His gaze softened with understanding, and I fought a small growl. I didn’t like being pitied. I’d had enough of that from the people at home in Haven Hollow. I mean, no one had said it aloud, but I knew most the members of the coven pitied me. I’d gone through the worst, in their opinion. I’d lost my witch magic, sunlight, and a connection to the goddess.

  Shit, I pitied me.

  At least the members of Scapegrace Coven weren’t outright hostile, not like the members of Crescent Circle would have been—I’d even gotten some truly scathing letters from Wanda’s sisters after they’d learned what had happened to me. But those in Scapegrace didn’t need to be hostile—it was enough that I knew they were uncomfortable with the new me. It was why I’d kept my visit to the Hollow short and traveled with Uncle Fox instead, claiming I had a lot of training to do.

  It wasn’t a lie. There was so much to learn about fae court politics that it made my head hurt. And I had no idea how I was going to cram all that info in before fall term started at Blood Rose. But it was a relief to be out from under the side-eye I’d gotten in the Hollow. As to why Lorcan was here with me now? Because Wanda wanted someone to watch over me when Rook couldn’t be here with me. And I was happy to have Lorcan playing the part of vampsitter—I mean, he was good company, most of the time.

  When he wasn’t lecturing me about American road history of yonder years, anyway. It was like being trapped in a car with a documentary, sometimes.

  “Contemplating immortality again?” he asked.

  I didn’t say anything, which was as good as a ‘yes’. I couldn’t seem to stop myself from thinking about my new vampire undead life. It wasn’t every day that the weight of it really hit me, but the realization still slammed me at odd moments. I was dead, but still here, unchanging, and I would stay that way for eternity. Well, unless someone ended me first—or maybe I’d get to the point that I’d end me first? Who knew.

  Regardless, it was a humbling thought, to say the least. Not to mention trippy as heck. I mean, how could I be dead if I was sitting right here? But all I had to do was listen to the hollow silence in my chest—a silence that pointed to the fact that I still had a heart, yes, but it wasn’t beating. It was a silence I could hear even under the racket of gravel pinging off the Porsche’s low-slung undercarriage and it was a silence that did a damn good job of hammering the point home—I was dead.

  “It’s stupid,” I muttered. “You were just talking about gravel and gravel shouldn’t cause a spiral of existential dread.”

  His lips quirked into a wry smile. “It’s a lot more common than you think, dearest, especially for those of us who had no say in the change.”

  I looked over at him. “Then you still get hit with this awful feeling? Even after all this time?”

  He nodded. “Admittedly, not as much as it used to hit me. But mostly, I feel it when I’m at work.”

  I frowned at him. “Yeah, because there’s nothing like being a dentist to make you want to dread the rest of your existence.”

  He chuckled at that and shook his head. “Dentistry has come a long way since I was a boy.” He paused as he further considered it. “Sometimes I stare at someone’s cavities and think to myself that my career used to be a barber’s job.”

  “Barbers pulled teeth?”

  He nodded. “In the early years of the U.S., yes. And tooth care was almost impossible to get in Ireland—well, for someone who was born into the class I was, anyway.”

  I blinked once. “Seriously?”

  He grinned. “Which part?”

  “The barber part.”

  He nodded. “Ah, yes, quite serious. They used to call them ‘barber surgeons’. In fact, I once knew a fellow who told people to pick at their gums to soothe an aching tooth. He suggested a bird’s beak to do the picking.”

  I shuddered. “Yuck.”

  “Yuck indeed. I’m sure your cousins have even more stories than I do.”

  Not long ago, Wanda had learned the horrifying truth that her mother, my aunt Celestine, and the High Witch of the Crescent Circle coven, had been turning warlocks over to the vampires, counting on the fact that the change would eliminate warlock magic. Celestine had tried to do the same to my brother, Maverick, and me, but Wanda had intervened. The worst part, though, was that Wanda had only really pressed ‘pause’ on my fate, not prevented it. I’d still been turned into a vampire.

  Irony could go suck a lemon.

