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  “Have you asked Esmara if anything’s amiss?” Killian had finally gotten used to the fact that the spirit of my great-aunt was hanging around to guide me. She was one of the Ladies of our family—a group of women who had gone before, who acted as spirit guides for the living. Esmara had appeared to me shortly after I moved back to Moonshadow Bay, and she had immediately become a permanent fixture in my life.

  “Not yet. I’ve learned the hard way that she doesn’t hand out answers on demand. If I don’t try to figure it out myself, she smacks me upside the head. In fact, she told me that advice was like candy—it should be a treat, doled out sparingly and not gobbled down like it was an entrée. I think Esmara liked to cook. She compares everything to food.” Laughing, I finished my drink. “Should we head to bed?”

  Killian took my glass and carried it into the kitchen. I followed him.

  “I meant what I said, you know,” he said, glancing at me. “I’m going to miss you when you go home.”

  I leaned against the counter as he washed the crystal. “I’ll miss you too, but I think the past month has only served to prove that we’re not quite ready for the next step. Do you agree?”

  He laughed. “Yes, I agree. I love having you around, but…”

  “You’re not ready to give up living on your own, right? And neither am I. I’m just discovering what it means to be on my own after all those years with Ellison. I’m rediscovering myself and my own likes and dislikes. While I know you wouldn’t interfere—you’re not that kind of man, thank gods—I’m just not ready to merge my life with someone else’s again.”

  Killian wrapped me in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice soft. “You don’t have to be. I’m not looking to remake your life or to make you jump through hoops. We started out fast, but now we’re getting to really know each other, and I—for one—am enjoying the journey.”

  And with that, he slid his arm around my waist and walked me to the bedroom, where we ended the day with quiet passion—the kind that feels comfortable rather than wild and untamed. Sometimes, silence said more than fireworks. When we were done, I fell into a deep sleep, with no dreams to mar my world.

  The next morning, I headed for my house the minute Killian left for work, and spent an hour making certain there were no opportunities for the cats to escape. But Jim had done an excellent job, and the house felt almost new again. After I reassured myself that they would be okay, I ran back to Killian’s and scooped Xi and Klaus into their carriers.

  As I carried them out into the front yard, I happened to glance up at the maple trees lining the street. The leaves were beginning to turn. Only three days ago they had still been green, but the nights had grown chilly and all of a sudden, I realized that autumn was really, truly on the way. I sat the carriers down and stood for a moment, just breathing. The breeze was light, tickling my neck, and the sun radiated its golden sheen, but beneath the warmth of the day was a faint tang—a slight change in the thickness of the air that told me autumn was definitely marching in.

  There was always that one day when you could sense it—the hints of the dark nights and cloudy days to come, when the rains would stream down in a perpetual drizzle, and the beautiful gloom that marked the Pacific Northwest would settle back into its normal routine. I loved the autumn, and I loved the cool nights when the leaves went swirling off the trees.

  “It’s on the way,” I whispered. “Not long, now.”

  Xi let out an excited mew. She could feel my anticipation.

  “All right, let’s get you two back inside.” I picked up the carriers and within a few minutes, they were safe inside, sniffing around. Home was still home, but it felt different and I could tell they were both cautious and a little confused.

  “Get used to it, because that’s the last reno I intend to do for a long time,” I told them. Xi glared at me, as though I’d just sworn a blue streak.

  I tackled the boxes. If I worked steadily through the day, I figured I’d be done by late afternoon at the outside. I was most of the way unpacked when my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID. It was Tad—my boss.

  “Hey,” I answered. “What’s up?”

  “I hate to do this to you, but do you think you could cut your vacation short and come in tomorrow?”

  I knew Tad well enough by now to know that he wouldn’t interrupt my time off without a good reason. “What’s going on?”

  “We have a new client with a serious problem. Have you ever heard of the Whatcom Devil?” Tad’s voice deepened, which I recognized as a stress reaction.

