“Time to get muddy,” I told myself, climbing down the side of the ravine a few feet. I needed a better look, and short of leaping like a superhero, there was no way to get down. I don’t jump off things, or onto them, for that matter. At my height, I leave the top shelf to Wulfric, and the countertops are mine. It’s a good system, and one that keeps me from the indignity of using a stool to reach things in my own home.

  “What the. . .” I whispered, because speaking loud seemed like a bad idea. There was no hole under the road. It was an emergence, and whatever had clawed its way out had been huge.

  I began to retreat as a chill went up my spine. The sense of magic was darker than the other things I’d felt in the past few days, tinged with the stink of death and depravity. Magic reflects the user, and the user becomes their magic, regardless of intent or purpose. It’s the way of witches, and one of the reasons why Gran and I are dead set against the use of blood or other darker forms of sorcery. No matter who you are, it will change you, and sometimes, you don’t come back.

  Whatever had come out of the ground was bad, but the person who cast the spell was worse.

  I pulled my coat around me as the sun dipped a little farther in the sky. Evil was in my town, and I had no idea who brought it here. It was time to cast my next wider, and that meant a spell of discovery so grand, it would light up the Everafter with McEwan magic.

  I glared at the hole in the ground. I would close it, and whoever did it wasn’t going to like what I had up my sleeve.

  Chapter Seventeen: Pianist Envy

  “Gran?” I heard music as I opened the door, a lilting, beautiful flow of notes that was different from anything I’d ever heard her play. I also heard her laughing, which ruled out a home invasion by a pianist who had the good manners to charm her whilst playing.

  “Gran?” I repeated, stepping into the kitchen. I heard her chatting, along with softer notes and the voice of Eli Delacourt. “Well, I’ll be. He plays piano, too.” Eli really was a man of many talents.

  Stepping into the sitting room, I saw them sipping tea while Eli sat at Gran’s piano, the long fingers of one hand still on the keyboard. He idly hit a C, letting the rich note die away before he noticed me with his trademark twitch.

  “Carlie! Hiya, glad to see you. Gran let me play for a minute and we got caught up discussing some of her more heretical views about American composers,” he said with a sly grin.

  Gran pointed a finger at him like it was a magical wand, waved, and then tilted her head. “Odd. You should have turned into a toad. Wait, I know why it didn’t work.”

  “Because I’m already a toad for suggesting Gershwin is the populist version of Mozart?” he asked, grinning broadly.

  “Exactly. Hmph,” Gran said before sipping her tea. I was glad to see they found some common ground. “For a brilliant scientist, he holds some rather ossified views on American musical traditions.”

  “Ossified? When did you start getting fancy with your vocabulary?” I asked her, my brows shooting up as I pinned Eli with a gaze. “This is your fault, you know. You’ll leave, to go back to your dig in the Hudson Valley or whatever and I’ll be left with her using words like defenestrate and malinger in our daily conversation.” I sighed, rolling my eyes as they both giggled in open mockery of my legitimate concerns. It made Gran look young, and I found myself hoping she never stopped laughing.

  Eli put his cup down, but his smile didn’t fade so I felt no need to brace for impact. “As you’ve so,” he winked at Gran, “adroitly surmised, I’m not here just for the tea, although it’s lovely. Thanks, Gran.”

  “Most welcome,” she said with a nod.

  “What is it then? Everything okay?” I asked him.

  “Something odd. Not bad, just odd, and I think you should know. I’ve gotten three requests for interviews from three different people,” Eli said, brow furrowed.

  “What kind of interview?” I asked him. Eli was under the radar, so even one request was troubling.

  “Nothing specific. A look into the historical record of the area, blah blah blah, you know, vague hints of giving my project exposure to garner a better public opinion. The thing is, I think it was the same person all three times, but I can’t prove it. One request was by phone, the other two by email and text. Even thought there were different names, I felt like it was a concerted effort on their part. The requests were staggered, in different phrasing, and shared nothing in common except for the target. Me,” he said.

  “And since there was nothing in common, you think all three came from the same source?” I asked. I wasn’t dubious. He was sharp, and his instincts were good. The simple number of requests was a red flag, too.

  “I do,” he said.

  I sat down on Gran’s couch, letting possibilities run through my mind. “What are you working on right now, Eli? Is it anything with the potential to be special?” I didn’t have to use any inflection to get my meaning across; he understood what I was asking. Two out of three people in the room were witches, and the other knew about magic. We could save time and get to the point, which was a small blessing given the fact I sensed something was unravelling in Halfway.

  “What we’re doing right now is so boring I have to find ways to make myself go on with the project. It’s mostly to get experience for the graduate students, and so far, we’ve found nothing odd, interesting, or worth my time.” He thought for a moment as Gran’s clock ticked in the hallway, a backdrop reminding me that each passing second meant something big and gross was wandering around in the woods near Albrecht Road. “I don’t think it’s about what we’re doing, and I know it isn’t about me. I think it’s about you.”

  “Me? How?” I asked.

  “I think someone knows our connection and went on a little fishing expedition to see if we’re in constant communication. Have you had anyone approach you and ask about me?” he asked.

