After helping Adam out of the car, I locate the potion in my purse and hand it to him. "Go wait inside. I have to set up the perimeter." As he pads to the barn, feet slapping in pink flip-flops, I retrieve my four quartz crystals. I walk around the perimeter of the barn, placing one outside at each corner. When I put down the last one, I call the magic into me to energize them. It flows from my finger to the crystal like electricity. Feels good every time. I stand up and peer through a gap in the wall. Adam has been watching me this whole time. "So nothing physical can come in or out," I explain. "Try putting your hand through."

He tries to reach for me, but my invisible fence stops him. "Impressive."

"How long do you think you'll need?"

"Earliest I can change back is two hours. After that I'll need a minimum, bare minimum, of three hours sleep."

"Okay. I guess I'll just, um, come get you in two hours?"

"Okay," he says, nodding. He holds up the potion. "Should I drink this now?"

I nod. Adam steps away from the wall into the center of the barn. He all but chokes on the disgusting potion, hacking his lungs out when it's all down. Magic time. I close my eyes, reaching out to the three ley lines that run through this town. They're invisible paths of energy that I draw from to boost my power. My entire body tingles and all that power is siphoned into my body, filling me like a vessel. I reach out to the ingredients in the potion coursing through Adam's body. All originate from the earth, and I am a part of that earth. Most witches need to say a few words or an invocation, but I just need to concentrate. Another trait of a High Priestess.

Adam is of this earth, and I sense him too. His heart, his mind, especially his soul. And the wolf inside him. It's angry. He wants to come out and roar. I call to it, all but stroking his metaphysical fur, and he comes running. The force of the wolf busting out nearly knocks me down. My eyes fly open just as Adam expels a bloodcurdling scream. He falls onto his knees, howling like a man on fire. The change is just as painful. Bones breaking, skin stretching, organs rearranging. Perhaps fire would be preferable. I've never seen a werewolf change, and I don't want to break that streak now. This is private and should stay that way. As he shrieks, cries, and groans in pain, I run back to my car. He'll be fine.

It's my own neck I'm worried about.

Go to work Okay. Next crisis. On the drive back to town, I'm still reeling from information overload. I need to organize my thoughts. Someone I know wants to kill me. As in dead. As in no more tucking the girls in at night. No more lunches with Tamara and Clay. No more breathing. How the h.e.l.l did this happen? I am not the kind of person other people want to kill. I'm not a werewolf who chases after rogues that attack people. I'm not a vampire who leaves bodies in his wake. I'm a witch, the pacifists of the preternatural world. I don't even squish spiders. h.e.l.l, Goodnight hasn't had a non-domestic homicide since the early eighties when three vampires slaughtered my cousins Emma, Lucas, and Tom for harboring a runaway witch. People still talk about it.

I keep glancing in my rearview mirror for strange cars. G.o.ddess, I haven't been this paranoid since the one time I smoked pot. How long have I been in danger and not even known it? And who the h.e.l.l would want me dead? Someone who wants to be High Priestess. That narrows it down. There are only seven others who are candidates, and all are my relatives. I am more likely to be killed by someone I- A honking car drives right in front of me. I slam on the breaks as Jeff Pinker flips me off. I just ran a red light. I never run red lights. I'm gonna get myself killed before someone else can do it. I think I'm going to throw up.

I park in the lot around the corner from my shop. It's half full now and by lunchtime it will be packed. Wish it was that way now. As I pa.s.s each empty car, I tense up, convinced my murderer is hiding behind one to pop out and shoot me dead. My paranoia only gets worse as I move down the cobblestone sidewalk past all the tiny curio shops that comprise downtown. Since I know about ninety-nine percent of the population in town, they smile and nod as I pa.s.s. I keep glancing at their hands for weapons. How the h.e.l.l am I supposed to act normally with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head?

Midnight Magic is nestled between an antique shop and Lady Catherine's Tea Room, which is owned by a man named Duke. We get a decent tourist trade here, mostly from upper-scale and sophisticated older women searching for some Southern gentility. Except my customers. Since we're the largest occult shop within a hundred miles, I find myself waiting on New Agers along with those Southern ladies looking for homeopathic remedies to stave off aging and hipsters who've read the Harry Potter and Twilight series. Money's money.

The store was opened in the early twentieth century by my great-great-grandmother Ramona, my namesake. She was High Priestess at the turn of the past century and was rumored to have had an affair with Aleister Crowley, a self-proclaimed witch who I later learned was just bats.h.i.t crazy. Supposedly he's my great-grandfather Crowley's father. It was quite the scandal, one of many surrounding Ramona. Her reputation is hard to live up to.