  “No, actually, I haven’t. The only thing that brings to mind is the Jersey Devil, and I’m not too conversant with that, either.” I worried my lip. “So, what makes it so urgent that you need me?”

  Tad hesitated, then said, “I think she’s in danger from whatever this is. I want us to keep a close eye on her while we go through the investigation. Let’s face it, you’re good at picking up on things. And with Wren’s husband sick, she’s preoccupied.”

  I let out a sigh. That alone was enough to make me say yes. Wren, one of our team, was an excellent empath, but her husband had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and they were in that initial shock phase, still trying to figure out how to manage their new normal. Tad had told Wren to take as much time as she needed—and she was taking him up on his offer.

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “I’m unpacking today. The contractors did a great job.” But even as I said it, my thoughts went to the bathroom the night before. Even after sleeping on it, I could have sworn I had set the box firmly on the counter. I could be wrong—I wasn’t 100 percent certain, but I’d bet on it. And the laugh I’d heard and the pinch? Last night I’d done my best to write them off to being tired, but this morning, I once again was positive they were real.

  “Are you okay?” Tad asked.

  I startled out of my thoughts. “Yeah, sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know. There’s just something about your voice.” Tad paused, then said, “Are you sure you can come in? If you can’t, take the time. Everything will be fine.”

  “No,” I said, shaking away my gloom. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” After hanging up, I turned back to my boxes but my enthusiasm had waned. I decided the last four could wait. Trying to shake myself out of the sudden funk I’d dropped into, I headed downstairs to fix myself some lunch.

  Chapter Three

  After lunch, I called Florist On the Go and ordered a bouquet and a sympathy card to be sent to Ida, in honor of Jacktaw. Then I made myself another mocha and stepped out on the back porch. As I settled in at the table overlooking the yard, cupping my drink, I ticked off to-do’s in my head. High on the never-ending list, this week I was set to turn over the entire garden for the season. It was time to mulch it under and let it rest until spring. I still wasn’t sure that I fully enjoyed gardening. It had been an experiment, but I was contemplating turning the patch into an herb-and-flower garden and just growing tomatoes, which I loved.

  A flash from the Mystic Wood caught my attention. There were any number of mysterious creatures in those woodlands, including the Woodlings—a race of sentient and mobile plant Fae. And I knew of one other thing hidden in the woods. Somewhere out there, buried in a trunk, was the body of a murderer who had killed my great-grandmother’s daughter, Lara. Somewhere, deep beneath decades of mulch and debris, were his remains.

  I watched the trailhead at the entrance to the forest and then, after a moment, I caught sight of a familiar face. Rebecca was standing on the edge of my lawn. I knew the imp couldn’t leave the woodland—for some reason she had been bound there. She had tried to capture me when I was young, and even now, she seemed fixated on me.

  I slowly stood, keeping an eye on her as I moved to the stairs and descended into the backyard. Quietly, feeling oddly confident, I made my way across the lawn, past the vegetable garden, until I was standing about five yards from the imp.

  She had always looked like a charming
little girl with golden hair and a wide smile. But behind that smile she hid jagged teeth, and behind the affected innocence, she was a dangerous predator. Luckily, I was equipped to deal with her now, but I still didn’t discount her powers or the repressed anger that hid behind that shell of a child.

  To my surprise, today the sneer wasn’t there, nor the hunger in her eyes. Today, I noticed an air of concern—almost fear—which put me on edge. When an imp who liked to eat flesh was afraid, there was usually something to be afraid of.

  What’s going on, Esmara? I asked, feeling my great-aunt nearby.

  Rebecca’s afraid—there’s something new come into the Mystic Wood.

  How do you know?

  I asked her. She will talk to you, if you ask her nicely.

  I grunted. I wasn’t given to being nice to demons who tried to kill me, even if it had been during my childhood. But if there was something dangerous nearby, I needed to know. I grunted again, and turned to Rebecca.

  “So, there’s something new in the Mystic Wood?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, there is.”

