Chapter 1
Twelve Years Later
In an ocean of small towns, Havers-by-the-Sea was rock bottom, and Jena was drowning.
But instead of answering the damned question so she could bag the twelve-pound Sunday roast with all the fixings, the eminent Ms. Mary Montgomery of the Westside Montgomery pack—absolutely not the Eastside, bless your heart—had taken it as an opportunity to launch into yet another sermon categorizing Jena’s many failings.
The third? No—fourth one this week, which was two more than Adelene Pritchett had given her, and three less than Martin Kind, who was not, in fact, kind at all.
This. This was why Jena had left.
Well, that and Ms. Montgomery’s stupid son, Chase.
The hulking prick leaning against the neighboring register’s divider, staring in her direction from beneath the curled brim of his ratty ball cap, his caramel waves spilling out around its sides.
People edged away from him as a muscle in his square, stubbled jaw twitched.
Looked like he had something to add to the conversation, and it was killing him to not open his mouth.
Good. She hoped he dropped dead along with the rest of them.
He crossed his arms over his massive chest, and she swore she could hear the fabric of his t-shirt scream as his muscles flexed. How he’d gotten even bigger than that last night she’d seen him at the bonfire… A wash of rage went through her. Whatever. Fricking weres. God, she hated him.
The checkout line behind Havers’s royalty had grown three deep.
Clevis Blackford stood behind them with a six pack of beer and nail fungus cream.
Then came Sherri-Lynn Page. She failed to hide a pregnancy test beneath the latest edition of Starr Magazine.
Brenda Spitz brought up the rear with an economy-sized box of diapers and three pounds of ground chuck on clearance that should’ve been thrown away at the beginning of the week.
There were other checkouts, sure, but as far as entertainment value? Jena’s line had the rest beat. All of them listened to Ms. Montgomery’s diatribe, rapt, as though they hadn’t had front row seats to the dumpster fire that’d been Jena’s formative years.
As if they hadn’t sat back with popcorn and watched her family die, one by frickin’ one.
Jena pulled out a paper bag and snapped it open.
The shrew blinked hard and took a step back, one hand rising to clutch her dollar-store pearls.
The real ones were just for church because apparently our Lord and Savior appreciated that kind of thing, but a pink tweed pants-suit and kitten heels could be worn anytime.
Before nine a.m. on a Saturday morning certainly didn’t seem to be an exception.
“I prefer plastic.” Ms. Montgomery huffed, taking a big breath and diving right back in where she’d left off, despite having stated her preference for paper this past Tuesday.
“My mistake.” Jena smiled, and it was. Coming back had been a huge—
“There a problem here?” Sal, the store manager asked, sauntering over like he hadn’t seen everything play out closed-caption style from the comfort of his office.
God, he was a troll. Literally and figuratively.
He hiked up his waistband, his flopping gut doing more to hold up his sagging chinos than the tired belt strapped somewhere south of his non-existent waist.
“No, sir,” Jena forced her smile wider and shoved a bag of vegetables at the bitch. “Ms. Montgomery was just reminding me that despite my Bachelors degree in business and an MBA in finance, I’m still townie trash not fit to lick her shoes.”
Clevis brayed out a laugh, and a .02 oz. blob of phlegm spattered onto Jena’s cash register scale. Behind him, Sherri-Lynn went green and dry-heaved. Girl was definitely in the family way.
Ms. Montgomery gasped and looked between Jena and her manager. “Well, I never—what kind of an establishment are you running here, Salvator? Are you going to let her speak to me like that?”
“Ah, I—No, no, of course not Ms. Montgomery!” He wet his blubbery green lips, and Jena pulled the tie of her apron in anticipation, her fingertips tingling with intent. Say it, say it, say it… Sal took a deep breath. “You’re fired.”
Thank God.
Jena ripped the bundle of cheap fabric up, over her head, tossed it at him, and was out the sliding door before it’d opened halfway, already texting Felix.
I owe u nachos
FR?
What did it? NM who?
Montgomery
Which one?
Head bitch
Hah. Called it. Tournament ends @ 2. Meet u @ Snaps
Jena gave the last message a thumbs up and pocketed her phone as she headed down the picturesque, tree-lined street.
She rubbed her arms in the early autumn chill.
Damn it, she’d forgotten to grab her sweater.
