Two
TWO
T hat evening, Lorne had to attend a town council meeting, and as he was walking up the two-hundred-year-old steps leading to the courthouse, I saw him and waved. He reversed direction, jogging over to me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Since you had a meeting, when Oliver needed a replacement for this evening, I took his shift. I’m giving the ghost tour at eight. It won’t be dark when I start, but it will be by the time I’m done.”
“A ghost tour leaves a bit to be desired in the middle of summer.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Really?”
“With the storms?”
“What storms?” He looked up at the currently clear blue sky.
“You’ll see.”
His chuckle was warm. “A little rain, even thunder and lightning, won’t frighten anyone.”
“But there could be anything hiding in the shadows during the sultry summer nights,” I whispered, waggling my brows. “Or under the plants, or behind bushes.”
“Ha-ha.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t believe me?”
Instantly, he put up his hands. “I believe you.”
“That’s why I never let you walk through the hostas when you go around the side of the cottage. Never know what could be in there with how thick they grow.”
“I don’t walk through the hostas because I don’t want to hurt any of the plants. They’re all so beautiful, and with how big everything is, they feel ancient.”
He had no idea.
“But really, you think it’s going to rain?” he asked, looking up again.
Just then the sky rumbled, and I could feel the magic dance over my skin as I smiled at him.
“Okay,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Overgrown gardens at night?” I baited him. “Wasted, decaying, filled with memories? That doesn’t concern you even a bit?”
“Listen, if you think it’s scary, it’s scary. You’re the expert.”
“On scary?” I was horrified. “I want to be the expert on things magical, not spooky.”
“How about interesting,” he offered, taking hold of my chin and smiling down into my eyes. “Because you do make everything that without question.”
My breath caught. He really was a beautiful man, with his carved features and lush mouth and midnight-blue eyes that caught the light from the antique gas streetlamps that still had to be lit by hand every evening.
“I’ll come find you if the meeting ends early, and if not, you come wait for me here. Either way, I want us to ride home together.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, lifting for him.
He bent and kissed me breathless, and I could feel, as I normally did, the need to take shelter in his chest, next to his heart.
“I love you,” I whispered when he eased back.
He grinned, and the smug grunt made me smile. “I love you too. And make sure you’re not too charming when you give the presentation. I don’t want anyone following you home.”
“I’m walking through a graveyard tonight. I already put a sprig of lavender in each shoe, so don’t worry. Nothing can follow me home.”
“You’re missing the point, but that’s okay,” he said, chuckling as he turned away, which I took as a very good sign.
I was supposed to have seventeen people on the cemetery tour that evening, but by eight fifteen, still alone, I called Jill Stearne at the Osprey Historical Society, which was in charge of the tours, and asked her if I was in the wrong place to meet my group.
“Oh, Xan,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, honey. I called Ollie, and I’m thinking he forgot to pass along the message. That night carnival is in town again this year—they’re set up at the fairgrounds through the weekend. I doubt we’ll have any takers for history over games of chance, crappy food, rides kept together with duct tape, and fortune tellers.”
“Makes sense. Okay, thanks. Have a nice night.”
“I’ll try,” she groaned.
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing. Just got yelled at today more times than I can count.”
Lots of people had been short with me at the library as well. When I apologized, because that’s what you did when you were in customer service, they all did as well. But I did notice a similarity in all of them, and it was that they all looked exhausted. “I’m sorry. It seems like everyone was really tired today. Have you noticed that?”
“Yeah. Me too actually. I haven’t been sleeping.”
“May I ask why?”
“I don’t really know. Weird dreams keeping me up.”
Or nightmares, which was what Danesha was suffering from. She’d confessed before she left me alone earlier that Joanna’s behavior probably wouldn’t have annoyed her quite so much if she wasn’t so sleep-deprived.
“I’m sorry. The good news is that it’s Friday, so you can have a restful weekend.”
“I’ll try.”
“Take care of yourself,” I urged her.
“You too, love, and say hello to Lorne for me.”
“I certainly will,” I said and hung up.
