1. One
ONE
PRESENT DAY
“ T his is the dumbest idea we’ve ever had.”
Thistle stood in the shadows of the trees outside Margaret Little’s house. They were just starting to fill in with spring leaves making for decent cover. Thistle didn’t seem to care.
Her hair, a violent shade of purple this month, was swept back from her face. Her features, which were narrow, were so pinched she looked like she was about to have a seizure. The way she glared at me rather than Aunt Tillie told me I was in for a world of hurt if things didn’t go well.
“See, this is why I didn’t want to bring her,” Aunt Tillie complained. She’d put a camouflage scarf around her hair and had painted matching lines on her face. She looked as if she was preparing for war or a vigorous round of paintball. “All she does is complain.”
“I didn’t want to come,” Thistle fired back. “Bay made me.”
“Hey!” I shot her a dark glare. “I didn’t make you do anything. I asked if you wanted to go on an adventure.”
“You asked if I wanted hot cocoa after dinner at the inn. You didn’t mention anything about an adventure.”
“Oh, hot cocoa.” Behind us, Clove sniffed. “I was promised hot cocoa too.”
I glared at her over my shoulder. This was the first “adventure” she’d participated in since the birth of her son Calvin.
I didn’t hate her for not being part of the fun—not that this was much fun—but it was nice to have her on the team again.
Thistle had been keeping to herself more than usual, but Clove had been focused on her baby.
When whispers started spreading about an adventure, she wanted to be part of it.
Obviously, she was already regretting her decision.
“You’ll get your hot cocoa,” I assured her. “We just have to handle this first.”
“Just what is ‘this?’” Thistle demanded. “Why are we hanging around outside Mrs. Little’s house? I thought we all agreed that after the clown situation we would give her a break.”
It was rare for Thistle to be the voice of reason.
Almost unheard of really. She had a point, though.
Mrs. Little had been so overwrought that she’d fallen victim to a changeling and been drained to the point she almost died.
In the weeks since that incident—we’d saved her—we’d left her alone.
Even Aunt Tillie, who considered Mrs. Little her arch nemesis—yes, Lex Luthor style—had left her alone.
Tonight’s adventure wasn’t about torturing Mrs. Little. That’s the only reason I’d agreed to Aunt Tillie’s plan when I heard her conspiring with her sidekick.
“We’re not here to make things worse for Mrs. Little,” I started.
“Speak for yourself,” Aunt Tillie interjected, her nostrils flaring. “I always want to make things worse for Margaret.”
I gave her a sidelong glare. “You said you wanted to make things better for her.” My tone was accusing. “I heard you say that.”
“You’re so naive,” Thistle complained. “When has Aunt Tillie ever done the right thing by Mrs. Little?”
“Let’s not pretend that Margaret is a paragon of virtue,” Aunt Tillie fired back. “Everything I’ve ever done to her she’s deserved.”
I folded my arms over my chest and jutted out my chin. If I’d known we were here to torture Mrs. Little, I would’ve stayed home and had hot chocolate in bed with my husband. I wouldn’t have gotten dressed up—in layers no less—and frozen my butt off. “You’re in trouble,” was all I managed.
“You know, I hate to agree with Bay,” Clove started.
I turned my glare toward her. “You hate to agree with me?”
“You’re not my favorite person right now,” Clove replied. “I don’t see any hot chocolate around. I was bamboozled.”
“Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch,” Aunt Tillie muttered.
“I don’t think we should be going after Mrs. Little right now,” Clove insisted.
She was the most soft-hearted of our group.
“People in town say she’s off her rocker.
She spends all her time hiding in her house.
She opened her store only twice in two weeks, and both times she had panic attacks when people she recognized came in because she swore up and down they weren’t real, that they were monsters wearing her friends’ faces. ”
Aunt Tillie snorted. “Like she has friends.”
“I hate to agree with Clove,” Thistle said, earning a dour glare from our cousin, “but she’s right.
As much as I like messing with Mrs. Little—and it is one of my fondest childhood memories—she’s holding on by a thread.
I heard they’re talking about having someone from the state check on her because maybe they want to put her in a home. ”
My heart sank. Margaret Little was a monster.
She kept trying to buy up property in Hemlock Cove so she could position herself as some town tyrant.
She’d partnered with a djinn to mess with us and tried to turn the town against us more times than I could count.
What was happening to her now wasn’t okay, though.
“Listen—”
Aunt Tillie cut me off. “No, you listen. We’re not here to torture Margaret.”
I waited.
“We’re here to make Margaret better so I can torture her later,” she said.
