“That,” he said, “was very wet.”

  Wet and cold, and windy on top of it all. There was rarely an autumn in Tiller. We got two weeks of pretty leaves and cool breezes, and then the cold swept back into town to remind us who was boss. Because Tiller was only thirty or so minutes from Haven Hollow, the weather wouldn’t be any different, which was a bummer.

  Checkers had barely felt the downpour, but I refrained from mentioning it. He was the only one in my life who didn’t have something disparaging to say or who wanted to bleed me dry financially—aka Indie with her expensive tastes and Rodney, who wanted to take half of what I owned, despite our agreement in the divorce paperwork.

  My scumbag ex was contesting the division of debt in our store. Since he had a partial share in it, he claimed the debt should be proportional. I wanted to tell him where he could shove his logic. Half the debt we’d accrued came from business loans he’d taken out under the name of the associated LLC to pay off his gambling debts. On paper, the loans belonged to our shop, but in practice, something like twenty thousand dollars was just my ex making stupid choices. Now he was trying to pawn the rest of the debt onto me like the asshole he was.

  “Do your research, practice, and allow me a crack at taking control and I can make his life a living nightmare,” Indie promised.

  Rodney was about the only thing that Indie and I were in agreement on. He was a lowlife bastard, and I deserved better. As to the subject of relationships, Indie and I differed on our opinions regarding dating (she wanted me to. I didn’t). Moreover, she had specific ideas about how I should go about getting a new man. Very explicit ideas. Witches were apparently way ahead of the curve on the sexual liberation front. Even the mildest of her fantasies made me blush to the roots of my hair. In her opinion, I ought to find the first reasonably attractive red-blooded male who’d have me, just to get the sour taste out of my mouth. Yet, she didn’t think Angelo was a viable option, something I found interesting because he seemed to be the only one paying me any attention.

  “I just don’t feel like he’s a good one for you to get involved with,” she explained. “But the next guy who crosses your path, well, you should jump into bed with him as soon as you can and get this Rodney ahole out of your mind.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” I thought back.

  “Then let me do it for you.”

  I shook my head. “Even if I could somehow put you in the driver’s seat of my body, I wouldn’t. God only knows what you’d do with it.”

  That was the rub of our situation. I wasn’t a medium. I couldn’t invite her spirit in and expel it at will. I couldn’t give her control of our shared body. I just didn’t know how. It was like there was too much of me to fit all of her. I wasn’t made for the consciousness swap. I wasn’t sure how to do it, even if it could be done. And that was just as well because it wasn’t like I wanted to put her in the driver’s seat. Do that and I was fairly sure I’d never get control back.

  “Then what do you plan to do? You can’t let that garbage heap of a man get away with this.”

  “I’ll take him back to court,” I answered resignedly. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll look at the receipts and do some math. See if I can catch him for fraud.”

  I laid Cassandra’s Book of Shadows on the little chest of drawers in the small opening hallway. There was a coat rack cowering in the corner behind me, leaning precariously under the weight of a single knit cap. It was also an antique leftover from an elderly relative and hadn’t supported anything heavier than a mitten in years. I hung my raincoat in the hall closet instead. I sighed as I took a look around the room and noted all the furniture and boxes that were waiting for the movers in the morning. I’d given them a key in advance, because I wanted to get an early start in Haven Hollow—priming my new shop as much as I could before the movers arrived.

  This home that Rodney and I used to share was built in the seventies, and it came with a lot of the original furniture: a flowery loveseat and a glass coffee table with parts of the stain scraped away, a round kitchen table in that woodsy yellow color that seemed compulsory for middle-class homes back in the day. Tall sliding doors with long vertical blinds led out to a weedy backyard and a small rectangle of concrete where visitors were supposed to wipe the mud off their shoes. Striped burgundy wallpaper squinted out from every available surface—except in the kitchen, where a white tile backsplash took its place.

