’m not a vampire, I’m a witch!” I said and stood up again, this time turning to pace across the floor, the tapping of my Manolo Blahniks traveling straight into my brain until each click felt like the blade of a knife.

  “A Blood Witch,” Ophelia corrected me.

  “Right!” I said as I turned to scowl at her before resuming my pacing. “Regardless, there’s a difference between Blood Witches and vampires and you know it!”

  “You are listed as Rowe’s heir under the charter.”

  “Heir! Heir! Heir!...” I started, taking on a weird accent as I mocked the word. “Heir! You both keep saying that word like I understand what the spell you’re talking about! What exactly is an heir? Aside from the obvious Webster’s definition.”

  “An heir is a form of vampire progeny,” Ophelia explained. “Typically, vampires only create fledglings with repeated feeding and blooding. That’s how your average vampire is brought into the world. But, occasionally, a vampire trades a little of their essence to create exceptionally strong offspring. Thus, the name: heir.”

  “So, what does that mean for me?”

  “It means that at some point, Rowe gifted a portion of his power to you. It’s not usually done. You know vampires are rubbish at magic…”

  “Right.”

  “The Vampire’s Kiss is really the only spell they can cast.”

  I absorbed that information for a moment. Lorcan had given me his power? Why? Had it been in the urgency of the moment—when he’d thought I was dying? Was it the only way he thought the change from witch to vampire would stick? Or had he just done it for his own amusement, just to see what might happen?

  “Should I have the locksmith come by tomorrow?” Ophelia asked.

  I breathed in deeply. “I guess.” Then I got another idea and started towards her again, bracing my palms on her desk as I leaned over and stared at her. “What about something small for sale in Haven Hollow?”

  “Something small?”

  I nodded, and a smile graced my lips as the idea built in my head. “There has to be something for sale. A tiny piece of land somewhere? It doesn’t have to include a home on the land, either. Any stretch bigger than a postage stamp will do, if I can call it home. I’ll park the Vega on it, or erect a tent. Oh, spell, I’ll build a lean-to out of sticks if I have to! Just tell me there’s a space within city limits that’s small enough I could buy it.”

  Tituba knew how badly Mother would take the news, but at this rate, I didn’t care. If I had to sleep in the Vega in order to cast a Sanctum Spell on a measly half-acre, I’d do it. It was humiliating to consider, but damn it all, it was better than having to deal with Lorcan Rowe.

  There had to be a way to beat his game.

  Just call me Wanda Caesar: I came, I saw, I conjured.

  Ophelia jotted down another note in Marish and nodded curtly up at me. “I’ll keep that in mind, Ms. Depraysie. If you jot down your number, Seraphina will add you to our contact list. You will be notified of any upcoming plots that… meet your requirements.”

  “Yeah, and so will that blasted vampire,” I grumbled. “And he’s already bought up every free piece of land in this town to be sure I can’t!”

  “That is not my problem,” Ophelia answered.

  “It should be!”

  Another half hour of this and I’d leave a fine pile of witch hair on her desk. This whole thing was infuriating! “I need a list of private listings, Ophelia. At least send me an anonymous tip before you release the list to Lorcan. All I need is an hour’s head start.”

  Ophelia adjusted her spectacles so they sat lower on her beak-like nose, as she bored holes into the side of my face with her beady gaze.

  “The chance of someone selling a plot of land in your price range is near impossible to begin with,” she started. “And, furthermore, that isn’t the way things work in Haven Hollow, Ms. Depraysie. If you want special treatment, I suggest you appeal to your mother’s tender mercies.”

  I laughed, and it was an ugly and cynical sound.

  She knew damn well Mother had neither tenderness nor mercy. And even if it were in the High Witch’s nature to coddle, I could never bring myself to allow it. I’d invested time and money into this new life of mine, and I wasn’t about to pack up and return to my old life. It was tantamount to admitting defeat to everyone. Admitting it to the vampire, to the Hollow, to the witches of Crescent Circle, and most importantly, to myself…

  And that was exactly what everyone expected from me—that I wouldn’t be able to survive on my own, so I’d come crawling back to mother with my tail between my legs. That’s what everyone thought of me—that I was a silly, ineffectual little witch who’d never accomplish anything worthwhile.

  If I did what mother wanted and accepted that little village-style home in Tacoma, my life would be over. My heart might beat, my body might technically move, feel, and think, but I wouldn’t be me anymore.

  I’d been born to be idolized, not to be idle.

  I couldn’t live in the Tacoma dollhouse, doing only what I was told, kept away from the only coven I’d ever known for ‘everyone’s safety’.

  No, I would remain in Haven Hollow, and I’d find a way around this issue. Winning was in my nature. I was Wanda Depraysie, after all.

  Time to walk softly, and carry a very large stake.

  Chapter Six

  Hellcat’s whiskers tickled the side of my face as his tail beat against the back of my skull with metronomic precision. It was like getting whacked repeatedly in the head by a feather duster badly in need of an attitude adjustment.

  I gave his rump a light shove, and his claws dug through my angora wool sweater so he could maintain his perch.

  “You couldn’t look at those documents on the floor?” I groused.

  “On the floor like a barbarian? What do I look like, a garden variety tomcat?”

  He really did look like an ordinary, black housecat. Most familiars were twice his size and had elaborate markings revealing them for what they were. Mother’s familiar, Khione, was dotted with dozens of unique snowflake designs. It suited Mother’s ice queen demeanor nicely.

  I didn’t deign to share my thoughts. Hellcat was genuinely trying to be helpful this time around, even if he had an ulterior motive: I couldn’t bankroll his gourmet cat food addiction if I was broke.

  And now I was even more broke than I’d been yesterday.