Since there was nothing else to do, I decided to take a walk. I wasn’t interested in the carnival, never had been. There weren’t enough kinds of junk food to excite me, and Jill was not wrong about the rides. I did not need to take my life in my hands by riding a Ferris wheel made in the fifties. Passing by St. Theresa’s, one of the three places of worship in town, I was surprised to hear my name called.
When I turned, I saw Father Dennis Balfour, whom everyone called Father Dennis, coming down the stairs.
“Evening, Father,” I greeted him.
“A good evening to you as well, Xander,” he replied with a smile. “This is excellent timing, as this way I’ll have conversation on my way to the carnival.”
“Oh, I’m not going.”
“Would you deprive me of your company?” he asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“That’s terrible,” I assured him.
He chuckled. “Don’t make me guilt you. Just come with me.”
I shook my head at him. “Is that a good idea?”
He stopped moving and glared at me. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
Clearing my throat, I said, “I heard you’re not supposed to eat any junk food.”
“Blasphemy,” he pronounced. “Who told you that?”
“Apparently, from what I’ve heard, Sister Andrea announced it at service last Sunday, and everyone who was there told everyone else, and c’mon, Father, this town is only so big.”
He threw up his hands. “I told Sister Andrea I’d rather die eating things I love than with all this plant-based nonsense she wants me to make a habit of.”
I cackled. “Habit. Good one.”
“Oh dear Lord,” he moaned.
“Because she’s a nun and they wear habits.”
“Please stop.”
“Do you get it? Do you? Habits?”
“Desist with your terrible jokes.”
“Then no bad food for you.”
“Fake bacon is not in the Bible.”
“But real bacon is, and you’re not supposed to eat it,” I said.
“Jesus said nothing about pork,” he argued.
“I see, so we’re picking and choosing from the good book now. Is that it?”
“Heathen.”
My shrug made him chuckle.
“Listen, I’m not going to the carnival to eat. I just like to see people enjoying themselves.”
“That’s really nice.”
“Well, I’m really nice,” he teased as he continued down the stairs.
When he reached me, I had to look up a bit as he was taller than me. If you imagined what a Catholic priest looked like, Father Dennis was what most would conjure. He was in his early sixties, tall, handsome, with silver at his temples and a few streaks in his dark-brown hair. There were deep laugh lines in the corners of his light sepia eyes, and he was tanned from all the time he spent in the church’s massive gardens. He was one of the nicest men I knew, always with a kind word for me and encouragement for all the young people in town without ever a judgment. I appreciated the Transgender Support Day he and Rabbi Katz had put together last fall, and that the local youth center—sponsored by St. Theresa’s, the Shul of Osprey, and the Zen Buddhist Temple of Osprey—welcomed all.
“Really nice and really fake,” I let him know. “With all due respect, you’re hoping to grab a churro.”
“Fine,” he grumbled as we started walking together. “Don’t look so smug.”
“Where’s the rest of your posse tonight?”
“Rabbi Katz is detained again with Mrs. Colman, who’s certain she’s seen ghosts on the moor behind her house,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “And Abbot Leung is counseling several couples at the high school this evening.”
I squinted at him.
“What do you have against couples’ counseling?”
“Nothing. It’s the first thing you said I have an issue with.”
Instant glare. “I can call it a moor.”
Funny that he knew his use of the term was what prompted my look. Spirits were fine, but something out of Wuthering Heights was ridiculous. “They’re hills.”
“I’ve spent time in Scotland, young man, unlike you,” he informed me. “I know a moor when I see one.”
It was one of many pieces of uncultivated land in and around Osprey that was, after hundreds of years of the town’s establishment, still wild. There were trees, bushes, grass, and, according to Mrs. Colman, entities. At night she kept her curtains drawn as she didn’t want to look up from watching TV or knitting and find a face at her window.
I understood, though for me, seeing something noncorporeal outside was just as likely as seeing a deer or fox. Many spirits crossed my land, Corvus, on their way to another destination, dimension, and everything in between. I never worried about that. What caused concern were the magical beings that occasionally showed up. Thankfully, after the last time my lord Arawn, the god who’d branded me, had communed with my land, I discovered he had granted Corvus the gift of tueor , or awakening. Literally translating to watchtower.
