Well, sort of.

  He dove into the backpack I’d slung over my shoulders, worming his way past the zipper, leaving a gap open so he wouldn’t suffocate in the confines of the bag. Unfortunately. I debated zipping it anyway. It wasn’t like I wanted him to die, but putting a little fear into him couldn’t hurt. I didn’t like being discounted by yet another person in my life. I expected it from Uncle Fox, who’d been watching me from afar and now treated me like an orphaned ward, a la Batman. Thank God neither of us were contemplating spandex. There was only so much bullshit a girl could stand.

  No, it was everyone else’s attitude that was getting under my skin. Even Rook treated me like something dainty and breakable. But I wasn’t either, dammit! I was a new, bloodthirsty vampire, not fine china. I’d kill for just one person in my life who didn’t walk on eggshells around me. Furthermore, how was I ever supposed to build the confidence required to be a queen if everyone treated me like I was a bomb about to go off?

  I didn’t have an answer for myself.

  A complete tour of Jinx Junction only took a half hour, and I was walking at a mundane human speed. The town was way smaller than Haven Hollow, which had several thousand permanent residents and a thriving suburban neighborhood. It was sort of fascinating to watch the mundanes of my home Hollow walking around, completely oblivious to the monsters and magic playing out all around them.

  There was no docile humanity loitering in Jinx Junction, though. Every business catered to the supernatural in one form or the other, with the emphasis being on the needs of witches. A small pet shop boasted a dozen breeding pairs of familiars. Cats and dogs, mostly. The largest and most exotic collection could be found in Newark, New Jersey in the Sub Rosa Sanctuary, another monster-exclusive Hollow.

  The apothecary, Blasphemous Brews, was tucked away near the edge of the town and it dominated half the block. The selection of potions and magical aides inside made ‘Poppy’s Potions’ look like a hobbyist store. The section on black magic oils, elixirs, and hexing and banishing potions was so extensive that I could have studied the shelves for days and still found new and horrifically novel brews every time I looked. The witch minding the counter gave me a suspicious look when I ducked in and took a look around, pointing a knobbed finger at the sign in the window without saying a word.

  We reserve the right to deny service to anyone.

  I scowled at her, but backed out after a second of stubborn pique. I thought about telling her that discriminating on the basis of species was perilously close to a breach of the fourteenth amendment. Then again, she’d have probably said that she didn’t give a rat’s ass about human rules and then she’d have hexed my ass out into the street, anyway. It wasn’t worth the fight to ogle the potions I’d probably never brew again. And wasn’t that a depressing thought?

  I’d spent hours, months, years learning the art of potion making. First with my mother, then with Wanda, and finally with Poppy when my talents grew past what Wanda could teach me. I’d been proud of my skills. I’d been good at brewing. The idea that all that work was now basically useless hurt like a punch in the gut, the loss leaving me winded.

  But there was no use in crying over spilt potions, I figured. So, I turned my attention back to the stores lining Pioneer Street of Jinx Junction. All the while, I tried not to notice Mocha who had wiggled his way out of my backpack and was now buzzing from this tree to that streetlamp, all the while keeping his beady, little eyes on me.

  “Ugh,” I grumbled to myself as I turned my attention to a clothing store called Witch Weeds, where most of the stuff for sale in the window didn’t hold a candle to Wanda’s creations. There was a lot of practical clothing, robes, things meant for work. I didn’t see anything slinky or sexy or anything meant to make someone feel pretty, or generally good about themselves though. Nothing to help motivate them to work out or to avoid the donut store. Wanda’s creations tended to be gorgeous and useful for anyone, humans included.

  There was a gemstone store that I almost walked by before the glitter of an enormous geode sliced clean in half caught my eye. The inside was filled with stark black crystals, all flecked through with some white mineral I didn’t recognize. It looked like someone had taken a slice out of the night sky and popped it into a display window. Set around the enormous geode were even more crystals of every color—and variation. There was quartz, amber, serpent stone, blood stone, and even a beautiful hunk of watermelon citron, the pink and pale green halves so distinct it looked like they’d been painted.