“Ah, there it is.” Thistle bobbed her head. “What’s the plan here, Riddler? What Machiavellian scheme are you concocting?”
“Even I can’t torture Margaret when she’s as pathetic as this,” Aunt Tillie explained. “I’m afraid she might hurt herself. The changeling thing did a real number on her.”
“You still haven’t told us your plan,” Thistle pointed out.
“Nobody needs your mouth,” Aunt Tillie snapped. “My plan is a good one.” She puffed herself out. “We’re going to do a memory charm so Margaret isn’t afraid any longer. We’re going to make it so she doesn’t remember the changeling thing. That’s what tipped her over the edge.”
It was an interesting approach. “What happens when someone brings up the changeling and she doesn’t remember it?” I asked.
“Who is going to bring up the changeling?” Aunt Tillie made a face. “We’re the only ones who know about it and we’re not going to bring it up.”
“What if there are gaps in her memory?”
“She’s old. People will think she’s starting to slip. That’s the way it is.”
“Isn’t she the same age as you?” Thistle asked.
“Watch it, Mouth!” Aunt Tillie jabbed Thistle in the side. “I’ll start messing with your memory if you’re not careful. By the time I’m finished with you you’ll think you’re a pig in a tutu.”
Because Aunt Tillie actually owned a pig that she often dressed in a tutu, it was a believable threat.
“Let’s take a breath.” I extended my hand between Aunt Tillie and Thistle. “How is this going to work?” I asked Aunt Tillie. “Is it a potion?”
Aunt Tillie removed a bottle from her pocket. “All we have to do is get her to drink it, then tweak the magic a bit. We don’t want her forgetting everything—then she really will end up in a home, and that’s not fun for me. We need her to get past the stuff that’s ruining her life.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the one ruining her life,” Thistle supplied.
“One more word,” Aunt Tillie warned, raising an index finger. “Just one more word and you’re going on my list.”
Thistle didn’t look daunted. “I’m serious. Maybe we should just leave it alone. What if we make things worse?”
“When do I ever make things worse?” Aunt Tillie was affronted. “I’m a fixer.” She thumped her chest for emphasis. “I fix things. That’s what I’m going to do now.”
“Only so you can go back to torturing Mrs. Little without a guilty conscience,” Clove argued. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Unbelievable!” Aunt Tillie threw her hands into the air and stomped her feet. “I’m done talking to you. All of you. I’ll handle this myself.”
To give myself time to figure out a plan of action—I had no idea what that was going to look like—I turned to Evan as the vampire dropped down from a nearby tree. He was quiet like a cat, slinky, and I had no idea where he’d come from.
“What were you doing?” I demanded.
“Spying,” Evan replied. He didn’t look embarrassed. “Margaret is in the living room, tucked under a blanket. She’s watching some television show about ancient alien conspiracies.”
“Those are great shows,” a voice said from the bushes.
I jerked when I recognized who it belonged to, then braced myself for the appearance of the diabolical clown doll.
Crusty—I had no idea who had chosen the creature’s name—had become a regular fixture at The Overlook, the inn my mother and aunts ran.
Weeks ago, Aunt Tillie had brokered a deal with him.
During the Great Clown Uprising of Hemlock Cove, he’d offered help in exchange for keeping his autonomy.
Now the creepy little monster was Aunt Tillie’s third sidekick.
He was sarcastic, crude, and not entirely reliable.
Aunt Tillie loved him for some reason.
“Those are good shows,” Aunt Tillie readily agreed. “I’ve learned a lot from them.”
“Name one thing,” Thistle challenged.
“Stonehenge was built by aliens,” Aunt Tillie shot back.
“Oh, here we go,” Thistle muttered.
“I’ve done a little research on that too,” Clove interjected. “It’s entirely possible.”
“Oh, good, you’re the one who is going to be just like Aunt Tillie in her old age,” Thistle drawled. “I’m so relieved it’s not me.”
“Say that again and I’ll make you eat dirt,” Clove hissed.
This conversation was quickly spinning away from us.
“I’m not opposed to trying to modify Mrs. Little’s memory,” I interjected.
That was difficult for me to say because memory charms had been happening frequently lately.
I didn’t like using them because stripping someone’s memory often felt abusive.
In this particular case, it was necessary.
“I’m worried about what happens if we do it wrong. ”
“When do we ever do anything wrong?” Aunt Tillie challenged.
“Stop saying things like that,” I hissed. “That’s not the way to get me on your side.” All I could picture were the clown dolls overtaking the town. How did she not consider that a spell gone wrong?