Dusky put her hand on my arm in sympathy. “I’m so sorry. No one should have to wear improperly laundered outerwear.” She was dead serious.

  “I—thank you. Anyway, we can’t send Wulfric to negotiate your deal,” I told Dusky with a hint of regret. I really wanted her to succeed.

  Maggie’s lips turned up in a perfect leer. “We don’t have to. What if Dusky let it slip that a tall drink of water named Wulf or something had shown an interest in yoga?”

  “Maggie. That is unethical,” I said. “And brilliant.”

  “You’re in? And by you, I mean you’ll prep Wulfric for the subterfuge in case Deb corners him in town with a pair of yoga tights and a spoon?” Maggie asked.

  “Of course. He loves me, and he hates yoga. It’s the perfect plan. Congratulations, Dusky. You’re on the way to being a studio owner.” I offered her an awkward medium-five, since high-fives are well beyond my ability and we were sitting down. She refused, leaning forward for a hug that was somehow caring and yet managed to shame me with her remarkable flexibility. My jealousy over her leg length and general height returned, but I tamped it down knowing that I was just right, no matter how tall I might be.

  “Did you have a question about something, Carlie? I’m so sorry, we seem to have gotten carried away doing the whole real estate mogul thing,” Maggie said.

  “Um.” I cut my eyes to Dusky, then decided that since she knew I was a witch, it would be okay to speak freely in front of her. “Mushroom men.”

  “What?” Maggie said.

  “Mushroom men are rising up out of the ground, raising hell, and I think that witchcraft is to blame. I also know that an untrained magic user is playing with forces they can’t understand and using poisoned water from a toxic fountain of deadly force.” I turned to Dusky with an air of apology. “If this is too much, let me know. It’s going to get a bit more grim.”

  She cupped her chin in both hands, rapt with attention. “Go on. This is way more interesting than lease agreements and women named Deb who want to see your boyfriend’s naughty bits.”

  “Okay then. Moving on. So, there have been some incidents in town that make me think we’re under attack, but I’m not sure what kind or who is behind it. We’ve got an influx of tourist girls wearing bracelets that read Sub or Die, and I think that violence is just around the corner. I don’t really know if they’re connected, but I have the sinking feeling they are.”

  “Sub or Die? That would be handy,” Dusky said.

  “What? Why?” I asked, sitting up taller at her offhand tone.

  “My yoga videos. Would love to tell my students to sub or die. They don’t prepare enough for the first lesson, and sometimes, it sours them on the whole experience,” Dusky said, a cautious smile on her face. “What did I say?”

  “Videos. Oh my stars above.” I bopped myself on the nose, rising in haste to stand. “I gotta go. Dusky, you’ve been a huge help. Use the allure of my man’s booty at will. You’re golden, girl,” I said, leaning down to hug her. “Maggie, I’m off. See you soon.”

  “Bye. Don’t be a stranger. Things are dead around here,” Maggie said, but I was already pelting down the path, throwing her a laugh at the pun as the leaves crunched under my boots.

  Sub or Die. Huh. I had some questions to ask, and I knew where to start.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Strip Mall Magick

  “So this chick from out of town is a thief, led Brendan on, and might be tied up in the old magic from the spring?” Tammy asked in between cleaning her new scarlet lipstick from a front tooth.

  We were leaning against the diner, chatting while town flowed around us during the breakfast hour. I say town was flowing around us but that wasn’t entirely true, several of Tammy’s fans took a moment out of their day to admire her, one—a tall, lumberjack type—giving her a knowing smile that made me blush.

  “His name’s Trevor. He can handle a lot more than a chainsaw,” Tammy said, winking at him as he drove past, slowly.

  “When do you sleep?” I asked her, truly in awe of what she was able to accomplish.

  “Same time you do, kid. The witching hour,” she said. Her grin was impudent, which only made her cuter despite the cover shot makeup she sported at just past seven in the morning. I swirled the dregs of my coffee and ran an experimental hand over my hair, noting only two cowlicks. For me, that was nothing short of a miracle. “What’s her name? You implied there might be more than one. I don’t like the idea of a team of floozies in our town, not if they have anything to do with bad places.”