  Most of the stones were turquoise, though. I figured that made sense. Not only was it a versatile rock that took an enchantment well, but it was also super common to the area. The turquoise in the store was both cut and uncut and ranged from a lumpy, watery green, to smooth, polished and so deep a blue, it could have been lapis.

  I wasn’t much in the market for any kind of jewelry, but it was nice to browse, especially without any nosy, disapproving witches hanging over my shoulder.

  I spent the longest part of my walk observing the stone walls that surrounded the witch’s training center, located a stone’s throw away from an old growth forest with footpaths that spiderwebbed in different directions through the trees. At first, I mistook the training center for the prison. The granite gates were as lifeless and utilitarian as one would expect from a jail. There was even a watchtower poking above the walls like a silent sentinel, glowering down with condemnation at everyone milling below. Military-style barracks flanked the structure on every side, like ugly, tuberous growths. I couldn’t imagine the quarters inside were inviting, let alone comfortable. How depressing must it be to be born into a coven and trained up like a soldier your entire life, knowing your familial duty was to guard the worst the supernatural community had to offer?

  Yikes.

  Twanging country music was filtering out of the half-open door of a nearby tavern when I circled back to Pioneer Street, dodging tumbleweeds as I went. The damn things kept attacking my ankles, like they were trying to send me sprawling. More vampire hate on display since the stupid things were ignoring every other person walking past. This anti-vamp stuff was going to get old fast. I hoped Fox’s business wouldn’t keep Lorcan and me here long. The more I saw of Jinx Junction, the less I liked it. The rustic old-west theme had its charm if you squinted, but it wasn’t worth constantly having petticoat-laden witches giving you the evil eye. But at least none of them had spit at me.

  Yet.

  I edged through the gap in the door, stepping into the warm, brightly lit interior of the tavern. The scent of honeyed mead and spices hung heavy in the air, fugging my brain with a pleasant sense of welcome. A sense of welcome that was a façade, of course.

  If I concentrated, I could sense a charm woven into the walls, boosted by the ambient magic of so many witches, feeding the party atmosphere on a continuous loop. The charm was subtle, cleverly done, and probably the only scrap of white magic to grace the face of the Hollow. I guessed even badass black magic witches needed to unwind every now and then.

  The bar wrapped around one wall and halfway around the other, bumping up against a selection of instruments that were busily playing themselves. Ordinary humans would assume it was technology at work, but I could sense the enchantments that pressed the keys and plucked the strings, serenading the crowd with instrumental versions of Shania Twain’s greatest hits. The witches and assorted other supernaturals were piled two deep at the bar, with some of the more impatient magicking their drinks out of the barmaid’s hands.

  As I watched, the barmaid slid a smoking drink to the cloaked form of a hag at the end of the bar. A spindly, spiderlike hand shot out from under the tattered clothing, seized the goblet and downed the contents in one glug. The lips left a glistening residue on the cup, which the barmaid eyed with distaste.

  I was almost bowled over when a waitress in a hoop skirt bustled past, carrying a tray loaded with desserts to the nearest table. Four witches were huddled over a stack of papers in furious debate and only acknowledged the woman’s presence with a nod of absent approval before getting back to their business. Meanwhile, a sasquatch who was broader than I was tall had squeezed himself into a chair that looked comically small in comparison to his bulk and was flicking through a book of Sudoku puzzles, chewing the end of his pencil thoughtfully. He produced another pencil from his bag when he reduced the first one to splinters between his enormous molars.

  Chapter Four

  But the figure that piqued my interest the most was sitting alone at a table near the front window, gazing longingly at the street beyond.

  She was petite and slender in the way that only youth can be. Her face was narrow, and her long, thin nose paired with her dark brown hair, and large, luminous hazel eyes gave her an almost hawkish look. The fact that her hair wasn’t jet black like every other witch’s pointed to the fact that she must have recently dyed it. And that was kind of odd because most witches didn’t bother doing such things to themselves—no, they prided themselves on their raven black hair. Maybe we had a rebel here? Interesting.

