Chapter 2 #2
A lion cub of a cat lay across the entrance to Spirited Grounds, his black fur absorbing the morning sunlight; a feline solar panel.
Lurid Halloween decorations—a gaudy mix of ceramic pumpkins, glittering cobwebs, and stoned-looking plastic flamingos on either side of the door—clashed spectacularly with the animal’s sleek elegance.
He lay there, one golden eye half closed, tail flicking lazily.
Dane easily interpreted his look: yes, peasants, I rule this town.
I will smite you if you annoy or inconvenience me.
Customers gingerly stepped over him, but he barely moved, the picture of feline supremacy managing, just, to tolerate the lunacy of humans.
Dane appreciated his what-the-actual-fuck attitude.
Inside, Dane joined the long queue waiting to be served and looked around.
He’d seen and experienced plenty of strange things in his life—triage under a high-rise building in danger of collapsing; performing a tube thoracostomy to treat a hemothorax with a Leatherman; his high-school portrayal of Kenickie from Grease—but the organized chaos that was Spirited Grounds on a Friday morning, on any morning to be fair, was still a shock to his system.
Honestly, it looked like a Victorian tea parlor high on hashish, with a side hustle in caffeine.
The place—all velvet drapes, yellow and blue striped wallpaper, and gilt mirrors—reminded him of those crazy mirrors at county fairs.
The interior designer must’ve believed in more is more, slapping tacky, flea-market finds onto every horizontal surface with impunity.
Teacups—bright and mismatched—swung from the ceiling on hooks at the end of thin wires.
Everywhere he looked, there were candles, cat statues, and second-hand books—available to borrow! —carelessly and chaotically stacked.
A spray-painted mural—by a fairly talented artist—covered the wall to his right.
The woman depicted wore a short cape and a long apron, and what he thought was a bonnet; the man next to her sported a big hat, a huge collar and toted a rifle over his shoulder.
Puritans, he decided. In all the pictures he’d seen of the Protestants, they all looked like they had sticks up their asses.
But these two—Jeremiah Blackwood and Constance Merriweather, apparently—were both smiling, and looked … well, relaxed. Like life wasn’t all Calvinist theory and moral diligence. Artistic license? Maybe.
Strangely, really strangely, the whacky décor worked. The air smelled like espresso, cinnamon, dust, and warm milk. The baristas wore black aprons and ready smiles, and a wonky chalkboard announced today’s special as The Boo-rista Blend, featuring “notes of Columbia, caramel, chaos, and confusion.”
He found himself grinning despite himself. This was H-Town—he’d recently discovered that only tourists called it Solstice Springs—half charm, half insanity, and very different from when he was a kid. Surprisingly, he sorta kinda liked it.
The whispered, electronic “boo” signaled another customer entering the shop, and Dane listened to the footsteps of someone joining the queue behind him.
Light, fresh perfume filled his nose… God, gorgeous.
He resisted the urge to turn around. Somehow, it was enough to simply stand in this crazy coffee shop, inhale the feminine perfume, and decide whether he wanted a hot Americano—the Dark Séance, strong enough to raise the dead—or cold—the Witch’s Cold Shoulder, dark, cool, and done with you.
“Bird! God, it is you!”
Dane turned to see a tall guy—he topped his own six-foot-two by an inch or more—sweep the woman behind him into a tight hug, his hand holding her head to his wide chest.
She squealed in delight, and the guy lifted her off her feet to twirl her around.
He immediately recognized her as being the occupant of the car earlier.
Her laugh, low and a lot dirty, reached him, and Dane swallowed, trying to ignore his irrational jealousy of that big hand on her back, the other banded across her thighs just under her very shapely butt.
Jealous? Over a woman he’d never met? What the hell was that about?
“When did you get back to town?” the man demanded. “Why didn’t you call me? How long are you staying?”
She was placed back on her feet, and Dane caught his breath when he took in her lovely face.
Strands of her hair, rich browns streaked with gold, had fallen from the bun-thing on top of her head to rest on an exceedingly nice chest. The rest of her body was fine too, but it was her face that captured his attention.
No makeup that he could see, wide, light eyes the color of grapes and ringed by a deeper green dominated her face, highlighted by ridiculously long eyelashes and strong brows.
Freckles, just a light spray, covered her straight nose and rambled onto her cheeks.
Her mouth was unpainted, with plump lips he ached to explore.
“Hayes!” she cried, sliding her hands into his. “Oh God, it’s so, so good to see you! How are you? How is Hadley?”