  But Lorcan was probably right about what he’d said about my cousins having even more stories about the past. William and Amos could relate to what I’d gone through more closely than Lorcan ever could. Lorcan had lost his life, yes, but not his entire society, his deity, something as vital to his identity as his powers. But unlike my cousins, my birth father hadn’t been human. He’d been fae, one of the High Sidhe actually, and fae didn’t lose their magic when they became undead. Of course, that was exactly what those vamp idiots at Blood Rose had been banking on when they’d tried to create a magic wielding army of fae-vamps in order to fight against the witches and kick off another Blood War.

  I’d been lucky to keep my faerie magic, so it seemed selfish, maybe even cruel, to complain to my cousins about it. They’d lost a lot more than I had, simply owing to the fact that they weren’t fae blood. So, no, I wouldn’t go there with them. It wouldn’t be right.

  I shrugged. “Like I said, it’s nothing you can fix, so let’s just drop it. I want to get into Jinx Junction before the gas stations close.”

  Which was only a half-truth. I wanted to get into the town, yes, but I wasn’t looking forward to staying there. Jinx Junction was another Hollow, so it technically had to admit all sorts of supernaturals but some sorts were considered superior to others. Namely, the witches. They were the ones in charge.

  I was a vampire hybrid now, complete with a new identity (in order to keep would-be faerie assassins from the court of Winter from finding and killing me). ‘Aster Dwimmer, vampire’ wasn’t going to be received kindly by the witch establishment. Owing to the rivalry between witches and vamps, the undead stayed at Jinx Junction at their own peril. But we had no other choice, which meant I’d probably be dodging hexes from dusk to dawn.

  Right, because Jinx Junction was home to the largest witch coven in the south, and every single one of them specialized in dark magic. Necessary when you were guarding the largest and most dangerous prison for the supernatural in the Western hemisphere. Last year, I’d have been thrilled to learn from these witches. Now, I just wanted to avoid them.

  “Existential crisis aside,” I started, shaking my head as the thought returned to me. “Why exactly my doting uncle Fox is asking us to vacation here, of all places, is still a mystery I’d like to solve ASAP.”

  Lorcan cocked his head to the side and nodded. “I think it would be safer to waltz into a compound of reeking sasquatches. At least their methods aren’t delightfully cruel.”

  “Right—they’ll just sit on you. Or, failing that, hurl you through the air like a javelin.”

  “I will admit it is a quite nice treat to be away from Roy Osbourne and his stupid face,” Lorcan said, frowning. As far as I knew, Lorcan and Roy had never seen eye to eye and even though they were on the same team (and even both on the Council), they still didn’t see eye to eye. I thought their rivalry was kind of funny and I had to admit that even though Roy was a sasquatch, he was damn hot.

  But as to the reason why Uncle Fox had sent me here, intending for us to stay a week? I wasn’t sure. Was this some misguided attempt to prepare me for taking the throne of the Fae Court of Autumn? Make me dodge attacks from all sides as a warm-up? It seemed like the sort of thing he’d do. Fox Aspen, or Prince Reynard of the Autumn Court (as he was known royally), was the type to throw someone in the deep end in order to teach them how to swim. By his reasoning, if I couldn’t survive witches, I definitely wouldn’t survive a war with the Winter Court and the absolute crazy bitch that was Janara. Maybe Fox was right in forcing me into this. But it still pissed me off that he was keeping me in the dark about his intentions.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” I said as the lights of the Junction glimmered on the horizon. A weathered sign on the side of the road revealed that there were five more miles before we’d reach the city limits.

  An uneasy feeling slipped into my stomach, making me a little nauseous. Whatever we were soon to be facing in Jinx Junction, I was pretty sure it couldn’t be good. Too bad the Porsche wasn’t equipped for off-roading, because that sasquatch compound was sounding more appealing by the second, even with the possibility of being javelined.

  “Good grief,” I muttered, coming to a shuddering stop in the middle of the highway as I noticed the sign off to the side of the road that welcomed us to Jinx Junction. “Are those really tumbleweeds?”