We only have one customer inside when I walk in, my cousin Bethany. Strange. I was just thinking about her family. She was the sole survivor of that ma.s.sacre in town when she was a child. On a normal day I'd strike up a conversation, but now I'm afraid she'll pull out a knife and stab me. She is over by the athames, or ritual knives. Maybe being in the house while her family was slaughtered cracked her. Not that she's a High Priestess, but still. Not taking any chances.

Billie stands at the counter reading a magazine. The majority of genetic witches try to blend in, but not Billie. Her spiky hair is dyed blue this week and today she sports a bat nose ring, but the black ankh tattooed on her neck draws the attention first. At least her dozen other tattoos are hidden by her jeans and Misfits hoodie. I had to inst.i.tute a dress code when I hired her. She looked too much like a walking ad for Hot Topic, and my other employee, Alice, who's worked here part-time since Granny's days, kept lodging complaints about unprofessionalism. So I compromised, which means they both grumble to me on occasion.

I walk past Billie into the back room without a word. The front of the store is all retail: books, jars of herbs, oils, jewelry, incense, posters, candles, even joke magic tricks all cramped together in stands that make it hard to move around. One entire wall is covered with ancient bookcases filled to capacity with occult books. There are a few shelves on the walls with statues and candle holders. I have to keep the crystals, herbs, and oils behind the counter or customers couldn't get to anything.

The back room is where the real magic happens. My office/altar/storage s.p.a.ce. I flip on the lights and toss my purse on the ancient table. My cell phone is in there somewhere. Billie strides in, towering over me as usual. She's over six feet tall and skinny. She could be a model if not for the att.i.tude. "How many did you get done last night?" she asks.

"Eight-no, six."

"That's it?"

"I know. If you can cover the front, I'll get the rest done today."

"We had three new orders this morning."

"Then I'll do them too!" I snap. We're both taken aback. I'm known around town for my calm demeanor, so yelling is not a common thing. "Sorry."

"Stressful night?"

"Understatement." I pull out my cell. "I need to make a few calls."

"Okay," she says with a c.o.c.ked eyebrow. "I'll be out front if you need me." With another concerned glance she walks out, shutting the curtain behind herself.

Could it be her? She's worked with me for five years ever since leaving her coven in Orlando when her girlfriend got a job in Richmond. No way. She doesn't have an ambitious bone in her body. I spent two weeks begging her to officially become a.s.sistant manager. And she's not an aether. No, right now there is a short list of people I trust implicitly, and Billie is one of them, along with Tamara and Clay, Debbie, Auntie Sara, and Adam.

Adam? Okay, maybe not him. He'll earn his place when he stops being so d.a.m.n withholding of information.

I sit down in front of the computer and pull up my pa.s.sword-protected address book with all the co-op telephone numbers. I'll try George Black first, seeing as he's the head of the preternatural police, and this is right up their alley. He picks up on the fifth ring.

"George Black," he says.

"George, it's Mona McGregor. I have a problem." I lay out everything Adam told me.

"Oh, Mona, I'm sorry. I have no idea what to tell you."

"Tell me you'll send someone to help me, George." My voice is terse even to my own ears.

"I can't. I'm sorry. The team's already on an investigation in Idaho. They just arrived last night. There's a wraith slaughtering people."

"Then just send us one agent. Just not the vampire," I say with scorn. "You know why."

"Mona, I don't have a person to spare. We recently lost two members. The best I can do right now is contact the FBI and have them look into it. Or your local police."

Not gonna happen. The county sheriff is married to one of the candidates, my cousin Shirley. He wouldn't appreciate me accusing his wife of sleeping with a corpse and plotting murder. "So after years of friendship and me helping you out on multiple cases, when I need you, the F.R.E.A.K.S. won't lift a finger to stop me from being iced? Thanks, George."

"Mona-"

I hang up. Of all the nerve! After all ... the phone rings, the display lighting up. It's George, but I just hit "end." Okay, calm down, Mona. I take a few deep breaths that don't help. That Valium Collins mentioned might work, but since I'm fresh out and a calming potion takes too d.a.m.n long, on to option two. I dial Jason's cell. He answers on the second ring. "Jason Dahl," he says in that harsh tone he always has.

"Jason, it's Mona McGregor."

"Mona. What do you want?" This guy does not know the meaning of the word manners.

"I want to know why you didn't tell me someone put a hit out on me."

His end is quiet for a few seconds. Even his silence is intimidating. Thick even. "I wanted to get all the facts before I contacted you. How did you find out?"