“Driving me mad,” he replied, squeezing her hands before shoving his into the back pockets of oil-stained jeans. Biker boots covered his huge feet and a streak of grease ran from his temple into his short beard. “Why are you back? Last we heard, you were doing a gig in Seoul.”
Dane had visited Seoul, loved the city, and wondered what took her there. Pretending to scroll through his phone, far too interested, he waited for her reply. “I was there, came home to New York, then I went to LA.”
Quite the traveler. He wondered what she did that took her all over the country.
“Wren Dunlop, is that you?”
The high, piping voice had Dane lifting his head, and he blinked at the vision scuttling across the coffee shop.
Bright purple hair piled like cotton candy, five layers of lace, and enough rings to satisfy a French queen.
The man two steps behind her, wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and a faded ball cap, skin tanned to leather, looked as out of place as an ice cube in hell.
“Help,” Wren whimpered, just loud enough for him and her friend to hear.
The guy—Hayes?—lifted two hands and walked backwards, shaking his head. “Nope, it’s too early to deal with Marigold and Earl, not even for you. Order me a straight black, I’ll wait for you outside.”
So he knew her well enough to demand coffee. Mmm. Wren narrowed her eyes at Hayes before plastering a huge smile on her face and greeting the mismatched duo.
They bombarded her with questions and barely allowed her time to answer.
Dane edged closer to the counter and ordered his iced Americano—he’d rather punch himself than call it a Witch’s Cold Shoulder.
Then he noticed that everyone in the café was watching the show, so he allowed himself to tune into the conversation, too.
Wren had a tiny, berry-shaped birthmark on her left shoulder, left bare by her cropped tank top that showed an inch of her flat stomach above a pair of low-slung cargo pants.
On her neck, directly below her ear, sat three tiny freckles, little soldiers in a row.
Dane rubbed the back of his neck… Since when did he start noticing the little things?
“Effie says you’re looking a little thin and a bit peaky,” Marigold said, rings flashing.
Dane leaned his arm on the counter. He looked at Wren, saw that she was watching him, and his heart, always cool, always contained and controlled, stuttered like a tractor backfiring.
His eyes roamed over her face, thinking that she wasn’t the kind of beautiful that begged to be noticed—but the kind that made you forget what you were saying halfway through a sentence. Ergo, Cat. 5 dangerous.
“Effie is worried that you’re not exuding enough joy.”
Wren turned back to the conversation, taking a moment to tune in. “Uh … can you tell her I’m fine?”
Behind her, Earl let out a long-suffering grunt. “For crying out loud, Marigold. Effie doesn’t think anything. She’s a draft coming in from the back door.”
Wren winced. “Oh God, here we go,” she muttered.
Dane tapped his phone to pay and took his coffee, making space for Wren at the counter. She ordered a flat white, earning his respect when she refused to call it a Coven Cream—smooth, milky magic brewed under a waxing moon.
“Who’s Effie?” Dane asked Wren, taking a hit of his drink. It was damn good for a cold coffee with a weird name from a very weird shop.
She looked up at him, a slight smile on her face.
His stomach, stupid thing, flipped over.
Wren turned and pointed. Behind the counter, in a gold frame, hung the sepia portrait of a woman in Edwardian lace, who stared down at him with knowing eyes and a mischievous smirk.
Dane squinted to read the brass plaque beneath.
EUPHEMIA MAYFAIR
1879–1912
Resident Spirit. Chief of Espresso Operations (Posthumous).
“Fuck me,” he murmured.
“Yep, this town is nuts,” Wren agreed. Her eyes widened, as if imparting a great secret. “Brace yourself, there are ghosts!”
He grinned. “There’s more than one?”
She patted his bare forearm, a quick pat that sent a bolt of attraction up his arm. She jerked her hand back and released a shaky laugh. Yep, she’d felt that, too. Interesting.
“The True Believers think there’s a community of them out there, but there are a couple who are famous.”
Oh, this was going to be entertaining. He rolled his finger, silently asking her to elaborate.
“Let me try and remember my ghost history,” she said, thinking.
“There’s Captain Blackwood, descendant of one of the town’s original founders.
He was a Civil War soldier, died in a battle, very upright, very moral.
Lila, of course, she’s a vaudeville dancer, and she died after a fall and an encounter with a horse’s hoof.
Cedric is the town historian and keeper of spectral records.
Don’t ask. Uh… The Reverend, era unknown, a bit fire-and-brimstone-y. Effie is the most famous one of all.”