  “There are at least two. I think.”

  “Then let’s go see them,” she said in her most reasonable tone.

  “They’re at cabin nine, over in the Limberlosts. Or at least one of them is. I can’t really get a fix on how many girls are here, because every time I turn around, there seems to be a new one.”

  “Then come with me after I do my loop in town. Be about 10:00. Breakfast rush will be over, and you can tell Dub to cover the grill while we play good cop, bad cop. In case you’re wondering, I’ll be the bad cop. You don’t really have it in you this morning,” she said, giving my hair a searching look.

  I reached up to find two more cowlicks springing back under my hand. “Do I have chicken head this morning?”

  Tammy’s nod was serious as a small-town judge. “Yes. Yes you do.”

  “And I look like I’m twelve?”

  “Twelve. . . ish.” She reached out and pushed down on my hair, but the rebellion was far from over. “Doesn’t the steam in the kitchen make it—stop being like that?” she asked, at a loss to describe the majesty of my hairdo.

  “No. I think it’s haunted.”

  “That explains some things. Can a bed be haunted?” she asked. Twirling her keys around a lacquered nail.

  “Why?” I asked, instantly regretting the question.

  “Every man in mine groans like a ghost.” She smiled, hugged me, and jumped into her truck, waiting obediently at the curb, engine running in the cool morning air. Turning, she gave me a new variation on her traditional finger guns—one hand, firing twice—and pulled away into traffic while singing to her radio.

  I touched my hair, looking through the glass into the diner. The outline of medusa greeted me, so I swore to put on a hat before going to confront the army of Tiffanys over at the cabins. I could tolerate their meddling up to a point, but if one of their sculpted, shaped, microbladed brows lifted at me in derision, I was going to turn them all into toads.

  I whistled my way back inside, determined to grill away the time until we would get answers about why anyone thought sour magic from a deadly spring was anything to play with.

  Back at the grill, I spent my time in that happy blur of routine, cracking eggs, turning waffles, and assembling plates with a motion that never got old. If anything, the work was cathartic, a kind of Zen space where my mind could work and play at the same time.

  I considered the source of magic, and then, when I got done being mad, I considered the kind of people who would play with magic. Only one kind came to mind, in a story that echoed all of the cautionary tales Gran taught me during my first forays into witchcraft.

  When the thought came to me, I could feel tumblers begin clicking in my mind, parts of a lock bound by logic and experience, all revealed in their own time upon proper consideration. I knew, in a flash, the person I sought was an amateur.

  The problem with amateurs is that they sometimes have the trappings of authenticity. Con men, parlor women, hustlers and charlatans often look real enough, but when it come to delivering on their promises, their victims realize that was never part of the plan. It’s about money, or power, or in some combination of the two, but never do you see a thread of truth.

  “I need to find an amateur witch,” I mumbled to the toaster, which did not respond, thanks be to the stars.

  “What’s that?” Dub asked. He was stacking waffles and butter in a heart-stopping display of fat and carbs that made my heart sing with unbridled joy.

  “Talking to myself. And the toaster, apparently.”

  “Don’t waste your time. The grill is much chattier,” he said, smiling and pushing plates through the window. “Pickituuuuuuuuup,” he sang out. Reaching for another ticket.

  At just before ten, I stood on the sidewalk, letting the broken sunlight play over my face. Amateur witches were—well, I didn’t really know, but what I was certain of was that Bridget and Makenna were connected. Neither one of them seemed to vibrate with evil, but then again, an amateur witch might not feel any different than your average woman from Long Island, but with black nail polish thrown in just to make her feel more authentic.

  “Get in, kid. We’re gonna go crack some knuckles or bust some heads. I’m not exactly sure which one, but the day is young.” Tammy was in her personal vehicle, which made me sigh with relief since hauling myself up into her truck was always a bit of spectacle. My legs aren’t made for trucks. Or top shelves. Or running.