In the past, Corvus and its sacred geometry—working through wards, ley lines, and the sacrifices of blood and bone by my ancestors—had been vigilant, but it did not have the ability to understand the difference between what could cause both me, its guardian, and it, the earth, either strife or blessing.
Once anyone or anything stepped foot on Corvus, a judgment was made. But what the land could not account for was intent. What was in another creature’s heart. My charge, as sentinel, had been to warn the land of danger and keep both it and myself safe. During my lord’s last visit, in order to aid me and my line in our continuing stewardship of the rift, the land was effectively transformed into a watchtower—it now actively identified and repelled evil. In the beginning, when my ancestors first awakened the land with their power, it could not be made to perceive good and evil. Over the centuries, it protected the guardian only once they were harmed. If someone magical crossed onto Corvus, if they were neutral or malevolent, the land would allow the ingress because it didn’t perceive them until they attacked. Now, the land made its own choice, and if that creature was anything but benign, the land itself would repel them. It was an awakening that only a god, both ancient and powerful, could bestow. I would be forever grateful.
“How do you know it can do that now?” Lorne had asked at the time.
“I feel it,” I’d told him simply, and it was true. I knew Corvus had changed, understood it from our daily communion, and had described the blessing in my journal so the guardians who came after me would know when and how the change had occurred.
Last autumn, fae wolves and a sorceress had been at my door. That couldn’t happen anymore. Corvus would now ward evil without my needing to be hurt or having to inform the land of an imminent threat. My cottage, my home, had always done so, but now the protection ran to every corner of the property, and that was a gift. That wasn’t to say that regular people with murderous intentions couldn’t pop up and attack me. Corvus didn’t read humans; it was magic sensing the preternatural, and that was the extent. When I’d told Lorne, he was fine with that. He could, he said, take care of any human menace on his own. I had no doubt.
I did wonder about those in thrall to a being who wanted to harm me. Like, what if the servant was doing their master’s bidding because they believed in them and what they were doing? If the thought process was that I was the evil, then hurting me would be, in their minds, for all the right reasons. What would happen then? I suspected I’d have to wait and see, which I wasn’t crazy about.
“Xander?” Father Dennis prodded me.
“Sorry,” I rushed out, realizing I’d checked out of our conversation. “Call them moors if you want.”
He grinned. “As if I need your permission.”
I couldn’t help smiling back. “You know, you would think that Mrs. Colman would be used to it by now.”
“The ghost sightings, you mean?”
“Yeah. C’mon, she’s the one who moved from the middle of town to the outskirts.”
“I agree,” he replied. “Everyone who’s lived here for more than a minute is well aware that the moors around Osprey are haunted.”
I shrugged.
“No?”
“To be fair, not everyone believes.”
“Yes, but Mrs. Colman has always purported to see ghosts.”
“Purported?” Lord how I hated that word. Lorne had used it on me when we first met. Somehow, no matter what, it got under my skin.
“You know what I meant. I think she might have heard echoes of spirits in the past, seen things she perhaps wasn’t sure of, but that’s a far cry from where she is now.”
“Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Before, in town, certain things could be explained away. But out there on the moor ,” I said, enunciating the word for his benefit, “there’s no mistaking what she’s looking at.”
“Precisely.”
“But there’s nothing bad out there in the dark, merely souls looking to move on.”
“And drawn to the energy of the living,” he added.
It was nice to have a priest who believed in ghosts. That had not always been the case before Father Dennis came to town. There had been many intolerant, bigoted church leaders at one time or another in Osprey. I was thankful that he, along with the rabbi and the abbot, had never made any of their flocks feel anything but welcome, and they were all very open about their beliefs in the spirit world and unseen things.
After a moment, I realized he was walking at a good clip. His height gave him the advantage, and I had to break into a near jog to keep up. “Are we in a rush?”
“I just want to get to the carnival.”
“Because of the churros?” I goaded him.
“You’re annoying. I’m glad you don’t come to service.”
I gasped. Loudly. Dramatically.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you must know, I simply want to head off a possible situation.”
“Which is what?”