  “No, but I’m not in charge of archaeological sites, either, and everyone who knows me comes to the diner. The only people who contact me through email are herb sellers and specialized, um, people who sell special clothes,” I said.

  “Special clothes? Like for witchcraft? You wear special things to use magic? Are they pants lined with silver, or shirts made from moonlight or something awesome like that? Can I buy them even though I’m not a witch? That would be pretty cool. Hey, what about—”

  “They’re short pants people,” I grumbled.

  “What?” Eli asked, blinking. Gran snorted. It was an indelicate noise, and I gave her the stinkeye to let her know it registered.

  “I buy pants for people who. . .aren’t very tall,” I said with a vague wave.

  Eli was nonplussed. He’d just been getting wound up for a dive into the world of magical clothing, and it turned out his hopes and dreams were crushed because my reasons weren’t witchy at all, they were based on having really short legs.

  “Are you going to zap me with some kind of spell because I’ve been insensitive and insouciant?” he asked in a small voice.

  “No, but I wish I could, if only because you used those big words. Now that we’ve established I need special pants, can we discuss the oncoming mushroom apocalypse that threatens the fabric of our universe?”

  “Mushrooms? Oh, dear,” Eli said in his best approximation of a Victorian biddy.

  “You failed to mention we were about to be swept under in a tide of fungi, dear,” Gran added.

  I shrugged in apology. “It kinda happened fast. I cooked a mushroom, um.. person, who was yelling and waving its arms around after clawing out of the ground. Angry thing, left a bit of magical residue and a big hole in the ground, which reminds me—”

  “You were attacked by a sentient mushroom? With arms?” Eli asked.

  “More than once. More than one mushroom, I mean. They’re emerging around here, and the only reason is bad magic and a wet fall. Something is happening, which is why I think your interview requests are a little fishy. Mushroomy, I mean, but you get the picture,” I said.

  “What haven’t you told me?” Gran asked.

  “Three locations that I know of, all out of town, but the last one is a real problem. Tammy was driving her truck out on Albrecht, nearly fell into a cavernous hole left behind from another emergence. I went out there to check it out in person, and it’s more than just a fungus elemental crawling out of the dirt. There’s magic around, Gran, and it felt dark, even a day or more after the thing came out into the light,” I told her.

  “Dark? If it’s lingering for that long, it has to be more than just a casual occurrence. Any evidence of demons?” Gran asked.

  “This is officially weirder than I anticipated,” Eli said.

  “It will only get worse until we find out why the earth is sending creatures up into the sun. They can’t live in the light, not permanently, and that means these spirits, however minor, are being sent on a suicide mission,” I said.

  “Or they’re running.” Gran sipped her tea, then added, “Eli, would you mind doing me a favor?”

  “Name it, Gran,” he said without hesitation.

  “Respond to your interview requests and tell them you accept their kind offer of a chat. See what happens, and tell us when you have news?” she asked.

  “I can do it from my phone. I’ll hang around town and work from here today. I can let you know the minute I have a response,” he said.

  “Perfect. I think we’ll bring more than just the fungal spirits into the light,” she said.

  “Now who’s on a fishing expedition?” I asked her, but all she did was smile, then began playing the Jeopardy theme on the piano with one hand.

  Chapter Eighteen: Tiffany Overdrive

  “Tiffany, look! They have organic tea!” A girl was shouting across the diner at another girl, who turned to smile at yet another girl with the same hair and clothes.

  It was an invasion.

  “Ohmygawdtiffyaaaasssss!” It was the second or third Tiffany, I couldn’t be sure which because the toaster popped, and I had to plate a pair of egg sandwiches. The diner was full, but no more so than a normal day. It was the clientele that made me sit up and take notice from my perch in the window. There were several young women, clad in similar clothes and speaking with city girl accents. To my relief, I hadn’t been forced to make egg white omelets since they all seemed to be doing the keto diet, but if I got one more request for avocados I might lose it.

  “Dub, can you drop six more rashers of bacon?” I said. He grinned and starting slapping bacon down without a word, the grill sizzling to life all over again. At least the girls ate bacon, even if they were in danger of ruining it for the rest of the planet by not shutting up about the fact that they loved bacon more than their mom.

  It was all quite city folk for me, and I found myself resting hands on hips, my lips pulled to one side as I considered a minor spell that would give all of the girls terrible at-home perms. I didn’t have the spell at hand, but given enough time and a sample of their hair, I was sure I could pull it off.

  “They’re a bit much for seven in the morning, eh?” Dub asked, flipping eggs and testing a waffle with a toothpick.

  “They’re a bit much for any time of day at all. Might be a bachelorette party,” I concluded, going back to my work.

  “Got caught in one of those at The Pines last year. They were taking pictures of me like I was a mountain man, just in from topping trees or trapping badgers,” Dub said. His wry grin told me it had been a test of his manners. Sometimes, living in a small town means people think you’ve just gotten indoor plumbing. It’s an irritation, but a minor inconvenience for living where the air is clean with room to roam.

  “Did they act surprised when you spoke without grunting?” I asked.