  What they are good for is putting my feet out of car windows. It’s an art form that I enjoy due to having femurs that are shorter than most loaves of French bread. I lowered her window and stuck my boots outside, leaning back with a casual air. “Where to?”

  She smirked at me, then checked her mirrors. “Limberlost. Where all the hooligans go.”

  “Are they in the big cabin?” I asked. The last one on the row was an unofficial location for bachelorette parties and the odd family reunion that could fit in one space.

  “Yep. But we’re not going there directly. I snooped around on my phone and found something interesting. Seems your girl Makenna has a side hustle down on Long Island.”

  “Let me guess. It’s a crystal store?” I asked.

  Tammy turned to me with surprise. “Did you google her?”

  “Nope. Didn’t have time. I assume you sent Brendan to chase her down in the digital wilds?” He would be the logical choice. He was a regular bloodhound when it came to internet stalking.

  “I did and more. I asked him to do a few more things, too. I know you’ve been busy, and we’re not.” She spun the wheel expertly as we turned into the library.

  “You’re busy. You never stop moving,” I protested, but she shushed me as we got out of the vehicle.

  “Carlie. There will a come a day when you’ll need a helping hand with,” she waved around at Halfway and beyond. “Wulfric is a help. Gran is a rock. But sometimes, you forget that there are little things you don’t need to do. Someday, you’ll understand that having family is a lot like having staff. You just pay them less,” she said, laughing and waving as Brendan opened the library door for us.

  “I have staff. Gus,” I said.

  “Gus is a cat. You serve him. It’s science.” She adjusted her pants, checked her chest for any unnecessary coverage, and greeted Brendan with a smile. “Whaddaya got, Sherlock?”

  “Quite a bit. A lot easier than I thought. I pulled up some screens and left them for us to look at, then printed a few choice details about your girls. I leave it up to Carlie to decide about the, ah, technical side of things,” Brendan said, his leaf green eyes flashing in the morning sun. He left us and closed the door, as the library wouldn’t open for another thirty minutes.

  We bustled over to the main desk, where he had a fancy new flat display. With a couple clicks, he pulled up a nondescript strip mall with piles of dirty snow pushed to each side of the narrow parking lot. An array of signs declared the usual businesses—insurance, a pizza place, which frankly made my stomach growl, a dry cleaner with one day service, and on the far left, a small sign over a salt lamp that read Magick and Crystals. Magic was spelled with an unnecessary k on the end, and I felt my temper slip.

  “Are you shitting me?” I blurted.

  “Carlie. Such language,” Brendan chided me, grinning. “I take it you disapprove?”

  “Of Madam McFraud’s little magic shop? Damn right I do.” I could feel the blood rising in my cheeks.

  “What tipped you off?” Tammy asked. She was serious, with no hint of a smile.

  “The spelling. The--- the way the sign is written. The fact that it’s a store in a strip mall, and there are advertisements on the glass. Witches don’t advertise, and we don’t sell charms and spells and...” I trailed off, getting mad all over again. Drawing a calming breath through my nose, I managed to ask a question through my teeth. “Who is she?”

  “How do you know it’s a woman?” Brendan asked.

  “Call it a hunch. Who is she?” I repeated.

  “Makenna. I believe you’ve met,” he answered simply.

  “Figures. It would be the tall one.” I stared at the picture on the screen, wondering how in the world she managed to get mixed up in the twilight between amateur magic and real danger. And then bringing it here, no less, where it could break free and hurt people. My people, in my town. Anger surged in me again, but I put a boot on it. I needed a clear head to see the rest of what Brendan had found.

  “She’s got quite a bit of social media for a witch, and it’s almost all public. Took me ten seconds to scroll through and find some points of interest, but I’ll leave the decision of what’s important up to you. Go ahead and look, I’m going to get things ready for opening. Let me know if you need anything, okay?” He touched my shoulder and moved off, efficient and quiet, the screen before me flickering with a dizzy array of basic social media posts that chronicled the life of a pretty girl playing witch.