  I sniffled and scrubbed at my stinging eyes. Stupid to miss this place. It wasn’t like I had a lot of happy memories here. But damn it, it was mine, and I hated being driven out of it. I plunked my butt down on a green leather couch in the living room, feeling sorry for myself. Checkers dragged a tan towel from the bathroom to the couch and rolled up in it, looking for all the world like an overstuffed burrito.

  “Cold and wet, cold and wet,” he grumbled. “Cold or wet, they should pick one and be done with it.”

  The heater rumbled to life, pumping warmth into the room through the rusty vents on the floor. It would be colder and rainier over the next few days, much to Checker’s irritation. There was a flood warning for Tiller earlier in the day. Not that I’d be around to get washed away—nope, I’d be in Haven Hollow preparing for the next chapter of the rest of my life. And there was something pretty nice about that.

  I was so wrapped up in my morose thoughts that I jumped in surprise when there was a knock on my door. Checkers rolled lazily onto his stomach, unconcerned. “Who’s that?”

  I gave the door a suspicious look. Once it was a stone’s throw from midnight, all my neighbors’ lights went off. I would have bet good money I was the only soul awake on the whole block. Well, one of three, I guessed. Indie and Checkers counted too.

  There was a shadow hanging in the little half-circle of glass—what looked to be a hat and a rather large coat. And they hadn’t gone for a polite, timid knock either. They were pounding on the door, only pausing after the first dozen didn’t immediately produce the effect they wanted. I stayed where I was, hoping they’d take the hint and go away.

  “Hello?” someone said—a man, voice gravelly with age or smoke. He rapped frantically at the door again. “Is anyone home?”

  It was pouring rain and it was late. It was rude to leave him outside, I figured. Just because we were almost at the witching hour didn’t mean that anything sinister was going on. He was probably just someone driving through and had gotten lost and ended up in Tiller. It happened pretty often actually—Tiller wasn’t a destination in and of itself. It was that town you ended up in after you missed your exit.

  “Do not open that door,” Indie warned.

  “It’s probably just someone who needs help,” I thought back. The truth was that I just wanted to spite her. She was always so distrustful and suspicious of everyone that for once, I wanted to prove her wrong—wanted to show her that not everyone was out for themselves.

  Indie’s sigh somehow managed to ruffle my gray matter. “You would be the first one to die in a horror movie, I swear. You’re lucky my magic turned your hair a sensible black instead of that ridiculous blonde. It’s always the blondes who make the boneheaded mistakes when monsters are around.”

  I fingered a strand of my ruler-straight hair with a frown. I missed my honey blonde. It hid grays better than the inky black that had crept in to replace it not long after Indie had cleaved to my soul. Something about witch magic only glommed onto red or black shades, so my golden hair had to go. I thought the magical dye job washed me out, though Indie insisted I had the right skin tone for it. She was probably full of crap though.

  Either way, I hauled myself off the couch, back popping, and went for the door.

  “Idiot,” Indie muttered to herself. I pointedly ignored her. This lesson was going to serve her well—I was sure of it.

  When I opened the door, I found a man standing in the downpour, haloed in the buzzy orange glow of the porch light. He was easily in his seventies, smiling and shivering in a black bubble coat and dark jeans. He looked like a cross between Bogart and Clooney, and managed to look good, despite his apparent age. His unassuming smile made my chest warm.

  “See? It’s just an old man.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Glamor can be a spell of a thing. Keep on guard.”

  Paranoid much? The witch was going to give me a complex. Anyway, as to my visitor, he looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his raincoat, as he shuffled from foot to foot, rain dripping off every inch of him.

  “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to impose,” he said, “but it’s raining and I’m lost and I wondered if maybe I could use your phone?”

  I looked him up and down, noting the conspicuous lack of a ski mask or machete. He had to be too old to be a serial killer, surely. What was more, I felt bad for him because he was soaked through and clearly lost, just as I’d assumed.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Simon,” he said and extended a hand. “Simon Wiess, miss.”