Okay, in normal circ.u.mstances, I'd tell the truth. It goes against the co-op's spirit to lie to other members, but if half of what Adam said is true-and I'm literally betting my life that it is-then I have no choice. "Lord Thomas of Richmond called me last night. Apparently he discovered Alejandro's plot, and unlike you thought I should know."

He's quiet for a second, his breathing ragged. "He killed Alejandro? Did he say anything else?" he asks, voice like an ice pick.

"Like what? He doesn't know who wants me dead, if that's your concern."

"Mona, has Adam contacted you at all in the last few days?" he asks, voice tinged with fear, not an emotion I thought him capable of.

"Why would he?" Not technically a lie.

"If he does, would you have him call me?"

"Jason, what about me? I could still be-"

"You'll be fine. I have to go." And he hangs up on me.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Both of them! I am literally vibrating with rage. What the h.e.l.l is the purpose of the co-op if I'm the only one who cooperates with the others? h.e.l.l's bells, I cannot believe this. Well, next time either of them needs a favor, they can forget it. Screw them both.

There's only one more person (and I use the term loosely) that I can call, but he won't get my message until tonight. I'm not as friendly with Lord Thomas as the other members since he only attends summits once every three years if that, but he's my last hope. I leave a message. "Thomas, this is Mona McGregor from the P.C.O. I, uh, there's no easy way to say this." I sigh. "Your second, Alejandro, along with one of my witches, was plotting to kill us. I understand, uh, that your end has been taken care of, but any help you can give me to find my wicked witch would be much appreciated as ... she might still want to kill me. Ha ha. So please call me. Soon. Thank you." I'm about to hang up when I remember, "Oh, and if Jason Dahl calls, could you please tell him that you were the one who filled me in on this whole mess? I'd appreciate it. Bye." I hang up and thump my head on the altar.

Okay, now what?

I've read enough mystery novels to formulate a plan. I can do this. What would Stephanie Plum do? Sleep with two gorgeous guys then have her car blow up. Okay, not applicable. Miss Marple. What would Miss Marple do? Identify potential suspects.

a.s.suming this is a power play for my job, there are seven women in line for Priestess, all cousins of one stripe or another: Shirley, Whitney, Erica, Ann, Esther, Collins, and her sister Cheyenne. I can't see eighty-three-year-old Ann or sixty-seven-year-old Esther sleeping with a vampire, and Whitney is fourteen, so for the time being I'll discount them. That leaves four.

Shirley Andrews is a distant cousin I've had few dealings with. She's in her fifties with two grown children, a sheriff husband, and a driven att.i.tude. She won't be happy until her husband is mayor or a senator. She barely a.s.sociates with the rest of the coven unless it's an election year. The only reason I know she's an aether is Granny wrote her name down in a ledger that keeps track of all of us. If I was running against her husband for mayor then I wouldn't put it past her to put a hit on me, but not for the run of the coven.

Next there's Erica Fitch, who was my only real compet.i.tion when I became High Priestess. She's in her early forties but looks much younger thanks to constant glamour spells and trips to the plastic surgeon. Being a former trophy wife then rich widow is hard work. At age twenty-two she caught the eye of the richest man in the county, Deaver Fitch III, much to the chagrin of his first wife. Erica and Deaver were only married for three years before he mysteriously died of a stroke at age fifty-two in the middle of s.e.x with his young bride. The entire town suspected she offed him, but there was no proof. She's been the merry widow since, though her exploits with not only the young blue-collar boys in town but the upper echelon gentlemen in Richmond do tarnish that image.

She easily could have met Alejandro in Richmond at some point, though why she'd want to become High Priestess is beyond me. Growing up she regularly attended coven meetings, but those tapered off when she got married. Now she comes about once a year, mainly to catch up with old friends. The past month I have seen more of her as she's on the Founders' Week committee with me, and what a joy that has been. I do not enjoy high and mighty people putting me and everyone else down once a week. I almost want it to be her just so they can haul her liposuctioned b.u.t.t away. Maybe she's just bored and decided, "Hey, maybe that High Priestess job might be fun for a little while. I killed once, what's one more time?" Possible.

Finally, there are the twins: Collins and Cheyenne Bell. I personally trained them as aethers when p.u.b.erty hit. It's rare to have two High Priestesses in one family, but since they're identical twins it wasn't too surprising. We have the same great-grandfather Crowley who, like his alleged father, left multiple b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in his wake. Three that we know of. Granny and Auntie Sara were the only legitimate children. The Great Ramona forced her wayward son to marry his powerful cousin Camille, the supposed next High Priestess. Great-Grandma Camille died of the Spanish Flu before this came to pa.s.s, but Ramona lived until her late nineties, and by then Granny was old enough to take the reins.

