There was nothing wrong with her eyes, but she wasn’t above feigning elderly ailments when it benefited her.

I strode back to the kitchen and fetched the little broom and dustpan, thinking that at least I’d only have to mow for a few more weeks. Of course, I’d be spending the next few months mopping up melted-snow tracks instead.

After I dumped the debris in the trash can, I shot a glare through the dining room and into the living room where Nana sat. Nana was safe from my glare, hidden behind the newspaper. She had parked herself in my cozy chair. It didn’t help my mood to realize that it would now be her cozy chair.

“You have a valid point,” I said, returning to the living room, “but I don’t mind if my friends are negligent with a doughnut box. They’re responsible enough to kennel themselves on full moons. That matters more to me, and it should count for something to you.”

“Right. It counts for something. It counts for them being stupid. Wolves change on full moons; witches raise energies and cast spells on full moons. Why they would want to be anywhere near you during a full moon is beyond comprehension.”

“That’s the only time it’s safe! They’re already going to change!”

The phone rang. I jumped, then hurried to the kitchen to answer it. A glance at the clock above the old olive-colored stove told me it wasn’t even seven yet. Calls this early usually weren’t good news. “Hello?”

A formal female voice said, “Persephone Alcmedi, please.”

I was immediately worried: the caller pronounced both of my names right the first time. A rare thing. I hoped it wasn’t the administrator from the nursing home. They had told me to expect a delay and several headaches getting Nana’s Social Security routed back to her and, before coffee, I just wasn’t ready to think as hard as the admin was going to want me to. “Who, may I ask, is calling me at six-forty-three in the morning?”

“Vivian Diamond.”

I knew of her—definitely not someone affiliated with the nursing home. She was the high priestess of the only Cleveland coven officially endorsed by the Witch Elders Council, or WEC. Vivian’s name-dropping social style didn’t impress me, and her manner of leadership tended to snub true practitioners in favor of schmoozing the deep-pocketed wannabes. Consequently, I didn’t attend the meet-ups or open rituals she held. I did just fine out here in Ohio’s farmlands as a solitary.

“I apologize for calling so early,” she said, her voice just a bit nasal, “but I need your help. Your name was recommended.”

“Recommended by whom?”

She paused. “Lorrie Kordell.”

Lorrie used to kennel here on full moons, but had moved closer to Cleveland for work. She was raising her daughter, Beverley, single-handed and single-incomed. I wondered how they were doing. Since Lorrie had found a place in the city to kennel, I missed the popcorn and Disney nights with Beverley. (Crunchy food and musical comedies covered up the sounds of the kenneled wæres nicely.) “How are you acquainted with Lorrie?”

“Who is it, Seph?” Nana called.

I hit the mute button and yelled back, “It’s for me, Nana!” Was she going to pry into everything?

“She recently joined my coven,” Vivian said.

Shocked, I didn’t answer. This was what Nana had meant. Wærewolves avoided magic rituals at all costs. The energies raised could cause partial body-shifts—usually of the head and arms—but the mind suffered more than the body. During a partial shift, the wære-mind could devour the human-mind, leaving only a maddened, murderous beast. By law, police could kill on sight any wære in a non-full moon partial transformation.

“Miss Alcmedi?”

“I’m here.”

“Miss Alcmedi?”

I undid the mute. “I’m here.”

“I’d like to meet with you. Today. Early, if possible.”

“Let me check my calendar.” Pulling my John William Waterhouse day planner from my purse under the phone stand, I flipped through the pages. It took effort not to fall into daydreaming over the artwork, but I dutifully scanned the appointment lines. The only notation was column due 3 P.M. on yesterday’s date. I’d met the deadline a day early. A few Tarot readings for regular customers were penciled in for later in the week, but no appointments had been formalized, so my schedule was clear. Reading a high priestess’s cards could lead to a larger Tarot clientele. The extra money would help me offset the cost of a live-in Nana.

“What would be a good time and place for you?” I asked. Keeping Nana from crossing paths with clients would be better for all concerned.

“The coffee shop on East Ninth, about four blocks from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Say, one hour?”

Damn. She was seriously urgent. “I can just make it, unless traffic turns into a nightmare.” I knew of her, but not what she looked like. “How will I know you?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll know you.” She hung up.

I hated it when people didn’t say a closing before hanging up. And she’d know me? How? I returned the phone to the cradle charger. When I turned, Nana stood in the wide doorway staring at me.

Her wrinkled face was expressionless. If I hadn’t known she’d always been that way, I might have thought all the wrinkles were hiding a reaction. “Who’s dead?” she asked.

“Nobody’s dead.”

“People don’t call this early unless someone died in the night.” She paused. “Or do your ‘friends’ do that crap too?”

“The phone rings, Nana, and I answer it. Sometimes it’s my friends and sometimes—”

“Fine.”

Having her here was going to be like raising a spoiled teenager. She was going to roll her eyes, cut me off, and act like I was inferior.

She shoved a folded section of newspaper at me. “I’m done with this part.” She turned and shuffled past the big oak dining table, pudgy hands rising to smooth over her dome of white hair.

The gesture reminded me I hadn’t written her weekly hair appointment in my datebook. She insisted on keeping her hair in a beehive style, so it was more like maintenance than hairdressing. (For a good portion of my childhood I thought her head was shaped funny. When I eventually realized it was all done with curlers and hairspray, it diminished her scariness.) I put the newspaper down, grabbed a pen, and jotted the appointment in.

As I finished writing, the paper’s front-page headline jumped out at me: Woman Found Dead. Underneath, in smaller letters: Authorities suspect cult involvement. Scanning the picture, I recognized the face of a crying young girl being restrained by medics, hands reaching toward the sheet-covered body on a stretcher. The girl was Beverley Kordell, Lorrie’s daughter.

Chapter 2

Vivian was late.

I’d opted to keep myself from crying by being angry. Transforming any other emotion quickly into anger might not be my best quality, but it could be useful. The nervous energy it stirred up, however, had to be expended somehow. So, as I sat in the coffee shop waiting, my knees took turns bouncing in irritation and impatience. The soles of my burgundy suede flats were getting quite a workout.

Wearing blue jeans, a maroon blazer, and a black tank top, with my dark hair secured in a loose braid, I’d somehow managed a business-casual look, though my mind was reeling as I dressed. I didn’t care if Vivian thought I appeared professional or not.

Hunched over the article about Lorrie’s murder, I reread it for the fifth time, wishing the news were anything but this. Lorrie had been found in the bedroom of her apartment by the police acting on an anonymous tip. Beverley had been asleep in her own room when the police arrived. The article said nothing about the cause of death, only that Lorrie’s body had been “allegedly arranged in a ritualistic manner” and that “symbols were drawn on the walls with what authorities believed was her blood.”