  The fullness of her mouth saved her from looking like a desperately unhappy waif. She looked around my age, if I had to guess, though appearances could be deceiving in witch circles. Witches aged slowly, only reaching adulthood around seventy. Wanda was considered a mature witch at just shy of the century and a half mark, and I wouldn’t begin to look as lined as my mother until I hit around three or four hundred.

  I winced.

  No, I would never look as lined as my mother.

  Thanks to a lunatic professor and his plot to create a legion of magical foot soldiers to kick off another war, I was never going to get out of my teen years. I was undead, a vampire hybrid that would live for eternity unless something skewered me or set me on fire.

  But enough about me…

  The girl was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she was neglecting the Bunson burner on her table and the potion she’d been working on. Currently, the potion was an unhealthy puce color and opaque in a way that didn’t signal a well-mixed potion. Bubbles rose alarmingly to the surface of the brew, only a minute or two away from popping like boils, while the items on the bottom were beginning to scorch. I’d watched Wanda do the same thing a few times, with unpleasant results. Depending on what you were brewing, the mix might boil over and give you a nasty rash that took steroid creams to get rid of or you could blow the entire place up. In Wanda’s case, her badly mixed potion and my brother’s blood magic had resulted in my niece, a mannequin turned shapeshifting witch named Sybil. I didn’t think this potion would result in something that bizarre, but there was no telling. Potions could be weird like that.

  I examined the ingredients on the table with mounting alarm. Various herbs and spices had been arranged in crystal bowls, easily identifiable by the scents I could catch above the tavern’s almost overpowering aroma. Patchouli, black pepper, valerian root, dog hair, black mustard seeds, Spanish moss, mullein, sulfur, and peppercorn. Whoever this girl was, she was trying to make one of the black arts oils that Olga had taught me shortly before I was shipped off to Blood Rose Academy. I’d made a passable mix with some gentle instruction, but the banishing, hexing, and cursing potion wasn’t my forte.

  Right—white magic was my bag.

  Another wince.

  Had been my bag. I wasn’t sure what my new bag was, but it didn’t include witch powers of any kind.

  If that potion boiled over or—Goddess forbid—exploded, it would result in more than just a rash. If the girl wasn’t careful, she’d blow a hole in the wall and turn the window beside her into so much molten glass. Given her proximity, she’d be burned or worse. A mistake of that magnitude could kill her. I found myself striding toward the table without giving myself conscious permission, the only thought in my head to prevent an impending catastrophe.

  The girl jerked her gaze sharply away from the window when she caught my reflection opposite hers. Those hazel eyes wheeled for a second before meeting mine. Her expression was confused and remote for a split second before it smoothed into a guarded mask. I wasn’t sure how these witches seemed to know I was a vampire on sight. I’d fed recently and I wasn’t vamping out, flashing my fangs at everyone. Most people took for granted that I was mortal or, failing that, a faerie. The sasquatch had keen enough hearing to pick up my lack of a pulse, but a witch couldn’t do that. Did these people profile anyone pale as the undead until proven otherwise, or was there actual magic involved in their assumptions? Maybe Uncle Fox could teach me a charm to help hide my vampirism.

  Thinking of Uncle Fox, I had no idea when he was due to show up or where he would be staying (I assumed the hotel) or when he was going to get in touch with me. Figured. The man was impossible to pin down on even the smallest of details.

  “What do you want?” the girl snapped. Or tried to snap. Her voice lacked the steely confidence I’d seen on most Jinx Junction witches’ faces. It confirmed my suspicions. She was young. Maybe even younger than I was. Sixteen or seventeen at most.

  I pointed at her potion. “You need to take that off the burner now.”

  She gave me a deliberate once-over, lip curling as she took me in. I knew I didn’t look like much at the moment. I was dressing down, per Uncle Fox’s orders, keeping my hair back in a ponytail, trying for all the world to look like an ordinary human teenager. I was rumpled from spending so much time behind the wheel or running my hands through my hair in frustration at the situation I found myself in.