He stopped as we reached the chain-link fence surrounding the high school. “I’m concerned Diana Flint might attack Troy Johnson’s stall.”
“Why?” I asked, gesturing for him to start walking. “What did Troy supposedly do to her?”
“Not just her.”
I groaned. “Tell me.”
“Well, apparently, she believes, as does Ken Slater, that Troy killed their bees.”
Diana was a pill about the fact that her apiary should have been the biggest and best in Osprey. Countless times she’d tried to get my friend and neighbor Troy Johnson’s honey taken off the shelves at the local store. But instead of fighting with her, Troy had opened his own store, selling honey with every added natural flavor one could conjure, as well as candles in every shape and size. He also sold tea and simmer pot mixes. It had been a hit the moment he opened his doors, deservedly so, and now, with the influx of tourists, his business was not only booming, but profits were through the roof. Conversely, Diana’s honey sat on the shelf, collecting dust.
It made sense. Troy made a superior product, was committed to sustainability, and his colony was thriving.
“She’s upset because of Troy’s success, you mean?” I rolled my eyes. “That’s not new.”
“No, no, quite literally—her bees, along with Mr. Slater’s colony, have all died.”
“Died?”
He nodded. “Mr. Aguirre—he cares for the Flint apiary—told me they had an entomologist, or a melittologist, I don’t remember which, come out from the university, and she reported that it looked as though the bees were poisoned, but she had no idea by what.”
“Yeah, but what would that have to do with Troy? He loves bees. He would never hurt anyone’s hives.”
“I agree, but the same entomologist or mel?—”
“Bee expert, I got it.”
“So this same bee expert, after seeing Ken’s colony, said she suspected the pollen the bees collected was somehow tainted, so that when the bees took it back to the hive, an infection spread and killed all the others.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is, yes, but that’s not the worst part.”
“True. The worst is that even without a shred of proof, I’m sure, Diana and Ken are pointing the finger at Troy.”
“That’s right.”
“Again, Troy would never hurt bees.”
“I know that, as does everyone else. Furthermore, he owns the biggest apiary in Osprey and is more successful than both Diana and Ken put together.”
“But?”
“But they both still accused him of killing their bees at the small-business meeting.”
“When?”
“Earlier today.”
“Why were you there?”
“Oh, the church is thinking of selling that parcel of land we own on the other side of the library now that Filson’s Fish Shack has gone out of business.”
I squinted at him. “It was the name, you know, not the fact that they sold fishing supplies that did them in.”
“I agree. We’re right by Lake Erie, for goodness’ sake, but with that name, most people thought Fish Shack was a restaurant.”
“I’m sure the tourists would have liked another restaurant.”
“Well, Bill is returning to being an actuary, so that worked out fine, and Linda is still working over at the high school.”
He had to tell me, even though I knew, to reassure me that all was well. It was part of his caring nature. “It’s good when a place can close and everyone is okay.”
“Yes, it is,” he affirmed, then cleared his throat. “But back to Troy, both Diana and Ken are convinced of his guilt even though the rest of the business leaders were not. And I know they were the two affected by what happened, but still, it’s illogical.”
“Not to be mean, but you know that’s how they both are.”
“Yes, and even more so when you hear their argument.”
“Hit me.”
“They believe Troy planted special flowers on his land that are infecting the bees.”
I crossed my arms. “Wouldn’t his bees be dead too if that were the case?”
“That’s exactly what Amanda Sterling said.”
My best friend could always be counted on for sound, pragmatic thinking. “Good.”
“She went on to say how ridiculous it is to assume that Diana’s or Ken’s bees flew all the way from their side of town, more than five miles away, to Troy’s to collect pollen when there’s all those flowers and water right there closer to home.”
“Yeah. Why would that happen?”
He threw up his hands. “I don’t know what they’re thinking, Xan, but Troy should protect his shop and his bees.”
“You actually think they’ll try and do something?”
“I don’t know, but our newest transplant, Mr. Pace, seemed to be fanning the flames.”
Mr. Allard Pace—who had recently bought Haskell Manor and was in the process of turning it into a B&B—I had only seen in passing. Many others in town had the same thought, to capitalize on Osprey’s new status as a tourist attraction, but while most were residents, Mr. Pace had newly arrived two or three weeks prior.