  “Care to tell me what it is? I might be able to help send it packing.” I was trying to be polite, but I didn’t have the most success in that area.

  Esmara cleared her throat, right in my ear, making me jump. You might try being more diplomatic.

  I snorted. I’m Rowan Firesong’s granddaughter. What do you expect out of me? But she was right. I tried to dial it back a notch.

  “All right,” I said, turning to Rebecca. “I’m not trying to be argumentative. But the more I know, the better I can help shore up the Mystic Wood.”

  “Why would you care? You’re witchblood, not one of the Fae.”

  “I care because I make my home next to the woodland. I care because the forest is beautiful and I don’t want to see anything destroy it or its magic. How many more reasons do you want?” I began counting off on my fingers. “The forest helps make oxygen. The forest is magical. The forest’s beautiful. I love coming out on my porch every morning and seeing it’s still standing.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. It wasn’t every day that I made conversation with an imp.

  Rebecca sullenly scuffed the ground. Then, after a moment, she shrugged. “All right. I’ll tell you. Something’s come to the Mystic Wood that frightens even the most daring of spirits. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s some demon or devil of a creature.”

  “Not an imp, like you?”

  I must have hit a nerve because Rebecca glared at me. “No, not a demon like me. A demon far stronger than I am, so you’d best watch yourself. I almost got you when you were young, but your guardian saved you. Now, I couldn’t go up against you and expect to come out the winner. But this? This creature? It could mow you down and chop you up for dinner.”

  I swallowed a sudden lump that rose in my throat. “What does it look like?”

  “Like a hound that’s born deformed. Like a lion without the mane. Like Cerberus but not a god. One head only, but it walks like a man and yet looks like a beast. It’s fast and strong, and though I don’t know what kind it wields, it has magic in its blood.” She stopped, glancing over her shoulder as if she heard something. “That’s all I can tell you. Go now, and do what you can to stop it. The Mystic Wood doesn’t need a tyrant king, who would not even be king.”

  “What do you mean—” I stopped as she turned and darted back beneath the shelter of the trees, vanishing without another word.

  What do you think she meant by that? A king who would not even be king?

  Esmara, still beside me, said, I don’t know, to be honest. But when she was talking about this creature, she meant every word. Imp or not, she was telling the truth. You’re going to have to walk very carefully, January. You don’t want to get yourself in a situation that you can’t get out of. Remain watchful if you go walking in the woods.

  Do you think it’s nearby?

  What do you think? Esmara asked.

  I closed my eyes and lowered myself into a light trance. And then, seconds later, an image thrust itself into my mind. Some creature, furious and full of anger, jaws snapping, tongue searching for the hint of something edible, all senses on alert. Rogue—it was rogue, or perhaps it came from a lineage where there was no rule save those it created for itself. But yes, angry and full of hate. And hungry—so very hungry. It was turning toward me and I pulled myself out at the last minute before it could pinpoint my location.

  Crap, I felt it. Did you feel that?

  Yes, I did—through you. I don’t know what it is, but January, you’re dealing with death here—death and danger. Take care of yourself.

  I promise, I said, before returning to the porch. All the way back to the steps, I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see something come running out of the forest after me. Even when I was back inside my kitchen and had shut the door, I made sure to lock it. And even then, the worry continued to nag at me, all through the afternoon.

  I called Ari to tell her what had happened, but she was in the middle of an appointment and couldn’t talk. So I decided to do the next best thing—ward the house.

  When the contractors had done their renovations, they had disturbed a lot of magical energy, which wasn’t unusual. But that just meant that I’d better get the wards up and going again before some wayward spirit—or monster—decided to pay me a visit. I discovered I was out of Ward water, but it was easy enough to make. I gathered a small pair of clippers, two paper bags doubled, several small plastic sandwich bags, and a pair of gardening gloves.