  If my nifty new vampire eyes weren’t deceiving me, there were about twenty balls of dry, prickly plant life trundling down the dusty dirt road that led into the town, casting long shadows in the lamplights. There wasn’t a lick of wind blowing outside the car, either. I actually stuck an arm out to check and, nope, nothing. That meant some witch with too much time on her hands had enchanted the large weeds to move in packs along the highway—either to slow drivers down or to make the place look more like an Old West town, I wasn’t sure.

  And on that subject, Jinx Junction didn’t need to look any more ‘Old West’ than it currently did. It looked so much like an old western town, I was just waiting for Clint Eastwood to come around the corner and tell us to make his day.

  Lorcan glanced up from his copy of Dentistry Today, squinting at the road ahead of us. I was pretty sure he wasn’t really reading the article on minimally invasive dentistry either. His grip on the periodical was too tight—actually, he appeared to be seconds away from shredding the glossy pages. And that had to mean he was nervous about Jinx Junction. Not a good sign. Not at all.

  “It appears they are tumbleweeds, yes,” he said, lips curving into a half-amused smile at the sight of the bouncing weeds. “How quaint.”

  “Kitschy, you mean,” I said with a sniff. “I expected a private Hollow to be less... tourist trappy.”

  “Kitsch is in the eye of the beholder, my dear,” Lorcan answered, wagging a finger at me as he attempted to return his attention to the article before him.

  “Um…” I started. “There’s no way ‘kitsch’ is a positive in anyone’s books.”

  “I’d argue that there are those that would call the year-round Halloween décor in some of Haven Hollow’s shops to be in poor taste.”

  “That’s different,” I said, guiding the Porsche into a parking spot across from a hobby store with the sign ‘Spell-Crafty’ above the glass door. The decal on the front window showed a cartoon cowgirl straddling a paintbrush instead of a broom, tipping her witch’s hat to passing customers.

  “How is Haven Hollow’s kitsch different?” he asked.

  Because Haven Hollow was my home and this place was decidedly not. Only I got to knock the Halloween theme in my hometown. Anyone else was going to get hexed for it. Or they would have been hexed if I’d still been a witch. I wasn’t sure what the faerie equivalent to a hex was—and, really, the only defensive magic I’d done so far was purely on reflex. Uncle Fox hadn’t taught me any faerie tricks yet, rightfully assuming I’d play them on him if I got bored or if he pissed me off.

  I didn’t answer, using the time to unbuckle my seatbelt and step out of the car instead. I’d almost straddled the parking line painted on the asphalt, and it took concentration not to ding the door of the pickup truck parked in the next space. The thing was an old jalopy, rusted through in places, and the shiny paint of the Porsche would stand out against the brown. With my luck, this beater car belonged to someone or something powerful—someone or something I couldn’t afford to piss off. So, I squeezed through the gap, shutting my door firmly before unlocking the trunk. Fox had warned me to pack for colder temperatures, no matter the season. When you’re an Autumn faerie hybrid freak, the magic you’re performing is almost always nippy. So, I’d listened.

  I unloaded my suitcase and was halfway down the main street (which was titled Pioneer Road) before Lorcan caught up to me. He’d hefted his own suitcase onto one shoulder and was peering at me quizzically from the corner of one eye.

  “You’re snippier than usual tonight, my dear. Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  Actually, the answer was a resounding yes. Turning into a new vampire was a lot like going through a growth spurt when you’re a kid. My appetite was insane. If I went for more than a day without feeding, the hunger could get overwhelming, and I’d have to be chaperoned while biting into someone’s neck. It was still too easy to kill my victims by accident. I wasn’t sure how Lorcan had managed to avoid slaughtering someone in those early days, especially since he hadn’t exactly been on good terms with his sire. In fact, his sire hadn’t even been part of the picture. Luckily, I had one, but the temptation was still there.

  “Relationship problems?” he guessed.

  “No,” I said a little too quickly, speeding up so I could beat him to the wood stairs leading into the hotel, because the last thing I wanted to do was discuss my failed romance with Lorcan.

  Chapter Two

  ‘The Outlaw Hotel’ was three stories tall and painted a bright, canary yellow that seared my eyes. It wrapped around the street corner, half of it on Pioneer Road and the other half on Sarsaparilla Drive.