“Define fanning the flames.”
“Well, apparently, he had a deal with Diana to supply small jars of honey to go into his welcome baskets for guests of his B and B, and the deal would have been quite lucrative. He is upset for himself, as well as her, and let everyone know that.”
“Which is nice, I guess.”
“To be concerned for her, as well as for himself, yes. Certainly. But his rhetoric was overly charged, in my opinion. He told Troy he should be ashamed of himself and got both Diana and Ken up in arms.”
“What did Troy do?”
“He just sat there, shaking his head, and pointed out, again, how absurd the accusation was. We all agreed, but neither Diana nor Ken wavered in their belief, and as I said, Mr. Pace was not backing down either.”
“And so you think because of all that, something will happen at the carnival?”
“It seems far more likely than someone being foolish enough to actually go to Troy’s home.” His face scrunched up like that was simply crazy. “I mean, Rita has those geese.”
Originally, she had four of the Sebastopol variety that she loved, but they didn’t thrive here. They also weren’t crazy about Rita, which I didn’t understand. Everyone and everything loved Rita Johnson. But she went ahead and gave them to her sister, who took them back to West Virginia with her after a visit in the fall. As far as I knew, the move had been great for them.
This winter, Rita found a seemingly dead Canada goose beyond the stream on her property, near the line where it bordered the nature preserve. As far as she could tell, someone had grazed it with a bullet and broken its wing. Rita called a friend, a wildlife rehabber, was told precisely what to do, and saved the goose. She took wonderful care of him—it was a gander—and when she finally took him back outside a week later, there were three others waiting for him. It was the beginning of her flock because none of them wanted to leave.
By law, Canada geese are wild, so it’s illegal to keep them. But as there was no pen and they were free to leave, Rita couldn’t be fined. The only fences on the Johnson property went around the apiary, the chicken enclosure, and the vegetable garden. Why would the geese choose to stay? Well, that might’ve had something to do with the luxurious accommodations, which I knew all about as I’d helped build the little cabana they retreated to every evening. It boasted a heater for fall and winter, an air-conditioning unit for summer, and heavy-duty mesh on the windows in the spring so no predator could get in. And yes, technically that meant they were cooped in, which was illegal, but…since that only happened at night, and no one was popping by in the wee hours of the morning to check, it went unnoticed. There were ten of them at the moment, and though I wasn’t crazy about them, I had to agree with Father Dennis that they were not to be messed with. They were all at least twelve pounds—not that anyone weighed them—and had between five- and six-foot wing spans and bad attitudes. Scary didn’t do them justice.
I had no idea how they could be so mean to everyone but Rita and Delia. They were still not fond of Troy, and that was what Rufus, their golden retriever, was for. They adored him, and because of that, they refrained from attacking Troy. Apparently, they also enjoyed the hum of the bees, and when my friend was out taking care of his colony, they would all sit down and watch. The picture the animals and the humans made was lovely: dog lying in the warm sunlight, geese in the shade or swimming in the stream, the handsome man collecting honey, and his beautiful wife polishing pieces of jewelry on the wraparound porch, sipping lemonade.
The last time I was there, reclining near Rita, arms behind my head, legs dangling, suddenly there were strangers—tourists, I later learned, who’d gotten turned around—taking several uninvited steps into the yard.
First off, who did that without an invitation? Second, big mistake. Huge.
“Who are they?” I remembered asking.
“Wait,” Rita cautioned the strangers, quickly getting up from her chair.
“No,” Troy yelled from where he was, farther back on the property.
But a man was striding forward into their yard, a couple of women behind him. “We would love to—ohmygod!”
The geese came running, which was better than flying, honking, and flapping, but still intimidating, and the tourists, smartly, turned tail and ran for their lives.
Of course they went directly to the police station, where Lorne informed them they’d been trespassing and that the geese in question were not pets because that was against the law. As if Lorne was going to do anything to those sweet geese Rita loved. Ridiculous.
“The geese are scary,” I concurred with Father Dennis.