  As I headed out front and down the street toward a lot that was overgrown with blackberries, I also kept my eye open for anything that might make a good addition. I wasn’t out for the actual berries, but several of the canes, covered with thorns. Ward water was protective, and a blackberry bush had some of the best protection in it. The thorns were filled with magic. Also, if I could find some toadstools, they would help. I’d have to be careful with them around the cats, but once the potion was prepared, there wouldn’t be any reason to worry. I never left it for them to lick up anywhere.

  The lot I was heading for was seven houses away, on the corner of Fern—my street—and Castle Avenue. Castle Avenue had a gentrified feel—old, beyond its prime, but trying to make a comeback. My mother told me that some of the oldest members of the town lived there, including several shifters and a couple of witches.

  The corner lot had once housed a mansion, but it had crumbled to ruin and the brambles had overtaken it. Bits and pieces of the estate still poked through the mammoth mound of canes that rose ten feet high in a knotted tangle. The berries were good here—in fact, I’d spent hours here during August, gathering enough berries to fill the freezer, and I had also talked my grandmother, Rowan Firesong, into teaching me how to make jam.

  Now, as I forged my way through the tangle, I was looking for the thicker canes that had thorns as big as my index fingernail, but that weren’t so thick I couldn’t clip them. I paused before starting, pulling out several shiny pieces of crystal.

  I closed my eyes and held the crystals out, tight in my fist. “Please accept this offering in return for some of your magic from your thorns.” As I waited for a sign that I had been heard, I caught a distinctly male voice whispering Thank you. I tossed the crystals into the thick of the blackberries, then went to work.

  Clipping the canes wasn’t difficult, though I needed to ensure that I had enough thorns for my spell. I gingerly pulled them out of the tangle, tossing them into the paper sack. A doubled paper bag worked best. The canes usually didn’t rip through the sack, and the thorns had no wicker or fabric to catch on, which happened with baskets and cloth bags.

  When I had gathered enough, I began to take a step back but paused, instinct taking over. I slowly turned around, hopping on one foot, as I kept my eyes focused on the ground. Sure enough—there, beneath a thin layer of mulch, I caught sight of exactly what I was looking for.

  Amanita muscaria, a
lso known as fly agaric. The telltale red caps with white spots thrust their way out of the ground. In fact, when I knelt to cautiously brush away the mulch and dried grasses, I found a circle of them. A faerie circle. Which meant they had Fae energy locked within them.

  I debated. If some Fae creature was growing them, I’d probably piss them off. But I needed the mushrooms and this lot didn’t have the telltale signs of being a Wild Place. Finally, I decided to ask my pendulum.

  I brought out a crystal pendulum from my pocket and held it over the circle. “Is it all right if I harvest these? Circle clockwise for yes.”

  The pendulum went wild, swinging like crazy until I forced it to stop. I decided I needed to be closer to the mushrooms in order to get a clear answer. I squatted, trying to avoid sitting because there were blackberry canes buried beneath the layers of compost and I didn’t fancy getting thorns stuck in my butt. Frowning, I did my best to balance myself on my heels. Then, slowly, I let go of the pendulum and held the chain over the ring.

  “If I can safely harvest these mushrooms, please swing deosil—clockwise. If you would prefer that I leave them alone, swing widdershins. I’m in need of them for Ward water.”

  I waited. The pendulum slowly began to swing, first gently, then swiftly. It swung clockwise. The chain flew round in a circle, deosil, and then abruptly stopped. I had my answer.

  “Thank you. I have a crystal if you’d like it.” I wasn’t entirely sure who I was talking to, but it felt right to offer it a crystal. I buried the quartz in the center of the faerie ring, then gently harvested the mushrooms, tucking them into one of the plastic bags and tucking that into the paper one.

  When I was done, I slipped out of the bramble field, once again thanking the blackberry deva for its help. Heading back to my house, I looked up and saw an older woman standing on the porch of one of the faded houses along Castle Avenue. She looked to be about eighty, though that wasn’t saying much. A shifter who looked eighty could easily be three or four hundred years old. The woman was watching me carefully. I paused as she started down the staircase.