  Spindly white beams supported wide balconies overlooking both streets. On the balconies were the opalescent shapes of ghosts who busily paced back and forth, looking down on those of us of the fleshy persuasion. A few of the ghosts had to have died in the hotel at some point, but most were more modern and didn’t fit the decor. According to the brochures I’d read before coming here, Jinx Junction had the highest rate of migratory ghosts per capita than anywhere else in the nation, due in large part to the enchantments that surrounded the place.

  A young man wearing a cutoff shirt and a pair of jeans was leaning against the oak front doors of the hotel, smoking a phantom cigarette. He winked at me as I reached past him for the doorknob, blowing an illusionary smoke ring into my face. I coughed on instinct, waving the cool sensation away as though I could actually breathe it in.

  “Do you mind?” I spluttered, forgetting one of the cardinal rules that my mother had taught me. Though you can see the dead, you shouldn’t speak to them. The ones with enough awareness (aka those that aren’t just stuck reliving their last moments over and over… and over again) will badger you relentlessly if you do.

  He shrugged. “You’re the one putting her hands on me, sweetheart. The least you could do is give me a kiss first.”

  He leaned in, giving me fish lips. I shoved the door inward and stepped through him, rather than let him try to plant a cold one on me. Undead boys I could handle. Ectoplasmic catcalling jerks, not so much. When someone was intangible, there were only so many ways to make them stop doing something.

  Walking through the ghost creep felt like being doused in freezing water, but I gritted my teeth and pushed on, anyway. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of pleading with him to move aside. I was pretty sure that was how he got his kicks and I wasn’t in the mood to be entertaining.

  “Someone really ought to Hoover that guy,” I muttered, rubbing the goosebumps from my arms as I remembered the only other ghost (now a real-live woman) I knew—Darla had been petrified of vacuums when she was dead and apparently the fear hadn’t left her because she still didn’t own one.

  As to the goosebumps on my arms—the ambient temperature of a place usually didn’t matter much to a vampire, true, but ghosts put off a grave-like cold that touched absolutely everyone, regardless of species. If you walked through a spirit, you felt it.

  The hotel lobby was comprised of dark wood flooring, over which were wine-red rugs. The wood paneling covering the walls was the same mahogany color, interrupted by the velvet swags and heavy pull shades over the windows that were doing a great job of blotting out any light from the outside. The check-in desk was tucked into an alcove, almost hidden from sight by a grand piano and a cluster of tables. A half-dozen women were seated around the tables, playing cards, chess, or simply writing in old, leather-bound journals. They ranged in weight and height, but every single one of them had dark hair and a resting ‘better than you’ witch face. Even if the scent hadn’t tipped me off, I would have known what they were in a second.

  Witches.

  I had to skirt six of them just to request a room.

  Great.

  I moved slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves. Being undead in the first degree could earn me a hex, no other reason required. The scrape of my suitcase’s wheels sounded like a siren in the silence of the lobby, and I felt eyes lifting from whatever they were doing, tracking my forward progress suspiciously. A familiar, an orange tabby with more fur than face, actually hissed at me as I passed.

  I bit back the urge to hiss back. But that was just a little too childish, even for me.

  The middle-aged desk clerk didn’t even look up from her magazine as we approached. She just continued to puff on a very fragrant cigar while poring over the most recent edition of Aura. It was the witch’s answer to Cosmopolitan, Penthouse, and Playgirl all rolled into one. Wanda had refused to let me read the sample copy someone had sent her in the mail, just in case I got any ideas while ogling the sexy supernatural male centerfolds and reading the obscene tales of sexual exploits. Wanda had been of the opinion that I should wait until I was at least twenty before jumping on a nice, scrumptious-looking male to have my fun.

  Of course, now I’d never turn twenty. I was nineteen forever and my boyfriend was treating me like a nun. It was enough to make a girl a little cranky. Or a little more than cranky.

  As to what had become of the Aura magazine of Wanda’s? Lorcan had found it and immediately disposed of it, grumbling something about ‘disgusting nude sasquatches and how he’d never clean such images from his mind again’.