“They are, and really, going to the house would be foolish. But attacking Troy in public, making trouble either at the booth or the store, that would be a problem for his business. I can see Diana or Ken or both doing that.”
“It’s good of you to try and head that off.”
“Well, I’d rather not have to involve Lorne if we don’t have to.”
I agreed.
Once we were close, I realized that the crowds walking with us toward the carnival, and those leaving, exceeded by far what was normal for a Friday night in July.
“You need to get your Moses action on,” I teased Father Dennis, “and part the sea.”
The look he shot me, it was lucky I wasn’t drinking anything or I would have choked to death.
“Oh, c’mon, that was funny,” I said, chuckling, already tired of dodging people, so I stepped off the curb to walk in the street. He quickly joined me.
“I think Moses action , as you call it, would be overkill in this situation, don’t you agree?”
He said it so deadpan. I started laughing again.
“Really, Xander Corey, the things you find funny.”
But he put his hand on my shoulder as we walked, so he couldn’t have been that annoyed.
There were two lines to get in, and after we both paid our dollar, we listened to the cashier tell us where we could get food-and-drink tickets, as well as the ones for the rides, and then got a stamp on the back of our hands to reenter if we left the midway.
I grinned at the cashier. “I bet you’re so sick of saying all that.”
“You have no idea,” the man said, smiling back.
“Have you ever seen the carnival this packed?”
“No, but you gotta figure that most of these folks are tourists. There’s not much to do in this tiny town after six when the sidewalks roll up for the night.”
True. Besides Eleanor Powell’s Bread & Butter diner, my friend Declan’s bistro, Waxing the Moon, and Cinerama, the movie theater which was technically a movie house—as there were no rows of seats, just a big room with furniture that had been old when I was little—the town was dead long before the sun went down.
“You’re not wrong,” I said with a shrug. “Do you know where the non-food booths are?”
He gave me directions, smiled at Father Dennis, and then we started walking, rejoining the crowd.
“You know,” Father Dennis began, hand on my shoulder again so we wouldn’t get separated, “Jericho is keeping the Wounded Lamb open a bit later these days. He told me he’s going to midnight until the fall.”
“That’s what I heard.” I didn’t add that Lorne wasn’t thrilled about the only pub in town staying open that late. He felt that drunk tourists wandering around a darkened town at night was a recipe for disaster.
I had told him to try not to worry. That as far as I knew, there was nothing out there in the night feeding on people at the moment. He didn’t think I was any funnier than Father Dennis did.
We finally made it through the throng, past the rides, the games, and all the food stalls, back to where the booths were. I was surprised to see Delia closing up already. She smiled and waved when she saw us, and I saw Cass there as well, with Rufus, feeding him what looked like a regular ice-cream cone.
“That better be frozen yogurt,” I told her.
“Of course it’s yogurt,” Delia called over. “You think I want him barfing on my shoes? It’s the doggy one they make at Wags. They have a booth next to the churro one.”
I turned to Father Dennis.
“I am not eating a churro,” he groused. “Seriously, when did you get this annoying?”
“Been like this for years.” I waggled my eyebrows.
He groaned, then looked at Delia. “Are you all out of honey and everything else?”
“Yessir, we are,” she replied with a grin. “Uncle Troy was just here collecting money and receipts. He’s taking it all to the store and then coming back for us after the show.”
“Is it magic this year or dancing?” he asked her.
“I’m pretty sure it’s both,” Cass chimed in. “I think that’s what the flyer said.”
“Do I need a ticket?”
“Yes,” Delia told him. “But so do we, so you can come with us.”
He was pleased to be invited, and I begged off quickly, not wanting to get stuck inside a tent for an hour when I could be meeting the man I loved instead.
“Were there any issues tonight?” I asked the girls.
Delia shook her head. “No. There was a thing at the store, though.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“Some guy tried to throw a rock through Uncle Troy’s window, but you know,” she said with a shrug, “you can’t.”
The front windows of all the stores in the center of Osprey were shatterproof glass. To make sure the buildings always looked picture-perfect, even before the flood of visitors, that had been added to the town charter years ago. There had been too many storms with flying debris to not make that change.
“So then what, the rock bounced back and hit the guy in the head?” I asked her.