  “Oh, I played it up for them. One of the girls walked me through the camera on her phone. I smiled and laughed like it was magic. I don’t think she quite got the joke,” he said with a rueful shake of his head.

  “They never do,” I agreed. “These seem to be behaving themselves. Small blessings and all that,” I said, then took stock of two more girls walking along the sidewalk outside the diner. They were staring at their phones, eyes down. If their intention was to drop in for waffles, they missed the turn.

  “Waffles up,” Dub said, the plate clinking as he slid three finished orders through the window. “I figured we would slow down with tourists as the leaves fell, but town seems crowded to me.”

  “We usually get a lull in between Halloween and Christmas. Got a week until Halloween, so. . .you’re right.” We were busy, and it was a weekday, and the counter was full. Not just with Tiffanys, but people in general, although the two wayward girls did a course correction and came into the diner with maximum commotion as they greeted their tribe.

  “I think it might be time for me to pitch a tent out past the creek, at least until the first snow. I can take up a hobby, like knitting. I’ll buy a rocking chair,” Dub said.

  “A rocking chair in front of a tent? You really do enjoy peace and quiet. Why not row a canoe into the lake and snooze for a couple hours? It works for me,” I told him.

  His brows shot up in surprise. “You really do that? But everyone knows you. People love you, they talk to you all the—oh. Got it.” He smiled down at a plate of hash browns, letting his own comments sink in. “I guess you like quiet now and then?”

  As a witch, quiet was my friend, but I didn’t want to discuss it just then. “I recharge my battery. Being around me is a lot to take for Wulfric. He loves the silence, but he loves me more so it’s a compromise. I row out in a canoe, and just. . .drift. I hear the loons, the geese. Once I heard the most incredible noise, like a pencil sharpener, really hard to describe. I stayed on the bottom of the boat, trying to figure it out. Sort of like a game.”

  “What was it?”

  “An otter. He was shucking freshwater clams like a tourist at a seafood buffet. I think he smiled when I said hello.” The memory made me smile. He’d been a big, cheeky fellow, and I sighed over the noise of the café. “Gotta shake myself out of this. I’m becoming morose thinking about a nap in a canoe.”

  “I can’t blame you. Um,” Dub began, then shrugged awkwardly. “Want me to handle the problem?” His eyes cut to the counter, where one of the Tiffanys was waving at us like her hair was on fire.

  I sighed again but put down my spatula while shaking my head. “I’ll get it. She looks nice, but you can never tell when a wild Tiffany will attack.”

  “Thanks,” he laughed. “I’ll pull you back by the boots if you get mauled.”

  I stepped out of my domain, and behind the counter. The girl smiled, playing with her bracelet and looking the slightest bit shy. She was pretty, polished, blonde, and utterly full of crap. I could smell the lie on her even before she began speaking.

  “Hi. What can I do for you?” I asked her, smiling broadly.

  She had the good form to act abashed, which I expected. I let her play it out, wondering where she was going with it. She let me know by asking a question that wasn’t a question.

  “Your boyfriend is that tall guy, right?” she asked. Her accent was Long Island, but just like her act, it was fake. The only thing real other than her hair was the blue of her eyes. It was bright, even icy.

  “He is. Do you need a canoe, or can he reach something up high for you? He’s good at that,” I said with a sweet smile. I could play dumb when it suited me. Like now.

  She laughed, and her eyes cut to a pair of girls sitting in a back booth. I could feel the intensity of their stare like a weight, but I ignored them and focused on the target in front of me. She was no longer a random girl. Asking about Wulfric meant one of two things. It was a veiled message that she knew who I was, and by extension who he was, or it was a fishing expedition to see if I would flinch.

  I used her glance away to focus on the bracelet she wore. It was bare copper save three words on it in tiny typewriter script. Sub or Die. A chill went through me as my mind did the calculus of what it could mean, but she looked back at me with a winning smile. It was a practiced look that she’d worn before. I could feel her slip it on like a familiar coat.

  “We saw him and he was playing with the cutest little girl,” she said. Before I could snap off a comment, she stuck her hand out. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude or stalkerish. She left this behind when he took her, um, home maybe?” She held out a tiny blue plastic penguin, paint chipped from being gnawed upon by a toddler. It was one of Amelia’s pocket babies, as she called them, a little herd of critters that she carried with her in a rotation.

  I felt some of my tension drain away, but not all of it. “Oh, thank you. It’s one of the herd, goes with her everywhere.”

  “I know. My little sister still carries her unicorn. I’m Bridget, sorry. Long day. We saw them playing by the lake this morning, and then he came over here and, well—”

  “Kissed me goodbye,” I finished. “Thanks. I’m Carly. I cook here, but I guess you saw that.”

  “The waffles rocked,” Bridget said, earning an actual smile.

  “Flattery will get you far, especially about waffles. Are you here for the leaves? They’re down, but town is still getting ready for Halloween.”

  “Halloween. Some of us girls wanted to be in the mountains, and we found Halfway online. It’s so beautiful. Were you born here?” she asked. There was no judgment in her question, just open curiosity.

  “I was. It’s where I belong. Not just here, but all of it,” I said, pointing to the lake and beyond. “Have you girls been to The Pines?” I asked.