  “Don’t touch him,” Indie warned. “If he’s a supernatural of any sort, he could control you through touch. Faeries are good at it. Demons are better.”

  I sighed internally but decided to indulge her. Better paranoid than dead. I pretended to scrub my hands off on my jeans with an apologetic smile.

  “I’ve been cooking. Trust me, you don’t want bacon grease all over your hands.”

  “Oh,” he said with a smile.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing all the way out here, Simon? Tiller isn’t exactly a tourist trap.”

  Simon dropped his hand with grace. “I’m visiting my sister, Agatha Reese. Small town, maybe you know her?”

  “I do, actually,” I said as I thought to Indie, “See? Not everyone is out to get you.”

  Agatha ran the little general store across the street from my shop. She was a round, smiley woman with fluffy blonde hair and perpetually flour-stained hands. There wasn’t much family resemblance between her and this guy but I figured that didn’t mean anything. “I didn’t know she had a brother.”

  He shrugged, a little sheepishly. “Half-brother. Different mothers. Both got Dad’s chin, supposedly.”

  I didn’t see it, but who was I to judge? I’d never seen a picture of their dad. “Want me to call her for you?”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you.” He pulled a black, caseless phone out of his pocket. There was a terrific web of cracks running across its face. “I’ve got this phone which works mostly, but it’s dead and I couldn’t find a place to charge it. And then I dropped it on top of that. Do you happen to have a charger I could borrow?”

  He sniffled sharply. His jeans were dark with water, his hair slicked to his skull, and he was shivering. I wouldn’t have been surprised if water was pooling in his shoes. He just needed an empty bowl and doe eyes to look like a grown-up version of Oliver Twist. Sighing internally, I opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside.

  “I’ll call Agatha. Come on in.”

  Indie seethed at the back of my head. Invitations were not something you handed out lightly in her world. Vampires (who turned out to be the sworn enemies of witches, not werewolves, take that Hollywood) had to have an invitation to cross the threshold of a private dwelling and I wondered if other creatures did too.

  “Thank you so much. Do you mind if I take off my coat? Just for a minute.”

  “Sure. You can drape it over the table over there, the coat rack can’t handle it. Do you know Agatha’s number?”

  Simon rattled the number off to me, hanging his coat over the table as I’d directed. He stood in the entryway awkwardly, hands in his pockets, forming a puddle on the linoleum. I strode into the kitchen and turned on the only appliance left out, figuring he’d appreciate something warm. I knew I did. The coffee machine clicked and gurgled in protest.

  “So, did your car break down or something?”

  “On one of the backroads, yeah. Phone died, and I took a wrong turn.” There was a pause. “Is that a cat or a rolled-up shag carpet?”

  “A cat,” I said with a laugh, picking up the landline and dialing. Nobody in town would answer my cell number, but they all knew the number that went with the house; whoever lived here before me was apparently very social.

  “Huh,” says Simon. “I didn’t know they came in sizes that big.”

  “I got him secondhand. Maybe his previous owner dipped him in toxic waste or something,” I joked. He didn’t laugh. Tough crowd.

  “Hello! You’ve reached Agatha Reese of Reese and Rowell Grocery. I can’t come to the phone right now, but I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you!”

  I signed my frustration at the phone. “She didn’t answer.”

  “It’s late. Maybe she dozed off. Try again?”

  I did. The smell of freshly ground coffee—not good coffee, just freshly ground—filled the house.

  “Hello! You’ve reached Agatha Reese of Reese and Rowell Grocery. I can’t come to the phone right now—”

  “Still nothing,” I answered. “I can leave a message.”

  I leaned out of the kitchen to look at Simon. He was still standing in the entryway. The book of shadows was open now, and he was flipping through it with one hand. He paused on the savaged page and dropped his head, clearly trying to make out what the page said. “What an incredible looking thing this is.” Then he turned to face me. “What is it?”