She nodded. “That’s what Uncle Troy said. And after that, Deputy Rooney cited the guy for attempted destruction of property, along with the others.”
“Others?”
“Yeah. I guess there were a bunch of tourists trying to do the same thing. Uncle Troy said that Deputy Rooney wrote several tickets and handed out a lot of ice packs.”
“Well, I’m glad they got tickets,” I told her. “Even though nothing happened, they should still know we take that kind of thing seriously.”
“Yeah,” she asserted, but she looked almost sad.
“What’s wrong?” I prodded.
“Nothing.”
“Please tell me.”
She sighed heavily. “I just can’t believe that Mrs. Flint and Mr. Slater think my uncle would ever hurt anyone else’s bees when he takes such good care of his. That’s crazy. I thought they knew him better than that.”
But the weird thing was, they did, and now that I was thinking about that, it bothered me. They were all friends, or had been. I’d forgotten that earlier, mostly because Diana’s hatred of me colored my perception of her and her actions. But Troy she had always liked. The same with Ken Slater, who, honestly, I hardly ever saw. We lived on opposite ends of a small town but still far enough away not to interact.
“You don’t think Uncle Troy is in any danger, do you?” Delia asked me.
“Of course not,” Father Dennis answered her.
She smiled at him, but she was waiting on me. I’d helped her in the past, was her guide on her magical journey, so she was looking to me for answers.
I offered her my hand, and she grabbed it fast. “I think everyone is being a bit crazy at the moment, but as you noted, people love your uncle, so I wouldn’t worry about him at work. And at home, as Father Dennis pointed out to me earlier, there’s the geese,” I reminded her.
She nodded, giving me a trace of a smile. “Yeah, the geese are no joke. And even if they don’t hurt you, they make so much noise, it’s crazy.”
“But if anyone asks?” I prodded her.
“They’re not pets, even though they have their own luxury cabin that?—”
I coughed.
“Yeah, fine, they’re totally wild animals.”
“That’s right,” I agreed with a wink.
When I looked at Father Dennis, widening my eyes, it took him a moment, but then he nodded. Delia had lost both her parents two years ago. She could not lose either her aunt or uncle. She’d rebuilt her world around them, and they were her safety net. We both had to exude certainty that Troy and Rita were safe as houses.
“Okay, I’m outta here,” I announced. “I’ll see you all later.”
Turning back the way I came, I noticed a woman with iridescent wings walking with a man with deer horns and ears. Clearly, they would soon be performing on the main stage under the big white tent.
Passing others, though, I noted eyes that were seemingly too big for faces, smaller horns on others, like those of goats, and colors of skin, the palest blue, a flash of pink and gold, all leaving me with a singular deduction: it made sense that on a warm, sultry summer night, in a small town so close to the woods, there would be fae about.
Most of the time, it was hard to get a good look at them. They were those people you glanced at, noticed something different, something amiss, looked a second time, harder, only to realize it must have been a trick of the light, as they were so obviously merely people. But that wasn’t true. What had been revealed for that brief moment when the glamour fell aside was the being beneath the mask. Everyone could see magic at times, recognize what was apparent to our ancestors because they were raised to believe. Now, if people saw glittering purple eyes in the moonlight, they brushed it off, certain that was impossible. But I wasn’t like that. I’d been raised to see and to distinguish something other from the mundane. Added to that, I’d been branded by a god to recognize every trace of magic in the shadows, on the breeze, and, of course, walking around fairgrounds.
I felt two things at once: First, dread in the pit of my stomach. It was ballsy of them to be strolling out in the open without a care. Normally they were far more careful, so the fact that they weren’t meant that some piece was out of place. Some deterrent was missing. Second, when I stepped between two food stalls and stood still, checking my surroundings, I saw them everywhere. Not everyone at the carnival was a fae, but there were more than I’d seen in ages.
“What the hell,” I whispered to myself.
“Hell indeed,” a husky voice said from behind me.
The shiver that rolled up my spine was terrifying, and I froze.
“Why would you ever make yourself so vulnerable?” the voice asked. “That seems a stupid thing for a witch to do.”