Oh well. No way was she going back for it now.
Hopefully it would be in the lost-and-found when she picked up her last check.
Worst case, the town was small enough she’d see it on whoever stole it and could hex them. The karma she’d burn would be a wash if they did something to deserve it, and theft definitely qualified.
She sighed, tucking a pin-straight lock of raven hair behind her ear and looked up through the changing leaves at the bright, sidhe-blue sky above Main Street.
Havers-by-the-Sea—Havers, to the locals—might be rock-bottom for her, but she had to admit it was pretty, in a Norman Rockwell with pixies kind of way.
Too bad everyone in it thought she was spit. Well, not the pixies. The little idiots had always liked her for some reason, which equated to the same amount of bragging rights as the neighborhood stray not hissing at her.
Damn it. She’d been lucky to get hired at Sal’s.
His grocery was the preeminent establishment on the main drag with its white clapboard and dark green trim.
Crates of produce lined the front, priced exorbitantly for the normy tourists that came to gawk at the selkies and merfolk down at the shore.
They had a whole thing down there—or so Jena had been told.
Thanks to her father, the docks, and the entire surrounding neighborhood, were completely off-limits.
That was only marginally worse than the “not particularly welcome” she was getting from the rest of the town. At least she couldn’t hear what they were saying about her down there.
Jena sighed, rubbing her arms again at a cool breeze and reluctantly deciding to forgo a coffee.
Cups, the peachy-pink stuccoed café, was just across the way, all bougie with its white wrought iron outdoor seating.
They made great coffee, but it was a hater hotspot, especially at this time of the morning.
Yep. It would be a pretty idyllic town for anyone without her last name.
She kept walking, glancing at windows as she passed. Farther down the block stood ReRun, the baby blue second-hand shop, and then there was Ollie’s Pizza Palace at the corner.
None of which were looking for help in the off-season, and neither were any of the other, smaller businesses.
Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. Coach Gray, her ex-gym teacher turned photographer, had been eager to hire her for the front desk until she’d told him she wasn’t interested in “modeling” after hours.
Felix had called that one, too, but not for nothing, the dude had always been a perv.
Jena sighed as she turned the corner from Main to Cross, the waterfront sparkling in the distance.
There would be work there, but the last time she’d attempted to set foot on the docks, it hadn’t ended well.
Granted, that’d been ten years ago, but Selkies had longer memories than most—especially the ones with skins that’d been hexed.
Yeah, that’d been removed, but Jena got it. It was the principle of the thing, and what her father’s shitty use of power had done to public sentiment had been the one sin her mother couldn’t eat.
She jammed her hands deeper into her pockets—pointedly not making eye contact with the town’s early morning pedestrian traffic and resisting the urge to trip the odd jogger. Life was difficult enough if that was their chosen form of recreation.
She kicked at a scattering of russet leaves and buzzed her lips, the reality of her unemployment settling in.
It’d been a shit paycheck, but it’d been a paycheck, and now her only option was to drive the hour to Fayet and look for something there.
Also a dicey prospect thanks to dear old dad.
No one was jumping at the chance to hire a delinquent warlock’s daughter.
Jena sighed again, stopping short in front of The Witchery as a harem of giggling pixies zipped around her, already high on dust.
“Jena-Jena-Jena! You’re-back-you’re-back-you’re-back!
” they chanted in a rapid-fire falsetto before careening down the block.
Her gaze went past the tiny, winged humanoids to run over the gothic brownstone.
If only taking a break from reality could be as easy for her.
Too bad the universe seemed to delight in slapping her upside the head with a healthy dose of “this is your shitty life” lately.
The heavy purple curtains were still pulled across the front window, and Jena’s reflection stared back at her—Morticia Adams after one too many meatball subs.
That’s what happened when you ate your feelings.
Or so her lying, cheating, piece-of-shit ex had said.
Whatever. Screw him. It was just winter weight, right?
Practical, really. She’d need it to keep her warm since there was no way she could splurge on propane.
Damn it. Jena frowned. She should’ve gone back for her sweater.
Her fingers closed around the heavy bronze key in her pocket, and she whispered the spell to deactivate the cantrip just inside. She unlocked the shop’s door, licking the tingle of magic from her lips, and the bell above the door tinged as she opened it.