Authors: Molly Harper
Tags: #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction
“Try to put your hair into two tiny pigtails,” I told him. “For authenticity.”
“This isn’t funny, Sadie.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Afterword
If you are interested in visiting any of the locations or events described herein—and
I hope you are—please visit the following Web sites:
Kentucky Department of Travel
Columbus-Belmont Park—For the record, there is no summer encampment. But the fall
event is awesome.
www.parks.ky.gov/parks/recreationparks/columbus-belmont/default.aspx
Vent Haven Museum—Not nearly as creepy as Josh believes it to be. An extremely cool
collection of showbiz history.
Kentucky State Fair
My personal favorite sites in Kentucky:
Wickliffe Mounds
http://parks.ky.gov/parks/historicsites/wickliffe-mounds
Lost River Cave
Newport Aquarium—Home to Sweet Pea and Scooter, stars of the only shark ray breeding
program in the world.
And if you are interested in finding the weird in your own state, I recommend searching
www.weirdus.com
Click through for a sneak peek of the next scintillating tale by
Molly Harper
A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses & Curses
Available June 2013 from Pocket Books
If you are fortunate enough to receive a message from the other side, pay attention
to it.
—A Guide to Traversing the Supernatural Realm
My week started with spectral portents of doom floating over my bed while I was trying
to have anniversary sex with my boyfriend. It was all downhill from there.
Stephen had not been pleased when I’d pushed him off of me, rolled out of bed, and
yelled, “That’s it! I’m going!” at the image of a crow burning against my ceiling.
I mean, I guess there are limits to what men are willing to put up with, and one’s
girlfriend interacting with invisible omens is a bit out of a perfectly nice investment
broker’s scope. He seemed to think I was huffing off after taking offense to that
counterclockwise tickle he’d improvised near the end.
Of course, telling him about the increasingly forceful hints I’d received from my
noncorporeal grandmother for the last two weeks would have made the situation worse.
Stephen tended to clam up when we discussed my family and their “nonsense.” He refused
to discuss my Nana Fee or the promise I’d made to her that I’d travel all the way
from our tiny village to the wilds of America. So I’d tried ignoring the dreams, the
omens, the way my alphabet soup spelled out “HlfMunHollw.”
I tried to rationalize that a deathbed promise to a woman who called herself a witch
wasn’t exactly a binding contract. But my grandma interrupting the big O to make her
point was the final straw.
And so I was moving to Half-Moon Hollow, Kentucky, indefinitely, so I could locate
four magical objects that would prevent a giant inter-witch-clan war and maintain
peace in my little corner of northwestern Ireland.
Yes, I am aware that statement sounds absolutely ridiculous.
Sometimes it pays to have a large tech-savvy family at your disposal. When you tell
them, “I have a few days to rearrange my life so I can fly halfway across the world
and secure the family’s magical potency for the next generation,” they hop to do whatever
it takes to smooth the way. Aunt Penny had not only booked my airline tickets, but
also located and rented a house for me. Uncle Seamus had arranged quick shipping of
the supplies and equipment I would need to my new address. And my beloved, and somewhat
terrifying, teenage cousin Ralph may have broken a few international laws while online
“arranging” a temporary work visa so I wouldn’t starve while I was there. Not everybody
in our family could work magic, but some members had their own particular brand of
hocus-pocus.
Given how Stephen felt about my family, I’d decided it was more prudent to tell him
I’d accepted an offer for a special six-month nursing fellowship in Boston. The spot
came open when another nurse left the program unexpectedly, I told him, so I had to
make a quick decision. He argued that it was too sudden, that we had too many plans
hanging in the balance for me to run off to the States for half a year, no matter
how much I loved my job.
I didn’t want to leave Stephen. For months he had been a bright spot in a life in
need of sunshine, with the loss of my Nana Fee and my struggles to keep the family
buoyed. And yet, somehow, here I was, sprawled in the back of a run-down cab as it
bumped down a sunlit gravel road in Half-Moon Hollow, Kentucky. The term “cab” could
only be applied loosely to the faded blue Ford station wagon, the only working taxi
in the entire town. We had a fleet of two working in Kilcairy, and we only had about
four hundred people living inside the town limits. Clearly, living in Boston until
my early teens hadn’t prepared me for life in the semirural South.
Yawning loudly, I promised myself I would worry about cultural adjustments later.
I was down-to-the-bone tired. My skirt and blouse were a grubby shambles. I smelled
like airplane sweats and the manky Asian candy my seatmate insisted on munching for
most of the thirteen-hour flight from Dublin to New York, which had been followed
by a two-hour hop to Chicago and another hour on a tiny plane-let. I just wanted to
go inside, take a shower, and sleep. While I was prepared
to sleep on the floor if necessary, I prayed the house was indeed furnished as Aunt
Penny promised.