Like most of my second cousins, Collins and Cheyenne come from the illegitimate branch of the family. Not that anyone save their grandmother Maxine cares anymore. Family is family, at least to me. I'd cross Collins off the list even before Shirley. She practically lived at my house growing up, what with those abusive a.s.shole parents of hers. She even stayed with us for a few months just to get away from them. Then Granny died, and I had to send her back to said a.s.sholes. She went to live with her grandmother a few days after that. She and Debbie have been best friends since kindergarten. h.e.l.l, she's Debbie's maid of honor. I've known her all her life, and she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body.

Now Cheyenne ...

For identical twins, those two could not be more different. Their parents are drunken, abusive, disgusting a.s.sholes whose fights are legendary. Collins told me she spent years tending to her parents' wounds so becoming a nurse was always a foregone conclusion. They never hit the girls though. Granny and I asked. We tried to informally adopt Cheyenne too, but she was a vicious child. Beating up Debbie, stealing, shouting obscenities at us. She hasn't gotten much better with age. Poaching boyfriends, an arrest for drunk driving, and the inability to hold a job are her claims to fame in this town. She does attend coven meetings regularly but is constantly questioning me and making snide remarks. I have heard on more than one occasion that she's been dabbling in the gray and even black magic. Anything that takes away a person's free will, like love potions, is gray. Black is cla.s.sified as anything that harms another living creature. Both are illegal. If a witch is guilty of either, I'm duty bound to contact the F.R.E.A.K.S. and excommunicate them from the coven. Right now all I have are rumors and a hunch. I was going to start digging more into the rumors after the wedding, but I guess I'll have to start now. So how?

The curtain is pulled aside, and Billie pokes her head in. "Hey, some guy's asking for you."

My body tenses. Another hit man? "Who is he?"

She smiles mischievously. "I told you. Some guy."

Great. I stand and walk into the store, my heart leaping into my throat when I lock eyes on the man at the counter. She was right, he is some Guy. "Dr. Sutcliffe," I say with a nervous laugh. He looks gorgeous in his dark blue jeans and plaid sweater with white shirt underneath. "Um, hi!"

"Hi," he says, blushing just like me.

Neither of us says another word for seconds, we just coyly smile at one another. Billie eyes us both, then clears her throat. "May we help you with something, doctor? We're having a sale on Harry Potter items."

"Oh, uh, no. Thank you." He clears his throat. "I was just stopping by to check on Cora. How is her hand?"

"Fine. She said it still hurts and itches a little though."

"That's normal. It means it's healing. The discomfort should stop in a day or two."

"She'll be happy to hear that," I say.

More awkward silence where we gaze at our shoes. Billie clears her throat again. "Sorry. Frog in throat. I'm going in the back to get some water. Excuse me." She winks at me as she pa.s.ses. I really hope he didn't see that.

When the curtain shuts, Guy and I smile nervously at each other. "So ... you own this place?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's been in the family for generations."

He glances around, taking it all in. "I've never been in a magic shop before. It's ... interesting. Are there a lot of Wiccans in town?"

Really only about fifteen who practice the religion. "Enough."

"And you're the, what do they call it, 'High Priestess' is it?"

"Who told you that?"

"Collins. I never would have pegged her or you for a Wiccan. I always imagined someone like Stevie Nicks or Goths singing to the moon. Not that there's anything wrong with that," he backpedals. "Or the religion. To each his own and all." Oh my goodness, I've fl.u.s.tered him again. A handsome man is clumsy around me. I like it. "I didn't insult you, did I?"

"Not at all."

He shakes his head. "Sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me today."

"It's just one of those days," I say with a chuckle.

"I guess," he says, averting his eyes. "So ... have you always been Wiccan?"

"Pretty much. It's the family religion, not unlike being a Baptist around here."

"And you perform spells? Do they work?"

"Most of the time. They're really just a way to focus and meditate on what you want. We don't sacrifice animals or anything like that."

"Oh, no, I know you don't. The websites said so." He was researching witches? There go the tingles again. He blushes again at his slip. "So uh, Founders' Week is this week, right? What's that usually like?"

I shrug. "Don't know. We haven't had one in fifty years, since the three hundred mark."

"But you're on the committee, right?" Has he been checking up on me? "What, um, events do you suggest I hit?"

"Well, you missed the crafts fair yesterday, but you can make the bake sale at the Methodist church today. My auntie's making pig cookies. They're delicious. I'm really just coordinating the festival on Friday. It's gonna be great. We have games, rides, even fireworks. Sophie's actually in the pageant that day."

"I'll definitely have to go then," he says.

"Um, here," I say, handing him a yellow flyer on the counter. "This

has the schedule."

He reads it. "'Bachelorette Auction?'"