  Chapter Four

  Lydia

  “I don’t know,” I lied, the first prickle of unease running along my skin.

  Simon sounded eager, but he was trying to hide it. And why had he immediately walked over to the book in the first place?

  “Don’t tell him anything about it,” Indie said. “He’s already too nosy as it is.”

  “Where’d it come from?” he asked.

  “Not sure—I mean, I found it in my store.”

  “Ugh, stop giving him information!”

  “You run a store?”

  Yes, I was a little more on alert than I had been before, but that didn’t mean this guy was anything other than a nosy old man, who was trying to make conversation to keep from going back out in the heavy rain and getting further soaked. And he was Agatha’s brother, and she was a respected woman of the town. So, that meant he couldn’t be anything to worry about and, as usual, Indie was just freaking out for no reason.

  “Across from Agatha’s, yeah. It’s called Mystic Moon,” I said slowly, studying him. “How often do you get out here?”

  “Often enough.”

  I nodded. “I’m surprised you’ve never seen it if you visit with any frequency. I’ve been here seven years. I’m closing up shop soon, though.”

  “I see,” Simon said, his expression darkening to something unreadable.

  Indie’s anxiety spiked, making my heart jackhammer in my chest. She couldn’t pin down why, but she really didn’t like this man. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to throw the hot coffee in his face, seize Checkers, and make a break for the back door. But that was Indie’s reaction, not mine. Sometimes it was hard to differentiate between the two.

  “I’d rather you didn’t touch it, actually, it’s really old,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully, but he didn’t look away from it, even if he dropped his hands back to his sides. “Looks like it.” He squinted at the pages and shook his head. “Looks like spells or something.”

  “Maybe. I haven’t really studied it.”

  He tutted. “Looks handmade, too. Somebody’s journal?”

  “Maybe.”

  I suddenly wanted him gone more than I wanted air to breathe and I wasn’t sure if that was Indie’s reaction or my own. But how to expel him from my house without calling the police? I didn’t want that kind of attention again right on the eve of my departure from Tiller.

  “Do you want me to leave a message with your sister?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, please. Tell her I’m here and all, if you would.”

  I dialed again, my heartbeat so thick in my jugular vein that I was practically swallowing it. It was close to midnight, so I doubted I’d get ahold of Agatha. And I didn’t particularly want Simon inviting himself in to spend the night on my couch.

  “If I can’t get ahold of Agatha, I’m sure you can find a room at the motel which is just down the street.”

  There was one motel in Tiller, and it wasn’t exactly cushy, but it had a bed and a roof and it wasn’t my house.

  “Good plan,” he agreed. “Don’t suppose you could give me a ride?”

  “It’s actually just a minute’s walk, if that.”

  The coffee was finally ready. I took my mug in one shaking hand, pressing the phone between my ear and my shoulder while I fished the last of the milk out of the fridge.

  “Hello! You’ve reached Agatha Reese of Reese and Rowell Grocery…”

  The recording went through its whole spiel, and then came the beep. In my current state of mind, that beep sounded like a flatline on a monitor. Grim. Very grim, especially from me. I used to be a more positive person than this.

  “Hi, Agatha, it’s Lydia. Your brother’s here, his car broke down and he broke his phone and asked me to call you and let you know. If you don’t call me back in ten minutes, he’s going to head to the motel and you can pick him up there tomorrow. Thanks.” I hung up and called over my shoulder, “There’s coffee if you want it.”

  “Yes, please,” said Simon. He took off his shoes on the entry rug before crossing the living room to the kitchen, leaving wet footprints behind him anyway. They looked... odd, a little misshapen. Maybe he had arthritis in his feet?

  I handed him a plain white mug half-full of black coffee. He took it with another smile, this one somehow knowing. It was almost feline in a way that didn’t at all remind me of Checkers’ smiles.