  “She sure does like selfies,” I grumbled.

  “And coffee. And cats. Average girl, if you ask me. Do you see anything, I don’t know, quietly evil?” Tammy asked. I really didn’t, but I kept scrolling through Makenna’s timeline, looking for any connection between her and Halfway.

  There was nothing. She was a strip mall witch, selling fake things to people in need, and that made her a fraud but not necessarily evil. It also gave me no explanation of how or why she found my town, some two hundred and fifty miles away from her.

  “Click on that,” Tammy said.

  “Which one?” I paused, my finger hovering. We were looking at an array of similar images from her Instagram.

  “That one. Who is that?” Tammy pointed a nail at half of a young man’s face, obscured by what looked like fog. It was kind of artsy and didn’t really go with the rest of her pictures. “Is that a webcam?”

  “It is. How do you know what a webcam looks like?” I asked, kind of dreading the answer.

  She smiled demurely. “I get special requests from boyfriends now and then. I have one in case we like to chat.”

  “I—oh. Um, that’s very kind of you,” I said, blushing furiously. “Tam, you surprise me every day.”

  “I surprise them too,” she said, winking.

  “Stars above, I want your sass.”

  “You have it, honey. But you don’t have my chest, and you’re a tad puritanical when it comes to all things naked. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking how you live, because your man is good looking enough to wake the dead. But when it comes to showing off, it’s more of a Tammy thing than a Carlie thing. You’ve always been confident in your own skin. It’s one of the reasons so many people care about you.”

  “Well then. I’m glad that my, um, lifestyle is such a beacon of hope,” I said with what I hoped was due gratitude.

  “It is. And you are. Now let’s find out which one of these bitches is making mushroom men, and why. Okay?”

  “Okay. There’s nothing here, and we’re not going traipsing down to her store,” I said, shuddering with repressed anger. “Which leaves a trip to the cabins and a more direct line of inquiry.”

  “As I anticipated. Brendan, be a dear and leave these pages bookmarked, in case I need them for stalking purposes?” Tammy called out.

  “Got it. We open in a few, but I’ll have them ready if you drop by again. Want me to send as a text, for handy stalking-on-the-go?” he asked, ever helpful.

  “That would be lovely. Thank you,” I said, as Tammy stood, jingling her keys and looking to the door. “We can go right now, I think.”

  “So do I,” she agreed. “Thanks for the snoop. Be in touch if anything else comes up,” she told Brendan.

  “Be careful. I don’t want to read about you getting smushed or turned into something weird,” he said. It was a heartfelt, if vague commentary on the hazards of my career, and I patted his chest as we exited the library, thankful for the sun on my face again. It was stuffy in there, or maybe I was just feeling the effects of my lingering anger.

  “To the cabins, and step on it,” I told Tammy, who proceeded to do just that.

  After a harrowing four-minute ride in which I nearly wet my pants, I vowed to never tell her to go fast again. Ever.

  “Fast enough for you?” she asked, absently checking her makeup.

  “Do you drive like that all the time?” I asked, but not before sending a small prayer to the sky for our safe arrival.

  “Of course. Not in town, but everywhere else. Got places to be, things to do. I am a professional driver, you know, unlike some—”

  “Stop right there, lady. We will not discuss my issues with cars.” Actually, it was just a single issue. I killed cars. It was one of my talents, like singing in the shower, or pretending I can juggle.

  “Hmph. I know you think there’s no justice in the world, what with me being able to drive like that while maintaining my hair. It’s an art form.” She gave me a bit of side eye, directed at the last, heroic cowlick that defied any attempt to be tamed.

  I took the high road. I stuck out my tongue and waved her forward. We were out of the car, parked at the beginning of the Limberlost cabin private drive. Utter silence greeted us, and there wasn’t a car in sight.

  “Not what I expected,” I said.

  “Right. You said there were a lot of girls from out of town? And they all managed to get up and out, together?” Tammy asked. She was dubious for a reason. Even before Halloween, there were always a few cabins occupied by late season visitors. “Did they leave?”