While the McGavock clan had collectively bankrolled my flight, I needed to save the
extra cash they’d provided as “buy money” for my targets. Living expenses were left
to me to figure out. I would have to start looking for some acceptable part-time work
as soon as my brain was functional again. I squinted against the golden light pouring
through the cab windows, interrupted only by the occasional patch of shade from tree
branches arching over the little lane. The sky was so clear and crystal blue that
it almost hurt to look out at the odd little clusters of houses along the road. It
was so tempting just to lay my head back, close my eyes, and let the warm sunshine
beat hot and red through my eyelids.
“You know you’re rentin’ half of the old Wainwright place?” the cab driver, Dwayne-Lee,
asked as he pulled a sharp turn onto yet another gravel road. I started awake just
in time to keep my face from colliding with the spotty cab window. Dwayne-Lee continued
on, blithe as a newborn babe, completely oblivious. “That place always creeped me
out when I was a kid. We used to dare each other to run up to the front door and ring
the bell.”
I lifted a brow at his reflection in the rearview. “And what happened?”
“Nothin
’,”
he said, shrugging. “No one lived there.”
I blew out a breath and tried to find the patience not to snap at the man. Dwayne-Lee
had, after all, been nice enough to make a special trip to the Half-Moon Hollow Municipal
Airport to pick me up. Dwayne-Lee had been sent by Iris Scanlon, who handled various
business dealings for my new landlord. His skinny frame puffed up with pride at being
tasked with welcoming a “newcomer,” he’d handed me an envelope from Iris containing
a key to my new house, a copy of my lease, her phone number, and a gift certificate
for a free pizza delivered by Pete’s Pies.
Anyone who tried to make my life easier was aces in my book. So from that moment on,
I was a little in love with Iris Scanlon. Less so with Dwayne-Lee, who was currently
nattering on about the Wainwright place and its shameful conversion from a respectable
Victorian home to a rental duplex after Gilbert Wainwright had moved closer to town
years before. I closed my eyes against the sunlight and the next thing I knew, the
cab was pulling to a stop.
Wiping furiously at the wet drool trail on my chin, I opened my door while Dwayne-Lee
unloaded my luggage from the trunk. Separated from the other houses on the street
by a thicket of dense trees, the rambling old Victorian was painted robin’s-egg blue
with snowy white trim. The house was two stories, with a turret off to the left and
a small central garden separating the two front doors. Given that the opposite side
of the front porch seemed occupied with lawn chairs and a disheveled garden gnome,
I assumed that the “tower side” of the house was mine. I grinned, despite my bone-aching
fatigue. I’d always been fascinated by the idea of having a tower as a kid, though
I’d long since cut my hair from climbing length.
The grass grew scrabbled in patches across the lawn. A section of brick had fallen
loose from the foundation on the west corner. Knowing my luck, there was a colony
of bats living in the attic to complete that Addams Family look.
“I’ll have bats in my belfry.” I giggled, scrubbing at my tired eyes.
“You feelin’ all right, ma’am?” Dwayne-Lee asked.
“Hmm?” I said, blinking blearily at him. “Oh, sorry, just a little out of sorts.”
I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket and handed him enough for my fare and a generous
tip.
Dwayne-Lee cleared his throat. “Um, ma’am, I can’t take Monopoly money.”
I glanced down at the bills in my hands. They were the wrong color. I was trying to
pay Dwayne-Lee in euros. “Sorry.”
With Dwayne-Lee compensated in locally legal tender, I took my key out of Iris’s envelope,
unlocked the door, and hauled my stuff inside. My half of the old Wainwright place
consisted of two bedrooms and a bath upstairs, plus a parlor and a kitchen downstairs.
It was a bit shocking to have this much room to myself. I was used to living in my
Nana Fee’s tiny cottage, where I still whacked my elbows on the corner of the kitchen
counter if I wasn’t careful.
At some point, the house appeared to have been decorated by a fussy old lady fond
of dark floral wallpaper and feathered wall sconces. The house was old, but someone
had paid some
attention to its upkeep recently. The hardwood floors gleamed amber in the afternoon
light. The stairs were recently refurbished and didn’t creak once while I climbed
them. The turret room turned out to be a little sitting area off my bedroom, lined
with bookshelves. I ran my fingers along the dusty shelves. I loved a good book. If
I stayed long enough, I could put a little reading chair there . . . if I had a reading
chair. I’d need to do something about getting some more furniture.