  This girl was stark efficiency, in contrast, every hem of her shirt pressed, the collar so heavily starched it could have stood up on its own and saluted. The quarter-sleeved button-down shirt was black, accented on the pockets by blue and gold thread. A juvenile ranger badge had been pinned beneath her right collarbone, signaling that she was only in her second year of training. So that meant she was sixteen, just like I’d thought.

  “What would you know about it, vampire?” she sneered.

  “More than you think. If you don’t take the potion off the burner, you’ll regret it. The bottom is beginning to scorch.”

  That finally succeeded in drawing her attention down to the table. Her eyes widened in alarm when she spotted the state of her potion, and she reached for it on instinct, ignoring the gloves near her elbow. Just as I’d known it would be, the glass was too warm, and she withdrew her fingers immediately with a hiss of pain. It tipped the beaker she’d been working on precariously and the potion began listing toward the table. I shot out a hand, grabbing the beaker before it could spill its volatile contents all over her lap. It hurt like hell to do it, but I managed to hold on despite the scalding temperature. The vampire nervous system could handle more than a witch’s in terms of pain, but that didn’t mean we didn’t feel pain. We did. We were a lot closer to humans than we liked to admit, both in biology and temperament.

  She flicked the flame off and stared at me wide-eyed, seeming to realize what had just happened. The ruined potion could have eaten holes into her crisp black slacks and continued past her skin, eating its way down to her bones. Witches healed fast, but not that fast. I’d probably just saved her from major injury. She flicked a sheepish look toward my face and her lips parted like she was about to say something.

  An apology or a ‘thank you’ from a witch? Ha! Not on your life. But possibly a defense of her actions? I’d never know, because before she could say anything, a woman’s voice, high and ringing with absolute authority, cut through the din.

  “Meredith Cyrene Boline!”

  Meredith’s shoulders hunched and she ducked her head as though the words had been a physical blow. I recognized the posture. I’d adopted it dozens of times while being taught magic in the Crescent Circle Coven. Things had gotten better after I’d been given the boot and was forced to move to Haven Hollow. Wanda wasn’t a patient teacher (by any stretch of the imagination), but she was fair. Poppy was downright enthusiastic in comparison and full of ready affirmation. Olga was stern and demanding, but never cruel. Only Maverick gave me crap, but it was his duty as my brother to do it.

  A woman pushed her way free of the crowd, stalking toward our table with all the ferocity of a jungle cat. She reminded me of a panther, a creature built of sleek muscles and long, graceful limbs. Her eyes helped with the impression, too. More gold than hazel, and blazing with restrained hostility. She was taller and very blessed in the curves department, but the sharp angles of her face convinced me that I was staring at Meredith’s mother. More than that though, her face was familiar. I’d seen it plastered all over Jinx Junction’s promotional materials before we’d arrived.

  Chief Lucretia Boline was also the sheriff of Jinx Junction and the head of the Hexus Rangers. She was about Wanda’s age, and made my cousin look like a doting motherly type. According to everything I’d read about this woman, she was in a league all her own as far as magical talent went. Yep, rumors were that she was able to beat down monsters twice her size and drag them to prison by their balls. Or whatever the species equivalent happened to be. She also looked tough enough to hand me my ass in a physical fight. She was rumored to have a sharp wit and a quick temper. In short, she was one of the most dangerous creatures I’d ever had the misfortune to meet. And her attention was now focused solely on me.

  Gulp.

  Lucretia’s assessment of me was almost instantaneous. I took a tentative step away from the table when her hands balled into fists, streaks of blue-black energy wreathing her knuckles as she advanced. Magical brass knuckles. Now that I hadn’t seen before.

  “Vampire,” she said in a low, even tone. “You have three seconds to explain what you’re doing with my daughter.”

  I held up the beaker as though it could deflect the hex she was building. “I just happened to see that this potion was going to boil over. The ingredients were scorching. So, I figured I should tell… Meredith to remove it from the heat. That’s all.”