  In my continuing streak of bad luck, the moving van containing my furniture had jackknifed and gone off the road ten miles from Haven Hollow. Every piece of antique furniture I owned had been reduced to matchsticks, the china dashed to unrecognizable shards, my television only so much plastic and tangled wiring. And when I’d tried to demand recompense, they’d happily pointed out the fact that I’d refused insurance, which meant I was spell out of luck.

  Faced with no furniture and dishes, I’d had to dip into my meager savings in order to furnish the place with thrift store pieces—a dining table with peeling veneer and only one chair, a metal bed frame (I’d have to get a mattress later because I couldn’t bring myself to buy a used one), a mirrored nightstand that was cracked on one side, and a hideous mustard-yellow armchair that started trailing stuffing from its black flap as soon as I got it inside the duplex. The thing also exuded a suspicious odor I hadn’t noticed in the thrift store (probably because the store, itself, emanated the aroma of misery). Between the stains and the smell, I was ninety percent sure the previous owner had died in it. I could have cast a divining spell to be sure, but honestly didn’t want to know.

  The scarlet couch belonging to Lorcan was the shining jewel of my otherwise crappy collection. I had no coffee table, no china hutch (well… and now no china), and no knickknacks to place on the mantel. My drapes were repurposed bedsheets (complete with stains of Tituba only knew what), my kitchen rug was macramé (I’d found that in the dumpster at the end of the street), and my kitchen appliances had all seen better days. I couldn’t spare my temperamental magic, so everything was likely to stay shoddy. Until things improved, tacky my home would remain.

  I held the rental agreement up for closer inspection. “I’m still wondering how you know so much about contract law,” I said, not bothering to look at the little rodent.

  “I was your mother’s counsel for many years. And, as you are well aware, I perform many other essential household functions. Who do you think does her taxes?”

  I stared at one quivering whisker, the only part of him I could see from my position on the couch. I wasn’t sure if that bit about doing Mother’s taxes was a joke or not. After all, my familiar was self-educated and capable of operating a computer. Ultimately, I decided not to ask.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  Hellcat plunked his furry backside onto my shoulder with a sigh, shaking his miniature reading glasses at the pages I held loosely in one hand.

  “It’s airtight,” he muttered after a while. “You’re locked in for twelve months, both in your shop and in your home. To break the lease, you’d have to pay four months’ rent on each.”

  “Balls!” My spirits sank.

  That would eat up over half of what I’d gotten for my Lexus, and I’d already tied up most of my funds in the shop. If I broke the lease, not only wouldn’t I make back the investment, but I’d also lose money. A lot of money.

  But, that was even less of an issue than the question about whether or not I could get my magic under control. If I couldn’t, I’d be left with a ton of useless fabric, even if it was top quality. My plan had been to open a couture clothing store full of bewitched items—blouses that would increase the wearer’s beauty, slacks that would literally make a woman appear ten pounds slimmer, brassieres that enhanced one’s bust line, the list went on. And, of course, I could make pieces to order, bewitching them according to my clients’ needs. But, how could ‘Wanda’s Witchery’ even come to be if I was without my witchcraft?

  “Damn his vampire eyes,” I muttered. “This is all his fault.”

  “Indeed, foul ogress,” Hellcat drawled, flicking out a rough pink tongue to stroke the fur of his paw. “Your mother’s offer still stands, you know. I’d imagine Tacoma looks fairly tempting now. One call and your mother will break this wretched lease. You… we could be living in luxury by Monday morning.”

  Mother would also take the time to hex my vampire landlord into oblivion, and that part definitely held its appeal. But admitting I needed help would be tantamount to admitting Mother was right—that I couldn’t do anything, let alone survive, without her help.

  I was Wanda Depraysie, and I could do anything. Hecuba help me, but I would find a way out of this.

  Throwing the sheaf of paper onto my stained armchair, I started for my bedroom upstairs. The master suite and adjoining bathroom had been refurbished, the crystal bath knobs and bronze fixtures buffed to a shining patina by the cleaning company. The bedroom had been outfitted with a crystal chandelier and wall-mounted candelabras. It would have been a nice place to live, if not for the undead creep next door.

  Without a bed to occupy the master suite, I’d taken to sleeping on the couch and stuffed my sewing necessities into the bedroom, neatly delineating my farcical home life from my fabulous work. My shop wouldn’t be available for a few days, until the vampire penis pronounced it fit for human habitation.

  Like he’d know anything about that.

  Ordinarily I’d have cracked open my book of shadows and perused the potions, brewing what I needed to treat my fabrics a few days in advance. It was the most time-consuming and tedious part of the process, but a necessary one. Woven fibers treated with potions soaked up additional enchantment like earth after a drought. Even blended fabrics, though harder to enchant, were more flexible after adequate time soaking in the proper potions. Once enchanted, it was just a matter of piecing together my designs on the sewing machine or by hand.

  Brewing potions had always been my least favorite step, mainly because I was such crap at it.

  Now, I found myself having to do things backwards, creating the designs without potions or magic, lest I destroy what little stock I had left. Even the fizzling sparks I’d been able to produce a few days ago were now gone.

  The vampire’s fault again, no doubt. I’d been able to cast, however feebly, before he turned up. And now my magic was as good as gone.

  I’d never breathe a word of this to another soul, but fear and worry were becoming ever-present in my mind, increasing each day I stayed in Haven Hollow. Blood Witches’ abilities manifested differently with each witch, the interaction of the diametrically opposed magics (vampire and witch) too chaotic to predict. Often their abilities centered around death, but maybe I wasn’t an accident waiting to happen. Maybe my abilities didn’t center around death because death was already inside me?