Despite Aunt Penny’s assurances, the rooms were furnished in only the meanest sense.
There was a table and chairs in the kitchen, a beaten sofa in the parlor, plus a dresser
and bare mattress in the front bedroom. Sighing deeply and promising myself I wouldn’t
mention this to my aunt, I drew the travel sack—a thin, portable sleeping bag for
people who were phobic about touching hotel sheets—over the bare mattress. The travel
sack was a Christmas gift from Stephen. I smiled at the thought of my dear, slightly
anal-retentive boyfriend and resolved to call him as soon as it was a decent hour
overseas.
I found blankets in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I wasn’t too keen on using them
as covers, given their moldy state, but I thought they would make a good shade for
the window so the sun wouldn’t keep me awake. I boosted myself against the dresser
to hang one . . . only to observe that some sort of Greek statue had come to life
in my garden.
He was built like a boxer, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with narrow hips encased
in ripped jeans. Thick sandy hair fell forward over his face while he worked. His
sculpted chest was bare, golden, and apparently quite sweaty given the way it glistened
while he planted paving stones near a pristine concrete patio.
I wavered slightly, grabbing the window frame, my weakening knees coupled with jet
lag causing me to collapse a little. Was this my next-door neighbor? I wasn’t sure
if I was comfortable living so close to a he-man who could lift giant stones as if
they were dominoes. And when had it gotten so bloody hot in here? I hadn’t noticed
I was warm in the cab . . . Oh, wait, it was time for he-man to take a water break.
He took a few long pulls off a bottle from his cooler and dumped the rest over his
head.
My jaw dropped, nearly knocking against my chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Just then, he looked up and spotted me ogling him from above. Our eyes connected . . .
And he winked at me like some lothario gardener out of a particularly dirty soap opera!
I spluttered indignant nonsense before tucking the blanket over the window with a
decisive shove.
I pressed my hands over dry, tired eyes. I didn’t have the mental reserves for this.
I needed to sleep, eat, and bathe, most likely in that order. I would deal with the
man reenacting scenes from
A Streetcar Named Desire
in my garden at a later date. My shoulders tense and heavy, I crawled onto the mattress,
bundled my shirt under my head, and plummeted into sweet unconsciousness.
• • •
I woke up bleary and disoriented, unable to figure out where the hell I was. Why was
it so dark? Was I too late? Were
they
here already? Where was my family? Why couldn’t I hear anyone talking? I lurched
up from the mattress and snagged the blanket from the window, letting in the weak
twilight.
As soon as I saw the paving stones, I remembered the flight, the mad taxi ride, and
the Adonis in the back garden.
“Oh.” I sighed, scrubbing my hand over my face. “Right.”
I stumbled into the bath and splashed cool water on my face. The mirror reflected
seven kinds of hell. My face was pale and drawn. My thick, coffee-colored hair was
styled somewhere near “crazy cat lady,” and my normally bright, deep-set brown eyes
were marked with dark smudges that weren’t entirely composed of mascara. I had my
grandfather’s features, straight lines, delicate bones, and a particularly full bottom
lip. Of course, that meant I looked like my mother, too, which was not something I
liked to dwell on.
I stripped out of my clothes, standing under the lukewarm spray and letting it wash
away the grime. Long after the water cooled, I climbed out of the tub, only to remember
that I hadn’t thought to bring any towels into the bathroom with me. Aunt Penny had
stuffed a few into my suitcase because she knew the house wouldn’t have them. But
my suitcase was downstairs, next to the door. And I was stark naked.
“Moron,” I cursed myself as I took a sprightly, shivering walk across the bedroom
to retrieve my jacket. I took the stairs carefully—because I wasn’t about to die in
a household accident wearing only an outdated rain jacket—and carefully avoided windows
as I made my way to my luggage. The towels, somehow, still smelled line-fresh, like
the lavender and rosemary in Nana Fee’s back garden. I pressed one to my face before
wrapping it around my body toga-style.
I mentally blessed Aunt Penny for packing some ginger tea in my bag, which was good
for post-flight stomachs. I retrieved the tea bags and cast a longing glance at the
kitchen. Did the “furnished” bit include dishes and cups? I could function—I might
even be able to dress myself properly—if I just had some decent tea in me. Even if
it meant boiling the water in a microwave.
I shuddered. Blasphemy.
If I set the water to boil now, it would be ready by the time I picked out clothes.
Multitasking would be the key to surviving here. There would be no loving aunties
to make my afternoon tea, no uncles to pop into town if I needed something. I was
alone here with my thoughts, for the first time in a long time. And considering my
thoughts of late, that could be a dangerous thing.